‘I have to go out again,’ he said, his voice low and full of regret. ‘Dearest Lassair, don’t look at me like that!’
‘I don’t want you to go,’ I muttered. It was quite an understatement.
‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ he said quickly. ‘The geese will set up a noise to wake the dead if anyone comes near, the door is stout and nobody knows you are here.’
‘I am not,’ I said pointedly, ‘afraid.’
He smiled delightedly. ‘Ah. I see.’ Then, quickly, he went on, ‘Luke – you remember Luke? The one I sent to find out what was happening with the official investigation into the killings?’ I nodded. ‘I had a message that he wanted to see me, and it has to be tonight. I think something’s happened, and if it’s what I hope it is, then it will affect how we plan for tomorrow night.’
‘But what-’
He didn’t let me finish. He kissed me again, groaned softly then turned, picked up his sword and ran.
The former workmen’s village was not totally deserted. In the ruins of a small lean-to a little way down the path from Jack’s house, at the far end of the row, someone had made a rudimentary camp. Some old and half-rotten bundles of straw had been used to shore up the missing wall, and a length of fabric impregnated with animal fat was spread over the gaping hole in the roof. A bedroll stood on end in one corner, a stone jar of water, a small cup and half a loaf of bread beside it.
In the darkness, Rollo stood in the doorless entrance, watching the house at the end of the row.
He saw the powerfully built man in the leather jerkin leave and run off down the track. He was carrying a sword. There was no sign of Lassair. She must still be in the house.
Rollo didn’t know what to do.
He had now been observing her for four days. After his meeting with the king at Windsor, he had made good speed up into the fens. He had never anticipated simply jumping out in front of her, to announce he was back and expect her instantly to drop whatever she was doing and rejoice at being with him again. He was only too aware of how long he’d been away; of the many months that had elapsed without his having sent her any loving, encouraging message. For all she knew, he had thought gloomily as he covered the miles, he could be dead.
He felt increasingly guilty. He could have sent word. His net of spies was spread wide, and it would not have been that hard to send a message from the shores of the Mediterranean to the fens. It wouldn’t even have taken all that long. He knew, because he had done it. Well, the message hadn’t been destined for Aelf Fen but for Winchester, although the distance would not have been very different.
He admitted honestly to himself that he hadn’t wanted to contact her. He had thought about her often – he remembered one or two moments when he’d been sure she was in danger, and his corresponding feelings of anguished helplessness – but, in truth, the appeal of his mission was greater than any idea of hurrying back before its completion to seek her out.
He was good at what he did – it did not seem immodest to admit it within the privacy of his own thoughts – and he enjoyed it. The work was often perilous, exhausting and lonely, the missions long and sometimes with scant chance of success. But he did succeed; no wonder he enjoyed it.
Arriving in the fens, he had gone first to Cambridge, finding his way through the maze of alleyways to the house of the old magician. There had been nobody there. The town had been in a ferment, and it hadn’t taken him long to understand why. Deciding that Lassair and Gurdyman must have fled to seek sanctuary well away from the violence, he then set off for her village. He went on foot, as she must have done; if he intended to disguise his presence until he had found out whether or not she would truly welcome him back, it would be that much more difficult if he had his horse with him. He found stables outside the town, leaving his horse there for a well-deserved rest.
He knew roughly where her village was and it proved quite easy to find. He chose a vantage point in a stand of hazel and alder close to a lone oak tree that stood on the higher ground above the village, and settled down to watch.
He spent a reasonably comfortable night under the trees. He was used to sleeping under the stars, and the weather was mild. The following day, he saw her. She seemed to be living in a small house set a little apart from the rest of the village, and he surmised that it belonged to her healer aunt. He almost went down to her and declared himself, but something held him back.
Then, early the next morning, concealed by the alder and hazel trees of his vantage point, he heard her.
She was standing under the oak tree, and she was talking to a slim young man with fair hair bleached almost white by the sun. She was smiling at him, talking easily, but he sensed a deep, underlying tension in her. The young man asked her something, but she shook her head and he heard her say she wasn’t staying in the village. Then she lowered her voice and spoke urgently to him; Rollo had the impression she was telling him something of grave significance.
The young man didn’t seem to like what she was saying. He made some sort of a protest, then, in a louder voice, Lassair said, I’ll be quite safe because the person looking for me thinks I’m in the village, and once I get to Cambridge, I’ll be safer than anywhere else, because I’ll go straight to Jack Chevestrier.
There had been more – she appeared to be asking the young man to do something for her, and with obvious reluctance he agreed – and Rollo heard him offer to go back to the town with her, only to have her kindly but very firmly turn him down.
Rollo had observed and noted the latter part of the exchange only with some automatic part of his well-trained mind. The majority of his attention had turned inwards, because when she said what she did about being safe with this Jack Chevestrier, he was watching the young man’s face. He, too, must have picked up what Rollo did, for his expression changed. He had been looking at her with a faint, fond smile, his feelings for her clear to read, and then the softness was abruptly wiped away.
He hears it too, Rollo thought as dismay overcame him. He hears that note of excited tension in her voice as she speaks of a man she can’t wait to get back to. A man she loves, even if she doesn’t know it?
He prayed that it wasn’t so.
He had almost turned and walked away. He had been away too long, she had given up on him returning and, in her busy life in the town, had met and allowed herself to be attracted to somebody else. It was only to be expected, he told himself. She was young, she’d have been lonely, she was beautiful – in his eyes she was – and also intelligent, capable, brave and, as far as he was concerned, exceptionally good at her job.
And I will not let her go without a fight.
Thinking was over. So was imagining he was going to step back and let this other man – this Jack Chevestrier, whoever he might be – have her all to himself.
Allowing Lassair a short while to get ahead of him, Rollo set out behind her on the road that curved round the south of the fens on its way to Cambridge. She seemed to be in danger; somebody, it appeared, had come to Aelf Fen to hunt her down. Well, that person might not be as easily fooled as she seemed to believe; if they had realized what she was up to and were even now shadowing her footsteps, planning some sort of assault, then she wouldn’t have to face them alone. Rollo would be there.
He tailed her all the way back to the town.
He watched as she went into Gurdyman’s house. He didn’t think the old man was there, for although he listened intently, standing close to the partly open door, he didn’t hear voices.
Then he heard the heavy thump of booted footsteps coming along the alley and slipped into a gap between two houses to hide and watch.