The Rufus Spy

by Alys Clare

We were left with Rollo’s arsenal of weapons and our own wits.

  That night as we settled for sleep, Rollo took me in his arms. Holding me close, my head on his shoulder, his hand stroking down the length of my hair, he said, ‘Lassair, I’m sorry to have brought you into my troubles. When I asked you to come with me it was, as no doubt you fully understand, because I needed somebody to fool the man who has been hunting me all this time. It didn’t fool him, and now here we are, on a lonely island, and I have managed to isolate you from your family, your work, the comfort and security of your home. And from those you love.’ He spoke the last words in a barely audible whisper, but I knew what – who – he meant.

  I thought for some moments before replying, for I wanted to be as honest as he had just been.

  ‘I had my own reasons for agreeing to your proposal,’ I said eventually. ‘I’d already fled Cambridge but then, because of what happened when I got to my village, it wasn’t really any better there.’

  He made a soft sound of sympathy. ‘I could tell, as soon as I saw you, that you’d recently suffered badly. You looked awful,’ he added.

  I grinned. ‘Thank you.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s not a criticism, Lassair. You always look beautiful to me, even when you’re deep in pain and despair.’

  I waited until I thought I could speak without a tremulous voice giving me away. ‘So, you see, in a way the excitement of you turning up, and asking me to undertake a risky journey into the unknown with you, was just what I needed.’

  ‘But in a way it wasn’t,’ he said, a harsh edge to his tone, ‘because first you only just avoid getting burned alive, next, you’re forced to bury yourself out here and ruthlessly commanded to lead a killer to our door.’

  I barely heard the last words for suddenly I knew that the moment for revelation was here. I paused, wondering if I really wanted to say what I was about to, and I realized I did.

  I said, ‘Rollo, I slept with Jack Chevestrier once, and I conceived a child. I didn’t realize for some time – I was too busy looking after him – but, when I did, I had no idea what I was going to do.’ He made a sound as if to speak, but I didn’t let him. Having embarked, I wanted to finish. ‘I didn’t tell him. He’s a good man and I know that he loves me. Knowing I carried his child, he’d have insisted on my marrying him, immediately, even if he was still so ill that his loyal followers would have had to carry him before the priest. So I ran away.’ I paused. I could feel the tears already, but I fought them back. ‘When I got to Aelf Fen, everything was different. My aunt Edild who I lived with had married Hrype, and Hrype and I don’t really get on. Then my friend Sibert was attacked and needed someone to look after him, so I moved in with him and his mother. Soon after that, I lost the baby. Three days later, you arrived.’

  I’d said I lost the baby so quickly that I wondered if he’d even heard. It had been deliberate; the only way I could get the words out was to say them almost in passing, as it were, in the hope that my heart wouldn’t hear.

  But my body betrayed me. My empty womb gave a profound sort of clench, as if it was belatedly trying to clutch on to what was no longer there. It had only been ten days; days in which I’d often been riding almost non-stop, worrying, frightened out of my wits, cold and hungry. It was as if, once I’d recognized that I had every right to be in pain, both bodily and emotionally, the barriers I’d put up all came crashing down.

  I turned into Rollo’s lean, muscly chest and wept.

  He turned then from the detached, preoccupied king’s spy into the man I remembered. The man I’d kept somewhere in my heart, during the months and years of his absence.

  He just held me and let me cry.

  When at last I stopped, he said, ‘Thank you for telling me. I can see how hard it was. I understand, now.’

  What did he understand? Why I hadn’t wanted to make love, yes, of course, and I was glad that he now knew I’d had a reason and wasn’t trying to pay him back for staying away so long with no word. But I suspected he also meant that he understood about the strange little triad we made: he, I and Jack.

  Well, I thought with a small smile, if he understands, I do wish he’d explain it to me.

  After a while he got up, made up the fire and said, ‘Do you want me to put water on to heat?’

  ‘Yes, do, if you want a drink,’ I said, struggling up from the tangle of bedding.

  He sighed and looked down at me. ‘Dear Lassair, I was thinking of you. I’ve watched you come up with precisely the right remedy for a dozen needs, seen faces twisted in agony miraculously smooth out as the draughts go down. You are very obviously in pain, so I simply wondered if you might consider ministering with similar compassion to yourself.’

  I’d badly wanted to, but I’d had my reasons for resisting. ‘I can’t,’ I muttered.

  ‘Why not?’

  I hesitated, but it seemed honesty still prevailed. ‘Because a mixture of the pain suppressant herbs that’s strong enough for my needs will also make me sleep very deeply, and this is not the place or the time for that.’

  He gave an exclamation of disgust, but I knew that it was with himself and not me. ‘Let me see to our defence,’ he said roughly. He put water in the pot and set it on its trivet over the fire. Then he pushed my satchel into my hands and said, ‘Go on. Make it strong.’

  It was very late in the afternoon that Jack finally managed to achieve his urgent wish to speak to Gurdyman. The day had been disturbed by a visit from Walter, who, hearing via the swift and ever reliable mechanism by which everyone in the castle soon knew about pretty much everything that had been going on there, had turned up to hear it straight from one of the protagonists.

  ‘He’s still puce in the face and spitting nails,’ he said with a grin when Jack had finished his brief account, ‘but our sheriff’s not a man to take an attack without fighting back, and we’re all paying the price by way of extra duties, tougher discipline and harsher punishments.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jack said instantly. ‘It wasn’t my wish to inflict any of that on hard-working men.’

  ‘We know,’ Walter said. ‘It’d be worth it, but in fact the harsher punishments are only a threat. So far,’ he added. ‘Look, chief,’ he went on, clearly noticing Jack’s worried expression, ‘you only said what had to be said. Yes, Sheriff Picot will be like a cornered boar with a sore foot for a while, but there’s nothing new about that. The important thing is that you’ve pointed out a few truths to him, such as he’s lost that sod of a nephew and he may well find life a bit lonely from now on. Especially given that he can no longer ignore the popular voice, which speaks – shouts – for an honest man. You, that is.’ He grinned.

  Jack stared down into the fire, affected in many ways by what Walter had just said. Honest, he thought. Yet here we sit, this good, loyal, brave man and I, and I’m hiding a secret.

  Making up his mind suddenly and very definitely, he turned towards the rear doorway and called out, ‘Come in here, please.’

  And, as Batsheva emerged from the dimness of the back room and advanced to sit between the two men, Jack explained to Walter who she was.

  Knowing he had to go out to see Gurdyman later and not trusting Batsheva, Jack had asked Walter as he was leaving to send one of the lads – Henry or Iver – to come round at nightfall to guard her. It was Henry who arrived, his face eager and excited.

  ‘Not much of a mission, Henry,’ Jack said softly. ‘There’s a woman in there’ – he jerked his head towards the rear room – ‘and I want her to stay there.’

  ‘Oh.’ Henry’s face fell.

  ‘I don’t expect to be out long,’ Jack continued, ‘and the fire’s warm, there’s stew in the pot and newish bread to go with it, and a flagon of ale standing by the door.’

  ‘Oh!’ Henry’s smile returned. ‘That’s all right, chief, you be as long as you like!’

  Gurdyman answered Jack’s first soft tap on the door, as if he’d known his visitor was coming and was waiting in the dar
k hall.

  ‘Do you mind coming down to the crypt?’ he asked, already leading the way along the passage and down the steps. ‘Only I’m right in the middle of something and, although it doesn’t require any action for the time being, it does need careful watching.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  As he followed Gurdyman into the crypt, however, Jack was already regretting his willingness, for something was simmering in a small copper pot over a brilliant blue flame and sending out thin clouds of smoke, or possibly steam, that seemed to bite the throat.

  ‘I should stand over there,’ Gurdyman said hurriedly, pushing Jack towards the furthest corner of the crypt. ‘If you put your head just there’ – he demonstrated – ‘there’s a welcome little draught of fresh air.’

  Jack breathed in gratefully. He wondered how Gurdyman stood it, for the old wizard was leaning over the little pot and apparently immune to the fumes.

  ‘I’m used to it,’ he said, in answer to Jack’s unasked question. ‘Now,’ he turned to Jack, ‘that can take care of itself for a time. I had the sense that I would see you tonight, and I’ve been wondering why.’

  Putting aside the obvious question – what on earth made you think I’d come? – Jack gathered his thoughts and said, ‘I believe you told me you saw both of the two young men who were killed, the one on the road to the fens and the other found in the river.’

  ‘I did,’ Gurdyman agreed. ‘The sheriff sent for me to have a look at the first body, and I was also summoned for the one in the river.’

  ‘And?’

  Gurdyman made a brisk sound of impatience. ‘And what? Be specific.’

  ‘What did they look like, and how old do you think they were?’

  ‘You know all this, Jack,’ Gurdyman said reprovingly. ‘Young, fair-haired, quite well dressed. As for age, the one found by the track was perhaps in the early or mid-twenties, perhaps a little younger, but the one from the river had been damaged by insertion in the water and also by some degree of depredation by river creatures. However, he was, I believe, about the same age. Both men were well muscled and reasonably well fed.’ He went on speaking for a while but then, possibly sensing he had lost Jack’s attention, stopped.

  Early or mid-twenties, Jack was thinking. And Batsheva is perhaps fifteen years older? But I have not seen her in the bright daylight, and it may be that I underestimate.

  ‘If you’re not going to share your obviously compelling thoughts,’ Gurdyman said caustically, ‘I shall turn my back on you and return to my experiment.’

  ‘I apologize,’ Jack said. Briefly he told Gurdyman what was on his mind; how he’d come to the irresistible conclusion that the woman in his house had been Gaspard Picot’s mistress, and that the two young men, similar in looks and, it now appeared, in other respects too, were her sons by him.

  Slowly Gurdyman nodded. ‘And do the ages tally?’

  ‘I think so,’ Jack said slowly. ‘She is perhaps fifteen years older than the men, maybe more, so it is possible. I have not scrutinized her appearance sufficiently carefully to judge for sure.’ Meeting Gurdyman’s quizzical eyes, he said, ‘I’ve only seen her in the dark, or in dim interior light.’

  ‘And a beautiful woman cares enough about her appearance to enhance her good looks, and in so doing, prolong the illusion of youth,’ Gurdyman observed.

  ‘How do you know she’s beautiful?’

  Gurdyman smiled kindly. ‘Oh, Jack, Jack. You gave away the fact that you think she is the very first time you spoke of her.’

  SIXTEEN

  Returning from his visit to Gurdyman, still disturbed by some of the old man’s remarks – in particular the final one – Jack went into his house to find Batsheva and Henry sitting either side of the hearth. They appeared to have been deep in intimate conversation, and the furtive way in which Henry leapt up and, with a perfunctory farewell, immediately hurried off, seemed to support this.

  Jack went after him. ‘Everything all right?’

  Henry turned and gave him a too-bright smile. ‘Fine, chief.’

  ‘I’ll need you again tomorrow.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Yes, chief. I’ll be here.’

  Thoughtfully, Jack went back inside.

  Batsheva looked up as he closed and fastened the door. ‘Your young admirer has been telling me all about you,’ she said. There was an edge to her voice, and he wasn’t sure what it signified.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she echoed. ‘He said what a fine man you are, and how he and all the others are hoping you’ll soon be back to lead them. In particular, they need you to be a strong influence over your Sheriff Picot, because he’s a bad man – well, that was not in fact what he called him, but I will leave you to fill in the more colourful word for yourself – who is greedy, cruel and corrupt, and who has always abused his power.’ She paused, frowning slightly. ‘He said that the moment was ripe because the sheriff has just lost the man who was his closest and most trustworthy supporter, in addition to being his nephew and a man who was as repellent as the sheriff, if not more so, as well as being a crook, a thief and a man of extreme violence, and that it was high time the town had an honest man in a position of power.’ She paused, her head on one side. ‘I believe that is a full summary of his observations.’

  Jack said quietly, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Her dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘For what?’ she asked guardedly.

  ‘That you should hear such things of the man you loved.’

  ‘But you cannot—’ She stopped. For a while there was utter silence. Then she said very quietly, ‘How did you know?’

  He shrugged. ‘I do not believe that you murdered the widow Elwytha, nor that you started the fire. The next logical question was to ask myself why else you were watching the house.’

  ‘A leap, was it not, to decide that it was because my emotions were engaged with its late master?’

  ‘You must have been aware that it was perilous for a stranger to be seen lurking outside the place where a woman had been murdered, yet you stayed. There had to be something more than prurient curiosity.’

  ‘And you settled on love.’ Her words were a mere breath.

  ‘Yes.’ And if you say I’m wrong, he added silently, I won’t believe you.

  Yet still he thought she was going to deny it. Then, lowering her head, she said softly, ‘I believe I did love him, yes. For sure, I was grateful to him, for he was kind to me, in his way, and he rescued me when I was alone and afraid.’

  ‘And did Henry also tell you how he died?’

  She gave a deep sigh. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I regret that he died at my hand,’ Jack said. ‘But, without the blind support for me and the drama that I’m quite sure Henry introduced into the account, the facts remain that I went to arrest Gaspard Picot for theft, I found him with the goods in his hands, and when I advanced towards him he leapt on me with a knife in his hand. I drew my own blade, and as he threw himself on me, he was fatally wounded.’

  ‘Yes, that is basically what the lad told me.’ She raised her head and her dark eyes met his. ‘That he should be the first to draw a weapon does not surprise me, for he was a fighter and a man quick to temper and to violent action. Not with me,’ she added swiftly, for Jack had made as if to speak. ‘Never with me, for it seemed to me that he came to me as to a quiet, calm place where he could leave aside the man of action and, yes, of violence, that he was in the world.’ She closed her eyes briefly. ‘You will not believe me, I’m sure, but there was a better man inside him; a happier man, I think, for his life as trusted deputy to a narrow-minded, bigoted uncle and husband to a dissatisfied, irritable wife was not one he had chosen.’

  ‘But he—’

  She did not let him finish. ‘That he should act impulsively and with such sudden violence, yes, that I understand, especially when he felt himself to be cornered,’ she said. ‘But that he should be a thief, that I do find hard to believe.’

  ‘Nevertheless it
is the truth.’

  She nodded. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re not lying.’ She glanced at him again. ‘You are, I sense, an honest man.’

  It was strange, he thought, that her tone almost implied it was something shameful, or, at the least, naive.

  Perhaps she was right.

  He studied her. She made a graceful figure, sitting beside the fire, her skirts modestly arranged, her head bowed on the elegant neck. For some time he let her be, for he sensed she was deep in the past.

  But there was another matter, and he could not let it rest.

  ‘You had sons by Gaspard Picot,’ he said.

  Her head shot up. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open. But she did not speak; he felt she was waiting for him to go on. To see if he would be so insensitive as to bring up the subject of her further loss and her grief when she had not?

  But it was no time for fine manners and the observance of delicacy.

  ‘Both are dead,’ he said, ‘for I assume them to be the two fair-haired young men of similar appearance who were killed here recently.’

  She was studying him intently. ‘And why should you assume that?’

  Rapidly he summed up his thoughts. ‘They were killed shortly before the widow Elwytha, and the three deaths had certain similarities. It is not unreasonable to believe the same hand was responsible for all three deaths. As to why somebody wanted to take the lives of these victims, I cannot answer that. Yet,’ he added firmly.

  She was still staring at him. For some moments, he read absolutely nothing in her expression. He was just beginning to wonder if he’d been mistaken – for surely no mother could discuss with such equanimity the death of her own children – when she changed.

  Lowering her head, she covered her face with her hands. Her body began to tremble, then to shake. After a moment, without a word she got up and went through to the rear room. She lay down on the bed, her face to the wall, and drew her heavy cloak up over herself, until she was covered from head to toe.

  He deeply pitied her grief. Was this, he wondered, its first full outpouring? Had she been stopping herself from accepting what had happened, until, just now, he had forced her to?