The Rufus Spy

by Alys Clare

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Alys Clare from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Footnotes

  Recent Titles by Alys Clare from Severn House

  The Aelf Fen Series

  OUT OF THE DAWN LIGHT

  MIST OVER THE WATER

  MUSIC OF THE DISTANT STARS

  THE WAY BETWEEN THE WORLDS

  LAND OF THE SILVER DRAGON

  BLOOD OF THE SOUTH

  THE NIGHT WANDERER

  THE RUFUS SPY

  The Hawkenlye Series

  THE PATHS OF THE AIR

  THE JOYS OF MY LIFE

  THE ROSE OF THE WORLD

  THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE

  THE WINTER KING

  A SHADOWED EVIL

  THE DEVIL’S CUP

  THE RUFUS SPY

  An Aelf Fen Mystery

  Alys Clare

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Alys Clare.

  The right of Alys Clare to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8749-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-863-7 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-926-8 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  In respectful and affectionate memory of my grandfather, Andrew Raynor Barton

  ONE

  It was a chilly, rainy, misty October morning, and I was leaving Cambridge to pay a visit home to Aelf Fen.

  That was what I told myself as I stuffed a few possessions in my satchel and picked up my shawl and cloak. In fact, if I was to be honest with myself, there were a couple of things wrong with that bland, innocuous statement.

  I was not certain any more where home was, and it might well be that it was no longer the small fenland village where I was born and had spent my childhood.

  And if I was going to push honest to a painful degree, then I wasn’t leaving Cambridge, I was running away. As swiftly as I could.

  Before I left the town behind, however, there were two farewells I had to say. The first I’d already done, and it was still hurting so much that I didn’t want to think about it. The second, to my teacher, mentor and friend Gurdyman, I hurried to do next.

  I made my way to his twisty-turny house, hidden away in the jumble of narrow little lanes behind the market square. I love Gurdyman’s house and, until recently, it was where I always lived when I was in Cambridge. When I first became his pupil, he gave up his snug little attic room for my occupation, and it was only later that I understood this hadn’t been quite as magnanimous a gesture as I’d thought, Gurdyman being too stout now to climb the ladder that led up to it. I am very aware that I’m probably the only person I know to have the luxury of a sleeping space to myself.

  I leapt up the worn stone steps to the big old wooden door, opened it and went in. There was no need to search for Gurdyman because I knew precisely where he’d be. I turned right, went down some steps, went on and down some more, emerging into the crypt that is Gurdyman’s workplace, thinking place and sleeping place; he only leaves it nowadays to fetch food and, very occasionally when I’m not there to run errands for him, to emerge, blinking, into the outside world.

  He was occupied with stirring something in a small bronze pot set on a tripod above a lit candle. Whatever was in the pot was giving off blue smoke and a smell that was half-appealing, half-appalling. He lit a taper from the candle flame and set it to a second candle; clearly, more heat was required. Even though he hadn’t looked up and gave every indication of deep and exclusive concentration, I knew he was aware of me.

  After a while, his hands still busy and a frown on his round, smooth-skinned face, he said, ‘You’ll need to keep your wits about you on the road out to Aelf Fen.’

  I didn’t bother to ask how he’d known. I just said, ‘I always do.’

  Now he stopped what he was doing and looked at me. ‘Perhaps so,’ he said, fixing me with an intent stare from his bright blue eyes, ‘but listen to me when I say it’s even more important today to be alert.’ He was holding the not-quite-extinguished taper in his hand and he waved it at me, creating arcs of glittering sparks.

  ‘Why?’ I demanded bluntly. It wasn’t very polite, given that he was undoubtedly issuing the warning for my own good, but I was desperate to get away.

  He didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said quietly, ‘A young man has been attacked on the track leading around the base of the fens, close to where the track to Aelf Fen and beyond meets the road into Cambridge. The assailant got away, and it’s possible he presents a danger to other travellers.’

  ‘If he’s a thief, then I wish him luck with robbing me.’ I held out my arms, indicating my lack of possessions. I carried my leather satchel over my shoulder, but it contained little more than the materials I require for my healer’s work, certain objects which I always carry and a few spare items of personal linen.

  ‘Don’t be flippant.’ Gurdyman spoke sternly, and I realized he was desperately serious. ‘There is no certainty that the attack was for reasons of theft, Lassair. The man was—’ Abruptly he stopped.

  ‘Was what?’ I demanded. Gurdyman hesitated, and I had the distinct sense that he was wishing he’d never begun this conversation. ‘Go on,’ I urged, ‘you can’t alarm me like that and not explain!’ I tried to speak lightly, but in truth I was quite worried.

  ‘He was beaten, very savagely,’ Gurdyman said. ‘Many blows to the face and head from a cudgel, or something similar, and several of his fingers were broken.’

  ‘As he tried to fend off the attack?’ I suggested, trying to make my voice sound interested rather than frightened.

  ‘As if he’d been tortured,�
�� Gurdyman corrected. ‘Perhaps to make him reveal to his assailant something that he needed to know.’ He paused. ‘Either that,’ he added sombrely, ‘or someone wished him to suffer severe pain.’

  Something had occurred to me, and I focused on it to stop myself thinking about an attacker breaking someone’s fingers and how much it would hurt. ‘You seem to know quite a lot about it,’ I said lightly. ‘Have you been out to the market place to pick up the latest gossip?’

  Gurdyman sighed. ‘No, Lassair. I tried to help the poor young man. An officer from Sheriff Picot came looking for you’ – I was sure there was a note of accusation in his voice – ‘and, in your absence, accepted instead my offer of assistance.’

  ‘Well, you’re a far more experienced—’ I stopped, warned by something in his expression. ‘He died, didn’t he?’ I whispered. ‘That poor young man?’

  And Gurdyman nodded. ‘He did. They had taken him to a house near the river – he was found by a group of merchants on their way home here – and the wife of the man whose house it was had done her best. To summon a healer’s help was a last attempt to save him, but there was nothing I could do.’

  I didn’t know how to respond. I picked up the sense that Gurdyman was waiting for me to make some comment, or perhaps he had more to say. But neither of us spoke. I hitched my satchel higher on my shoulder and said, ‘Thank you for the warning. I promise I’ll be careful.’ He regarded me doubtfully. ‘I do have the advantage of knowing the road and the track very well,’ I reminded him gently. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘It isn’t only—’ he began. But then he shut his mouth very firmly and, with a valedictory wave, turned back to his workbench.

  I walked fast through the back alleys, along the road that bisects the town and out across the Great Bridge, turning right immediately after it onto the road out that leads to Ely and the fens. I kept my head down. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I didn’t want any well-meaning person to say, Are you sure you know what you’re doing? or Wouldn’t it be best to turn back?

  I wasn’t at all sure that I did know what I was doing, and the temptation to turn back was all but overwhelming. But I closed my mind to my misgivings, ignored my hurting heart and strode on.

  The hard pace I kept up as I marched along made me puff and pant. Struggling to keep it up and, at the same time, watch out for tree roots, cracks and sudden dips in the road and other obstacles that could trip the unwary absorbed my attention. That was good: I really wanted to be distracted. But then, slowly, insidiously, determinedly, everything I was trying not to think about came bursting back. Finally giving in to my mind’s insistence, reluctantly I allowed myself to think about what had happened over the past month.

  Jack Chevestrier, Cambridge law officer, good and decent man, had been wounded almost to the death by the sheriff’s nephew, a man named Gaspard Picot. I had nursed Jack, staying by his side day and night, our needs supplied by an apparently endless number of townsmen and women who firmly believed that Cambridge’s one honest, honourable lawman shouldn’t be allowed to die. Jack’s wound was in his chest, to the left of the breastbone: Gaspard Picot’s sly, concealed blade had been driven straight at the heart. His aim had been fractionally amiss, and the knife had gone in at a slight angle and penetrated deep into the thick muscles that covered Jack’s bones. Through the density of sinew, the blade hadn’t been long enough to reach its target. Jack had bled until I’d thought the well must surely run dry, and then, a few days after the bleeding had finally stopped and the wound began to crust over into a thick scab, infection had set in. I knelt by Jack’s bed with a pail of cold well water, constantly replenished by my army of assistants, bathing him, trying to hold him down as he wrestled, sweated, shouted and struggled in his delirium. Dear God, he was strong. Once he bunched up his fist and swung it at me – I have no idea who he thought I was – and it was only by the swift intervention of two of his friends grabbing his arm that I was saved.

  ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ one of the men, Walter, said, eyes on mine beseeching for my understanding. ‘It’s the fever.’

  ‘He’d not hurt you if he was in his right mind,’ the other one, Fat Gerald, added. ‘Sweet Jesus, girl, you’re the very last person he’d—’

  But Walter’s swift dig in the ribs stopped the remainder of whatever Fat Gerald had been about to say.

  Eventually, between all of us, we saved him. Now, slowly, he was recovering. He was eating well, and recently I’d had a hard job to make him rest, for he was wild with impatience and desperate to get out and about again.

  I should still have been with him, feeding him good, nourishing food, making sure he didn’t attempt too much. The last thing I should be doing was leaving him and walking as swiftly as I could back to my village.

  But I had to.

  Jack and I had made love, just once, and it had been the most extraordinary experience of my life.

  He trusted me, and he believed my flimsy story of having to get away to Aelf Fen for a while because I was worn out with looking after him and needed to rest; at least, I thought he believed it.

  But there was another reason why I had to get away from him.

  I was pregnant.

  If I stayed, he’d notice. There were signs already: my breasts had swelled and once or twice I’d felt very sick on rising. If he noticed, then without a doubt he would ask me to marry him. Decent, honourable man that he was, there would, for him, be no alternative. Besides, I knew he loved me. I didn’t think I was being immodest in thinking that he wanted me to be his wife anyway, pregnant or not.

  Did I love him too? Yes, I did; I was in no doubt about that. Did I want to marry him? Did I want to marry any man? Those were more complicated questions, and I didn’t know the answers. Was it enough that I loved Jack? But what about the person I was, or was working so hard to be? What about the healer who was niece and former pupil of a gifted healer and now apprentice to an extraordinary, quietly powerful man with magic at his fingertips? All Gurdyman’s vast, glittering array of knowledge was available to me if I went on working with him and didn’t allow distractions such as a husband, a home and a family to get in the way.

  How could I possibly combine two such different lives?

  And, fundamentally, did I truly want to be the wife of a Cambridge lawman?

  I couldn’t begin to resolve my dilemma.

  So I was running away.

  I reached my village as evening fell, when the grudging light of the overcast day was fading fast. When I’m at Aelf Fen, it’s long been my habit to live with my aunt Edild rather than in my parents’ home, partly because there’s more room (I have quite a lot of relatives) and partly because it saves time spent in going to and fro if I live in the place where I work and am being taught. Now, though, before I went to Edild’s, I called in at the little house that used to be my home.

  I was nervous as I opened the door. My mother has very sharp eyes and I really didn’t welcome the idea of her noticing my condition. Fortunately the light was poor – she’d only lit one lamp so far and, unusually, the fire wasn’t responding very well to her ministrations – and, in addition, several of her village friends were with her, making quite a crowd. The rest of my family, I guessed, were still out at work.

  She got up and gave me an intense but brief embrace, just as she always does. She isn’t a particularly demonstrative woman. We exchanged the usual comments – how was this person, how was that, what news from Cambridge? – and the village cronies joined in, eager to hear about life in the town. Not that I told them very much; it really was none of their business, and I didn’t want to worry my mother.

  One of the oldest of the women – it was the widow Berta, the village washerwoman, and I wondered what she was doing there since nobody likes her very much and my mother doesn’t like her at all – leaned forward and grasped my wrist in a fat, sweaty hand. Her eyes were very dark, sunk in the fat of her face, but all the same I could see them shining with malice. ‘You’l
l not have heard about your aunt and that Hrype and the carryings-on,’ she said in a sharp voice, ‘since to the best of my recollection it’s all happened since last you honoured us with a visit.’ She eyed me, far too intently for my liking. ‘Well, let me tell you, it’s—’

  ‘Enough, Berta,’ my mother said coolly.

  Berta spun round to glare at her. ‘Come now, Essa, it’s only fair and right to tell the girl before she goes bursting in on them, and I—’

  ‘I said enough,’ my mother repeated. She rose to her feet and rather pointedly opened the door. Berta had little choice but to obey the clear invitation to leave, and the other women shuffled out after her. ‘You’ve made an enemy there, Essa, like as not,’ the last one whispered with a grin.

  My mother gave an indifferent shrug. ‘I did that a long time ago.’ She and the woman exchanged a glance and a swift embrace, then the door was closed and my mother and I were alone. She poked up the fire, nodding to the recently vacated bench, and with relief, because a small persistent pain was worming itself somewhere down in my lower back, I sat down. I’d walked hard today, and this was the result. With quick, efficient hands my mother put water on to heat and mixed pinches of this herb and that ground root in a mug, adding honey and pouring on the water when it was hot enough and then handing the drink to me.

  Our eyes met. ‘So Hrype has done what he should have done a long time ago,’ I remarked.

  My mother nodded.

  For some time we sat in silence. I was thinking about my friend Sibert, who grew up believing the man who fathered him was his uncle, his dead father’s brother, and who had only discovered relatively recently that Hrype was in fact his father. Hrype was a very difficult man to read and I had no idea of his feelings for Froya, Sibert’s mother, although I was pretty certain that he loved my aunt Edild, who is my father’s sister. For sure, she loved him, and watching her endure a life when the man she adored lived – demurely and innocently, as far as we all knew – with his sister-in-law had been very hard. Now, though, it seemed Hrype had acted at last.