As, eventually, the lonely hamlet came into view, Rollo hoped fervently that the stable boy had taken good care of Strega, for she and Rollo had a long ride ahead of them.
He would travel on towards the east until he reached the sea. There were still some twenty-five miles to go, across the wild north country which his pursuers would know so much better than he did. Twenty-five miles to cover, during which he would be alone and vulnerable to attack. He would have to employ all his skill, using not only sight and hearing to detect a possible threat, but also that strange extra sense that seemed to be there when he most needed it. If Strega was well fed and well rested, as indeed she ought to be, then she would be eager to run and, with any luck, they would reach the sea by nightfall. He would find some busy, bustling port in which to lose himself, and he would have the luxury of a good hot meal, perhaps even a wash, and a comfortable bed to sleep in. Then — and his soul began to sing at the thought — at long last he would turn south and leave the desolate, dangerous north behind him.
His next destination and his next mission lay just ahead of him, in the near future. The fact that what the king had ordered him to do was as dangerous, in its way, as a whole troop of murderous brigands with revenge in their hearts, he did not allow himself to think about.
One thing at a time. And he still had to get to the coast. .
EIGHT
My huge joy at the realization that it was Rollo who had been calling out to me made me walk on air for two whole days. Then, as I woke on the third morning from a deep and dreamless sleep without the merest suspicion of words spoken inside my head, I was hit with a sudden sense of dread, so profound that for a moment I felt physically sick.
He had been in terrible danger. He had been hiding in some frightful pit once used in the initiation rites of an ancient religion. He had been wounded, sick, desperate. I had seen him, and I had heard him call out to me, many times. Now the dream visions had gone and the words had ceased.
I was awfully afraid I knew what that meant: Rollo was dead.
I put my head in my hands and wept.
Gurdyman was kind, in the sense that he told me quite brusquely that I had no proof and should not plunge into despair without good cause. I felt I had reason enough, but the determination in his bright eyes made me wonder if I was right. Instantly, Gurdyman spotted my moment of doubt.
‘You must keep busy, child,’ he remonstrated gently. ‘Moping about here and thinking the worst will avail neither you nor this Norman of yours.’ I had told him quite a lot about Rollo, although, as so often with Gurdyman, I felt I was revealing things he already knew. He had a way of slowly nodding his head as I spoke, as if to say yes, yes, this I am aware of. The mere mention of Rollo’s name had been enough, for Gurdyman seemed to know all about the Guiscard family. To my relief, although he referred to Rollo as my Norman, I had the distinct impression that he did not view the Guiscards as ruthless and brutal conquerors. On the contrary, he seemed to have a certain respect for them.
He was right, of course, and I did indeed need to keep occupied, but just at that moment I was at a loss to know what I ought to be doing.
‘I need some supplies,’ Gurdyman announced, getting to his feet. ‘Many of the bottles on the crypt shelves are almost empty, and there are some items which even our apothecary has run out of. Come, child — ’ he reached for his stout stick — ‘we shall step out in the sunshine of this fine morning and walk down to the quays, where, with any luck, we shall be able to find some merchant who has fortuitously just taken delivery of the very items we require.’
I fetched my shawl and we set off. Knowing him as I was coming to, I was pretty sure that he was right and a boat with a cargo of rare and exotic herbs, spices and oils would just be tying up.
We emerged into the marketplace, where the food stalls were already doing brisk business. Making our way through the maze of little streets and alleys on the far side, soon we were stepping out on to the road that leads up to the Great Bridge. On the far side, I could see Castle Hill, and at its foot men were busy on the site where the new priory was being built. We remained on the south side of the river, turning to the right just before the bridge and heading off down the long quay.
Presently, Gurdyman raised his stick and pointed to a long, sleek boat which was just manoeuvring up to the quay. A sailor stood barefoot on her deck, holding a rope, and another man waited on the quayside to catch it. ‘Jack Duroll,’ Gurdyman exclaimed with satisfaction. He turned and gave me a smug smile. ‘He’ll have exactly what we need. I shall-’
But his words were interrupted by a shout from the quayside, followed by a confusion of sounds: a lot of splashing, a babble of loud voices, a woman’s high, thin scream. Gurdyman forged a way between the rapidly-gathering crowd of interested people, and soon we were standing on the edge of the stone quay looking out across the water.
Another boat had been following Jack Duroll’s up the river, presumably heading for a berth a little further on. But something was wrong. . I tried to see what had so alarmed the onlookers. The boat — a squat little tub of a thing, with weather-stained boards and an unkempt look — seemed to be towing something along behind, something attached by a line. From the consternation among the boat’s small crew, it was very apparent that they had been unaware of whatever was accompanying them until the people on the quay had drawn their attention to it.
What was it? I edged up beside two stout women who stood muttering together, heads close, faces wearing expressions that indicated both shock and curiosity. One of them turned to me and, eyes alive with excitement, said, ‘It’s a body!’
She had to be wrong. Boats didn’t tow their dead along behind them, I was sure of it. I heard voices shouting out in a foreign tongue: the boat’s crew, busy claiming, no doubt, that they knew nothing whatsoever about their unexpected companion. I heard several local voices respond, with everyone steadily growing more agitated. One man shouted, ‘Bloody foreigners! They’ll have killed him and chucked him over the side, you mark my words!’
Quite a lot of people did mark his words, if the mutterings of agreement were anything to go by. I thought this theory highly unlikely, for if the foreigners had killed someone on-board and disposed of the body, surely they would have made quite certain, before coming into the town, that they weren’t towing the evidence of the crime along behind them.
Then I heard a clear, authoritative voice that I recognized. I didn’t understand the words, for they appeared to be in the same language that the foreign sailors spoke. But I knew the tone: it was Gurdyman. He was addressing a tall, broad, fair-haired and bare-chested giant of a man who appeared to be the squat tub’s captain.
I hurried to join them. Gurdyman posed a question, to which the captain replied with a great gush of words, waving his hands about and gesturing to his boat, his crew and the dead body. Gurdyman waited until he paused for breath — which was a long time, as the man apparently had huge lungs — and then asked another question. The man nodded vigorously, pointing back up river to the north-east.
I nudged Gurdyman. ‘What’s happened? What’s he saying?’
Gurdyman turned to me, frowning. ‘In a moment, Lassair. First we must summon the sheriff.’
I was quite surprised. Gurdyman does not have a very great opinion of our town sheriff, suspecting him, as do many of the townspeople, of taking the common pasture and using it for himself. Prowling wolf, filthy swine and dog without shame are some of the more polite epithets applied to our sheriff. But I thought I knew why Gurdyman was even now sending a lad off to find him. There was a dead body in the water beneath the quay, and all business, commerce and trade would come to a halt until someone in authority did something about it.