Hrype chose to ignore that. ‘You still believe that you are correct in your suspicions?’ he asked.
‘The man is very obviously up to something,’ Gurdyman replied, ‘and I am informed that he has a newly full purse. Fuller, even, than normal, and the word is that he plans a costly extension to his already commodious dwelling.’
‘Mere gossip?’ Hrype suggested.
‘He also has a fine new horse.’
Hrype put down his mug on one of the hearth stones, the sudden sound ringing out in the quiet. ‘It is slim evidence on which to link a man’s name with such terrible crimes,’ he muttered.
‘Yes,’ Gurdyman agreed, sighing. ‘We are not, I fear, either at a resolution or an end to these horrors.’
With a groan and a wince, he got himself laboriously to his feet and, crossing to the far corner of the room, took out two bedrolls. ‘Let us sleep for what remains of the night,’ he said, handing one to Hrype. ‘In the morning, we will extract Mercure from his workroom and make him talk to us.’
Hrype snorted. ‘If luck and the gods are on our side.’
The two men lay down. The fire bathed them in warmth and soft light, and quite soon both were asleep.
I woke in the morning in my accustomed place beside my aunt’s hearth. Edild was already up and I could hear her in the little back room where, from the sound of it, she was busy washing pots and potion bottles.
I thought about the day – days – ahead. I would have to help her in the healing work, and, although I didn’t mind, and in fact usually enjoyed the variety and the challenge very much, just now I knew my heart wasn’t going to be in it. Jack had brought me to Aelf Fen for my own good, because he was sure I wasn’t safe in Cambridge with a killer on the loose; moreover, a killer who lately seemed to have targeted people engaged in the same sort of activities as those I was engaged upon with Gurdyman. He, indeed, had already fled, and so I couldn’t argue with the fact that it made total sense for me to have done too.
But I didn’t want to be safe in Aelf Fen. I wanted to be in Cambridge, with Jack.
The morning progressed as countless others have done in my village, and as no doubt countless more will do in years to come. Edild and I saw a steady stream of patients requiring our help, the majority of whom were showing early signs of the usual phlegmy noses, sore throats and aching, inflamed joints and chesty coughs that always crop up in the fens when the weather loses its summer heat and the damp creeps out of the marshes to wind into bones and soft tissue. I threw myself into the work. If I couldn’t be where I wanted to be, I thought, at least I could let others benefit by my presence. Once or twice I caught Edild’s eyes on me, assessing, judging and, today, with the faintest hint of admiration. Or so I told myself.
Luck had ridden with Rollo, for, just as he had hoped and prayed, King William was in residence in his castle at Windsor. He was to depart imminently for Gloucester: had Rollo delayed by even a day or two, he would have had to follow his king westwards before he was free to go where his heart commanded.
He had sent word in to the king that he was there in the little settlement that huddled around the great castle and humbly begged audience. He knew he would have to wait, for nobody wrote directly to a king – certainly, no one of Rollo’s lowly status – and his carefully worded, bland-sounding missive would have to work its way up past many other pairs of eyes and many astute brains before it reached the king’s. But in fact a message came back very quickly, summoning Rollo to the king’s presence that morning.
Now Rollo stood in a corner of the dirty and crowded lodgings which were all he could afford, shaving and washing and, as best he could, banging from his garments the dust, dirt and assorted vermin of long travel. It was ironic, he mused, to have to go through the frustrating channels of bureaucracy in order to gain the king’s ear, since, when he finally did get to speak to William, the king would undoubtedly demand in a bark why he hadn’t got there sooner.
Rollo was in no doubt that the king would be more interested in what Rollo had to say than anything else he would hear that day; perhaps that whole week. He had journeyed too far, and at too high a personal cost, to have the time or the patience for false modesty.
His preparations finished, he ran a hand over his hair (still slightly damp) and his jaw (not bad for a shave with a blunt razor and cold water). He looked down at himself. At least, he observed with a grim smile, his boots shone from the buffing he’d given them. Then, filled with a nervous excitement to be at last at the very end of his long mission, he set out for the castle.
The king’s father had built it and it stood high on its hill above a bend in the River Thames. The Conqueror knew very well how to seek out and utilize a good defensive position, and, in addition, the site was close to a little village that had once been part of a royal Saxon hunting ground. The sport, they said, was still first rate. Not that sport had been on the Conqueror’s mind when he built the castle, for he was newly come to his kingdom in England and his prime concern was to defend what he had grabbed. Windsor Castle was one of nine, built in a ring around London and all within a day’s march of the capital. It had been constructed as a motte and bailey, with three wards surrounding a central mound. At the top of the well-protected timber keep, provision had been included for the king’s private apartments.
Rollo approached the outer defensive wall, a soaring structure of timber palings sharpened to points at their tips. Guards had seen him coming and were already moving out of the guard house to block the narrow, gated entrance. Rollo produced his summons, the king’s seal prominently displayed, and with a jerk of the head the officer in charge let him through. He sensed someone fall into step behind him as he crossed the inner ward. The gate guards were going to keep an eye on him until they handed responsibility to the next men in the chain.
Rollo glanced around. There were sounds of labour – the clear ring of a hammer on metal; the loud, shouted command of an overseer – and he saw that parts of the wooden structures were being replaced by stone. He began to climb the motte, was admitted through another palisade that ringed its base a little way up – here the guard tailing him was quietly replaced by another – and then he was inside the big square central tower.
William’s apartments, Rollo thought as he was ushered through a studded wooden door into the king’s private chambers, typified the man. While they had clearly been designed for practicality and the basic needs of a man engaged in a brutal process of conquest, that man’s son had other ideas. The second William might be as ruthless as his formidable father on campaign, contenting himself with simplicity in the interests of speed and efficiency, but in his own quarters, it soon became evident, he liked a little luxury. He also, Rollo couldn’t help but notice, liked the company of a band of young men, dressed in the height of fashion and smelling strongly of something vaguely flowery. Five of these were lounging in the anteroom to the king’s own chamber, and one muttered a remark which provoked gales of lusty laughter. He lacks the presence of a queen consort, Rollo thought, responding to the further jibes of the youths with a coolly polite bow.
Then abruptly the inner door was flung open and William stood there. His long robe was open at the throat, displaying a fresh white undershirt and quite a lot of gingery-fair chest hair, and his face was ruddy, as if he had recently been scrubbing it. ‘Come in, then!’ he said impatiently. Rollo hastened to obey and William slammed the heavy door in the avid faces of the courtiers. He muttered something that sounded like ‘Parasites!’
Rollo waited in the middle of the large room. A wooden-framed bed stood in the corner and several chests of clothing were placed around the walls. A small altar had been set up in a recess. There was thick dust on both the altar and the brass crucifix set upon it.