The Rufus Spy

by Alys Clare

  ‘Why don’t we sleep in the stable?’ I suggested. ‘If it’s sound enough, it’ll keep us dry when the rain starts again, and there’s probably straw to keep us warm. We’ve got our cloaks, too, and it’s not cold tonight.’

  He smiled briefly. ‘Yes, there’s straw, and it’s reasonably fresh. In fact, I do believe we’d be a lot more comfortable in the stables than in with the monks. The smell isn’t nearly as bad, for one thing.’

  So instead of returning to the monks, we set off down the short track that led off behind the monks’ house and through a clump of trees to the stables. The newcomers’ horses – of fine quality and well cared for, I noticed – were in a stall at the end of the short row, and ours were at the opposite end. Fortunately, the three smaller stalls in between were empty. The straw wasn’t in too bad a state, and Rollo had been right about the smell. The wooden walls were, to the casual glance, in no worse a state of repair than those of the monks’ house, and possibly slightly better. We had our own food with us, and I was sure it was better than anything those poverty-avowed monks could have offered us. All three of them had looked on the verge of starvation, and I was beset by pangs of guilt as I tucked into my pie.

  As we finished the food and made ourselves comfortable, side by side and wrapped in our cloaks, I said, ‘Do you think we should go and tell the monks what we’re doing? They might wonder where we’ve got to and worry about us.’

  ‘Let them.’ Rollo spoke through a yawn. ‘We’ll explain in the morning.’

  We settled down to sleep. The storm had renewed its ferocity, but the wind and the rain were sweeping up from the south-west, and the night was mild. Wrapped in my cloak, a blanket draped over me, I was snug and warm.

  I was wide awake.

  I’d been deeply asleep, dreaming some muddled and vaguely disturbing dream, and suddenly I was sitting bolt upright, pushing back my cloak and blanket, senses alert. Beside me, Rollo slept on.

  I got up, moving carefully so as not to wake him. If it had been not a real danger but something in my dream that had shot me out of sleep, there was no need to disturb him.

  I crept out of the stall. At either end of the short passage all four horses were restless. They too, then, sensed something was amiss.

  I emerged from the stables and took a few hurrying steps along the path. I was just registering that the storm had moved away and both rain and wind had eased right off when the first waft of smoke drifted towards me. Simultaneously, or so it seemed, I heard the dreadful crackling sound and saw the orange glow.

  I flew up the path.

  As soon as I came out from the stand of trees I saw it: the ramshackle wooden dwelling that comprised the monastery accommodation was on fire. Very well on fire, and even as I raced on I was struck by the oddness of that. It had been raining very hard for most of the day, and the roof and walls of the structure would surely have been saturated …

  I skidded to a halt about fifteen paces from the monastery, on the fringe of the trees. My heart urged me to go on, go on, I might be able to help. But my logical head stopped me. For one thing, if I’d gone any nearer I’d probably have begun to burn too. For another, there was absolutely no chance that anyone inside that white-hot hell might still be alive.

  So I moved back several paces and simply watched. I thought about the people inside, but very soon closed my mind to their fate. It was too dreadful to contemplate and I prayed fervently that death had been swift. After a while, I sensed Rollo coming up behind me. He muttered something – it might have been a prayer, too – and put his arms round me, drawing my head down onto his shoulder. It was immeasurably comforting.

  He said softly, ‘We should leave. I’ll fetch the horses and—’ But then suddenly he stiffened. Gently but firmly, he edged backwards, pushing me before him, until we were right back under the shelter of the trees. ‘Stay here,’ he said right in my ear.

  ‘Why? Where are you going?’ I hissed back.

  ‘Lassair, someone else is watching the fire. He’s standing quite still, at a safe distance right over there’ – he pointed – ‘and he has his back to us.’

  ‘He’s watching? But how long has he been there? Why didn’t he try to—’ But then I thought I understood. ‘He set the blaze, didn’t he?’ I whispered.

  ‘Well, he has an extinguished torch in his hand, so yes, it looks like it.’

  Both of us as still as stone, we waited.

  Then Rollo started suddenly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m missing an opportunity,’ he said, and I sensed that he was cross with himself. ‘He has no idea we’re here, so I must take the chance to get a good look at him.’ He set off, walking with such softness that even I could detect no sound. ‘Go back, very quietly,’ he whispered over his shoulder. ‘Pack up our luggage and get the horses ready. Take them right over to the far side of the copse, down that path’ – he indicated – ‘and stay well out of sight. I won’t be long, I promise.’

  He was gone for quite a while. I did as he said and prepared the horses, then led them through the trees until we were almost on the other side. Then I stood beside my mare, tightly wrapped in my cloak, leaning against her friendly flank and taking what comfort I could from her solid warmth.

  He came back.

  ‘What did you see? Has he gone?’

  ‘Yes. He had a horse, tethered right over on the other side of the copse, and I watched him ride away. He went south, as far as I could tell, and he was obviously in a great hurry, judging from the way he whipped up his horse. I don’t think he’ll be back.’

  ‘What did he do? Did he – did he go right up to the monastery?’

  Rollo shook his head. ‘Not quite, no, although he went as close as he could and stood looking for some time. Then he checked the stables and found the horses belonging to the travellers. He let them loose. Don’t be concerned,’ he added, picking up my unasked question. ‘They’ll soon make their way to someone who’ll welcome them and they’ll be well looked after. Come on, we must go.’

  The fire was still smouldering and I could smell the overpowering stench of the smoke. Fear had hold of me, that ancient deep-seated terror that is in all humans, and I wanted to run. To mount up, put my heels to the mare’s sides and get away, as fast and as far as I could.

  But I was a healer.

  ‘Stop,’ I said.

  Either he didn’t hear or he was ignoring me.

  ‘Stop!’

  Already in the saddle he drew rein, so harshly that the brown gelding jerked its head in distress. ‘What?’

  ‘The monastery’s still on fire, but it must be dying down now.’

  ‘So?’ Even the one short word expressed his impatience.

  ‘We’ve got to go back, Rollo! We’ve no choice! I – we – might be able to help, and anyway I—’

  ‘You can’t!’ he cried harshly. ‘You and I both saw the blaze. Nobody could have survived in there!’

  ‘But I have to check!’ I yelled back.

  ‘What for?’ he shouted.

  ‘Because I’m a healer, and if I don’t at least try – even if that means no more than ensuring they’re all dead and tending the bodies – I won’t be able to live with myself.’

  He stared at me. Then, after what seemed an age, he shrugged.

  ‘Very well. You’re not going to see sense, are you?’

  ‘If by that you mean I’m not going to give in and come round to your opinion, then no.’

  I wasn’t sure, for the light was poor, but I thought he grinned.

  We made sure our horses were securely tied to a couple of the alder trees, then set off through the copse to the ruins of the monastery.

  The wild, fierce blaze had indeed died down, but very soon I had to admit that Rollo had been right, and there was no possibility of entering what remained of the building. The roof was gone, two of the four walls had also vanished, totally consumed by the flames, and the remaining two were little more than lines of charr
ed upright posts, some leaning at strange angles.

  I went as near as I could.

  The five skeletons were visible, among and beneath the piles of detritus that had fallen upon them. The senile old monk who had sat in the corner looked as if death had taken him as he slept, for his position was exactly as it had been when I’d last seen him, when he was still alive. One of the other monks, too, lay on his side, his body curved as if sleeping. I knew it was a monk because, strangely, a portion of the black habit was unburned. The three other bodies, however, all gave signs of having died in terrified agony. One was on its knees, brow touching the blackened ground, as if praying. Its hands were curled into claws, positioned in front of the grinning skull face as if about to fight off an enemy. From the solidity and size of the bones, I thought this was probably the male traveller; I’d had the impression he was a big man. The last two corpses were entwined, as if one had been trying to help the other when the fire overcame them. I told myself this was probably the zealous monk and the woman.

  I wanted to help. I wanted to go in, draw their bodies out of their fiery tomb, lay them on the ground, wash and anoint them. Prepare them for burial.

  But I couldn’t.

  Without realizing it, I’d been moving forward, closer to the ghastly sight before me. The soles of my feet were already uncomfortably hot.

  I felt Rollo’s arm round my waist. ‘Come away, Lassair,’ he said. His voice was very tender. ‘There’s nothing you can do for them.’

  I let him lead me away. I didn’t know why I was crying, but I didn’t seem to be able to stop.

  We planned to ride a long way during what remained of that first night. Both of us urgently wanted to get away, and it made sense to make the most of the darkness.

  But we had to decide where to go.

  We drew rein and discussed the options.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be best to carry on with the plan to go to Gloucester, where you’ll be able to put yourself under King William’s protection?’ I said.

  But Rollo shook his head. ‘I don’t believe that’s the right option any more,’ he said thoughtfully.

  There was quite a long pause. ‘And are you going to tell me why?’ I asked presently.

  He turned to me, and I sensed he was coming out of some deep thought. Reluctantly.

  ‘Lassair, that fire was no accident. We wondered at first if the two travellers who arrived after us were the ones hunting me, but that can’t be right.’

  ‘Because they have now been killed, you mean?’ He nodded. ‘Killed because the man who set the monastery on fire believed they were you and me?’ He nodded again.

  ‘Oh!’

  It was a dreadful thought. I tried to drive it away with another question.

  ‘So who were the man and the woman?’

  ‘I would say they were innocent travellers, and nothing whatsoever to do with me. With us,’ he amended, not quite quickly enough. ‘The man or men hunting for me possibly paid for information from someone at Lord Edwin’s castle, and knew they were now hunting not a man alone – me – but a man and a woman travelling together, well dressed and on good horses.’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘Us, yes. But the pair who arrived after us fitted the description equally well. The man who burned down the monastery followed the wrong couple.’

  ‘And killed them,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I don’t see why that makes you dismiss the option of going to Gloucester,’ I protested. ‘Surely the safest place in the whole land is under the king’s protection?’

  He looked at me for a long moment. ‘The killer is close,’ he said tonelessly. ‘He almost caught us. If – when – he finds out he’s slain the wrong man, he’ll be back on our trail. It’s a long way to Gloucester, and I don’t know the secret ways.’

  The echo of his words seemed to stay in my head.

  Secret ways. Secret …

  I said, ‘I think I may have an idea.’

  For the remainder of the night we made our way south, gradually turning towards the east. I wasn’t entirely sure where we were, and Rollo could offer no help other than that the monastery had been roughly south-west of Peterborough. I was travelling pretty much blind, navigating by the stars when we could see them through the clouds, and fervently hoping that sooner or later we’d come to somewhere I recognized. As dawn broke – and I was greatly relieved when the growing light on the horizon confirmed that we were going in the right direction – we found ourselves on the edge of a pine forest, bordered on its eastern side by what looked like a fairly major road.

  ‘I hope very much,’ I said as we drew rein on the edge of the tree line, ‘that’s the Cambridge to Peterborough road.’

  ‘It is,’ Rollo said. ‘About five miles that way’ – he pointed to his left, where the road curved in a loop round the north-east side of the forest – ‘there’s quite a reasonable inn.’ He must have seen my face light up for straight away he went on, ‘Where we won’t be putting up, because, for one thing, it’s in the wrong direction, and for another, our intention is not to be spotted by anyone else on the roads and bigger tracks.’

  I had dismounted and was already leading the mare in under the trees. ‘I’ve slept in pine forests before,’ I called back. ‘As long as we can find a dry spot, we’ll be comfortable enough.’

  The place we selected wasn’t entirely dry – nowhere out of doors was truly dry after all the rain – but it was adequate. We piled up pine needles and spread out blankets, and, wrapped in our cloaks, we were warm enough. There was a fast-flowing rill close by, and we watered and fed the horses, then hobbled them. We ate a few mouthfuls, then settled to rest.

  It was very hard to force the images of the burned monastery and what lay within from my head, and it took all the willpower I had. But I was exhausted. I slept.

  When I woke, the sun was dropping to the western horizon. I’d been asleep for most of the day.

  Rollo was already up, and he’d made a small fire. He’d used old, seasoned materials and there was little smoke.

  ‘Is that wise?’ I asked as I sat up.

  He shrugged. ‘We’re deep in the trees and I’ve seen no sign of human life since I woke soon after noon. It’s a slight risk, but I thought we could both benefit from hot food. And I was hoping you might have some supplies of one of your better restorative herbal drinks in that satchel of yours.’

  ‘I have.’ I reached for the satchel and selected a couple of small packages. He had water on to heat, suspended over the fire in the small can he carried in his baggage. As I went to test it to see if it was hot enough, I noticed he’d put chunks of meat on sticks and these were roasting over the low flames.

  ‘Have you been hunting?’ It wasn’t a skill I associated with him, but then, I recalled, he made many journeys in the wild lands.

  He smiled. ‘I’d love to say that while you were sleeping I caught, skinned and prepared a hare, but it would be a lie. It’s some of the salted pork that Lord Edwin ordered to be packed up for us. He was very generous, and there’s plenty left. There’s some very dry bread to eat with it, and a couple of apples.’

  It was probably because I was very hungry, but our scrappy little meal in the pine forest on the edge of the fens was one of the best I could remember.

  When it was fully dark, we set out again. We had to wait until nightfall, because, while up to now we’d been travelling cross-country and had been able to keep to small paths, animal tracks, field edges and wood margins, now we had no option but to take to the road.

  But I was on familiar ground now, for we would be going round to the north of Cambridge, heading at first due east, then turning north-east. I knew the roads and the byways quite well, and there was no danger of losing our way because, after we’d slipped past to the north of the town, we’d simply be following the fen edge. The danger didn’t come from any natural peril: it was entirely man-made.

  I had planned to go round the town on one of the s
maller, less-frequented tracks to the north of the road that most people used. But I’d reckoned without the recent heavy rain, for much of the land north of the road was waterlogged and, in many places, flooded.

  Rollo, understanding the difficulty, said in a low voice, ‘Can you not find a way across the water? If there’s a submerged path there that you’ve used before, could you not get us onto it?’

  I hesitated. I’d had the same thought, but I just didn’t trust myself in the dark. Part of me knew I could do it, but the problem was that, in view of the horrors of the very recent past, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to detach my mind and slip into the semi-trance state that would be required.

  It was too complicated to explain all that so I just said, ‘No.’

  He accepted it without protest, for which I was very grateful.

  We stayed on the road for a heart-thumping, palm-sweating four or five miles. I was expecting some ferocious, well-armed figure to leap out at us at every turn and, judging by Rollo’s fast breathing and his intense watchfulness, not to mention the sword in his hand, I guessed it was the same for him.

  Eventually, after what seemed about half my lifetime, we came to the place where the road went on north-east and the little track I’d been searching for branched off almost due north.

  ‘Here,’ I breathed on a huge sigh of relief. ‘This is where we leave the road.’

  He muttered something, which I thought might be a prayer of thanks, and followed me as I set off up the path.

  I knew I couldn’t find the place I was heading for in the darkness so, once again, we stopped to rest until dawn. But there was no hope of a dry bed that night, for we were right on the fringes of the fens and the ground was soggy, squelchy and uncertain. We found a tiny hummock of slightly raised ground, topped by a couple of willows. We put our saddles on the ground and leant back against the tree trunks where, cold, uncomfortable and increasingly damp, we waited for daybreak.

  And so the second night passed.