by Iain Pears
‘Will he live?’ Jay asked in a trembling voice.
‘I don’t know. He will if I have anything to do with it.’
As they walked through the forest, the mood of the little group was sombre. Even though he was a big man, Callan was borne in the arms of the giant who had tended him as though he weighed nothing. There was no time for a stretcher, he had said, and it wasn’t far.
It was Jay’s task now, his task alone, to protect the Lady of Willdon, who had fallen into the hands of a band of marauders. What could he do against swords and bows and knives? The only flicker of hope was that at least they did not see the magnitude of their prize. They had captured a scholar and his servant. If that deception could be made to hold up, then they had some small chance, perhaps. Otherwise they could demand any price for her return. If her absence was prolonged, the domain of Willdon could fall into chaos, sucking in the outside world with it. Willdon was the balancing force in the land; it had fulfilled this role for generations, and its glory was that it never sought to impose its power on anyone else. But what would happen if it was vacant?
He glanced at her as she walked dutifully beside him, her head down as a servant’s should be. In her small body, on her frail shoulders, rested the peace of Anterwold. At least she now looked like a servant with her bedraggled hair and ill-fitting dress, her bare feet. ‘She even looks like a farmer’s girl.’ So Callan had said, just before …
‘You will have to be Kate a little longer,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you know who these people are?’
‘I hope not. Are you prepared to be the hostage in my stead?’
‘Of course. I would die for you.’
‘Let us hope that will not be necessary. But thank you.’
‘Stop talking,’ called one of their captors, the man who had fired the arrow.
‘Why?’ Jay replied. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Because …’
‘Leave him be,’ said the huge man, breathless from carrying Callan but trying not to show his tiredness. They were short with each other. Jay could see quite easily that this had not been planned.
‘Where are you taking us?’
‘To our leader. He will decide what to do with you.’
‘Why should you do anything with us? We were walking in the forest.’
‘Why? This is our territory. Our forest. Our land. And you come scouting and spying.’
‘We were not.’
‘A scholar as well. What is going on? Is there to be an alliance? Are the scholars going to rouse up Willdon against us? Is that what this is about?’
‘No,’ said Jay in genuine astonishment. ‘If it was, no one would ever tell me about it. I’m just a student.’
‘Students don’t have servants.’
‘She’s not actually my servant,’ Jay said quickly. ‘She belongs to my master. Can’t you just let her go? She’s not important.’
‘She can work. We’ll treat her well. Besides, she could bring the Lady’s soldiers here. We’re not ready for them yet.’
*
Pamarchon was going around the outer perimeter of the camp to check it was secure, examining weapons, counting the stocks of arrows, ensuring there were enough bandages and medicines for the inevitable injuries that must come soon if he took his decision to launch the long-planned, often-delayed attack. When he came back, he discovered that there were captives, newly brought into the camp. One had been injured. He listened in fury to the account of how it had happened. It was exactly the sort of thing he always tried to prevent. Their existence and safety depended on the good will of those they encountered. A reputation for violence and brutality would lead to betrayal, sooner or later. It was not the first time this particular man had lacked the self-control he had tried over the years to instil in them all.
‘You,’ he said, pointing to the sallow-faced, resentful man who had fired. ‘You don’t leave the camp again, unless you’re with others and unarmed. How does this keep on happening? How often do I have to tell people …? How badly is he injured?’
‘Badly. But he might live,’ said the huge man.
‘I will go and see him. What about the others?’
‘A young lad and a servant. The lad says he’s from Ossenfud.’
‘Bring him to me.’
*
‘Right, then, scholar. Our leader wants you. Get up.’
Jay was sitting on the ground, waiting. He was alone; when they had arrived at the camp, he had been taken to the very centre of it and told to stay put. They had pointed out how far he would have to run to escape, pointed out also how many people carried weapons. You wouldn’t stand a chance, was the message. He took their advice.
He sat for an hour until he was taken to a large tent, square and fully open on one side to let in the light. The floor was covered in cloth and cushions; there was a rough trestle table in one corner and a rolled-up mattress on the other side. Otherwise, the only furniture was a wooden chest. It was simple and not very comfortable.
He caught his breath, though, when he saw the tall man sitting on the floor. It was the man who had taken Rosalind away at the Festivity. Jay knew quite well that he had been recognised too.
‘Leave us alone, then,’ he said, and gestured for Jay to sit down.
‘The world seems to be an astonishingly small place these days,’ he began.
Jay’s face twitched in a sort of half-smile.
‘When I was told that they had captured some of the Lady’s scouts in the forest, I hardly thought it would be you, Master Jay. It is Jay, is it not?’
He nodded. ‘I’m not a scout. Nor was Callan. You shouldn’t have hurt him. He is a good man, and my friend.’
‘Callan, you say? The forester?’
‘Yes.’
He bowed his head. ‘Then I am truly sorry. I knew him once and liked him well. He is a good man. Had I been there it would not have happened. I will make my peace with him and, if necessary, with his family. He will get the best treatment and care we can offer. If he can be saved, he will be.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Pamarchon, son of Isenwar, son of Isenwar.’
‘Isenwar?’
‘Yes. I trace my lineage back to the first level. Have you not heard of me?’
‘No. Why is your name not Isenwar as well?’
‘My brother bore that name, but he died. My children will bear it again, so it will continue.’
‘May your wishes be granted.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘Why do you live here? A name like yours …’
‘You come from Willdon and you do not know of the evil Pamarchon and his foul deeds? I am surprised, although perhaps you would not. I am sure my name has been erased for its infamy.’
‘I know nothing,’ Jay said. ‘I do not even know why you want me as your prisoner. Or my servant.’
‘What servant?’
‘Well, maybe not mine. She works for my master but I am responsible for her. He’ll be very annoyed if any harm comes to her.’
‘Your master is …?’
‘Henary, son of Henary, scholar of the first rank.’
‘That remarkable young woman, Rosalind,’ Pamarchon said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘Who is she? I was her companion for more than an hour, and I knew little more of her when we parted than when we met.’
‘You are not the only one,’ Jay said. ‘I have no idea who – or what – she is. You may form your own opinion of her beauty and charm. Where she comes from I do not know.’
‘Henary does?’
‘Perhaps. If so, he did not share his knowledge with me.’
‘He did with Lady Catherine, no doubt.’
‘I am not privy to their conversations. Why do you speak of her in such a tone?’
‘The Lord and Lady both? In what tone do I speak?’
‘Hostility and dislike.’
‘I suppose you find her charming and gracious.’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps I know her better.’
Jay looked uncomprehending. ‘Surely …’
‘I do not wish to discuss this. I want to know your reasons for being in the forest. Looking for us? Spying?’
‘Look at me,’ Jay said. ‘Am I your idea of a spy?’
‘You are not telling me the truth.’
‘I am. I met Callan the day I was selected. I am preparing my disquisition, which concerns a passage on the relationship between man and the forest. Henary arranged for me to spend a few days with him.’
‘Which passage?’
‘Level 3, upper 60s.’
Pamarchon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Those are monster stories. An unusual choice, surely?’
‘I’m impressed by your knowledge.’
‘You went into the forest to meet monsters …’
‘And met you,’ Jay finished coldly.
Pamarchon stood up. ‘Do as you are told, don’t be foolish and you will come to no harm.’ He went to the tent entrance. ‘I’m sorry for Callan,’ he said. ‘I mean that. You may visit him as you will, and you may have your servant back. You will be responsible for her good behaviour as well as her safety. You will be free to move around, if you give your word that you will not escape. Otherwise I am afraid you will have to be placed somewhere you cannot escape. Do you agree to that?’
Jay was so pleased that he didn’t hesitate. ‘Of course.’
*
Kate was peeling potatoes when Jay found her again and, considering the circumstances, was doing quite well. Still, she was exhausted from the effort of caring for Callan, and was in shock at what had happened. Nor did she know much about peeling potatoes. Now she sat, frown on face, knife in hand, beside a huge pile of freshly dug, earth-covered potatoes large enough to feed everyone in the camp for days to come. She threw one into the pot beside her and stretched, rubbing her back to ease the pain that came from sitting too long in the same position.
‘You’ll be glad to know I have recovered my servant,’ Jay said as he approached and sat down next to her. ‘Your job once more is to look after my every need. And Callan, as much as you can and wish. No one suspects you.’
‘That’s good,’ she said.
‘So leave those and come with me.’
‘No. I’m going to finish.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I started, so I’ll finish. It is quite an art, you know. Why don’t you grab a knife and help? Then I will finish quicker and we can talk undisturbed. I find it calming after everything that has happened.’
It was a good idea in all respects except for the potatoes, but for the next hour they laboured together, earning the curious and not unappreciative glances of those who passed by.
Jay had pressed her for details of Callan’s state. Not well, she said. The injury was bad. As long as he didn’t develop a fever, though, he might survive.
‘Well? What is going on?’ she asked.
‘I could ask you the same question,’ he replied. ‘Our captor is called Pamarchon and he is the man I told you was at your Festivity. He talks as though he knows you well and doesn’t like you. I fear you would be in some difficulty if he learned who you are. Why does he hate you?’
Kate finished a potato, then tossed it in the pot. ‘Quite simple. He murdered my husband,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he would have killed me as well, given the chance. Did you not know this?’
‘I knew your husband had died. Henary didn’t tell me anything else at all.’
‘Unusually discreet of him. Pamarchon is – or rather was – my husband’s cousin. The second son of his eldest sister, actually, and his closest living relation. He was nominated as heir to Willdon and expected to inherit, until Thenald married me, with the prospect of producing an heir. Pamarchon acted first. Thenald was stabbed to death in the forest and Pamarchon proved his own guilt by fleeing. Willdon chose me quickly for fear he was planning to attack. I was the best available.’
‘So what is he doing here?’
‘What is he doing here? With a bitter heart, a tendency to violence and what seems like several hundred armed followers, scarcely a few days’ march from Willdon?’
Jay sucked in his breath. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘I knew there was movement. I didn’t know who or why, or that there were anything like as many people as this.’
‘Then you were very unwise to put yourself at risk.’
There was a brief flash of Lady Catherine in her face, but it passed quickly. ‘Perhaps you are right. But I am in no present danger, and I am better informed than I was. I need to get back to Willdon though, and soon. It seems I will have to prepare our defences.’
40
When Sam Wind was told that, while they had been talking in the study with Volkov, the police had brought a suspected Soviet spy to the house and that he had now vanished, he was both furious and in a high state of panic. Volkov was bundled out of the door into the van Sam had summoned and driven off at high speed. Sam himself stayed behind, his habitual mask of insouciance completely gone.
‘How the hell did that happen? Whose idea was that?’
‘I assumed that Henry wanted him,’ Angela said meekly. ‘The policeman said they had picked him up, and what were they to do with him now? I didn’t know anything about it, and didn’t want to interrupt …’
‘So you gave him tea in the kitchen? Tea?’
‘He didn’t want coffee. Besides, what else was I supposed to do with him? I thought you must have known all about it.’
‘What did he say? Who was he?’
‘He didn’t say very much.’
‘How did he escape?’
‘He went to the toilet and never came back. How should I know?’
Wind grunted and stumped downstairs into Lytten’s cellar. Lytten and Angela followed.
‘What is all this rubbish?’ Wind said as he surveyed the dust-covered junk and peered scornfully at a rusty iron structure against the wall covered in old cans and bits of tinfoil.
‘That is called “Momentum”,’ Angela said. ‘It’s a sculpture I’ve been making. I’m rather proud of it. It is a re-evaluation of traditional mores as metamorphosed under the incessant impact of consumerist …’
‘What?’
‘Really it’s just a Victorian iron pergola. French, so I suppose not Victorian really. Fin de siècle, if you prefer, although I can’t date it precisely. You put it in your garden and grow roses over it. I keep meaning to take it back to France. But somehow …’
Her voice trailed off. Not that Wind cared. All he cared about was who that man was. How he had escaped. What it all meant. To those questions, he found no answer in the gloomy and damp cellar.
‘Who was he, Henry?’ Wind asked ‘Why were you interested in him?’
‘He was watching the house. I thought it worth pursuing.’
‘What do you mean by watching?’
‘What most people mean by watching. The first time he was standing in the middle of my driveway with his mouth hanging open. Then he was walking up and down the street. Another time he stood on the other side of the road. He was trying to look nonchalant, but didn’t do it very well. The last time was yesterday. I pointed him out to the policeman who came about the missing girl.’
‘What missing girl?’
‘She’s not missing,’ Lytten said shortly.
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ Angela added.
‘Can we stay on the subject, please?’ Wind said. ‘If he was a Russian, then they must know Volkov is here.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It does indicate that Volkov is the real thing, of course. Why the hell did you let him go?’
‘I didn’t let him go,’ Angela said tartly. ‘He went to the toilet.’
*
‘That was exciting,’ Angela said, once Sam had finally given up and only she and Lytten remained in the house. ‘Sam Wind agitated. I’ve never seen that before. I am sorry, by the way, if I did something wrong.’<
br />
Lytten was on the phone and not paying her any attention. ‘Oh, I think so, Portmore,’ he was saying. ‘Volkov says he has information to identify the man you are after. No, he won’t say yet. They left half an hour ago. They’ll take him to the usual place … It does, doesn’t it …
‘It’s not your fault,’ he reassured Angela when he put the phone down. ‘You weren’t to know. You may recall that Sam is overly concerned with not looking bad. Potentially compromising a defector does look bad. In fact, if the Americans ever hear about it they will laugh themselves silly. That won’t make any difference to me, but Sam will spend the next day or so rushing around trying to find someone else to blame. He wants so desperately to get the top job, and this might torpedo his chances.’
‘Oh, you boys,’ Angela said. ‘You never grow up, do you?’
‘It seems not. In the circumstances, I think a glass of whisky would be a good idea.’
He got two glasses, blew into them to make sure there was no dust and poured two generous measures before sitting in his old armchair. ‘Did that man really say nothing of interest?’ he asked Angela, who had returned to the settee. ‘Did he have a name, by the way?’
‘He said his name was Alexander Chang.’
‘Chinese?’
‘Not by the look of him. A little, maybe. But not much. He was very flustered,’ she said. ‘Most of the time he talked what you would consider nonsense. By the way, did you ever thank me in some article you wrote a year or so back?’
Lytten blinked in confusion. She did sometimes have trouble keeping on the subject, but this was bizarre even by her standards. ‘An article on As You Like It. I believe I thanked you for your help. The translations, you know. Could we keep on the point?’
‘This man mentioned it to prove he was some scholar interested in your work. His story was that he was plucking up courage to ask you a question about the Devil’s Handwriting. Do you know what he meant?’
‘I assume he meant a little article I published last year. It was about a manuscript bought by one of my ancestors. I was convinced that not a single person ever read it, judging by the lack of impact it had. Mind you, it was a very little thing.’