Rollo could see that it was not; the obvious place was the one spot to avoid.
He couldn’t be sure, but his guess was that it was deep water. What looked at first glance to be stones set in the shallows were the tips of rocks, perhaps the height of a man or more, for the water there was dark, deep and fast-running.
The man appeared to make up his mind. Expecting a firm-bottomed ford where the water would reach his horse’s hocks at most, he spurred his mount on and raced for the stream. The horse tried to swerve, to slow down, to turn away from the danger it could see, but the man drove it on relentlessly, using spurred heels, whip and fists. The horse crashed into the deep water, gave a scream of fear and was swept over on its side and washed away downstream, taking the man with it.
Rollo heard more shouts and cries of dismay from behind him. He risked a quick look and saw that one of the remaining pair was kneeling over the headless body — he appeared to be retching — while the other was setting off recklessly fast across the valley in pursuit of his drowning comrade. Rollo nudged Strega with his heels, and she took off.
It was not until much later that Rollo gave any real thought as to who his attackers had been. He and Strega had gone as hard and as fast as they could for the coast, only making the briefest of stops. The mare seemed as eager to press on as he was, and she pushed herself to the limits.
They rode down towards the great port at the mouth of the Tyne long after darkness had fallen. They were both exhausted, and Strega was soaked in sweat. Rollo knew it was no use trying to get into the town, for curfew would have sealed it long ago. He did not want to advertise his presence by banging on the town gates, alerting the watchman and demanding entry.
There was a sort of temporary camp beside the road leading into the port, where others who had also arrived after curfew huddled against the wooden walls waiting for dawn. There were rough shelters to keep off the wet, and a surly-looking man was doing brisk business selling hay and straw. Rollo found a place out of the keen wind that was blowing in off the sea and, dismounting, swung his packs off his horse’s back and set about tending to her. She was still sweating, and he had to spend some time rubbing her down with handfuls of straw, speaking soothingly to her as he did so, before she would settle.
When he was satisfied that he had done the best he could for her, he tethered her, sat down close beside her and wrapped himself in his cloak and blanket. He took some food out of his pack, washing it down with water. He was almost at the end of his supplies.
Who were they? The question sprang at him as soon as he had swallowed his last mouthful. Were they opportunist thieves who habitually haunted that stretch of the track, waiting to pounce on solitary travellers and rob them? It was possible, even likely.
But Rollo didn’t believe it. The men who had lain in wait for him had been out to kill him. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. The man he had beheaded had almost succeeded, and he would have done so had Rollo not been mounted on such an intelligent horse. He reached out a hand and touched Strega’s leg, and she gave a gentle whicker in reply, stretching down her head and putting her soft lips to his ear, blowing gently.
Why would a quartet of men lie in wait for him and try to kill him? The answer was obvious. Rollo pictured the faces of the four men slowly and carefully, one by one, and it seemed to him that the features of at least one of them, if not two, were familiar. He had seen both men — or he was almost sure he had — at Hawksclaw’s stronghold.
Weary, he lay down and turned on his side, trying to get comfortable on the cold, hard ground. Maybe he was wrong — it was quite possible, he thought with sudden bitterness, that the wild men of the border lands were inbred and all resembled one another. Nevertheless, there had been four of them waiting for him, and, although one was definitely dead and a second probably drowned, that left two. Two men, who clearly wanted him dead. Whether or not they were out to avenge Hawksclaw was not really relevant.
In the morning, he told himself as he gave in to his fatigue and allowed himself to drop towards sleep, my horse and I will get away from here, as fast as we can.
He was up and away as dawn broke. He did not venture within the town’s walls, for the fewer people who might see him and remember his face, the better. He knew he must send word to the king as soon as possible regarding the mission in Carlisle, but he still felt threatened by his pursuers. He knew a good man — very discreet, very efficient — who could normally be found in a small port at the mouth of the Tees river. He would seek him out and entrust the message to him.
He followed the track around the settlement, then at last, with infinite relief, he hit the coast and turned south.
Something made him stop and turn around. Behind the town, inland where the ground rose up towards the moor and the desolate heathland, somebody was watching him. The figure was some way away, and alone. As he watched, it raised an arm and pointed straight at him.
He knew who it was, and also that it was probably a woman. He had seen several of her kind in the border country. The locals called them witches and feared them deeply. They were nothing like the witches of Rollo’s birth country; they were pure evil. He had come across a trio of them in a little dell close to the Wall. They were all grey-haired, wrinkled, dressed in ragged remnants and wild-looking; one of them had a huge wart on her cheek. They were huddled, muttering, around an ancient black cauldron set on a hearth, from which issued a steam so foul-smelling that, even at a distance of some twenty paces, the fumes made him retch and brought tears to his eyes. He had hurried away. He knew they had seen him, but he did not fear pursuit, since he was mounted and they were not. Unless, of course, the rumours were true and they could fly.
Those three had had no reason to wish him harm. They could not have known who he was, and he had done them no wrong. But that was before he had killed Hawksclaw and two of the brigand’s men sent to ambush him. Now he had blood on his hands. Was either Hawksclaw or one of the other dead men under the protection of some powerful crone with malice in her heart? Was she even now standing up there where the hills ended, sending down her furious curse to land on him like some evil black crow, dogging his footsteps until finally he ran out of strength and succumbed?
He realized he was sitting stock-still on Strega’s back, eyes fixed on the figure on the hillside. With a huge effort he made himself look away, and immediately the sense of dread diminished. It was as if he had been standing under a lowering, chilling cloud, which had suddenly moved away to allow the blessed heat of the sun to reach him.
He knew he should instantly ride on, as fast as he could, and put some distance between himself and that sinister figure. But the temptation was too strong. Turning to face her once more, he yelled as loudly as he could, ‘I do not fear you! You have no power over me!’
It might have been his imagination, but as he hastened away down the road, he thought he heard a scream of fury come flying after him.
Once the sun had fully risen and the bright daylight had banished the shadows, he stopped at a decent-looking inn beside the road. He dismounted and led Strega under a low arch into the yard, where he paid a lad handsomely to rub her down, feed and water her and then groom her. He also told the lad to do what he could with the saddle and bridle, which needed a good wash. Then he went inside the inn and ordered the largest breakfast the innkeeper could provide. While it was being prepared, he paid for hot water and towels and set about cleaning himself up.
He shaved, untangled his darkened hair, hacked most of it off with his knife and, liberally using the coarse lye soap, washed it several times, restoring its natural fair colour. He washed his body next, thoroughly ridding himself of lice, and he bundled up the old garments he had been wearing and gave them to the innkeeper to burn. He dressed in clean linen — and what a luxury it was — and a tunic of fine wool, from which he had managed to get out most of the creases by hanging it up in the steam from the lavish hot water in which he was bathing. His good cloak, unrolled from his pack, lay ready on the bench beside him. He had even cleaned the layers of mud from his boots, and the chestnut-coloured leather shone again.