He was looking straight at the escarpment when he saw it. Half concealed by a copse of willows — they grew on the cliff side of the stream as well as on the marsh side — he thought he had seen something that did not belong there. It was the edge of a thick, reed-thatched roof.
Going stealthily nearer, he realised that he had been right. It was a roof, some fifteen or twenty paces long, and it covered a building so worn by wind and weather and so stained by the camouflaging lichen that he was quite certain he would never have made it out unless he knew exactly where to look. It had, he thought in wonder, so thoroughly taken on the aspect of its surroundings that it blended in completely.
The building was made of wood. And, Josse had to admit, it looked as if it were a long hall. Beside it he could just make out the outlines of a handful of small outbuildings.
Ignoring the prickle of apprehension that flew up his spine, he nudged Horace with his knees and walked slowly forward. This was the place where Galiena’s kin dwelt, the place from which she had been taken as a baby to be given to Raelf and his barren first wife. Well, then it was to here that Josse’s mission must lead him, whether he was apprehensive or not.
As he rode steadily over the springy ground, something strange happened. The day was fine, with strong sunshine beating down from a deep blue sky and neither a cloud to be seen nor any hint of moisture on the slight, warm breeze. Yet, as if from nowhere, strands of mist seemed to curl up out of the marsh as if some invisible being had set fire to the sparse, dry grass and it was sending a soft smoke up into the air.
But it could not be smoke, because Josse could detect no smell of burning. Checking Horace, he watched. And the tentative first tendrils of vapour quickly grew until the scene ahead of him — all around him, he realised, looking round with a start of alarm — was concealed behind a shifting, flowing, nebulous film of white.
He could no longer see the hall beneath the cliff. Neither could he see the willows or the stream alongside which they grew. In the sudden sea fret that had floated across the marsh — as it not infrequently did, although Josse was not to know it — he was as a blind man on unfamiliar territory.
It seemed unwise to ride on. Speaking reassuringly to Horace, who did not appear to like the mist any more than Josse did, he sat and waited for it to clear.
The silence was total. It was as if the fog were muffling all the normal small, everyday sounds that are taken for granted until they are no longer there.
First blind, now deaf, Josse thought grimly. Then: if they’re out there and they are familiar with this ground, then I’ll never be an easier target than I am now.
So closely did the sound follow on the thought that he thought for an optimistic moment that he had imagined it. But then it came again: the clear ring of metal.
It sounded like a horseman, approaching unseen through the brume. The sound came from Josse’s right … but then it came again from his left. Not one but two of them.
Putting his hand on his sword hilt, Josse strained to see them. And presently they materialised out of the mist: four men, all armed, on short, sturdy ponies.
They were pale, as if they lived their lives in the shadows, and light-eyed. Three were hooded; the fourth wore some sort of round helm on his blond hair. Forming themselves into a semicircle facing in towards Josse, they stared at him in intent silence.
Then the man in the helm said, his words carrying a peculiar accent, ‘What do you want here?’
Josse had been staring, half hypnotised, at the brooch that fastened the man’s cloak. It was round and bore a design of a running wolf chasing its own tail. It shone in the opaque light with the unmistakable brilliance of gold. Looking the man in the face, he replied, ‘I am searching for a place called Deadfall.’
There was a murmur from one of the other men and what sounded like a brief, humourless laugh. The man in the helm said, ‘This is Saltwych, or so it is known to us. Men do call it Deadfall, or so I am told.’
Again, one of the other riders made some comment. Josse heard it, quite clearly, but he did not understand it; the man had spoken in an alien tongue.
The helmed man said, a hint of menace in his voice, ‘What is your mission at Deadfall?’
I am here on an honest quest, Josse told himself. I have done no wrong, have not even trespassed on private land, as far as I am aware. I will not be intimidated.
‘I have come from Hawkenlye Abbey with news of a death,’ he said quietly.
‘Hawkenlye Abbey?’ The man frowned. ‘I know it not. Why should a death in that place be news that you have to bring to us here?’
Josse was reluctant to explain. He did not know whom he was addressing; the man might be an important figure in the community who dwelt in this penumbral place, and therefore entitled to hear first of what had happened to the daughter whom they had given away. He might equally well be nothing more than a guard whose job it was to give the alarm when strangers came too close. ‘It is a delicate matter,’ he said. ‘I would tell of it first to-’ To whom? And how could he express himself without causing offence? But the four men were close upon him now and he realised he had no option but to speak his mind. ‘I wish to speak first to whoever leads your community,’ he said firmly.
There was more muttering but the man in the helm gave a curt nod, as if he understood the etiquette that demanded grave tidings be given first to the head of the group.
‘Wait here,’ he commanded. ‘I will announce you and ask if they will receive you.’
Putting spurs to his horse, he trotted off into the mist.
The remaining three riders were now very close to Josse and Horace was uneasy. Murmuring to him, Josse put a calming hand on the horse’s neck. Then suddenly the man on his right said haltingly, ‘You are — fit to go to hall?’ One of the others laughed as if at a private joke. ‘It is great honour,’ the man went on. Reaching out, he brushed at Josse’s tunic, which was showing all too many signs of nights spent in the open. ‘Must not go inside in dirty clothes!’ the man said. ‘Must tidy hair, clean mud from boots!’
Now all three men were laughing, but quietly, as if they did not want to be overheard. Glancing swiftly at the man on his left — he was young, little more than a boy — Josse was quite sure he saw fear in the pale eyes.
Dear God, Josse prayed silently, what sort of a place have I stumbled into?
There came a sound from the midst of the white fog before him; it was faint and, again, suppressed by the mist, but it sounded as if someone had blown on a horn. The three men leapt to attention, all amusement wiped from their faces, and formed a line beside Josse, one man on his right, two on his left.
The man who had spoken to him gave him a nod and said, ‘We go.’
Then, moving as one, Josse included, all four of them began to go forward into the blind whiteness.
As they went, it seemed to grow thinner until it was no more than a thin veil that confused sight. Then, through its silvery sheen, Josse could once more see the hall and the huddle of outbuildings.
His attendants — he hoped that was what they were, although in fact they seemed more like guards — pressed close on either side of him. As they neared the collection of buildings, he saw, dismayed, that there were more men standing on either side of the hall and all of them were armed.
His guards rode with him right up to the wooden hall. Then they fell away, the man who had spoken to him making a gesture that said plainly, go on!
Feeling very vulnerable in the open space between the horsemen at his back and the swordsmen in front of him, Josse rode on alone. When he was only a few paces from the hall, he spied what he thought must be the door, although its presence was only indicated by a small gap in the wooden planking of the wall, as if it had been opened just a little to admit fresh air.