The Rufus Spy

by Alys Clare

  But that wasn’t the end that I’d gone into the fens today to bring about. If I obeyed my instinct and got under cover, he wouldn’t know where I’d disappeared to, he wouldn’t follow – wouldn’t even hang around on the opposite shore searching for a way across to the island – and Rollo wouldn’t be able to kill him.

  And I’d have to do the same thing all over again tomorrow.

  So I stayed were I was.

  I heard him then. I heard the crashing of his body pushing swiftly through the carr. I heard him give a faint cry.

  My eyes fixed on the shore, where any moment he would appear, I called out to Rollo.

  I heard him fling open the door and then he was right beside me, sword in his hand, knife and dagger stuck in his belt.

  I turned to look at him and saw his eyes widen in dread.

  I spun round to see what he was seeing.

  The hunter had his crossbow to his shoulder, and he was poised to loose the bolt straight towards us.

  I screamed out to Rollo, ‘Take cover!’

  He turned to me briefly, his face harsh with purpose. ‘No!’ he shouted back. ‘It’s a long range – he has one bolt and once it’s loosed, he has to re-load.’

  I didn’t understand.

  ‘That’s when we charge!’ he yelled. And he smiled.

  But the hunter was standing there, so still, so sure. Yes, he was quite a way away, but the distance didn’t seem to dismay him …

  I turned back to Rollo and something in his face told me that confidence had changed to fear. He grabbed me and threw me behind him.

  And, when the hunter let the bolt fly, Rollo was standing directly in front of me.

  If the hunter had been aiming for the heart, his aim was off. But not by much. The terrible missile hit Rollo in the shoulder and he gave a sort of grunt.

  I twisted round, terrified the hunter would try again. But he must have seen the great scarlet stain already spreading over Rollo’s chest. He turned, headed back into the thick undergrowth and disappeared.

  With my arm round Rollo’s waist I supported him as best I could and helped him back inside the house. He was able to walk, but only just. Even in those few paces, I felt more and more of his weight on me.

  I spread out blankets beside the hearth and poked up the fire, throwing on some of the dry wood that gave a quick, hot blaze. I put water on to boil. Then I unlaced Rollo’s tunic and pulled his undershirt off his shoulder.

  There was so much blood.

  I raised him as gently as I could and inspected his back. It was as I’d thought. As I’d hoped.

  I wrapped him in the thickest of the blankets, for already he was shivering with shock and his teeth were chattering. Staring down right into his eyes, I smiled and said, ‘I can help you. I’m going to go through to Mercure’s workroom, for there is something I need. Lie still.’

  Through the increasing violence of his shuddering, he managed to say, ‘I wasn’t planning on doing anything else.’

  It was brave, for I knew how much pain he was in.

  I would do something about that, as soon as the water was hot enough.

  I hurried out of the house and along under the covered way to the workroom. I strode along in front of the tightly packed shelves. I knew precisely what I was looking for and I was all but sure I would find it. Quite soon I did, and I sent up a prayer of thanks to Mercure, wherever his spirit was, for being so tidy and ordering his equipment so neatly and logically.

  Then I went back to Rollo.

  The water was already steaming; thankfully, it had been warm already. First I poured some into a bowl and put in the object I’d found in the workroom, for it had a sticky residue on it that I felt I should try to remove. Then I went through the packages in my satchel and put together a mixture that was probably the strongest treatment against pain that I’d ever made. As I added drops of the precious, perilous poppy, I hoped it wasn’t too strong.

  But Rollo was writhing now, his lower lip bleeding from where he was biting on it. I let the herbs steep, counting carefully. Then I added a little cold water and, supporting his head, gave him the draught.

  It was swift-acting. Within quite a short time, he began to relax.

  And I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.

  I lit all the lamps and candles I could find. I turned him onto his right side, his back towards the fire and the lights. I searched through my satchel and prepared several pads of soft, folded cloth. Then I took the object from the workroom out of the bowl, threw away the water and re-filled the bowl with fresh hot water and, with a soft piece of cloth, began to bathe Rollo’s shoulder.

  The bolt had hit him with such force that the tip had gone straight through him. I could both feel it and see its vicious iron point, sticking out of the back of his shoulder. That’s good, I told myself. It makes my job so much easier.

  As I’ve said, my aunt Edild had demonstrated how to remove arrows and crossbow bolts. Once the bolt fired by my father was sticking out of the shoulder of pork, she showed me what to do when the tip is hidden deep in the flesh. You have to make the track of the bolt wider, which is relatively easy when the flesh is that of a dead pig but, she warned me, much harder with a living body because as soon as the wound is received, the flesh begins to swell. By careful enlargement of the entry channel, however, she assured me that it was quite often possible to insert the probing instruments down as far as the bolt head, surrounding it so that it is no longer held so tightly, and then, holding the entry channel open, ease the bolt out the way it went in.

  What you must never do, she told me, is pull on the shaft, because if the point breaks off, you’ll never get it out.

  As I knelt over Rollo, I didn’t recall Edild telling me what to do when the bolt had gone straight through. I thought I could probably work it out for myself.

  The rear end of the bolt was sticking out of the front of Rollo’s shoulder. The bolt was quite short, and a section of shaft only around the length of my hand was exposed, the flights sticking out on either side. I took a small, sharp-toothed saw and cut it off, as close to his skin as I could.

  Then, returning my attention to his back, I took a deep breath and took Mercure’s freshly cleansed, sharply pointed pincers in my right hand. With my left hand pressing down firmly on his back, holding the flesh as steady and taut as I could, I took a firm grip on the tip of the bolt and began to pull.

  He screamed.

  I went on pulling, for I had felt a tiny movement in the bolt. I increased the pressure, and the sounds he made all but undid me. But I didn’t stop.

  It seemed to take for ever,

  But then with a sudden rush and a huge fountain of blood, the bolt was out.

  I flung it aside and instantly pushed the pad of cloth I’d set ready against the hole it had left. I felt the cloth soak through with blood and exchanged it for another one.

  I’d thought I was going to save him. The bolt had missed his heart, and I’d got it out.

  But as his life’s blood went on pumping out of him, I began to doubt myself. So much blood …

  I didn’t know where it was coming from. I’d hoped that steady pressure on the wound would make it stop. But something must have been torn or broken inside him.

  I folded up the last of my cloths and pressed it against the back of his shoulder, wrapping the remains of his undershirt around it to hold it in place. Then I lay down beside him and took him in my arms.

  He was so cold.

  There was time for us to talk.

  He said, ‘I have gold. Some you already have, for you hid it for me.’

  It took me a while to remember. Then I saw myself, crouched by Granny Cordeilla’s grave. I wanted to say, I don’t want gold, I want you.

  But I didn’t. He was doing what he could for me and I couldn’t bear to make him think that his gold was as irrelevant as it was just then.

  ‘There is more,’ he said. His speech was slurred and it was difficult to make out the words. ‘I
made a list. Go and see Eleanor de Lacey. She lives by the river.’ He paused, for quite a long time. I hugged him tighter. I could feel his heartbeat. It was slow. ‘Tell her who you are,’ he managed. ‘Tell her I said you’re to have it all.’

  I couldn’t answer. My lips were on his face, and I kissed him. ‘There was to be a house …’ he murmured presently. ‘A good house, set in wide green pastures with woods and a stream. A house – a home – for you and me.’ He paused. His breathing was ragged now. ‘I’d have stopped, in the end,’ he whispered. ‘Then it would have been you. Just you.’

  I thought his strength had failed. I went on holding him.

  Then, his voice barely more than a breath, he said, ‘We should have stayed together.’

  I kissed him again. His face was cold.

  He died in my arms.

  After a while I sat up.

  I stayed were I was, on the floor, his head on my lap, for a long time.

  I realized it was dark outside.

  I heard a heavy thump. It was deafening in the silence. I jumped as if someone had stuck a needle in me.

  Then I heard a sound like a distant chattering …

  But then it wasn’t a chattering sound any more. Even as I sat there trying to identify it, it turned into a crackle and then a howling roar.

  My eyes didn’t seem to be able to move from the door, for that was the focus of the noise. There was smoke coming in all round it, pushing its insistent way through the gaps between door and door frame.

  And then the first greedy flame appeared, licking along the top of the door and swiftly spreading upwards into the roof.

  The house was on fire, and the flames had taken firm hold on the reed thatch.

  Then I understood what the great thump had been: the hunter had loosed a flaming arrow, and it had found its target with devastating accuracy.

  I had to move Rollo. I raised his head and shoulders and moved out from beneath him. I took hold of his shoulders – his blood was cold now against my skin – and pulled. I managed to get him a foot or so across the stone floor, but then I collapsed onto him.

  I stared frantically towards the door. It was well alight now, as were the surrounding walls. The roof above was starting to drop big bunches of burning thatch into the house.

  Not that way.

  I looked over to the other, smaller door, that led to the covered way along to the workroom. The first faint hope stirred in me: The hunter doesn’t know there’s another exit.

  If I could get Rollo’s body out to the workroom, I could leave him safely there, make my escape and come back to him once the danger was past. Heartened, I leapt up and began to drag him.

  I managed two or three paces, then, once again, my strength gave out. The air was filled with smoke and I didn’t seem to be able to draw a proper breath.

  I was seeing strange images in the smoke. I thought I saw my grandfather’s silver hair and beard. I was drifting …

  Then, quite clearly, Rollo said, You have to go, Lassair. If you stay here you’ll die.

  I threw myself onto him and cried, ‘But I don’t want to leave you!’

  I know, he said, and his voice broke with love and regret. But you can do no more for me. Go, get away, live. For me, for us both.

  I picked up my satchel, wrapped myself in my shawl, a fold covering my nose and mouth, and grabbed my cloak. I kissed his cold forehead, then I left him.

  When I opened the low rear door, the flames already eating the room gave a great roar and doubled in size. The heat was terrible. I rushed out and slammed it shut. I flew along the covered way heading for the workroom, and—

  The horses!

  We had put them in a rickety old outhouse. Now as I stared across at it, I saw that one of its walls had been kicked out. The horses must have sensed the fire and, in terror, burst out of the outhouse. Where were they? They were stuck on an island with a burning building, how would they survive? But then reason said coolly, Horses can swim. Do not worry about them, for they will save themselves.

  I raced on.

  I don’t know what made me do what I did. Perhaps it was the thought of Rollo’s body, burning like a Viking on his funeral pyre; perhaps I wanted to make sure that the fire that sent my lost lover to whatever awaited him out there in the unknowable beyond was worthy of him. So I crashed into Mercure’s workroom, threw anything and everything made of wood into a pile in the middle of the floor, then emptied out every receptacle I could find on top. I struck a light, lit one of the small bunches of dry straw set ready beside the little hearth and threw it on the pile. Then I ran for my life.

  The flames from the burning house were so dazzling now that I knew I had a small advantage. If I made sure to stay out of the light, I’d be able to see the hunter but he wouldn’t see me. Keeping in the deep shadow of the overhanging trees, I crept towards the landward side of the island.

  A slim, still figure was standing on the far shore at the landward end of the causeway. He still held his crossbow.

  Well, I said to myself, trying to stay calm, I can’t go that way.

  I slipped back under the trees and made my way round behind the workroom – from which strange sounds and smells were already emanating, as well as the first thin spiral of smoke – and over to the far side of the island. I stepped down onto a narrow band of shingly earth, and, looking round, realized I was almost exactly opposite the causeway. And the safety of land.

  I wondered if there really was a second way to cross the water. It was strange, but I seemed to be able to consider the question quite coolly and rationally. Would Mercure – or whoever it was who had first decided that a lonely, isolated little island made a good home for a solitary – have settled for just the one means of access? Yes, probably, I answered myself. For Mercure had no need of company and would have done nothing to make access easier.

  Well, perhaps there was a way that nobody knew about.

  I stood absolutely still. I tried to empty my mind, sending out a plea to the spirits of my ancestors. You know I have this ability, I reminded them. Perhaps one of you did, too, and you bestowed it on me. Please, help me now. Give me the eyes to see what I must see.

  The house was alive with fire now. It was no longer possible to make out even the vague shape of walls and roof, for it was all one huge pyramid of flame, red, orange, yellow, white-hot.

  And, closer to me – dangerously near – there were brilliant explosions like the simultaneous crack of thunder and flash of lightning. I felt the ground quake. Long trails of sparks were shooting up into the sky.

  Mercure’s workroom was burning.

  I turned my back on it. I simply stood, staring out over the black water, waiting.

  And then I could see the safe way.

  Or I thought I could. The light was poor, for the night was overcast and the moon’s bright light was diffused and soft. I could see only a few patches of clear sky. In one of these was the North Star. I thought absently, There’s more rain on the way.

  Sometimes I could make out the way, sometimes it seemed to vanish. I found it was easier to make out if I turned my head slightly to the side and looked at it askance. It began almost at my feet, then instantly snaked away to my left before turning back in a short dog’s leg. Then it set off again, going due north for as far as I could see it.

  North?

  As far as I could judge from my mental image of the area, I needed to go east …

  But I had asked my ancestors for help and it appeared they had provided it. I wasn’t going to argue with them.

  I stepped down into the water.

  To begin with it was relatively easy. The water was quite shallow, and with my skirts tucked up I was only getting wet to the knees. It was cold, though. I didn’t let myself think about that.

  Then it got much harder.

  There was a safe way here – I kept telling myself that – but it must have been very narrow. It was almost impossible to tell where solid ground gave way to quaking marsh a
nd deep water, for the visibility was poor and, even looking sideways, sometimes the faint, luminous thread that I had to follow just wasn’t there. Then I would have to advance in tiny steps, feeling for solid ground with the tips of my toes, testing it before putting my weight on it and moving forward. It wasn’t too bad to begin with, but the problem was that slowly my feet were going numb.

  I kept telling myself, The hidden path is there. All you have to do is follow it, and it will lead you to safety.

  After a while I began saying the words aloud.

  Then it began to rain. It was gentle at first – more a sort of exaggeration of the mist – but soon it became much harder.

  I stopped.

  I was in the middle of deep, black water, with the faintest, most tentative link to firm ground, and there was only me to find it. Only me to save my own life.

  I turned and looked back towards Mercure’s island, and I was amazed at how far I’d come. Either that, or darkness, rain and the disorienting brilliance of the fire that was still raging had distorted distance.

  I felt so cold. So sad. So alone.

  I pulled my cloak more tightly around me, fighting tears of fatigue, fear and self-pity.

  It dawned on me that in my haste I had picked up the cloak Jack had given me. The costly, luxurious, fur-lined wool cloak that had been Rollo’s gift was, along with Mercure’s house and everything in it, by now burned to nothing. I felt a stab of sheer pain: the beginning, perhaps, of grief.

  But then I realized that somehow I’d been guided in my choice, for Jack’s cloak was lighter and it repelled the rain far more efficiently. The woollen cloak would by now have been soaked through, so heavy that it would have been more of a hindrance than a help. Jack’s cloak was keeping me dry, and although my hands and feet were shrivelled with cold, my body was warm.

  But it wouldn’t stay that way if I didn’t keep moving.

  Heartened, although I didn’t really understand why, I took a confident step, then another, and then another.

  I was on my way.

  Presently, as I’d known it must, the safe path turned east. I had no difficulty seeing it now, for the rain had stopped and the moon shone down, lighting the water to a sheen of silver. My confidence growing, I walked on.