'What are they?' Luci asked.
Claudia told her.
Luci laughed.
Having finished work for the afternoon, half a dozen slave girls tumbled out of the back door of the villa and ran arm in arm towards the stream, giggling and gossiping as they did every day. Since one peeled vegetables in the kitchens, another cleaned the bath house, a third aired the Mistress's linens and so on, this was the first time today that they'd met up, and with so many people coming in and out, as well as the extra workers employed on the tomb, the girls were never short of who-did-whats, you'll-never-guesses and you-won't-belie ve-what-old-so-and-so-said-when-he-thought-my-back-was-turneds.
Down the hill they ran, exchanging tittle-tattle, embellishing rumours, until they reached the river bank. Throwing off their soft cotton tunics, they let out their customary squeals as they jumped into waters that had been heated by the sun. Soon, they were joined by other slave girls from the villa and, in no time, everyone was horsing about in the reeds.
They had no idea that sharp eyes followed every movement.
The swinging of wet hair. The way they tipped their heads back when they laughed. They way they shrieked when dainty toes collided with sharp rocks.
The Watcher sighed. Having scoured the local villages and picked out the very best, it was depressing to see how many young women were left whose bodies were already ravaged by poverty, childbirth and diet. At least these girls would still have their teeth by the time they were thirty. Nourishment was never an issue at the villa. In fact, looking at them splashing about in the river, many were already overweight. The Watcher's lips turned down as ripples of fat bounced about in the water. They were almost as bad as the skinny ones, whose hipbones stuck out through their skin. That one has a squint. That one has warts. The redhead has a nose you could launch ships from, and will you look at the breasts on the blonde one! The Watcher shuddered. It was grotesque, breasts that big, absolutely revolting. On a par with the one who keeps pulling her hair out, strand by irritating strand. Yes, we all know it's caused by anxiety, but a woman of twenty going bald? Disgusting.
But for all that, there were many bathers whose beauty was ripe, unblemished by physical disfigurement and not despoiled by the march of time. Unfortunately, it was just not possible to take girls this close to the villa. The Watcher frowned. With the villa out of bounds and the villages depleted, where else could be found the perfection that was so crucial to the cause?
Walking up the hill from the menagerie and leaving Luci with her kitten, Claudia listened to the squeals and splashes of a group of young women making the most of the late-afternoon sunshine.
Passing a stand of stately silver birches, she felt a cold chill ripple down her spine.
Someone's watching me.
She turned, but none of the undergrowth moved. Ridiculous! If it was the Scarecrow she'd have heard a churr from a magpie, a squawk from a pheasant, a grouse from a grouse. It was nothing. Just Claudia's imagination working overtime, because Marcia's huntsmen had returned empty-handed, the dogs having lost his spoor again. The Scarecrow was unlikely to strike again so quickly after such a narrow escape. He'd feel threatened by the hunt, not emboldened. She was simply overreacting.
The Watcher's eyes followed the familiar bounce of Claudia's ringlets as she resumed her march back up the hill, the luscious curve of her breasts, the unlined skin around her neck, the moist red lips and finely arching brows.
Now that — the Watcher's pulse quickened — now that, my friend, is perfection…
Nineteen
Set like crystals in a cupola ofjet, a million stars twinkled in a cloudless sky, cradling the new moon like a baby. Outlined against them, wooded hillsides smudged the night's horizons, giving shelter to bright-eyed stoats and curious fox cubs, while badgers tumbled in the clearings and bush crickets rasped continuously in the brambles and nettle beds.
Inside the room, Claudia waited.
Through the open window, she smelled honeysuckle and wild basil carried on the breeze… but not the scent of the person she was waiting for.
She could see ghost moths swaying backwards and forwards over spikes of yellow mullein, whose white woolly leaves shimmered in the dark… but of her would-be killer there was no sign.
She heard rodents rustling about in the undergrowth… but not the rat she was waiting to trap.
Time strode seamlessly forward and, with each star that moved round the heavens, Claudia considered the cold-blooded tactics of the assassin, the icy planning and callous disregard of human emotions, and felt no discomfort as she crouched in the corner. Only a sense of purpose and satisfaction. She did not bother to keep track of the hours. Time didn't matter. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it. Possibly even enjoy it.
At last, footsteps approached. Door hinges creaked. She had measured the distance earlier between door and oil lamp. Counted the seconds before it would be lit, and her training as a dancer held her in good stead. The timing for the next bit was crucial.
Sssss. As the tinder was struck, she untied a small bag. The wick ignited and, as the first flame flickered to light up the room, she tossed the contents in the killer's direction.
'Ribbit, ribbit,' the outraged frog croaked, as it landed unceremoniously at a pair of feet.
The feet jumped.
'Don't you recognize me?' Claudia whispered.
'Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit,' said the frog, thoughtfully keeping pace with the sidestepping feet.
By now, Claudia had opened her second sack. Naturally, the owl panicked.
'Do you recognize me now?' she called softly, as it flew at the walls and banged into doors.
With flailing arms, Claudia's attacker ducked to avoid the flapping wings — the very moment she'd been waiting for! Grabbing the contents of her third bag, Claudia lunged, only this time there was no incensed amphibian, no terrified bird. Just cold, hard steel in the form of a pair of leg irons, on loan from the prison guards.
'What the bloody fuck-?'
'Tut, tut, such language.' She jerked him backwards by his hair into a chair. 'And from a priest, as well.'
She'd propped the broom handle by the door in readiness and now she shoved it between his outstretched elbows across the back of the seat. Like a winkle on a pin, she thought happily. Like a winkle on a bloody pin. She let him kick and thrash while she opened the front door. The owl flew out straight away, but she had to nudge Froggie with her foot. Claudia closed the door and calmly lit another lamp.
'Good heavens, Vincentrix, I'd credited you with better manners than swearing in front of a lady.'
'What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?'
'Playing, Vincentrix? Now tell me, honestly, does this knife look like a game? Ooh, did that hurt? And it was just a teensy little nick on the side of your throat, too.'
He stopped thrashing. Blades that close to jugulars weren't worth the gamble.
'What do you want?'
'I thought you and I could have a cosy little chat, one shapeshifter to another and all that.'