Sometimes, tiring of the incessant intriguing and plotting, Rollo rested his mind by thinking how good it would feel to be back in England. He had been too long in the hot, dry, dusty south, and he longed for soft rain and mist rising in the mornings, and a pale yellow sun shining through the whiteness like a distant candle flame. His thoughts turned always towards the fens; to Lassair, whom he loved.
But she may not still love me.
He couldn’t banish the fear. It was irrational, and without real foundation. He and Lassair had become lovers, had exchanged tokens – he never took off the leather bracelet she had woven for him – and he knew she was not the sort of woman to give her affections to someone else just because he wasn’t there. But he had been away a long time; it was a year and a half since he had held her in his arms, and he had deliberately – cruelly? – refrained from sending any message to her, even though it would have been relatively easy to do so.
And sometimes, when he concentrated all his thoughts upon her, it seemed to him that she turned away.
Jack saw me back to Gurdyman’s door. Once inside the house, I was about to say goodbye, but, before I could do so, he said, ‘Can I come in?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ I realized it sounded grudging. ‘I mean, yes, of course.’ But why? I could have added.
He grinned, coming in after me and shutting the door. ‘Will Gurdyman be about?’
‘Probably not, but it doesn’t matter if he is, since he appears to quite like you.’
‘I’m really not that bad,’ Jack said modestly.
I led the way along the passage, past the kitchen and into the courtyard. There was no sign of Gurdyman. Although it was dark now, the air still held some of the day’s warmth, so I said to Jack, ‘Sit down out there and I’ll bring a mug of ale.’
He settled down on one of the benches. It wasn’t all that robust and gave a squeak as he lowered his considerable weight. I poured ale into a couple of Gurdyman’s best pewter mugs and went to sit opposite.
‘Any thoughts?’ Jack asked when he’d taken the top off his ale.
‘Only one,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it must have occurred to you too, but I wondered if Gerda might have made a habit of going outside with her – er, clients, and if so, whether she was unlucky enough to have witnessed Robert Powl being killed.’
‘Yes, I did think of that,’ Jack said. ‘Robert Powl was murdered some way from Gerda’s usual haunts, but I suppose it’s possible that a client insisted on some particular spot from where she might have seen or heard something.’
‘Wouldn’t-’ Just in time I shut my mouth on the question. I’d been about to say, Wouldn’t the client have seen or heard the same thing? but I realized that a man in the throes of passion probably didn’t see or hear anything.
‘I should have asked the other women,’ I said instead, hoping my face wasn’t too red. ‘Gerda might have said something.’
But Jack was shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe she would have. She was new to the life, and she’d probably have thought that venturing further away than the nearest piece of river bank would be against the rules.’
Silence fell. I was thinking about poor, pretty Gerda, and I thought Jack probably was too. Soft light spilled out into the courtyard from the lamp I’d lit in the kitchen. The air was still. I was just reflecting on how quiet it was, and how, although we were in the midst of a town, you’d have thought we were right out in the countryside, when a terrible scream ripped the peace apart.
Jack was on his feet, already racing for the door. ‘That came from the market square, unless my sense of direction has deserted me,’ he muttered as we fell out into the alley. He stopped, head spinning left and right, angry frustration making his face dark. ‘Which way?’ he demanded. ‘Lord, I can never find a path through these back alleys!’
I grabbed his hand and we raced off, twisting, turning and apparently doubling back through the maze, until we emerged in the square.
Unsurprisingly, we weren’t the only ones to have heard the scream. A small crowd had gathered, and more people were emerging from their houses and from the other passages that gave on to the market square. Jack pushed forward into their midst.
‘Go back inside!’ he shouted. The deep voice of authority seemed to have the desired effect. ‘Go on, before I arrest you for obstructing the law!’ he yelled at a stubborn old man dressed only in his chemise, whose chin was thrust out defiantly.
With a last glare at Jack, the old man shuffled away. Jack muttered something under his breath, his eyes roaming the square. ‘Where?’ he asked.
I’d been looking while he dispersed the crowd. I pointed over to the south-west side, where the better houses back on to the grounds of St Bene’t’s Church. Outside one of these a figure crouched low to the ground, and in front of her there was a huddled heap.
Jack and I ran across the square and in an instant we were kneeling beside the crouched figure. It was a woman, well over middle age, and she was moaning and sobbing, gasping for breath. ‘Oh, no, no, no, no!’ she wailed, her rising tone suggesting hysteria was imminent. Jack muttered, ‘Can you deal with her?’ I put my arms round her, murmuring soothing words, and got her up, gently leading her away from whatever lay at her feet. ‘Come with me,’ I said, ‘we’ll go back inside, and I’ll make you something hot to drink, with plenty of honey, and wrap you up in a warm blanket. Would you like that?’
‘Y-yes,’ stammered the woman.
I led her back into the house. I knew who she was, which probably meant I also knew who was lying in the square. Dead, for surely nobody could go on living after losing the huge quantity of blood that was soaking into old Adela’s white apron.
I settled Adela on a bench by the hearth, poking up the fire and swiftly mixing a drink of chamomile sweetened with a lot of honey. I swaddled her tightly in a blanket, first removing her soiled apron. It was a very beautiful blanket, of soft and pale-coloured wool, for this was a prosperous household. Then, feeling very guilty at deserting old Adela, I went back outside.
Jack looked up. ‘I was just coming to fetch you. She’s dead, isn’t she?’
I knelt down beside him and stared down at Mistress Judith. She was – had been – a handsome woman, entering her mature years but with a grace and dignity that had kept her carriage upright and her head held high. She was wealthy, having taken over upon his death her late husband’s shop, supplying materials for apothecaries and healers, and making a much better job of it than he had ever done. Mistress Judith was a born businesswoman, and I knew from personal experience that she drove a hard bargain.
She lay on her side, her carefully laundered and starched headdress awry, her fine wool veil crumpled beneath her head. Her eyes were wide open, and her face bore a look not of terror but of surprise. Her throat was a dark, gaping gash.
I bent right down over her, turning my cheek so that I would have felt any breath. There was none. Gently I felt for the beat of life beneath her ear. Nothing. Her flesh was still warm but she was dead.
‘She’s gone,’ I said quietly.
Jack reached for the veil and spread it out over Mistress Judith’s head and neck. ‘We must move her inside,’ he muttered. He glanced up and, following his eyes, I saw that people were once more creeping out to look.
‘I’ll take her feet,’ I said, getting up. He looked doubtfully at me. ‘She’s tall but she’s not fat,’ I added impatiently. ‘I’ve carried far heavier weights, and it isn’t far.’