He saw a big, strongly built man with light-brown close-cropped hair and very clear green eyes in an intelligent face come hurrying round the corner. He was dressed in a simple wool tunic over hose tucked into good boots, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin of thick, scarred leather. He was armed; Rollo saw a sword in a scabbard and at least one knife stuck through the broad belt.
Now that, Rollo thought, is a lawman, if ever I saw one.
Could he be Jack Chevestrier?
He waited. He heard voices inside the house – Lassair’s and the big man’s – and presently they emerged. With some difficulty, Rollo trailed them as they took a very convoluted route through the hidden areas of the town, over a wide bridge across the river and down a narrow track leading around the base of the castle and emerging in what seemed once to have been a village; perhaps for the workers who built the castle. Rollo had seen similar places before.
The quiet was suddenly ripped apart by a violent cackling of geese. The big man quieted them, and he and Lassair went inside the house at the end of the track.
Stunned, Rollo stood for some moments, trying to absorb and make sense of what he had just seen.
She is in danger, he thought. He already knew something of what was happening in the town, and now the mention of this Jack person as someone with whom Lassair would be safe made more sense. Was that why she was with him? Because the peril from the killer at large was a particular threat to her?
‘I could protect her,’ he murmured aloud. Should he go and tell her he was there, right outside, and that she had no need of any other man’s strong sword arm?
He almost did just that.
But then he heard her voice again inside his head.
I’ll be safer than anywhere else, because I’ll go straight to Jack Chevestrier.
He stayed where he was.
Presently, thinking Lassair and the man had settled down for the night, Rollo made his way back into the town. The streets were virtually deserted, and he had to dodge a couple of patrols that were enthusiastically and brutally enforcing the curfew. Going back over the bridge – he had some idea of making camp in one of the other empty houses in the village by the castle – he heard raised voices and, looking down, saw lights in several of the taverns along the quay. He went into the one that seemed the most crowded, ordered ale and food and sat listening.
In the time it took to eat his meal and drink a couple of mugs of very good ale, he had found out what he needed to know. He discovered that the rumours he had picked up before, when he had briefly visited the town, concerned a vicious killer known as the Night Wanderer, who some said was a dark figure who came up from hell, out of the old legends, and whose weapon was his own arm, turned by witchcraft or deep magic into a vicious silver limb which ended in sharp claws with which he tore out his victims’ throats. Six people had died – so far, for the general opinion was that the Night Wanderer hadn’t finished yet – and they included men and women, young and old, and ranged from a beautiful young prostitute to the wealthy owner of a fleet of river craft and a mysterious recluse believed to be a wizard.
Ignoring the wilder suppositions and ideas – all the more outlandish and unlikely as the ale was consumed – Rollo concentrated on what was being said about the efforts of the men of law to catch the killer. Here, opinion was united: Gaspard Picot was only in charge because his uncle was the sheriff, he was undoubtedly as corrupt as the sheriff, he didn’t know his arse from his elbow when it came to dealing with murderers and why hadn’t they left Jack Chevestrier in charge?
Ah, Rollo thought. He’d been right.
Was it encouraging to know that, though? Should he now conclude for certain that Lassair was only in the man’s company for her own safety?
He couldn’t decide.
He returned to the deserted village, where he made a rough and ready shelter in one of the houses close to the one at the end of the track. All was quiet in that house, although he caught the faint glint of a light through the high little window. He knew he should go on watching, but he was very tired. He made a makeshift bed in the least draughty corner, and, reasonably comfortable and adequately warm in his cloak and blanket, he was soon deeply asleep.
He didn’t hear Jack and Lassair go out again. Ignorant of where they were going and what they discovered, he didn’t hear their return either. He slept on, dreaming vague dreams of Lassair, comforting himself, when occasionally he stirred, with the thought that she and this man were colleagues, friends, thrown together somehow and pooling their skills to try to discover who was behind the murders. She was being a good citizen, and helping the man of the law.
He fell back into profound sleep.
The next day he resumed his watch on her. It was an easy task, for she spent much of the day in a tavern on the quay, where he gathered from eavesdropping that a man had been badly beaten and she was tending him.
Rollo learned rather more than that.
By nightfall, he thought he had a fairly good grasp of what was going on. Lassair seemed to be deeply involved with this group of renegade lawmen; rightly so, he was sure, for he hadn’t liked what he had found out about Gaspard Picot, and it was heartening to discover that her sound judgement had led her to align herself with men with right on their side.
Something was going to happen: long experience told Rollo that. Danger was very near, and there would be another death very soon.
He resolved to watch and wait.
Now, watching Jack Chevestrier run off down the track, Rollo was torn. Should he take advantage of the man’s absence and go in to speak to Lassair? She’d be so pleased and relieved to see him, especially when peril crackled through the air like approaching lightning. She’d leap up, fling her arms round him and say, Oh, thank the good Lord you’re here, I’ve been so frightened and I’ve prayed for you to come and look after me!
But that was wishful thinking. She was pretty good at looking after herself, and if as it appeared she had accepted another man’s protection, then she must have good reason.
And there was something else…
Rollo, who would have said he wasn’t in the habit of being frightened of anything, discovered that he didn’t dare go and declare his presence to Lassair.
Because he had no idea what he would do if she turned him away.
He was overcome with the need to move; to drown his distress in action of some sort, and just then it didn’t seem to matter what.
Making up his mind, he emerged from the ruined house and set off after the man in the leather jerkin.
EIGHTEEN
I was woken just as dawn was breaking by a terrific noise from Jack’s geese. Barely awake, I stumped out of bed and, barefoot and in my shift, reached for my little knife and looked round wildly for a weapon for my other hand. Jack’s house was bristling with weapons so, discarding a bow, a heavy sword that looked too old to have a good edge and a vicious knife with a curved blade like a sickle, I picked up a dagger.
Fear making me feel as if my heart was thumping right up in my throat, I ran through the main room and without giving myself time to think wrenched back the bars across the door and flung it open.
A lad stood just outside, his normally friendly face anxious and strained. His pale hair stuck to his sweaty forehead; he had obviously been running.
I sagged against the door frame. ‘Henry,’ I said.
His eyebrows went up in surprise. ‘Oh, did I startle you, miss?’ he panted. ‘Sorry.’
Startle?
‘Just a little,’ I admitted. ‘Come in.’
‘No, I won’t, thank you,’ he said politely. The monks from whom he’d fled might have beaten him but they’d also taught him manners. ‘I came for the master. We need him urgently.’