He got out of the boat and tied it to the raft, came lumbering over to where Cornwall sat, and squatted down to face him.
"Guess you were lucky, though," he said. "All the others dead. We went over this morning and searched the woods. Looks like no one got away. Bandits, I suppose. Must have come a far piece, though. One time there were bandits lurking in these hills, but they cleared out. They ain't been here for years. What kind of stuff you carrying?"
Cornwall shook his head. "I'm not sure. Trade goods of all sorts, I think. Mostly cloth, I guess. I wasn't a member of the train. I was just along with them."
Mrs. Drood came shuffling from behind the hut, carrying a bowl.
"Here is Ma," said Drood. "Has some soup for you. Eat all you can. You need it."
She handed him a spoon and held the bowl for him. "You go ahead," she said. "With only one arm, you can't hang onto the bowl."
The soup was hot and tasty and once he had the first spoonful, he found that he was ravenous. He tried to remember when he had had his last meal and his memory failed him.
"It surely does one's heart good," said Drood, "to watch someone spoon in victuals that way."
Cornwall finished up the bowl. "You want another one?" asked Ma. "There is plenty in the kettle."
Cornwall shook his head. "No, thank you. It is kind of you."
"Now you lay back," she said. "You've sat up long enough. You can lay here and talk with Pa."
"I don't want to be a bother. I've put you out enough. I must be getting on. As soon as I see Gib to thank him."
Pa said, "You ain't going nowhere. You ain't in shape to go. We are proud to have you, and you ain't no bother."
Cornwall lay back, turning on his side so he faced the squatting marsh-man.
"This is a nice place to live," he said. "Have you been here long?"
"All my life," said Drood. "My father before me and his father before him and far back beyond all counting. We marsh people, we don't wander much. But what about yourself? Be you far from home?"
"Far," said Cornwall. "I came from the west."
"Wild country out there," said Drood.
"Yes, it is wild country."
"And you were going back there?"
"I suppose you could say I was."
"You are a tight-lipped creature," Drood told him. "You don't say much of nothing."
"Maybe that's because I haven't much to say."
"That's all right," said Drood. "I didn't mean to pry. You take your rest now. Gib will be coming back almost any time."
He rose and turned to walk away. "A minute, Mr. Drood," said Cornwall. "Before you go—thanks for everything."
Drood nodded at him, his eyes crinkling in a smile. "It's all right, young fellow. Make yourself to home."
The sun, climbing up the sky, was warm upon him and Cornwall closed his eyes. He had no more than closed them when the picture came—the sudden surge of men out of the woods, the chunk of arrows, the shadowed flash of blades. It had been quietly done-there had been no screaming and no bellowing except by the men who had been hit, and not too many of them, for the most of them had died quickly, with arrows through their hearts.
How had it come, he wondered, that he had lived through it? He could remember little—a sword coming down on his head and instinctively throwing up his arms to ward it off, then falling. He could remember falling from the horse he rode, but he had no memory of falling to the ground—just falling, but not striking. Perhaps, he thought, he may have fallen into a heavy patch of undergrowth, for underbrush grew thick and close beside the trail—falling there and being considered dead, not being noticed later.
He heard a grating sound and opened his eyes. Another boat had drifted in against the raft. In it sat a young marsh-man and before him, in the middle of the craft, a basket full of clams.
Cornwall sat up. "You must be Gib," he said.
"That's right," said Gib. "I'm glad to see you looking well."
"My name is Mark Cornwall. They tell me you are the one who saved my life."
"I am glad I could. I got there just in time. You were fighting off a wolf with your bare hands. That took a lot of guts, to do a thing like that. Do you remember any of it?"
"It is all pretty vague," said Cornwall. "Just snatches here and there."
Gib got out of the boat, lifted the basket of clams onto the raft. "A lot of chowder there," he said. "You like chowder?"
"Indeed, I do."
"Mrs. Drood makes it like you never tasted."
He came over and stood beside Cornwall. "Drood and I went out this morning. We found seven bodies. The bodies had been stripped of everything of value. Not a knife, not a purse. All the goods were gone. Even the saddles from the horses. It was the work of bandits."
"I am not so sure," said Cornwall.
"What do you mean, you're not so sure?"
"Look," said Cornwall, "you saved my life. I owe you something. All I can give you is the truth. Drood was asking questions, but I told him nothing."
"You can trust Drood," said Gib. "He's all right. You can trust any marsh-man. And you don't need to tell me. I don't need to know."
"I somehow feel I should," said Cornwall. "I am not a trader. I am, or rather I was, a student at the University of Wyalusing. I stole a document from the university library, and I was warned by a friendly goblin to flee because others might want the document. So I hunted up a trader and paid him to let me travel with him."
"You think someone attacked the trader's party to get rid of you? Or to get the document? They killed everyone to get rid of you? Did they get the document?"
"I don't think so," said Cornwall. "Pull off my boot, will you? The right boot. With only one hand I can't manage it."
Gib stooped and tugged off the boot.
"Reach into it," said Cornwall.
Gib reached in. "There's something here," he said. He pulled it out.
"That's it," said Cornwall. He awkwardly unfolded the single page and showed it to Gib.
"I can't read," said Gib. "There is no marsh-man who can." "It's Latin, anyway," said Cornwall.
"What I can't understand," said Gib, "is why it should be there. They would have searched you for it."
"No," said Cornwall. "No, they wouldn't have searched me. They think they have the document. I left a copy, hidden, where it was easy for them to find."
"But if you left a copy…"
"I changed the copy. Not much. Just a few rather vital points. If I'd changed too much, they might have been suspicious. Someone might have known, or guessed, something of what it is about. I don't think so, but it is possible. It wasn't the document they were after; it was me. Someone wanted me dead."
"You're trusting me," said Gib. "You shouldn't be trusting me. There was no call to tell me."
"But there is," said Cornwall. "If it hadn't been for you, I'd now be dead. There might be danger to you keeping me. If you want to, help me get ashore and I will disappear. If someone asks, say you never saw me. It's only fair to you that you know there might be danger."
"No," said Gib.
"No what?"
"No, we won't put you ashore. No one knows that you are here. No one saw and I have told no one. Anyway, they'll think that you are dead."
"I suppose they will."
"So you stay here until you are well. Then you can go wherever you wish, do what you wish."
"I can't wait for long. I have a long journey I must make."
"So have I," said Gib.
"You as well? I thought you people never left the marsh. Drood was telling me…"
"Ordinarily that is so. But there was an old hermit up in the hills. Before he died, he gave me a book and what he called a hand ax. He asked me to deliver them to someone called the Bishop of the Tower…"
"North and west from here?"
"That's what the hermit said. Up the river, north and west. You know of this Bishop of the Tower?"