by Alys Clare
The church door was ajar, and we slipped inside. A lantern had been lit at the base of the tower, and it was its light, shining through high small windows overhead, that Jack had seen from Mistress Judith’s house. The brightness threw the interior of the church into deeper darkness, and at first it was impossible to make anything out.
But I could hear well enough.
From somewhere near the altar there was a muffled gasping, as if someone was fighting some obstacle as they fought for breath. Then there was a shriek, and a low, rumbling voice muttered some words I didn’t catch. Jack took off, running towards the altar, and I went after him.
Two figures were struggling together. One was small, thin and youthful – I recognized one of the junior clerics – and the other loomed over him, hooded, dark, big, tall, strong and powerful. For an instant the intense movements of the struggle twisted him round, and the light fell on him: his face was deathly white, and instead of eyes he had two big black holes …
I wanted to scream, but if I did he’d know I was there and he might pounce.
Jack, far braver than I, hurled himself on the pair, trying to grab at the bigger figure and pull it off the young priest. But whatever it was, it knew how to fight. It jerked an elbow into Jack’s ribs, in precisely the right spot and with such violence that I could hear the breath being driven out of the lungs. Then it spun round and landed a savage blow straight to Jack’s jaw, and he crumpled to the floor.
I cowered in the shadows. I knew I should do something, but I was so terrified that I couldn’t move.
Then the young priest managed to wriggle free. He came running straight for me, and hastily I crawled out of his way; the last thing he needed was to trip over me.
I thought he was going to get away, for he was fast on his feet and driven by terror.
But the hooded figure took off as if some diabolic force drove him. He seemed to fly down the aisle after the priest, and I’d swear his feet didn’t make contact with the ground. He leapt on the poor young cleric from behind, and there was a sound like the cry of a bird of prey.
The light of the lantern caught the glint of metal.
I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
The hooded figure had extended one arm – one heavy, thick arm, clad in something that looked like scales. But there was no human hand at the end of that arm: instead, there was a set of long, shining, curved and viciously pointed claws, horrible yet strangely beautiful in their shape and substance.
The young priest turned, and I saw the whites of his eyes, wide with horror as he saw death descend.
There was a whistle as the silvery claws ripped through the air and a dreadful sound of ripping, tearing.
A desperate cry came, turning into a gurgle, swiftly cut off.
The dark shape seemed to gather itself up, and then suddenly it was no longer there.
I was frozen with terror. But then from somewhere deep within me a voice said reprovingly, He may still be alive.
On hands and knees, trembling and shivering, I crawled down the aisle to where the priest lay. I could smell the blood, metallic and tangy, long before I reached him, and soon I could see it, spreading out in a huge pool.
I took his limp, warm body in my arms, cradling his head on my lap. His wide eyes stared up at me, but I knew he couldn’t see me. In the single, frightful movement, impressive in its deadly savagery, his throat had been torn out.
I bent my head over him, wishing I knew the right words. I found myself whispering, over and over again, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’
After a time – a long time, a short time – I felt Jack’s warm hands on my shoulders. ‘Come away now, Lassair. We will fetch help, and he will be looked after.’
I tried to stand up, but my legs shook too much to hold me. Once again, Jack picked me up in his arms and, cradling me to his chest, murmuring soft words that didn’t seem to make any sense, he carried me away.
I took one last look. The young cleric – the Night Wanderer’s fourth victim – lay like a patch of deeper shadow in the darkness.
EIGHT
‘I can stand!’ I hissed urgently to Jack as we emerged into the market square. I could willingly have let him go on carrying me – just then his solidity and warmth were things to cling to in the desperate night – but officers of the watch had already spotted us and were hurrying over.
‘Are you sure?’ he whispered back.
‘Yes! Please put me down!’
He did, and my wobbly legs just about held me up. Jack stepped in front of me, shielding me from the pair of officers rapidly approaching us.
‘What do you think you’re doing, breaking curfew?’ the first man said. He was squat and angry-faced, and already his hand was on the cudgel stuck in his heavy leather belt. Then, making out Jack’s face, he said, ‘Oh, sorry. Didn’t recognize you.’ He made a sort of bow, and his colleague did the same; they were, it appeared, subordinate to Jack.
Wild thoughts ran through my mind as I wondered how on earth Jack would explain our presence. He didn’t even try, simply saying curtly, ‘Another death. A young priest, in St Bene’t’s. You’ – he pointed at the man bringing up the rear – ‘go and watch over him. You’ – the first man – ‘go back to the castle, report the death and bring men to remove the body.’
The two men repeated their sketchy bow and hurried away. Their footfalls echoed eerily through the silent town. ‘What should we do?’ I asked Jack.
He turned to me. ‘I’ll take you home. You shouldn’t be out on the streets.’
I heartily agreed with him. ‘I should check on Adela first.’
He nodded. ‘Of course.’ He reached for my hand and we ran across the square to Mistress Judith’s house, where we found Adela just as we had left her. She was deeply asleep, and short of sitting with her for the rest of the night – which I really didn’t want to do – there was nothing more I could do for her.
So Jack escorted me back to Gurdyman’s house.
I don’t believe I could have managed the journey alone. It was so familiar – I walked it at least once a day all the time I was in Cambridge – but the shock of the night’s events turned it into a nightmare scene where every dark corner held a savage animal with long blood-stained claws and every tiny movement in the shadows was a ruthless, deranged killer out for my blood. I clung to Jack’s hand and it was all I could do not to whimper in terror.
At last we stood before Gurdyman’s door. I opened it, careful to make no noise, and Jack and I slipped inside. ‘You don’t need to come in,’ I said. I wanted him to, very much, but I knew he must be aching to return to St Bene’t’s. He and I had been eyewitnesses to the murder; surely he had to be there.
But he said, ‘I will wait. Go and find Gurdyman and tell him what’s happened.’
‘He’ll be working, or asleep,’ I protested.
‘Go.’
I spun round and ran along the passage, turning off to the right into the corridor leading down to the crypt. There was something slightly amiss, and I noted distractedly that the door which was usually folded back flat against the passage wall had been moved slightly. It was a clever device of Gurdyman’s – or perhaps of some previous inhabitant of the ancient house – in case he ever needed to hide, for when the door was closed it fitted so well, and was such an exact copy of the walls on either side, that you just couldn’t detect that there was a door there at all.
I ran on, stumbling down the steps in my anxiety, my feet sounding noisily. In a part of my mind I registered Jack’s heavy tread up above, as he moved along towards the rear of the house. It was good to know he was still there.
I burst into the crypt. Briefly there was light – dim, flickering – and then suddenly it was gone. In the dense, impenetrable darkness, it was exactly as if I’d been struck blind.
I screamed.
I don’t know how Jack managed to reach me so quickly. He was there, arms round me, muttering soothing words, big, stron
g hands stroking across my back. Then, pulling away a little, he said, ‘I have brought a light.’
He struck a spark, once, twice, and then it caught the oil-soaked rag wound round the head of the torch and a blessed, golden illumination flooded out. I stared frantically round, again and again. The crypt was uncharacteristically tidy, with the blankets neatly folded on Gurdyman’s little cot, the normal disarray of the crowded shelves rearranged so that glass bottles, pots, dishes and vials were standing in ordered ranks, and the surface of the long wooden workbench was quite empty and scrubbed clean.
And there was nobody there.
I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. What was the matter with me? Had I been more affected by witnessing the poor priest’s murder than I thought? Was I in shock, so that my eyes had seen what I wanted to see and not what was really there?
‘What is it?’ Jack spoke quietly, but there was some note in his voice that told me he knew something was badly wrong.
I turned to him. ‘I think I’m going mad.’
He went on looking into my eyes. ‘Tell me.’
But I couldn’t. I forced a laugh – a silly, unconvincing sound – and said, ‘Oh, it’s nothing. The after-effects of the night’s events, nothing more.’
He waited, clearly expecting me to elucidate. I wasn’t going to. ‘Gurdyman’s obviously gone off somewhere, since he’s not here,’ I said, pleased at how close to normal I sounded, ‘so I’ll go up to bed and you can—’
But Jack shook his head. ‘I’m not leaving you alone.’
‘I don’t think you ought to stay,’ I said doubtfully. Although Gurdyman seemed to like him, having him take up residence in the house, even temporarily, was probably a step too far.
‘I wasn’t planning to.’ Jack took my hand in the one not holding the torch and we went back up the steps leading out of the crypt. ‘Is there anything you need for the night?’
‘I already have it.’ I indicated my leather satchel, which I always carry with me, and my shawl.
‘Good. Come on, then.’
I thought we’d be going back to St Bene’t’s, but Jack turned the other way, towards the Great Bridge. We kept to the shadows and used the smaller, hidden-away alleys whenever we could, and I guessed he was still eager not to be seen by the night watch. Not that we saw any evidence of them; presumably all available men had been sent scurrying round in the aftermath of the latest murder.
As we drew near to the castle I saw that there were lights flaring, and I thought I caught the sound of raised voices in the distance. I guessed Sheriff Picot had been dragged from his bed, and wondered just how angry he was at having been disturbed. We passed the priory and took the turn on the right leading up to the castle. For a short while we had to walk out in the open, and anyone going to or from the castle would have seen us, but our luck held, and soon we turned into the narrow alley that wound round the base of the castle rise and led to the workmen’s village.
I hoped and prayed that we weren’t going to view any dead bodies tonight …
We moved through the deserted alleys and squares like shadows. Expecting to be terrified all over again, I realized suddenly that I wasn’t; quite the contrary. I squeezed Jack’s hand to catch his attention. When he turned to look at me, I said softly, ‘I like this place,’ and he grinned.
The little chapel loomed up before us, but it seemed we weren’t going there. Passing it, Jack went on up a very narrow track, its surface no more than trodden mud, which we followed for perhaps twenty paces. We seemed to be in an alley of what had once been artisans’ dwellings; small, one-roomed houses, at first attached to one another but then, as we went further from the deserted village, bigger properties set in their own small patches of land. One or two were clearly still in use.
We were approaching the end of the row and I saw open country beyond. The last house on the left was quite big, had a stout and well-made fence and looked to be in good repair, and I was just wondering what was the purpose of the fence, and what it could contain, when suddenly an unearthly noise fractured the deep silence.
It made me jump so badly that it took me a few moments to realize what it was, and by then it had virtually stopped. It had been made by a small flock of geese, and already Jack was among them, his calm, deep voice quieting them as he encouraged them back inside their pen.
He looked sheepishly at me. ‘They make very good guards,’ he said with a smile, ‘and usually they don’t make a sound when I come home.’
‘When you—’
Of course.
It appeared I’d been right when I’d extended my imagination a little, and guessed that it was where he still lived.
‘This was your parents’ house,’ I said.
‘It was,’ he agreed. ‘It was where I was born, and now it’s my home.’ He pushed open the door. ‘Please, come inside.’
With a quick look at the geese, still watching me warily as if just dying for an excuse to have a peck, I gathered up my skirts, went through the gate and closed it carefully behind me, then hurried up the path and into the house.
For a workman’s house, it was indeed a good size, with a main room containing a hearth in which embers were glowing, shelves on which stood pots, platters and mugs, and a couple of offcuts of tree trunks to act as seating. The wall on the far side of the room was interrupted by an arched opening, beyond which I could just make out the shape of folded blankets, set on a low bed. As I’ve so often reflected, the secret of living in a restricted space – as the vast majority of us have no choice but to do – and not going mad with frustration is to keep it tidy and be vigilant over what you allow to come over the threshold. In my work as a healer I visit countless homes, and I’ve seen the extremes: the dirty, crowded, desperate places where there is no comfort or solace, and the jewels of dwellings where someone – usually a woman – makes it her life’s work to make a precious little haven out of next to nothing.
Jack’s house definitely fell into the second category.
He’d been in the army, I recalled. No doubt that made a man tidy, even if he wasn’t so by inclination. I was just wondering about that when Jack said, with a degree of impatience, ‘Are you going to go on standing in the doorway? I’d quite like to shut out the cold.’
He pointed me to one of the tree-trunk seats, and I sat down. He built up the fire, set water on to heat and very soon was handing me a hot drink. I tasted honey and chamomile, and smiled across the hearth at him. He grinned back. ‘Not as good as yours, but I’m learning,’ he said.
The good atmosphere that I had detected in the deserted village was here, too, in the cosy house. I realized that, for the first time in ages, I felt safe. A lot of that had to do with Jack’s presence.
Which raised another question: were we both going to sleep here, and if so, where? Perhaps it was the result of everything I’d been through that night, but my heart was beating hard, my blood seemed to be racing through my body and I wanted more than anything to lie down beside Jack and feel his arms round me. I wanted to kiss him, hug him; I wanted us to be lovers.
The realization shocked me.
But I couldn’t deny it. It was far too strong for that, and I don’t believe in lying to myself.
I raised my eyes from the flames and discovered he was looking at me. I couldn’t read his expression, for his face was half in shadow. The silence extended and the tension became unbearable.
My mouth was dry and I had to sip my drink before I dared try to speak. ‘I’ll be all right here alone if you have to go back into the town,’ I said. It was cowardly, I know, for it might well make him think I didn’t want to be alone with him, and if he thought that, then, courteous and considerate man that he was, he’d probably leave.
Which I wanted and didn’t want, both at the same time, and so desperately that I was trembling …
After what seemed a very long time, he got up. He went through into the room beyond the arch, and I heard him moving about. Then he came back, a blanke
t in his hands.
‘Go to bed, Lassair,’ he said calmly. ‘I’m not going into the town until morning. I’ll sleep here, by the hearth.’
I stood up. For a moment we stood face to face. I very nearly reached out to him, and I think it was the same for him. Neither of us moved a muscle.
I went on into the further room, unslung my satchel, took off my boots and my headdress, lay down and pulled the bedclothes over me. ‘Goodnight,’ Jack’s soft voice said from beside the hearth.
‘Goodnight.’
Sleep came quickly. I wouldn’t have expected it to do so, after all that had happened and given how I’d been feeling only a short while ago. But I must have been exhausted.
Just before I lost the power to think, something flashed into my mind. That strange moment in Gurdyman’s crypt when the light went out came back to me, and once again I saw what I’d seen, or, perhaps, what I thought I’d seen.
It must surely have been the result of my over-stimulated imagination; I had, after all, just witnessed a brutal killing, and what more likely a moment was there to see things that weren’t there?
And I couldn’t have seen what I saw, for when Jack lit the torch, it was to reveal that the crypt was empty of any human inhabitants except the two of us.
Why, then, was I so very certain that, in that blink of an eye, I had seen Gurdyman, Hrype and a third, shadowy figure – whether male or female, I couldn’t tell – standing there?
NINE
I woke from deep sleep to find soft morning light arrowing into the room through a long, narrow aperture set high up in the wall. I lay still, listening. Within the house, all was quiet. From outside, I heard the geese, cackling and quarrelling; perhaps they’d just been fed. There was also the splashing of water.
I had slept very well. I was sure I’d been dreaming; one or two very disturbing images still lurked somewhere near the surface of memory, but I forced myself to ignore them. I thought I’d woken once and called out, but perhaps that, too, was part of a dream. As was the feel of Jack’s warm arms around me and his deep voice telling me softly that I was safe, and the gentle touch on the crown of my head that felt just like a kiss …