The Rufus Spy Page 3

  I hurried ahead to open the door and Sibert was gently laid down on a bedroll beside the hearth, Edild already crouching over him, pushing back his long pale hair to stare into his eyes. ‘Sibert?’ she said gently. ‘Can you hear me? Can you speak?’

  His only response was a moan. At least, I thought frantically, he is alive …

  Edild was looking up at Hrype. ‘What happened?’ she asked with remarkable calm.

  ‘He was attacked,’ Hrype replied. ‘It took me a long while to find him, for he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.’ He was staring intently at his son and abruptly he raised his hands and buried his face in them. ‘I was only just in time,’ he muttered, ‘for the assault was brutal, and he desperately needed help. He was so cold.’

  Gurdyman’s report of the poor young man who had been beaten to death filled my mind. Now there had been another attack, and so similar to the first …

  But there were more immediate considerations. Edild, superficially calm and only her busy hands betraying her urgency, would surely need an assistant, so I made myself concentrate on what she was doing. ‘Where was he hit?’ she demanded. She was feeling all around his bruised, bloody forehead.

  ‘On the crown of the head and on the brow, or so it appears,’ Hrype said. ‘Then he must have grabbed one of Sibert’s hands and begun forcing back the forefinger – see? – but something, some sound, perhaps, must have interrupted him, for I do not believe the finger is broken.’

  Edild now held Sibert’s left hand in hers, gently bending each of the fingers backwards and forwards. Sibert cried out in pain. ‘You’re right, no bones are broken,’ she murmured. She looked at Hrype. ‘Perhaps it was your approach that the assailant heard, and, if so, you were just in time, it seems. Lassair’ – even though she didn’t look up, she knew I was right there – ‘fetch hot water and lavender oil, soft cloths and my needle and gut. I will stitch the worst of the cuts while Sibert remains barely conscious. You shall help me.’

  I did as she commanded, and we crouched either side of Sibert, working together as we had done so many times before. The cut on his forehead was shallow but it was bleeding copiously, as head wounds always do. Edild stitched it, then handed the needle to me to deal with a smaller but deeper cut on the top of the head. Sibert moaned a few times and once screamed out in agony, writhing and trying to twist out of our reach, but Hrype and my mother held him still. After what seemed a long time, we were done.

  ‘He must be put to bed and made to stay there,’ Edild pronounced. ‘Somebody who understands the treatment of severe blows to the head should stay with him.’ She frowned slightly. ‘I could go myself, but …’

  There was no need for her to finish the sentence. There were difficulties and probably bad feelings on Sibert’s part concerning his father’s marriage, and to have his new stepmother nurse him – in his abandoned mother’s house, too, since there wasn’t really room for him at Edild’s and he wouldn’t have wanted to be treated there anyway – was undoubtedly the last thing he’d want.

  ‘I’ll go and look after him,’ I said. Edild spun round to look at me. ‘You know very well I can do it,’ I said calmly. ‘Caring for the after-effects of bad head wounds was one of the last things you taught me, when the pig man’s lad fell off the hay wagon and knocked himself out. Remember?’

  She nodded. I could see that she was thinking, swiftly coming to the conclusion that my suggestion was a good idea in more ways than one.

  ‘I will go to speak to Froya,’ Hrype said, ‘and explain what has happened.’ Edild made a small sound, and, understanding, he added quietly, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell her he’s not badly hurt. We don’t want her worrying, not just now.’

  Before any of us could stop him, he hurried away.

  My mother stared after him. Her expression was carefully neutral, and she made no comment.

  ‘Will you stay, Essa, to help carry Sibert home?’ Edild asked. ‘Lassair and I could do it, but you are the strongest and it’s best that he’s not jolted about more than can be helped.’

  ‘Of course,’ my mother said.

  We did not have long to wait. Quite soon Hrype returned, and I caught a sheepish expression on his face. ‘She’s making a bed by the hearth,’ he said.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Edild asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said briefly. He shot her a glance. ‘It’s as you often tell me,’ he added very softly. ‘She is indeed tougher than I think.’

  He’d forgotten for the moment, I believed, my mother’s and my presence.

  Froya greeted us at her door and indicated the paillasse, blankets and pillows that she had laid ready beside the hearth. Hrype and my mother gently lowered Sibert, who gave one shout of pain and then lay quiet. Froya waited, silent and contained, while my mother, closely followed by Hrype, backed out again. ‘Thank you,’ she said politely to them. Then she closed the door.

  For a few moments she stood with her back to it, leaning against it as if making sure nobody came in again. Then she looked up and, to my amazement, she was smiling.

  I studied her. She was very slim and fragile-looking, with white-blonde hair and very light eyes. Her pale face was heart-shaped, with a delicate chin and a high, broad forehead. I’d always thought she appeared anxious. In that moment, I wondered if I’d ever actually seen her smile before.

  She came back towards the hearth, and her injured son. ‘I must thank you too, Lassair,’ she said. ‘I understand that you have offered to stay here and watch Sibert as he recovers, and that was a kind thought.’

  ‘Only if it’s all right with you,’ I said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t capable of looking after him.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were,’ she said. ‘While I am as accustomed as any woman to caring for the sick and injured, I have few specialized skills, and I shall be very glad of your presence.’

  She bent over Sibert, tucking the blanket around his shoulders, and it seemed the matter was settled.

  As the day slowly passed and night drew on, I watched Sibert carefully. In the main this was easy, for he slept a lot of the time. I checked his forehead frequently for fever – he was indeed quite hot – and I regularly bathed his stitched wounds with cold water in which I had put lavender oil. I had set out the ingredients for a pain- and fever-reducing drink, wanting to have them ready should he wake up and need it.

  Once he stirred, and his urgent mutterings alarmed both Froya and me. ‘Not me!’ he yelled. ‘I wasn’t even there, it’s not me you want!’ The last five words were so loud that the echoes rang in the little house. Sibert tried to sit up, fixed his eyes on me and screamed, ‘NO! Stop, oh stop, I don’t know!’

  Froya gave a soft whimper. ‘Don’t be too concerned,’ I said softly, trying to force Sibert back to a recumbent position without causing him pain. ‘He’s a little feverish, and not aware of what he’s saying. The words are not for us.’

  She nodded, a quick, curt acknowledgement of her understanding. Then she said, ‘Would some of your draught help him now?’

  I studied my patient. He was writhing to and fro, muttering again, and I thought he might indeed be sufficiently aware to drink the medicine.

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said.

  Froya brought over the water that we had set to heat and I poured it on the combined herbs. I allowed the mixture to steep for the prescribed time, and by then it was cool enough to give to Sibert. I filtered it and Froya supported him while I held the cup to his lips. He sipped, slowly at first, then greedily, as if he had a huge thirst. He opened his eyes widely for a few moments and said, ‘Lassair! Nobody told me you were home!’ Turning to Froya, he added, ‘Don’t get anxious, now, Mother, I’m not badly hurt.’ Then, relaxing into his pillows with a deep sigh, he went back to sleep.

  Froya knelt by his side, utterly immobile. ‘Is he going to be all right?’ she whispered.

  ‘I hope so,’ I said. Experience has taught me never to promise outcomes about which I cannot be certain. �
�He recognized us both, and was sufficiently aware to remember to reassure you. That’s a good sign.’

  She nodded. Then she got to her feet and said, ‘Well, he’ll sleep now, for he has drunk your draught to the dregs and I’m sure you know what you’re doing. I will prepare food, for you must be as hungry as I am.’

  She had surprised me in many ways, this mother of my old friend. As I settled for the night, lying close beside Sibert so that I would hear if he moved or called out, I reflected how little we know other people. I’d been acquainted with Froya all my life; I knew a little about her past, and from those scant details I’d made up my mind that she was a delicate woman, easily distressed, prone to anxiety and to treating even minor problems as huge and distressing perturbations. I’d imagined she would be utterly destroyed if Hrype ceased to share her and Sibert’s house and moved in with my aunt. Yet here she was, faced with a seriously injured son and the presence in her house of someone she hardly knew, and she was dealing with it calmly and efficiently. Judging by the soft snores coming from the corner where she lay, the day’s events weren’t affecting her ability to sleep.

  Suddenly I asked myself how I’d feel if circumstances had forced me to live with Hrype and all at once those circumstances didn’t apply any more and he left. I grinned to myself in the darkness. I’d be delighted.

  As I turned over and settled down to sleep, pain stabbed through the sore muscle in my lower back and I suppressed a moan. I altered my position, and it eased a little. To take my mind off it, I thought again about the attack on Sibert. As soon as Hrype had revealed what had happened, it had been only natural to think of that other assault that Gurdyman had told me about. The details sounded disturbingly similar, and I wondered now if Sibert had been in the same area when the assailant fell on him, and why it should be that two young men should be attacked within the space of a few days.

  I was just considering what could possibly connect Sibert and the dead young man when my back started to hurt again. I moved again, pushed my rolled-up shawl into the small of my back for support and made myself relax. I’d have willingly taken some of my own sleeping and pain-suppressing herbs, but too deep a sleep would mean I couldn’t hear Sibert if he called. Sleep, I ordered myself.

  Presently, I began to drift off.

  In the depths of the night in Cambridge, a large object floated with the slow downriver current, emerging from beneath the dark shadows of the trees and the vegetation on the bank into the clear area along the quays that lined the river either side of the Great Bridge.

  The water moved slowly there. As the current edged the object round a gentle bend, some profound eddy caught it, setting it briefly in motion.

  To an onlooker, it might have seemed that an arm waved; asked for help, perhaps.

  For the object was a human body. The appeal for help was nothing but an illusion, for the body was quite dead.

  Time passed, and, yard by slow yard, the body made its way past the moored boats, the majority dark and closed up for the night. It floated on its back, arms and legs splayed out, and gradually the gentle current swept it over to the northern bank. Sometimes its right foot, still wearing a boot although the left one had gone, knocked against the side of a boat. If any sleeper on board heard the small sound, he or she dismissed it as the general background noise of the night.

  Now the body drew close to the Great Bridge. Aboard the last boat on the north bank, a woman was awake. She was nursing a baby, and she sat in a pool of light from a single lantern. She was intent on her child, watching the small face as her little son drew the abundant nourishment from her breast, and had no eyes for anything in, or upon, the river.

  Had she glanced down, she would have seen a pale face illuminated by her lantern. The face had received a battering, and there had been a great deal of blood. This had all been washed away from the exposed flesh, although the tunic and undershirt were still heavily stained. The hair, long, fair and well cut, floated around the broken head like a halo.

  On the right hand, extended towards the nursing woman and her child in silent appeal, three fingers and the thumb were crushed almost beyond recognition.

  As the dead man floated beneath the Great Bridge, the trailing edge of some torn item of clothing caught on the ruins of an ancient wooden quay, of which nothing remained but a few rotting wooden piers under the water. For a while, the current tried to pull the body free, and it began to bob about as if eager to assist. But the movement caused another piece of cloth to become caught up, and then the body was still.

  It was to remain there, in the dark shadows beneath the bridge, for some time before anybody spotted it, by which time much of the exposed flesh would have been eaten away by the small creatures of the water and the river bank.

  It was a sorry end, for a man who had travelled so far.

  THREE

  Jack Chevestrier stood in the doorway of his house, looking up the track. It was where he passed quite a lot of his time. The deserted settlement around him had once been home to the workmen who had built the Norman castle that William the Conqueror commanded into being. There was nobody lurking among the half-ruined dwellings, nobody hurrying towards him up the path. His small flock of geese, kept in their pen beside the house, were calm. He appreciated their eggs, but their main purpose was to be his sentinels.

  Part of him believed that Lassair wasn’t coming back. He didn’t allow that part to have its own way. He had to go on hoping, for he knew in his badly injured, slowly recovering condition he wasn’t strong enough to bear the mental anguish of losing her.

  She’d nursed him so well and so devotedly, he would tell himself. That must surely indicate that she cared. Ah, but she’s a healer, the voice of doubt would reply. She would have done as much for any wounded man. She’s seen you on the way to regaining your strength, and now she’s had enough and has left.

  ‘I will not give up,’ he said softly.

  Summoning deep resources of strength, he forced his mind to positive thoughts.

  He would return to work as soon as he knew he was capable of staying on his feet all day. He would force his way to advancement, for surely there could not be a better time …

  The deeply unpopular Sheriff Picot still held power, but his prestige had suffered a blow. Once people had only dared to mutter about him in the privacy and safety of their own homes, where there was no danger of some Picot spy overhearing; now the fear of retribution had retreated. Sheriff Picot had been forced to face up to how much the town disliked him, and the word was that he was deeply anxious.

  The fight that had almost cost Jack his life had taken its victim after all; Gaspard Picot had launched himself on Jack because Jack had been about to implicate him in a crime punishable by death, and in defending himself Jack had killed him.1 Gaspard was Sheriff Picot’s nephew, and the sheriff had instantly cried out for Jack’s blood, demanding his arrest, imprisonment and trial for murder.

  But the arrest hadn’t happened.

  Even as the sheriff was trying to organize a band of lawmen to seek Jack out and throw him into the darkest, dankest, deepest dungeon – Jack was lying in a tavern bleeding almost to death at the time – a long queue of townspeople had formed at his door. They’d said afterwards that more than half the town had turned out, but Jack thought that was probably an exaggeration. As Sheriff Picot and his officers demanded what business all the men and women thought they had with him, all too soon it became unpleasantly clear.

  Every one of the men and women was there to announce that they’d seen what happened and they were willing to swear that Jack Chevestrier had acted in self-defence, that Gaspard Picot had jumped on him and struck the first blow. ‘I saw it with my own eyes!’ they all claimed, even those who had been on the other side of town and asleep in their beds.

  Sheriff Picot, furious, fuming, longing for revenge for his nephew’s death – and more crucially, for he hadn’t much liked the man, for the way the death had drastically weakened his own positi
on – had been forced to stop and think. And, quite soon, he had reached the conclusion that it would be very unwise to arrest Jack Chevestrier and put him on trial, for the evidence was right before the sheriff’s eyes – or, more accurately, his ears, the long and now restless queue becoming increasingly noisy – that the man was far too popular. Threatening retribution to someone who probably had acted in self-defence would do Sheriff Picot no good at all.

  The whole business had acted to loosen people’s tongues, and the mood in the town, if you were the sheriff or one of his close associates, was dark and becoming ugly. The Picots’ star was falling. Was it, Jack wondered, at long last time for something better to take the place of the corrupt Picot administration?

  There was no way to be certain, but he was firmly resolved to try.

  He would throw himself into his work, and save every coin he earned. He would devote time to the tiny lean-to dwelling adjoining his house – it had long been empty and was little more than a shell, although the walls were sound and the roof could readily be made so – and combine it with his own living space, knocking through a new doorway. Within it he would fashion a private room, or perhaps two rooms, for Lassair; a place where she could pursue her own skills, her own work; where she could prepare her potions, her ointments, her remedies; where she could see those who came to her for help. Then when she came back – he would not let himself think if – she would see what he had prepared for her and understand that he had no wish to change her; that he treasured her just the way she was and would not stand between her and the work she loved, at which she was so adept.

  All of which, he reflected as he turned away from staring down an empty alley and went back inside his house, was perfectly good in theory. In practice, however, he was in pain, weak, uninterested in company, in nourishing food, in drink, in pretty much everything. He wasn’t sleeping, his tormenting, doubting thoughts left him no peace and he was more lonely than he had ever been.