Andrew’s voice was little more than a breath. ‘The cauldron now – boiling or not – bring it. We ignore those at the doorway. Concentrate on these three below us. Just one step nearer.’
He signalled immediately. The shutters suddenly came crashing down and the window was thrown open as Casper and Andrew tipped the great cauldron of water directly down. The screams were instantaneous. Hetchcomb and one of his archers were drenched in scalding liquid, leaping and howling as they rushed back. The third man swore and darted out of range.
Casper laughed. Ralph, peering over his head, said, ‘First shot to us.’
‘Two of them are running,’ Tyballis called from her place on the other side of the window, her face, damp and pink, emerging from the steam. ‘But one is still there – look – staring up at us. His face is horribly scorched.’
‘Hetchcomb,’ Ralph said, peering down. ‘He starved us when he was here before. Let the worm burn.’
The captain stood as though pinned to the ground, a blasted tree struck and broken by lightning. His upturned face, shining in the sinking sunlight, was a glistening slither of ruined flesh. His eyes were bloody and his lips fell away as though melting from his mouth. The other man howled and screamed as he ran. But Hetchcomb remained silent. Felicia came and stood beside Tyballis, looking over her shoulder. ‘The pain has sent him mad,’ she whispered. ‘But that hideous villain nearly killed my poor babies. Let him suffer.’
The solitary standing figure wavered at the knees and slowly sank, drowning in the waves of foliage around him until he lay curled amongst the bushes, his knees drawn up to the ruin of his chin. His bleeding eyes were open but he did not move.
‘I believe he is dead,’ Andrew said softly. ‘His heart, perhaps – or enough water down his gullet to boil him from within.’ He turned, looking suddenly around the room. Then he frowned, pausing a moment as though looking for something he did not see. Everyone except Luke was now clustered together, peering through the window, pushing for the chance to see a little more. Luke continued to sit alone on the bed. He was crying.
‘And the others down there,’ Elizabeth said, ‘what of them buggers as pushed indoors?’
‘I intend finding out.’ Andrew crossed quickly to the open door, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Casper, come with me. The rest of you stay here. Felicia, will you see to Luke? Tyballis and Ralph, keep watch by the window. Elizabeth, you’re a good-enough shot. One stone, and aim for Hetchcomb. I want to know if he’s dead before I get down there. If he moves, call me.’ There was no longer need for silence. This time Andrew’s running footsteps resounded down the stairs.
The two who had breached the doors, now stood inside, uncertain in the hall’s shadows. One held his bow high, the arrow to the nock and aimed at Andrew’s chest. ‘Stop there, you shit,’ the man growled. ‘You’ve gutted my mates, but you’ll not get me so easy. Say your prayers, for they’re the last ones you make.’ The archer drew back his bowstring.
Andrew had stopped three steps up. He said, ‘Casper, get the other one,’ and at the same moment his sword point entered the bowman’s eye. The blade arched smooth and slid directly through the eyeball with a black squelch. The arrow clattered to his feet as the man died. Andrew pressed his metal deep, then stepped back and wiped his sword on the dead archer’s fallen body. ‘I never understand,’ he murmured to himself, ‘why men choose to speak before attacking. Such delay is most unwise. Who do they seek to impress?’ He turned to Casper who was swinging his axe. Already his assailant was on his knees as the axe sliced through the man’s neck. The head toppled, chin to chest, held to the body only by gristle and a shattered splinter of spine.
Casper nodded at Andrew. ‘Ain’t so easy beheading a fellow, after all,’ he remarked. ‘I sees why them executioners generally make such a muck of it. Usually takes them two or three hacks, they says, and I heard of six or more. Well, now I gets it. Necks is tougher than you’d think.’
‘Nevertheless, my friend,’ said Andrew softly, ‘I believe you have made an adequate attempt. The man is quite definitely dead.’
‘Well,’ admitted Casper with some pride, ‘reckon would take a mighty big bandage to stick that skull back on again. But the bugger’s made a right mess of your floor.’
‘At the moment,’ Andrew said, ‘that is not my principal concern. Outside now, my friend. There is someone else I’m looking for.’
‘Right,’ agreed Casper, ‘there’s two more little turds out there, though one burned rotten. And there’s that lousy captain of your’n.’
‘None of those bother me in the least.’ Andrew strode through the open doors and looked around his garden’s twilit gloom. Hetchcomb’s corpse was a pale grey bundle in the damp, his eyes, now milky, still gazing upwards. But the shadows were merging as the last of the sunshine disappeared behind the treetops. ‘It is someone else entirely I want now,’ Andrew said.
Casper was immediately behind him, his boots silent in the soft earth. ‘Ain’t no one else here,’ he objected. ‘What you want now?’
‘I was sadly unobservant,’ Andrew smiled, ‘but as we tipped the cauldron, so the result below became sufficient distraction. But now I realise how someone slipped away.’
‘From up there? From down here? Who?’ Casper demanded.
‘Who? Jon Spiers, of course. The one who betrayed us all some time ago, yet was entirely overlooked by me,’ Andrew said. ‘Now Mister Spiers has left the house. I’d guess the men by the doors recognised him and let him go. But he cannot have gone very far.’ Casper stood, mouth open and one foot raised, momentarily speechless. ‘You are not a heron, Mister Wallop,’ said Andrew curtly, walking abruptly away down the main path. ‘Move, or we will lose him. Get round to the stables, check the sheds and the chicken coop. Listen for anyone crawling amongst the bushes.’
The sun sank and the clouds turned pink. Beyond the roof of the old house, the crimson tinge strengthened. One of the smaller chimneys puffed dark from Ralph’s guttering fire. Behind the smoke, the sky gleamed. The weather vane, the wind motionless in its iron sails, was a black silhouette against vivid cerise as Andrew approached the broken gates at the end of the path. He had already heard voices, and he knew what he would find.
One of Hetchcomb’s men barred the way out, and before him, grappling and cursing, was Jon Spiers. ‘You fool,’ Jon spat. ‘I’m a friend. Your master knows me.’
The other man had been burned. One side of his face shone more virulent than the sky. Both his hands were scarred and shedding skin, but in spite of the pain, he held fast to his captive. ‘My captain’s dead, you bastard. And so will you be now.’
Jon twisted free. He still grasped the knife given to him inside the house. He slashed out, but the other man dodged, coming back with his own sword. Jon hissed, ‘I’m a friend, I tell you. Your men at the doors knew me. How else would I be free?’
‘Know you? I know you for murdering scum. My hands – my face – you’ve ruined me. And you’ll pay.’
Again Jon twisted free. He was not a large or a strong man, but he was quick. ‘Dorset will have you whipped for this,’ he spat. ‘I’ve important information for the marquess. Let me pass.’
Andrew stepped from the shadows. He said softly. ‘Dorset has no further need of your information, my friend. I imagine he is halfway across the sea to Brittany. The trouble you now face is your own.’ Hetchcomb’s man had stopped and now shrank back against the stone wall, nursing his wounded hands. Jon turned at once and raced for the gates. The other man stuck out his foot. Jon yelped and tripped, dropping his knife and sprawling in the dirt. Andrew kicked the fallen knife away and took Jon by both his hair and the neck of his shirt, hauling him up. He smiled at Throckmorton’s burned henchman. ‘Get away now, if you value your life,’ he told him. ‘Your comrades are gone and your leaders arrested.’ As the man slunk immediately through the gateway and disappeared, Andrew looked down at Jon. ‘Before I kill you, I would know one thing,’ he said. ‘The itch of curiosity, no more. Was it hatred of me? Envy? Resentment? Some strange passion for the Woodville cause? Or simply for the money?’