Then the path turned around a high spar of rock and the ground fell away beneath him. He stood, right at the edge of the range of hills, looking over the flat ground towards Carlisle.
The sleet seemed to be confined to the other side of the hill, and here the sun shone out of a nearly clear sky. Way over to the west the sea gleamed brightly, but to the north, over Carlisle and beyond, heavy black clouds hung menacingly low, their bottoms scraping on the hills, rain or sleet laying a sheet of grey that obscured everything beneath.
And out there on the plain an exodus was in progress. About a mile from where he stood, at the foot of the hill, was the head of a long drawn out train of refugees that stretched all the way back to Carlisle itself, some fifteen miles in the distance. He could see carts overloaded with goods, whole families on foot, and even farmers driving their cattle and sheep before them. It looked like the whole of the population of the surrounding area was on the move.
Mary Campbell would not be on this road, he was sure of that. The path they had used coming south was some five miles east of his current position, and that was where he suspected she would be. He scanned the area, but there was no sign of movement. He was able to pick out a path to follow that would enable him to get away from the convoy that was headed towards him, and he headed down the hill fast.
He managed to keep out of sight of the travellers, and by the time he got to the bottom of the hill and turned away from the road, the first of them was already mounting the first rise.
Fitzsimmons would have more custom than he could handle in a few hours time. The memory of the pork pie was just that, a memory of food that his stomach had long forgotten. It grumbled at him occasionally, but he chose to ignore it for the time being—he could ill afford time that would allow his quarry to get further away.
He wondered if there were Milecastle folk amongst the convoy that was now wending its way up the hill. Indeed, he wondered if Milecastle still stood, but he put it to the back of his mind—his duty for now was to Mary Campbell.
His first sign that he was on the right track came half an hour later. He was crossing a patch of muddy ground when something caught his eye, a splash of colour. He looked down to find a small patch of blood, still fresh. And beside it, slowly filling with stagnant water, a pair of footprints made by someone travelling barefooted, someone travelling north. With renewed vigour he headed along the path.
He began to recognise the area he was passing through and, sure that he was now on the right road, began to walk faster until he was almost running again.
He was almost upon a small copse of trees that he recognised as the spot where he had dispatched the brigands when he heard voices from ahead of him.
There were raised voices, high, not with fear but with excitement. Sean was able to make out three separate men. Using the trees and undergrowth as cover, he skirted around until he had a view into the clearing beyond.
There were three of them, all right, and they were trying to wrestle Mary Campbell to the ground. He could tell by their tunics that they were the Warden’s men, but there was no sign of the big man, and for that Sean was grateful, for he didn’t want to face the Warden in a fight.
Three horses were tethered to the same tree that Sean and the girl had slept under, and Sean allowed himself a grim smile as he noticed that the men’s muskets were still in their harnesses beside the horses’ necks.
The sight of Mary Campbell filled him with dismay. Her skirt was tattered and torn, and her legs below the ankles were a mass of bruises and small cuts. Mud caked her from head to foot, and her hair was a tangled mass of twigs and leaves. Only the eyes reminded him of the girl as he had first seen her by the gates of Milecastle.
The lower half of her face was obscured by blood, and at first he thought she was wounded before he noticed that one of the men holding her down was streaming blood from the side of his head, and that half of his ear seemed to be lost.
It looked to Sean as if he had arrived only seconds after the men had found her. The blood on her face was fresh and the wound on the man’s ear was bleeding more profusely by the second. Mary Campbell was fighting like a cornered cat and her nails raked one of the men’s cheeks, bringing a splutter of expletives. He hit the woman, hard, sending her down off her feet. Two of the men managed to finally get their weight on top of her, holding her to the ground.
“Hold the bitch down,” the one with the bloody ear said, fumbling with his trousers. “She needs to be taught her place.”
One of the others, a smaller, thinner man, stepped away from the prone girl.
“The Warden’s orders were to return her unharmed.”
“I’m not going to harm her, just show her where her place is. Hold her down, I told you.”
The wounded man finally got his belt unfastened and dropped his trousers. Sean could contain himself no longer. He stepped from the bushes and advanced on the three. They all had their backs turned to him, and did not see or hear him until he was only six feet away.
His sword was in his hand, and the men were within range, but he could not take anyone, however base and ignoble, with a stroke to the back. The watch had taught him to kill Others, but stabbing men and only men in the back was another matter. He was thinking about the body of the small boy back there in the copse as he spoke.
“If there are lessons being taught, then I am willing to learn,” he said.
The men spun on their heels, the wounded one helping Sean’s cause by tripping over the trousers that were down round his ankles. The man lost his footing and, falling sideways, disturbed the balance of the man to his left.
Sean concentrated on the man on the right. It was the thin-faced man who had spoken earlier. He was already drawing a sword as Sean moved in. The man slashed at him, and Sean parried, aware already that the man was no swordsman. He feinted to go under the man’s sword, then twisted his wrist and went over. The Spanish steel felt like an extension of Sean’s arm as it slid through the man’s throat and, with a twitch of the wrist, sliced his jugular and sent him gurgling redly to the ground.
Sean sensed a movement to his left, and turned and ducked in one movement as a sword flashed over the top of his head. His third adversary was still trying to get his trousers buckled, but the second man had regained his balance and was advancing on Sean, sword swinging wildly. Again, this was no swordsman, but he was big and fast and Sean had to retreat under the onslaught. Over the man’s shoulder he could see the girl rise and get to her feet. Their eyes met, but there was no recognition there as she backed away. Sean had no time to watch her further as the big man came at him, his heavy sword sending shocks up Sean’s arm every time he had to parry.
The third man had regained his composure, and was at the point of drawing his own sword. Sean had to finish this fast, and get after Mary before she got away from him again.
The big man drew his sword back to swing at him again, and Sean stepped inside the swing, cramping the man’s movements and at the same time smashing the pommel of his sword into the man’s face, feeling the small bones in the nose crush wetly with the force of the blow. The big man let out a yell, but he managed to push Sean away from him, and came back swinging. Sean let him come, and, just as the sword seemed set to cleave his skull, stepped to one side. The momentum of the man’s swing carried him forward and off balance, and Sean thrust his blade deep into the man’s side, at the same time kicking him over to the ground. The man tried to raise his sword, but a final blow, with the flat of the blade to the side of his head, put him out of the fight.
He had no time to think. The third man had advanced, and was snarling at him, like a cornered wildcat.
“Fancy blade-work, boy. Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are.”
Sean noticed with dismay that the man carried himself like a true swordsman. This one wasn’t about to rush in swinging. He circled the man, saying nothing, trying to stay calm, trying not to think of Mary Campbell getting further away with every mo
vement.
“That’s two fine men you’ve dispatched there, boy. I don’t think the Warden will admonish me if I send you to join them.”
The man sent his blade out in a quicksilver flicker that Sean only just managed to parry as it was over his heart. Still he didn’t speak.
“Saving your breath? That’s fine by me. It’ll be all the sweeter when—”
Sean didn’t give him time to finish the sentence. He stepped forward into a lunge that caught the man off guard, but his opponent managed to weave to one side and the stroke cut a slice across his ribs instead of taking him through the heart. The man let out a yell and stepped into the attack with renewed vigour so that Sean was hard pressed to defend himself.
The sound of clashing steel echoed around the clearing as they circled, each searching for an opening. Sean was painfully aware that he was weakening faster than his opponent, and decided to try a risky feint, one that he had sometimes had success with on the training ground.
He stepped backwards, as if retreating before the attack, and let his right leg give under him, feigning a stumble and letting his sword hand go down towards the ground, looking as if he was going to use it to steady himself. As he’d hoped, the man went for his suddenly exposed left hand side. Sean ignored the descending blade, and, with a straight arm, he punched his sword upwards, catching his opponent under the ribs and pushing through to cleave his heart. The man fell, already a dead weight, pinning Sean to the ground, and he had to use all his remaining strength to push the body off and stand upright.
Suddenly there was no sound in the clearing. Sean was breathing heavily, and he had to examine himself twice to make sure that he was not himself wounded. His legs trembled beneath him, and his hands shook as he walked unsteadily over towards the man he’d felled with the flat of his sword. He too was dead, his entrails showing pink at his side where the first stroke had cut deep. Sean leaned away from the man and vomited the little there was in his stomach into the long grass.
He had only just stood upright when one of the tethered horses whinnied, and there was an answering whinny from nearby. He heard the sound of hoof beats, and they were close. He only had two options; run or hide. The horses sounded too close to allow him time to run, and he could think of only one place suitable to hide.
The three brigand’s bodies were still where he had left them, although something, or someone, had tried to pull one of the bodies out from under the bushes. He only had time to notice that there were fresh bite marks on one of the youth’s legs, and wonder what Mary Campbell had been doing when the Warden’s men found her, before he heard horses entering the clearing behind him. He dived into the undergrowth and pulled the bodies over him, trying hard not to gag at the stench, or to scream as the large black flies crawled over his face.
It didn’t take them long to find his hiding place. He heard voices coming ever closer.
“They must have been ambushed by brigands,” one voice said.
“Ambushed, my arse,” a voice replied. “Brigands don’t leave clothes and weapons behind. And brigands generally use muskets, not swords. Do you think that Johnson would be bested at swordplay by a common brigand? He’d fought with the Protector in Ireland, that one. He knew how to handle himself.”
The voices were almost on top of him now. He tightened his grip on the sword, but it was lying partially underneath his body and he wouldn’t be able to find much use for it in such a confined space. He held his breath and turned his face to the ground, trying to keep the tremors from taking over.
Something fell over his face. He groped at it and felt his fingers touch the cold hand of a dead man. He had to bite his tongue to stifle the sudden instinct to scream.
“In Jesu’s name, what’s that smell?” the first voice said.
He heard the sound of branches rustling as the foliage was moved above him, and he was close enough to hear the men’s breathing.
“Leave it,” the second voice said. “They’ve been dead a while, and by the look of them, this lot were actually brigands. I’d say they got what they deserved.”
“Shall we tell the Warden?” the first said.
“What, and have him send us running around the countryside even more? No. Forget it. Cover them up. The one we’re searching for is not here.”
“But the Warden said to search everywhere.”
“Do you want to touch those?” the second voice asked, and there was disgust in his voice.
Five seconds later the sound of rustling came again, and footsteps receded into the distance before Sean felt able to take a breath, a deep whooping thing that almost gagged him as the taste of death filled his mouth.
He crawled further into the undergrowth, trying to put distance between him and the bodies, but he was brought up tight against a briar, and could escape neither the stench nor the flies that buzzed incessantly around his head. He stayed that way for a long time, caught between the desire to be after Mary Campbell and the need to avoid capture. He had a sudden vision of the dead crawling through the bushes towards him, dead eyes accusing, and he clamped his eyes tightly shut.
He had now killed six people, and that would have to be paid for at some point. He knew that the Warden would not give up now, and that he would surely be hanged if caught, but he had sworn an oath to Campbell, and he intended to honour it, even if it brought his own death in the process.
There, under the bushes with the bodies of those he had killed, he made a vow. Only let him get Mary Campbell safe and well again, then he would hand himself over and take the consequences.
He heard muffled voices in the distance but could not make out what was being said, and he dared not try to move closer. It was many minutes before he heard the sound of hoof beats from the clearing as the Warden’s men departed, and even then it was five minutes more before he started crawling out of the undergrowth, keeping his eyes shut to avoid having to see those bodies again. He crawled on his belly and peered out into the clearing beyond, but it was now empty, only the bloodstains on the ground left as evidence that the fight had ever occurred.
He pulled himself out of the bushes, having to struggle to get free of some blackthorn. He swung the sword, and managed to get rid of some of the offending branches, but still something tugged at him. He had a bad moment when he could see in his mind’s eye the dead hand of a brigand dragging at his heel, intent on pulling him back down to join the family, but he was in sunlight now, and such thoughts had little hold on him. He tugged hard, and felt the woolen trousers rip, then he was free to pull himself out and stand in the fresh air.
A breath had never tasted so sweet, but he had little time to savour it. He had lost nearly an hour, and now he had to be careful not to be seen by the Warden’s men. A quick survey of the clearing showed him that he was alone, and that the Warden and his men had indeed taken their dead with them. For that Sean was grateful, for he didn’t think he could look at those again without the guilt making him throw himself on the Warden’s mercy.
He spent three minutes he could scarcely afford just making sure that Mary Campbell was not in hiding somewhere in the area, but once he had satisfied himself, he headed north with never a look back.
The sun was already beginning to sink in the west. He pressed on, running as fast as he could while studying the ground in search of the marks of bare feet. He saw nothing.
By dusk he reached a hill overlooking Carlisle, having seen neither Mary Campbell nor the Warden’s men. The weather had closed in again, heavy sleeting rain coming from the north, an incessant battering in his face.
A mile away, partially obscured by heavy cloud, Carlisle itself looked dead and deserted. Only the light from half a dozen fires showed that anyone still remained there. The best part of the populace seemed to have fled.
Not for the first time, Sean thought about what he might be headed towards. There might be no Milecastle left—everyone he had ever known in his life could already be gone. But that he could not believe, would not allo
w himself to believe.
He thought about heading for one of those points of light. There he might find food and some warmth. But although he was tired and leg weary, he forced himself to press on in a lonely trek over now-familiar roads. He was only a few miles from home, and if he did not find Mary Campbell before then, at least he could eat in his own halls and dress in his own clothes before resuming the chase.
And still there was no sign of her, or of the Warden and his men. Indeed the night was now so dark that he might have passed within ten yards of either and missed them completely.
If he hadn’t known some of the landmarks on the road, Sean could easily have become lost. Again he marvelled at the power that could command Mary Campbell over so many miles and drive her with such accuracy when she seemed senseless.
At some point the rain stopped, and stars twinkled into being overhead, but the path was still sodden and heavy, and he was making slow progress. The fine leather boots were now caked with over an inch of clinging black mud.
The night drew on endlessly until he was finally less than a mile from Milecastle. Many a time he had cursed those pale towers, and the stone walls that had always seemed more like a prison than a home, but tonight he almost wept tears of joy at the sight. He was so cold, and so hungry that he no longer thought of his vow or his chase. All that concerned him at that moment was getting dry and getting some warm food inside him.
He headed down into the valley. From four hundred yards from the wall he could see that there were guards there still, and more than normal—the watchers at least were made of sterner stuff than the citizens of Carlisle.
He was wondering whether Martin had returned yet when he heard the sound of distant hoof beats on the road behind him. He broke into a run, just as the hoof beats were drowned out by the tolling of the watch bell.
Chapter 8
3rd NOVEMBER, 1745 MILECASTLE
The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition Page 18