The constable was not smiling anymore and was listening with rapt attention, his eyes black and wide. Somewhere off in the trees, a screech owl screamed, well known to be an evil omen, and both men turned their heads and gaped.
Then John gasped softly as Thomas’s elbow jabbed him in the ribs.
A shape had emerged out of the mist—the hooded and cloaked shape of a woman.
“See? I told you so,” hissed Will triumphantly.
Thomas felt a chill spread through him and settle somewhere about his chest. This was not the first time he had known a young woman sneak out at night to the sanctuary of the woods. It wasn’t good then, and it could not be good now.
The three of them were silent as they watched her stalk across the field. Every now and then she stopped to look about, but it was not until the owl screeched again, and she turned to the sound, that the moonlight revealed her face. She was still at some distance, but they all saw her clear enough.
“Hunydd,” whispered Thomas under his breath. “What are you doing, girl?”
“Aye, it’s her alright,” whispered the constable, “and no mistake. By God, she’s a witch, isn’t she?” he hissed. “I always knew there was something strange about her from the first time I saw her. She’s Welsh, right? It’s old country that. They have all sorts of magic there and hags coming out of every bloody bush and from around every hillock.”
The constable frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps she’s away to dance under the moon. Witches do that, you know. I heard tell of it. Aye,” he said, nodding to himself, “and maybe she’ll do so tonight. Galloping and cavorting about full naked, jumping and skipping this way and that, not a stitch on her but her dignity.”
John was looking up to the sky now, his mind feverishly picturing the scene. The snoop was grinning broadly like a loon, letting his own imagination wander along with him. Thomas just stared at them incredulously.
“I bet that’s what she’s about,” John said. “And maybe she summons some demon lover. I’ve heard they do that too.” Will was vigorously nodding his agreement, a silly, half-toothless grin on his face.”
John’s eyes widened as he was struck by a sudden thought. “And where there’s one witch, there’s bound to be others. Aye, maybe there’s a whole gaggle of them meeting out there in the woods, frolicking under the stars, dancing around, all stretching and turning, and bits all a-wobbling. And maybe then—”
Thomas cuffed John hard around the head, waking him from his reverie. The constable grumbled and rubbed where he had been hit. “I was just saying, is all,” he complained sulkily.
“Come on, John. Let’s see what she’s up to before she’s away from us.”
Will cleared his throat and spoke in a croaky whisper: “Maybe I should go too, you know, in case you need any help.”
“I thought you were afraid of the woods,” said Thomas.
“Well, if there’s three of us, I reckon we’d be alright.”
Thomas just stared at him. “John, if you catch Will roaming about the village at night again, you throw him in the stocks, you hear? I don’t care whose cousin or uncle he is.” He nodded Will in the direction of the village. “Off with you. And make a proper proposal to that widow. You can still play your games when the two of you are married.”
Will pulled a face as sour as curdled milk, annoyed to be missing the fun. But he set off, sidling low to the ground, mumbling to himself in his whiny voice, casting a longing backward glance at Hunydd’s receding form, just now entering the fringes of the trees.
“And you,” Thomas said to John, “quiet’s the word.”
The constable scowled. “I can move quiet when I want. You’ll see. I’ll make no more sound than the quietest of forest animals.”
Hunydd moved stealthily through the forest, picking her way with evident familiarity, barely stirring a bush with her passage, making no sound. Had she not been following the remnants of an old, overgrown track, they would surely have lost her. The big man was surprisingly quiet, setting his feet down with exaggerated care.
They had not been following her long when Thomas suddenly sensed something in the trees away to his right. He stood stock still, his hand up, the constable almost blundering into him.
“What’s up?” hissed John.
“Shh.”
Thomas stared into the trees. He could not say what had caught his attention, but he held his breath, every sense alert. Somewhere just beyond where he was looking, he heard a rustling of leaves, telling of the passage of some forest animal. He had felt something—he was sure of it. Something not right; but he could wait no longer and, with another glance over his shoulder, began moving forward again.
Behind him he heard John blow out the breath he had been holding.
“You scared me there,” came his rumbling whisper.
“Hurry up—and be quiet.”
They had lost her, but Thomas was not concerned. If they followed the track, they would find where she was going. It had to lead somewhere.
* * *
The man stood silent and unmoving, scarcely distinguishable from the darkness around him. A shadow in a sea of shadows, making no more noise than the gentle breeze, nothing that could be heard above the rustling of the drying leaves. And yet one of the two men had turned toward him as they passed and had looked straight at him. He had not been concerned. He knew he was well hidden. In fact, he was surprised the man sensed him at all. That one had moved stealthily, like a woodsman. The big man, not so much.
Where had the girl been going? And why would they be following her? What was she doing that could be of such interest to them? On another night, he might have been tempted to follow her, melting into the shadows, as black and silent as the night itself. She had a secret, and secrets were most useful to him, more valuable than gold. Secrets were like keys that, when manipulated, unlocked doors with hidden treasures. Even a small secret could often lead to a larger one or could give him power over the carrier. And he had found that where there was one secret, there were always others, and they tended to intertwine like a spider’s web. And he was the spider, feeling the strands quiver as the unsuspecting flies struggled in the web of their own lies and deceit.
He was sure the girl the men were following was Lady Cecily’s maid. Was it her own business she was about or her mistress’s? He would find out soon enough, and then he might have one or both of them in his power. He shivered as a tremor of ecstatic anticipation passed through his body.
The man looked about him and listened for a while to the scampering and scuttling of some forest scavenger. He loved the night. And he loved the dark. The night was his domain, and he felt comfortable wrapped in its shroud. He felt somehow safer, stronger.
The young maid’s secret would have to wait. He could not follow her tonight. He had other matters to attend to.
He turned, a little too quickly, wincing suddenly in pain and stifling a gasp, his hand sliding instinctively to his bruised ribs. The oaf of a miller had been strong. The man had underestimated him, thinking him blind drunk, and he had almost paid the price. Foolish. His fingers touched his ribs gingerly. They were only bruised, not cracked. Still the injury served as a fitting reminder, something that would help him remember to be more cautious in the future. He had deserved no less.
Nor had it been his first mistake. He had allowed his emotions to get the better of him with Roger Lacy as well. Of course, the old man had to die. That went without saying, but once more he had been unable to control his temper. He remembered how he had laughed as he splayed Lacy’s body across the altar, regretting only that he did not have time or tools to crucify him properly, in mockery to the savior they all worshipped so adoringly. He despised the Church and priests and monks and friars, and even more so the puling rabble that paid them homage. As he laid Lacy on the altar, he had imagined he was punishing them all, showing them that their God could not protect them. Abusing them as he had once been abused. But what had seemed a just end for Lacy tha
t night had seemed foolhardy in the cold light of day.
Things were becoming complicated. He had not really believed that the miller had seen him. Likely he had not, but he could not take that risk. Besides, the miller’s death served as a wonderful distraction. The miller was not the first man who had hanged for him. And who knows? They may even be foolish enough to believe the miller to be the killer, at least long enough to allow him to complete his business and be on his way.
The man walked slowly through the woods. He knew them well enough, and it was not far to where he had left the village girl, Margareta, bound hand and foot. She tensed when she heard his soft footfalls, the sack he had placed over her head jerking toward the sound, a stream of urgent muffled sounds coming from underneath. The sacked head followed him as he walked around her, and she twisted uselessly at the ropes that held her. He knelt at her side, her pleading frantic now. This girl had a secret as well, and it had drawn him to her.
“Shh, now,” he whispered, lifting the sack and looking into the large, pleading eyes. “Be still, my sweet. It will all be over soon. And if you behave yourself, I shall be kind to you.”
He stroked her cheek. It was smooth and wet, streaked with tears.
She cringed and gagged as he stuffed the rag deeper into her mouth, and then wriggled about like an eel when he lifted her to his chest, making him wince again at the stabbing pain in his ribs.
Perhaps taking her had been rash also. He was sure it was. Nor had it been necessary, but the opportunity had presented itself, and he had been patient long enough, the pressure building up in him day by day. First it was no more than an itch scratching at the back of his mind, getting worse and worse until it was a pounding in his skull. He knew from experience that when the red mist came over him, he could not control it. Perhaps he was indeed possessed by some demon or devil, as the monks had once told him. This girl would relieve the pressure. But he was not foolish enough to think the palliative effect would last long. He needed to be done here, and soon.
He threw the girl over his shoulder and headed deeper into the forest to find somewhere they might become better acquainted with one another. There was plenty of time. The night was still young.
* * *
Hunydd had led them to a small cottage in a clearing. It was an old forester’s cottage, and John was sure it had long been abandoned.
They walked up to the door. Thomas wondered whether he should knock, or whether he should be there at all. Why would Hunydd come to an abandoned hut in the middle of the forest in the black of night? He suspected the answer could not be good. Perhaps she was engaged in a tryst. That seemed to be the most likely conclusion. He found himself surprisingly disappointed at the thought, though he had no reason to be. How churlish it would be to interrupt a rendezvous with a secret lover. What would she think of him?
He glanced at John, who looked just as uncertain.
This was silly. Why had they followed her all the way here if they were only going to turn back around again? That would make the entire escapade a complete waste of time, which it likely was anyway. Thomas straightened his tunic and raised his hand to knock. And there it stayed, knuckles poised over the wood as he was assailed by another wave of doubts. Did he really want to see what was going on behind that door? He could always ask Hunydd what she was about tomorrow. He could be discreet. That would probably be for the best. And perhaps it was not what it appeared to be, after all.
Thomas had almost convinced himself to leave, when the decision was made for him. The door suddenly swung inward, and they found themselves looking at a woman, and not just any woman. Even with her back to the light Thomas could tell from her demeanor and dress that this was a lady—a very elegant lady indeed, and a very handsome one.
“Well, are you coming in, or are you going to skulk out there all night?”
Her tone was both mocking and playful at the same time.
After a moment of standing in discomfited silence, Thomas followed her inside. He walked on stiff legs as if in a trance, the constable crouching down to fit under the lintel, both of them feeling ungainly in comparison with their host. She walked with such grace that she almost glided across the floor, and when she moved, Thomas could swear he caught the scent of wildflowers and meadows on a spring morning.
Thomas was vaguely aware of Hunydd, sitting on a stool, eyeing him curiously, but she might as well not have been there because all of his attention was focused on her companion.
By God, this was a woman such as he had rarely seen before. Of no more than average height, she possessed a handsome face, with wide-set eyes. Some might say her mouth was a little too large, her lips a little too full, her face a little too broad, but each flawed feature somehow contrived to make a perfect whole, all the more attractive for its lack of traditional symmetry. And there was something intoxicating about her eyes. About the way she looked at him. Perhaps this is how the Romans had seen Cleopatra, he thought, never renowned as a beauty, but entrancing all the same, and capable of drawing men to her with a single irresistible glance. Even in the dim light he could see her hair was almost silver in hue, and her eyes a violet color. Eyes, he noticed, which were now crinkled in amusement.
Thomas blinked and roused himself from his stupor, realizing with horror that he was gaping. He felt his face coloring and snapped his mouth shut, cursing himself for a moonstruck idiot.
“Hunydd thought she was followed,” the lady said, her voice like dripping honey on a hot summer day. “She heard someone crashing about in the woods behind her like a charging boar. You gave her quite a start.”
Thomas glared at the constable.
“No matter,” the lady continued. “For one so young, Hunydd does not scare easily. Either that or she has yet to learn to fear that which awaits us in the dark. And now that you are here, you must tell me what brings you to my door. It is a trifle unseemly for young men to be visiting a woman alone in her house in the dead of night.”
She appeared to have summed them up at a glance and concluded that Thomas was the one to whom she would speak. She gave scant attention to the constable, something John seemed more than happy about. The big man stood awkwardly, even by his standards, and was huddling away in the corner, trying to make himself as near invisible as possible—no easy task for a man his size. Thomas wondered whether his superstitious fears had seized hold of him or whether he was simply in awe of the lady. It was probably the latter, because Thomas was more than a little in awe of her himself.
She had been studying Thomas through narrowed eyes, and her face suddenly lit up in recognition. “I have you now. My niece has told me of you.”
“Your niece?”
“Yes, yes, let us not play games. I think you know who I am, do you not?”
Sudden realization dawned on him. Her Irish brogue was hard to miss. He had heard the accent before. The Dominican had said Cecily’s mother was Irish, and he remembered the surprising ferocity with which Cecily had defended her countrywoman to the friar. The rest was intuition.
“Yes, I believe so. You are Dame Alice Kyteler.”
She inclined her head by way of acknowledgment, and Thomas could not help but notice the graceful curve of her neck and line of her jaw as she did so. One thing was certain: this was no hag. He had imagined Alice Kyteler to be of more than middling age, even elderly, but this woman looked to be no more than in her early thirties, if that. And she managed to combine the grace of a more mature woman with the freshness and vigor of youth in one single intoxicating brew.
“Cecily has spoken of me?” he asked, suddenly realizing that he was in danger of staring again, but also very much wanting to know what she had said.
“Yes, and why should she not notice you? You are a fine-looking young man, after all.”
He was startled by her boldness and the brazen way her eyes wandered over him before returning to seize his own once more. He wished he had dressed better. But that would have been silly for traipsing through the forest,
and Alice did not seem particularly displeased with what she saw.
“Yes, a fine-looking man. And interesting. Most interesting.”
Hunydd sniffed disapprovingly.
“Cecily is related to you through her mother?” Thomas asked.
“Exactly.”
Alice turned to John, who was standing in the corner, as still as a statue, a glazed expression on his face, trying not to breathe too heavily, lest it draw attention to him.
“This one I do not know.” She looked at the constable expectantly.
The poor man was mortified that she had spoken to him.
“I–I,” he began, tilting his head and clearing his throat. “I am called—” He cleared his throat again and snatched the cap from head, twisting it in his hands and bowing deferentially. “That is to say, my name is John”—he coughed—“er … my lady.” Despite their difference in height, of the two, Alice was by far the greater presence in the room.
“And quite a man as well,” she said, looking him up and down. “A veritable titan.”
John’s cheeks glowed brightly, and he stared intently at the floor as if he might fall through it at any time.
“Come, gentlemen, let me at least play the host. I would not have you find my manners wanting.”
Alice gestured to the table, and they sat on one of the benches opposite her, the constable dropping down with an ungainly thump. Alice poured wine from an elegant carafe and set a cup down in front of each of them. John, visibly cheered at the sight, finally managing to recover some of his old self.
“My thanks, my lady,” he said, immediately scooping up the cup in a big, meaty fist. Thomas touched John’s hand lightly just as the cup reached his lips. John turned to him questioningly, blinked once, and slowly lowered the cup, setting it back down again.
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