The Night Wanderer

EIGHTEEN

I was woken just as dawn was breaking by a terrific noise from Jack’s geese. Barely awake, I stumped out of bed and, barefoot and in my shift, reached for my little knife and looked round wildly for a weapon for my other hand. Jack’s house was bristling with weapons so, discarding a bow, a heavy sword that looked too old to have a good edge and a vicious knife with a curved blade like a sickle, I picked up a dagger.

Fear making me feel as if my heart was thumping right up in my throat, I ran through the main room and without giving myself time to think wrenched back the bars across the door and flung it open.

A lad stood just outside, his normally friendly face anxious and strained. His pale hair stuck to his sweaty forehead; he had obviously been running.

I sagged against the door frame. ‘Henry,’ I said.

His eyebrows went up in surprise. ‘Oh, did I startle you, miss?’ he panted. ‘Sorry.’

Startle?

‘Just a little,’ I admitted. ‘Come in.’

‘No, I won’t, thank you,’ he said politely. The monks from whom he’d fled might have beaten him but they’d also taught him manners. ‘I came for the master. We need him urgently.’

The fear rose up again, but now it wasn’t for me. ‘He’s not here. Isn’t he with you?’

It was a stupid question with a very obvious answer.

Henry shook his head. ‘I’ve been keeping watch out on the quay, hiding across the path from the little passage that leads down to that young priest’s workroom. Some of the others came by from time to time, but I didn’t see the master.’

I was nodding even as he finished speaking. I thought I knew what had happened: Jack had gone straight to the tavern, to talk to Luke, and Henry had already been sent out to watch the passage by the time Jack got there.

I hurried back into the far room and hastily donned my overgown and my boots. I grabbed my satchel and ran back to Henry.

‘Come with me,’ I said. ‘I know where he is.’

Along the quayside, nobody seemed to be awake yet. The taverns and the brothels were shuttered and dark, and the few boats tied up there appeared to be deserted. Word had spread throughout the fenland waterways of our town’s terrible trouble and people were keeping away. It was yet another reason why Sheriff Picot ought to have been doing more to stop the killings, for the prosperity of a great many people depended on trade. Seeing the normally busy quay so quiet and empty was deeply disturbing, in more ways than one.

Henry and I reached the tavern that Walter and his men were using as their base. As we approached the entrance, I heard a strange sound which, after a moment, I identified: it was a low, steady hum of voices.

A man I didn’t know stood leaning against the door. Until we were right in front of him, I hadn’t noticed him, for the doorway was recessed and he was hidden in deep shadow. He stepped forward, sword in hand, but then he recognized Henry, just behind me.

‘You’re the healer,’ he said in a gruff voice.

‘Yes.’

He opened the door and jerked his head, which I took as an invitation to go inside.

I stood in the entrance to the room which Walter and his lads appeared to have appropriated. Where there had once been half a dozen of them, now their number had increased. The room was full of men, and Henry and I had interrupted their breakfast. I looked at them all – there were at least twelve of them – my eyes flashing from face to face. Some of them I recognized, for I’d seen them in the patrols and going about the sheriff’s business. Some were strangers. One or two I knew from other contexts; I had treated the bearded man by the hearth for a bad back, and the skinny, black-haired one’s wife had borne a pretty baby girl a few months back. These two nodded to me in recognition.

Had these sheriff’s men deserted Picot and his nephew, then, and brought friends and relatives with them? Had they all despaired of the Night Wanderer ever being caught unless a better man took up the leadership? It was the only explanation I could come up with. And it was more than likely, I reflected, for, unless they were in the sheriff’s pocket, they must surely prefer Jack’s hard-working honesty to the Picot brand of corruption.

Jack stood over in a corner, in earnest conversation with Walter. He knew, somehow, that I was there; his head spun round and he met my eyes.

Henry, good manners forgotten now, elbowed his way roughly through the crowd until he reached Jack’s side, where he began to speak, his gestures and his very stance revealing his anxiety. Jack listened intently without interrupting until Henry had finished. Then he muttered something to the boy, rested his hand briefly on his shoulder, then called the room to attention.

Into the sudden, expectant silence he said, ‘It’s happened. They are a day earlier than I expected, but we are ready.’ He glanced around the room, and fifteen pairs of eyes turned towards him. ‘You all have your orders.’ He glanced at Walter, who nodded. Then, as a boyish excitement briefly lit up his face, he raised his arm and yelled, ‘Go!’

It became clear that not everybody had orders to go on the sortie. I knew without even having to think about it that Jack would tell me to stay with those who were remaining behind to guard the room at the tavern, and so I didn’t give him the chance. I slipped out into the passage, crouched right down in a corner while they all filed out, then hurried after them and tucked myself in behind Fat Gerald.

Walking soft as cats, Jack and Walter led us along the quay. Soon Robert Powl’s warehouse loomed up ahead; the light was stronger now, and colours were just starting to emerge from the dawn greys. Henry, at Jack’s side, whispered something to him, and Jack nodded. Turning, he caught the eyes of each of the men and, gesturing, he indicated where each should stand. I slipped out from Fat Gerald’s shadow and stood right up against the front wall of the warehouse, out of Jack’s line of sight.

Silently, moving in small groups, the men arranged themselves so that the end of the narrow little passage was blocked off. Others stood further back, covering the possible escape routes on either side in case anyone managed to escape through the first line.

I caught movement, and close beside me one of the men, watching intently, gave a soft gasp.

I couldn’t see, and I had to. A barrel stood by the wall, and I clambered on to it. I had a clear view, right over the men’s heads.

Jack was advancing alone up the passage.

I was very afraid. I reached inside my satchel and touched the familiar round hardness of the shining stone. It seemed to be picking up my dread. It felt hot, as if it wanted to fight.

I looked at the door at the far end of the passage. It had been broken open. There were lights inside, quickly becoming superfluous as the rising sun lightened the sky.

I heard voices. There was a faint muttering, then someone gave a cry of delight, swiftly hushed.

I pictured the little leather purse with the drawstrings that Jack and I had left on the bench. The thieves, it seemed, had found what they came for. One of them, perhaps, had just done what I did, and spread out those seven beautiful emeralds, picked one up, held it to the light…

Noises from the end of the passage. Jack stood ready, and now Walter and Luke had moved up to stand just behind him. Did they feel as I did, I wondered? Did they fear for their leader, standing there alone?

Four men emerged from the workroom. I knew the brawny one and the little fellow, for they were the ones who had gone to Osmund’s cell earlier. I stared at the other two, trying to see if I recognized them.

‘Those are the ones that beat me up,’ I heard Ginger whisper very softly from somewhere close at hand, although he used another word than ones; I’d never heard it applied to men before.

I studied the four men. I paid particular attention to the small man. He was my size, if a little shorter, and it seemed to me that he wasn’t as broad in the shoulders as I am.

If I could wriggle down that earth tunnel which burrowed into the river bank and emerged in Robert Powl’s barn, then I reckoned he could have done, too.

The man in the lead had seen Jack. His face falling into dismay, he put a hand to his sword, half-drawing it. Then he saw Luke, and Walter, and, ranged behind them and closing off the mouth of the passage, the other men.

He pushed his sword back into its scabbard, holding up his hands in surrender.

I knew then that the six victims hadn’t died by his hand. Whatever I might think of the Night Wanderer, I had to admit that it took courage – of a deeply perverted nature, but courage nevertheless – to do what he did; to go out by night, alone, to conceal himself in dark places and, when the fire in the blood overtook him, step out and so coolly, so ruthlessly, so efficiently, slay his victims.

The man who had just led his men out of the little room at the end of the passage was a coward. Jack’s force wasn’t that numerous; wouldn’t it have been worth at least trying to get away? And what about his men? Could he be certain they too wanted to surrender? One or two might have evaded capture; I’d have put money on the little man somehow managing to wriggle his way out through the hands that tried to detain him and making his escape.

Like his companions, he wasn’t given the chance.

Jack was giving orders. The thieves, it appeared, were to be bound securely and taken to the room in the tavern. Six of Walter’s men stepped forward holding lengths of leather, and very quickly the captives’ hands were fastened behind their backs and they were led away.

I wondered if they would ever experience freedom again. Whether they would live, even; theft was a capital offence and they had been caught in the very act. I had watched as Jack silently held out his hand for the purse of emeralds, and now he stood holding it, his expression unreadable.

The press of people around the end of the passage had cleared now, and only Jack and Walter remained, standing close together. I sensed that this business wasn’t over, and, stepping down carefully and noiselessly from my barrel, crouched behind it to listen to their plans for what would happen next.

‘We have the work force,’ Jack said softly to Walter, ‘and now we need the master.’

‘Do you think he will come here?’ Walter sounded doubtful.

‘Yes,’ Jack said with conviction. ‘I am sure of it. He is hungry for what he thinks his thieves will find here, and when they fail to report back to him he’ll be driven by his impatience and his greed to come and see what’s holding them up.’

Walter said softly, ‘I hope you’re not thinking of taking him on alone.’ Jack didn’t reply. ‘Jack, he’s dangerous!’ Now there was a worried note in Walter’s voice. ‘He’ll know you’ve found out what he’s been doing, and given the mood in the town, he’ll know he can expect no mercy. He’ll have nothing to lose, and he’ll probably-’

Probably kill you. Was that what Walter had been about to say?

Jack didn’t let him. ‘He’s too clever to come anywhere near this place if he sees you and your men lurking, even if they do try to disguise themselves as innocent bystanders going about their daily business,’ he said lightly. ‘He has to feel that it’s safe for him to come right into the room, and, with any luck, pick these up.’ He held up the purse of emeralds. Walter must have looked doubtful, for Jack said with sudden roughness, ‘Dear God, Walter, we have to make an end of this! Let him walk into the trap, where he’ll find not only the prize but also me. You and the others can advance once I’ve challenged him, and bear witness to his crime.’

‘But if we-’

‘If he sees you and the others before he’s picked up the emeralds, which he will if you’re anywhere around, because he’s perpetually suspicious, very observant and far from stupid, he’ll instantly go on the offensive, demand to know what you’re all doing there and say he’s had word that the room at the end of the passage has been broken into and has come to investigate.’

‘But you-’

‘Enough,’ Jack said in a sudden flash of anger. ‘You have your orders, Walter. Obey them.’

I pushed myself further back behind the barrel. I peered out as Walter strode past. He looked furious.

I was very afraid. I knew I shouldn’t be there. If I were to be spotted by the man Jack was waiting for, the whole exercise would be in ruins. I didn’t dare think what Jack would say to me if everything came to grief because I’d just had to watch.

Walter and his men had all melted away. I knew they must be quite close but even so, I couldn’t spot them. They were good, I had to admit. Could I, too, creep away? I might be able to avoid being seen by anyone if I kept right up against the front wall of the warehouse, still in shadow. I was just making up my mind to risk it when I heard someone coming along the quay.

With all that had happened since the racket of Jack’s geese had wakened me, I’d vaguely thought that the morning must now be quite advanced. But when I looked out from behind the barrel, I saw that the light remained pale and thin, the sun was only just appearing above the horizon in the eastern sky, and the quay was still deserted.

A man was coming along towards Robert Powl’s warehouse. He was ill at ease, frequently turning to look behind him. He walked on his toes, clearly not wanting to be heard.

He was tall, with a hard-lined face, dark, close-set eyes under heavy brows and a shaven head. He was dressed in dark garments, the swing of his heavy cloak denoting fine cloth and an excellent cut. He had a hand on his sword hilt, and that hand bore a ring on the forefinger: a large stone set in thick gold. The low sun glinted on the bright green gem.

I knew who he was and I trembled with dread.

This man was Gaspard Picot, and he was the sheriff’s nephew, the man who had been put in charge of hunting down the Night Wanderer when Jack had been thrown out. Not only had he failed to catch the murderer, he had also taken ruthless advantage of his unique position for his own ends. He might have had the four thieves do the dirty work for him, but his was the intelligence behind the thefts.

The blame lay squarely on his shoulders.

I wondered what his uncle the sheriff would do when he was told.

I watched, hardly breathing, as Gaspard Picot came to the mouth of the tunnel-like passage. He peered down it to the door at the end. Then he looked over both shoulders and up and down the quay several times. I crouched still as stone.

He made up his mind suddenly and strode up the passage. He pushed at the door and it opened. He paused, perhaps disconcerted to find it unlocked. Then he went inside.

I couldn’t stop myself: I crawled out from the shelter of the barrel and went on until I could see inside the place that had been Osmund’s workroom.

Gaspard Picot picked up the small leather purse. Opened it. Tipped the emeralds into his hand, then put them back, drew up the drawstrings again and put the purse inside his tunic.

He had turned to come out again when I heard Jack’s voice. ‘Put them back,’ he said calmly. ‘They do not belong to you.’

I don’t know where he had concealed himself but it was clear that Gaspard Picot hadn’t seen him, for, hearing those words, his face went pale.

Very slowly, he turned towards Jack, standing just behind him.

I wasn’t fooled by Jack’s quiet tone. I knew what was going to happen. There was poisonous venom between these two men: much more at stake than this matter of the theft of the emeralds. It was, I realized, to do with betrayal of trust. Gaspard Picot had been put in a position of authority in the town, but, far from honouring that position and carrying out the duty placed on him to protect the townspeople, keep the peace and uphold the law, he was using it to make himself rich. His corruption went deep. I could sense it in him, as if it were a pool of something foul secreted beneath the costly garments and the gorgeous jewels.

Jack – good, honest Jack; out of memory I heard Gurdyman saying, Jack Chevestrier is a better man by far than his master the sheriff, and is decent, honest and capable – was his polar opposite.

And now Jack stood alone, facing a ruthless enemy poised like a snake about to strike.

I wanted to warn him but I seemed to have frozen.

But Jack was ready for him.

I had seen Jack’s icy fury before. I’d watched him, out in the wilds of the fenland, and seen what he’d done to the hired murderer who Gaspard Picot had sent to kill him. I’d seen him wrench Picot’s arm up behind his back, so violently that it was a miracle he hadn’t dislocated the shoulder. I had believed he was going to kill both of them, for he had overcome them and had them at his mercy. But he didn’t; he had left them, bound and helpless. He must have been confident they would either manage to free themselves or be rescued.

But this time I knew it was different. This was the second and final conflict between them, for this time the fight would be to the death.

They were in a confined space and swords would be no good. I saw Gaspard Picot reach for his dagger and, quick as lightning, Jack did the same. Both were right-handed; both had a blade in one hand, the other empty.

They circled each other, briefly coming together in an attack which had the violence of two stags clashing head-on, wrestling, each trying to disarm the other. Then they fell back, both panting.

I saw something glinting on Gaspard Picot’s left hand. I thought it was his gold ring.

But it wasn’t gold, it was silver-coloured. It was steel.

Gaspard Picot carried a concealed knife up his left sleeve, and he had just slid it down into his hand.

Before I could scream out a warning, he leapt on Jack. I thought it was all right; I thought Jack was ready for him, for it seemed he had knocked the left hand and its blade away.

They were clutched together again, their deadly embrace unyielding, and I heard Gaspard Picot cry out. He sprang back, then leapt up on to a bench and launched himself on Jack, knife in his right hand aimed straight at Jack’s chest.

But Jack held up his own knife, arm extended, and as Gaspard Picot descended on him, his own momentum drove Jack’s blade straight into his throat.

He fell, on to the bench, then down to the floor. Blood poured out of his neck, and he was making terrible gurgling sounds. He lay on his back, then, as the struggle for air became more desperate, began to thrash about, left, right, left.

Now others were pounding down the passage. Walter crouched at Gaspard Picot’s side, then he looked up and said swiftly ‘We all saw what happened, Jack. A whole band of people were witness, and all will swear you acted in self-defence, and he attacked first.’ Fat Gerald stood behind him, Ginger, Luke, Henry and a man I didn’t recognize crowding in behind him. If they were afraid Gaspard Picot was going to leap up and run away, they were wrong. Gaspard Picot was dying.

After what seemed quite a long time, the awful bubbling sounds ceased. Walter reached down and drew a fold of the luxurious cloak over the white face. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.

One or two of the men uttered a response. Someone even said, ‘God have mercy on him.’

Jack didn’t say anything.

Cold suddenly, I leapt to my feet and flew up the passage. Jack was sitting down beside Gaspard Picot’s body. He, too, was deathly pale. He had a hand under his leather jerkin, inside his tunic.

I took him by his shoulders and laid him down. His eyes closed, fluttered open again, closed. I wasn’t sure he had recognized me.

I put my hand inside his undershirt, pushing his away.

I felt the fast pulse just beneath his skin. Felt the blood pumping out between my fingers. Something detached and professional took me over. I unfastened my satchel with my free hand, took out a thick wad of soft fabric and pressed it very hard against Jack’s chest.

At the back of the crowd – which was rapidly growing as news of the drama spread along the quayside and off into the town – stood a fair-haired man with dark eyes.

He had been watching for some time and had seen every move made by the two men at the far end of the passage. But now he had eyes only for the young woman who knelt with the wounded man’s head in her lap. She was pressing down on his chest with all her strength but already there was a pool of blood soaking into her skirts.

It seemed as if some of the men at the back of the crowd didn’t yet understand what had happened. ‘We’ll have to swear to it that Picot struck first,’ someone said, too loudly. ‘Jack will require all of us to confirm he had no option but to fight back.’ Then, when nobody answered, the man said in a doubtful voice, ‘He did strike first, didn’t he?’

The girl cradling the wounded man heard. She looked up, and the fair-haired man saw her face. She screamed, ‘Look how he’s bleeding!’ and held up her hand, soaked red. ‘Of course he struck first! He had a second blade, hidden in his left sleeve, and Jack didn’t see it.’ She was waving her hand now, as if demanding they all look. ‘What further proof do you want?’

Now others were kneeling round Lassair and Jack, forming a protective, concealing group, and the fair-haired man could no longer keep her in sight. He didn’t need to. He had seen her expression, heard that terrible fear in her voice because she thought the man was dying right before her eyes and there was nothing she could do to hold on to him.

It told Rollo all he needed to know. He turned and walked away.