The Night Wanderer

FOUR

‘There was once a greedy merchant who had been born with every privilege yet, as is often the case with such men, always wanted more,’ the storyteller began, launching straight into his narrative. A fat-bottomed woman in front of me shifted, and I saw him more clearly. He wore a new coat – business must have been rewarding recently – and he had been freshly shaved and barbered. His eyes were dark and shiny as a robin’s in his lean, tanned face, and he let them roam over the audience, making sure we were all attending. We were. Moreover, as soon as his light, carrying voice had begun the tale, more people had stopped what they were doing and joined the listening crowd.

‘The greedy merchant bartered and bargained,’ the storyteller continued, ‘he bought cheap and sold dear, and his fortune grew and grew, but still he wasn’t satisfied. He married a beautiful woman, and she gave him an even lovelier daughter’ – he paused to run lascivious eyes over the young women in the audience, some of whom simpered and giggled – ‘but he wanted more. He wanted more precious daughters to marry off to wealthy men who would reward him well for the privilege, and he wanted sons who he would force to work for him so that his enormous wealth increased still further. But his beautiful wife grew sick, and she died.’ A dramatic little pause, the storyteller’s face assuming an expression of deep sorrow.

‘Some said her death was from a weary, broken heart, for she knew her husband did not love her for herself but only for the children he wished to father on her. And then do you know what happened?’ He glanced around the intent crowd, eyebrows raised. A man said, ‘No! What?’ and there was some laughter. ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said the storyteller with a smile. ‘The greedy merchant was left all alone, for, no matter how many women he flattered and courted and tried to impress with his fine house and its rich furnishings, his elegant horses, his gorgeous raiment, his jewels and his gold, none would have him. He was growing old now, and his character showed in his face, and the ladies he wooed knew better than to accept him.’

‘Serve him right!’ a woman’s shrill voice observed in an indignant tone.

‘His beautiful daughter grew towards womanhood, and he put her in a costly litter lined with goose-down mattresses and pillows and the softest woollen blankets and hung with silken curtains, and he scoured the land with her, displaying her to all the richest lords and noblemen. Most of these fine men offered for her hand, for as well as a lovely face she had a sweet, gentle manner, and it was easy to fall for her, and so the greedy merchant decided that the only thing to do was to set up an auction, and let the competing suitors bid for her hand.’

There were several mutterings, and someone said, ‘The bastard!’

‘The day of the auction came,’ went on the storyteller. ‘It was summer and the sun was out, shining with a smiling face in a deep blue sky, yet right on the eastern horizon there could be discerned, for those who troubled to look, a small dark cloud. However, few could tear their fascinated eyes away from the spectacle of the greedy merchant’s daughter, up on a high wooden platform in the middle of the market square-’

Suddenly he paused, then, looking around, his eyes wide as if only then noticing his surroundings, he said, ‘Very like to this square, if not the self-same one!’

There was a gasp from someone at the front.

‘There she was, the beautiful daughter’ – he picked up the tale – ‘sitting on a silk-covered throne and dressed in the most gorgeous gown in a shade of sea-green which exactly matched her eyes. The marketplace thronged with people, and the suitors had a job of it, elbowing their way to the front so that their bids could be heard. Meanwhile,’ he added, lowering his voice dramatically so that as one his crowd all leaned forward to hear, ‘the dark cloud on the eastern horizon had grown bigger and closer.’

Several people looked nervously over their shoulders.

‘The bidding began. The opening offers were modest: the price of a good horse, or a golden circlet. Steadily they increased: the price of a manor, a small army, invading a neighbouring state. Still the greedy merchant was not satisfied, still he stood on the platform beside his beautiful daughter, yelling, sweating, exhorting, calling out again and again, More! More! It is not enough!’

The storyteller paused, just for an instant, raising his eyes and gazing into the distance, a faint frown on his face. Then, with a little shake as if forcing himself back to the present, he went on.

‘The black cloud now hovered over to the east of the market square. It had grown huge, stretching right to the far horizon. But still the bidding went on. I offer my patrimony, called out an eager suitor who stood right at the front, beside the steps leading up to the platform. My castle, my estates which are wide and varied, the men and women on my estates, the animals, the crops, the badgers, the squirrels, the deer and the hares, the birds and the bees, the spiders that spin and even the flies that buzz and bother.’

The storyteller’s eyes were wide with wonder at this wondrous list of treasures beyond belief.

‘It is not enough, screeched the greedy merchant. More! More! I must have-’

Abruptly the storyteller broke off. Then, arms spread over his head, voice raised, he cried out, ‘Suddenly the vast black cloud blossomed out like some foul fungus and it blotted out the sun. The crowd, the majority noticing the cloud for the first time, went silent, gazing up into the lowering sky with expressions of doubt, fear and apprehension. More! More! It is not enough! cried the greedy merchant into the sudden stillness.

‘There was a bass growl like thunder, and out of the cloud a deep voice spoke. I will have your daughter, it said, and what I offer in payment you will willingly take, for it is beyond your wildest dreams. The greedy merchant looked all around with avaricious eyes that sparkled with the anticipation of wealth beyond his dreams. Where are you? he demanded. Show yourself!’

The storyteller stopped. He let his gaze roam all over his audience, huddling together now, for word had gone round and the market square was packed. ‘And out of the dark cloud stepped a strange figure,’ he said in a soft, awed, yet penetrating voice. ‘Tall, thin and imposing, he was dressed in a long flowing robe with a high collar that stood up around his ears and framed his face. He was clad all in black, save for the faintest ruffle of white at his throat. His grey hair was cropped close to his finely shaped head. He was pale – as pale as death – and the long, straight nose was as an arrow, pointing to the wide, well-shaped, downturned mouth. The eyes were invisible under the heavy protruding brow ridges, and they looked like deep, empty black holes in the stark whiteness of the face.’

A woman, perhaps a girl, gave a little shriek.

‘The greedy merchant stepped forward, his face wreathed in smiles. What will you give me for my daughter’s hand? he demanded. Speak swiftly, for many others are desperate to have her and the bidding is keen!’

The storyteller frowned his disapproval. ‘It was clear that the empty-eyed figure did not like those words. There was another soft growl of thunder, and a sudden chill breeze ruffled the garments of the crowd, as if in the midst of a sunny day a wind had come straight out of a snow-bound, ice-frozen land. As the thunder died away, the figure spoke. In exchange for your daughter’s hand, he said, I offer you my world.

‘A faint cry burst out of the beautiful daughter, who sat cowering on her throne, eyeing the black-clad figure with horror in her face. The greedy merchant ignored it. Your world? he echoed. What do you mean, your world? Which world have you to offer me?

‘The hollow-eyed figure shrugged his bony shoulders. A world I rule, as your kings rule this one, he replied. It was an ambiguous answer,’ the storyteller observed – several people muttered their agreement – ‘but the greedy merchant’s blood was up and he only heard what he wanted to hear. He stared at the strange figure, eyes narrowed as if he was trying to penetrate to the secret heart of the matter. As he stared, it seemed to him that he was cold suddenly, and he thought he saw a few flakes of snow fall and settle on the empty-eyed man’s grey head and black-clad shoulders.’

The storyteller’s eyebrows drew together, rising in a caricature of puzzlement. ‘Snow? On a bright, sunny, summer’s day? But the greedy merchant ignored the sinister warning. Done! he shouted. The crowd – who knew better, and many of whom were already slipping quietly away – gave a low, collective moan of distress.’

I tore my eyes away from the compelling figure of the storyteller. Nobody here was slipping away.

‘The hollow-eyed man moved towards the platform. The greedy merchant, thinking that he had come to climb up, shake hands and seal the bargain, hurried towards the steps to greet him. But the pale man had no need of steps. He stopped right in front of the platform and he began to grow. Taller, taller, till he was as tall as a house.’ Someone gave a moan of horror. ‘Taller, taller, till he was as high as a tree. Then he stretched out his arms, wide, wider, the long, drooping sleeves of his black robe sweeping right across the market square and freezing those who had been too slow to run away even as they stood there, so that they turned to ice on the spot and fell with a ringing chime to the ground. The greedy merchant screamed, again and again and again, belatedly remembering his daughter and scrambling back to protect her, his most valued asset, from instant death.’

He paused for breath. There wasn’t a sound from the rapt crowd.

‘The hollow-eyed figure gave a dreadful laugh. Do not fear for the lady, for she is mine, he said, and he swept her up in one huge arm, easily supporting her frail weight as she collapsed into a swoon. Now the greedy merchant’s terror was all for himself. His mouth opened in a silent howl, for the air was now so cold that his lips, his tongue and his throat were already frozen into immobility. As his eyeballs crackled with frost, he stared up at the huge dark figure towering above him.’

The storyteller raised his own eyes, staring up into the sky, becoming the terrified merchant.

‘And even as he watched that dread figure,’ he said, returning his gaze to his audience, ‘it changed. The black garments seemed to melt away, revealing deadly white translucent skin. Then the skin began to tear, and the shape of head, shoulders, limbs and torso subtly altered… and there before the greedy merchant stood a figure straight out of the most hellish nightmares.’ Several people screamed, not all of them women. ‘It was ice-blue, scaly, with a long forked tail and slender, curving and impossibly sharp horns extending from its head. It held out an arm that curled and twisted like a snake and ended in a huge clawed hand. Then, slowly, slowly, oh so slowly, it extended those dreadful claws and reached for the greedy merchant’s throat. There was a moment of terrible agony, and blood gushed out. The greedy merchant closed his eyes, for death was welcome.’

A pause. ‘But it wasn’t death. The merchant opened his eyes again, to see the devilish figure standing calmly regarding him. Not death, it murmured, nothing so merciful. For I always keep my bargains, and did I not promise you my world?

‘The greedy merchant could not answer, for he had no throat,’ said the storyteller calmly. But abruptly his tone and his very demeanour changed and, in a storm of passionate words, he cried, ‘Then all at once the ice-blue devil’s eyes flashed red fire, and a fierce, terrible anger contorted its entire body. It shouted some words in a strange, unknown, unholy tongue, and at the same time it stamped five times upon the ground. The solid cobblestones of the marketplace opened in a great chasm, out of which both ice-blue and red-hot flames flared up and from which a frightful stench arose. The wooden platform tilted forward and the greedy merchant fell on to hands and knees, desperately trying to cling to the rough planks, but he could get no grip. Slowly, slowly he slid forward. The platform tilted further, further, until it hung right on the lip of the chasm. Then there was a sound as if the whole earth had exploded, and the platform and the greedy merchant were pitched down into the abyss. Flames rose up, roaring, crackling, and from the gaping wound in the greedy merchant’s throat there came a scream that stopped the heart.

‘There was a great crack! and the chasm closed up. In the blink of an eye, the devilish figure and the greedy merchant’s daughter were merged into a vast dark cloud, which evaporated like a teardrop on a hot stone. The surviving townspeople crept out of their hiding places and surveyed the aftermath. Seventeen lay dead in the market square, but otherwise there was not a sign to show what had happened. In shock, they melted away.’

As if in echo, his voice faded.

‘Time passed,’ he went on after some moments of absolute stillness. ‘Memories are long, but this was an event that nobody wanted to recall. Nevertheless, recall it they were forced to do, for the ice devil had enjoyed his taste of life in that fair region, and he came back. Not often: perhaps only once in two or three life spans, and the intervals were long, so that people forgot what lay beneath the disguise and only remembered the black-clad figure. Then the rumours would begin again of the sinister stranger who wandered the dark streets and alleyways by night, looking for a woman as beautiful as the daughter with the sea-green eyes, looking for another merchant so greedy that he would sell his own flesh and blood. It would start quietly… a rat or a cat or a stray puppy would be found in the morning in some out-of-the-way spot, lifeless, drained, its throat torn out. But then the horror would escalate, and next would come human victims. Men, women – for women too can be avaricious and cruel – and then the people would cower inside their homes, seeking what safety they could, for they would know that once again the Night Wanderer was abroad, and he was hungry.’

I had been aware of a disturbance over to my right, behind the storyteller on his box. I’d assumed vaguely that it was the storyteller’s assistant, whom I’d noticed starting to circulate with his upturned cap in his hands, but I’d been too enthralled by the tale to take much notice. Now, though, there were raised voices, and someone cried out in pain. People started moving away, walking at first, then, as they reached the maze of little streets and alleyways around the square, bolting like startled hares. Among them ran the nimble, light-footed storyteller, his box in one hand, easing his way through bigger, slower people, smiling, apologizing, and soon out of sight.

The assistant wasn’t so lucky. As I turned back from watching the fleeing storyteller, I saw him standing, blood on his face and his arms pinned behind him by one of Jack’s larger deputies. There were three more deputies, pushing and shoving their way through the rapidly disappearing crowd, yelling, ‘Where is he? Which way did he go?’

I felt a movement beside me. My randy old man, who had sat in silent captivation to hear the tale, was struggling to his feet. ‘I’m off,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t like the look of them deputies.’ With an agility surprising in one who had so recently been complaining of dizziness, he skipped away across the square and shot off along one of the smaller alleys.

I too stood up, reaching down for my basket of groceries and brushing down my skirts. It seemed prudent to follow my old man’s example and melt away, and I had almost reached the dark entry to the maze of passages that leads to Gurdyman’s house when one of the deputies called out.

‘Oi! You there, healer girl!’

I stopped. I heard pounding feet, and a hand grabbed my arm.

I reached up and pushed it off. ‘There’s no need to grasp hold of me. I’d stopped, or didn’t you notice?’

His brutish face clouded. Apparently he was sensitive to sarcasm. ‘None of that lip!’ he shouted. ‘I want to know what’s been going on and you’ll stay right here till you tell me!’

‘Certainly I’ll tell you,’ I replied. I thought I sounded cool; a lot cooler than I was feeling. ‘The market has been busy today, and a storyteller took advantage of the fact and set up his box to tell us all a tale. It was a very good one,’ some imp in me made me add, ‘you missed a treat.’

His colour darkened. He looked furiously angry, and he raised a clenched fist as if he yearned to punch me. Then, just about managing to control the impulse, he said harshly, ‘Storytelling’s forbidden.’

‘Since when?’ I demanded before I could stop myself.

He put his sweaty, greasy face right up close to mine. ‘Since Sheriff Picot said so,’ he spat. ‘It’s rumour-mongering, that’s what it is, and it’s bad for – for-’

‘Morale?’ I suggested. ‘Is that the word you’re fumbling for? Come on,’ I said furiously and very unwisely, ‘you can only just have heard the word and, although it’s clearly new to you, you can’t have forgotten it already!’

The blow came so swiftly that I didn’t have time to duck. His big fist caught me on the side of my jaw, and I saw blackness shot through with brilliant stars. As I fell, the agonizing pain began.

I was aware of running feet, loud voices, a scuffle, a shout of protest and a shriek of pain. Heavy boots rang out on the stones, quickly fading. Someone was holding me – tightly – against a broad chest, and I made out bare arms thick with muscle crossed over my chest. I leaned back, thinking no further than how much my jaw hurt and how wonderful it was to feel safe.

Someone muttered something – a question – and, right up close, a deep voice said, ‘No need, I can manage her.’

I was lifted up off the ground. ‘My basket!’ I managed to say, although it sounded more like mrssskt.

‘I have it,’ said the deep voice.

I closed my eyes, and Jack Chevestrier carried me home.

We were halfway along the alley leading to the house. I was rapidly returning to myself, so much so that, although it was very pleasant, I was beginning to feel embarrassed at being carried. ‘I think I can walk,’ I said. Inkicnllk.

‘I’m sure you can,’ said Jack. ‘But I’m enjoying carrying you.’

He reached out and banged on Gurdyman’s door. After some time – Gurdyman must have been down in the crypt – it opened. He took in the spectacle of Jack and me and I’m quite sure there was a swift smile on his face before he managed to smooth it away.

‘Oh, dear,’ he said, standing back so Jack could bear me inside, ‘an unruly crush at the pie stall?’

Jack had taken me along to the kitchen and was already pouring cold water into an earthenware bowl. He wrung out a cloth and pressed it gently to my jaw. For such a powerful man, his touch was light.

‘Ow,’ I said.

‘Is she all right?’ Gurdyman was leaning round Jack’s bulk to peer at me.

‘She can talk for herself,’ I protested. It came out as shkntlkhslf, which rather countered what I was attempting to say.

‘One of my deputies thumped her,’ Jack said. He dunked the cloth back in the cold water, then returned it to my face. I had done much the same many times for others, and only now did I discover how comforting it was.

Gurdyman sighed. ‘Oh, dear me! It is not the first time she has suffered such a blow, and I fear she has not yet learned to watch her tongue in the presence of mindlessly brutal men.’

Gurdyman was quite right. I would have grinned, but it hurt. Jack, however, wasn’t smiling.

‘She shouldn’t have to,’ he said. ‘It’s far too easy for men to hit women, being almost universally bigger and stronger and in no fear of reprisals.’ There was bitterness in his harsh tone.

Gurdyman noticed too. ‘I agree with you,’ he said gently. ‘I wasn’t condoning it. Far from it.’ He paused. ‘Why did the deputy hit her?’

‘Sheriff Picot decided that storytellers are banned, and when word came that one of them was in the marketplace, he sent Peter – one of his more bone-headed men – to enforce the order, together with the band of bullies he normally leads.’

‘And these men became violent?’ Gurdyman asked. Jack nodded. ‘It seems unreasonable to enforce so roughly a law that people don’t even know exists,’ he remarked.

‘It’s unreasonable all right,’ Jack muttered. He glanced at Gurdyman. ‘Peter and his men will be taken to task. The one who did this’ – he touched my jaw with his forefinger – ‘is already regretting it, I’d say.’

Good. I hoped someone had punched him as hard as he’d punched me.

Jack knelt down, looking into my face. ‘I don’t believe your jaw is broken,’ he said. ‘Can you move it from side to side? Gently now!’ he added as very tentatively I began to articulate my lower jaw.

Without that kindly, caring invitation, I’m not sure I’d have had the courage to try.

‘It’s not broken,’ I said. Itnbrkn.

‘It’s not broken,’ said Jack. He frowned. ‘I did warn you not to go listening to the tale-tellers, but it wasn’t because I thought you’d get hurt.’

No, I thought. It was because he’d already heard that scary old legend, and didn’t want me to. I wanted to tell him that I’d had no option, since I’d been looking after my randy old man when the storyteller began, but given the state of my jaw, I’d never have made him understand.

He stood up, still staring down at me. ‘I must go,’ he said. I thought – I hoped – I detected reluctance in his voice.

‘Of course,’ Gurdyman said. ‘I’ll see you out. Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘I’ll look after her. I’ll let her off washing the crypt floor, just for today.’

I knew he was joking. I hoped Jack did, too.

There was an experiment that Gurdyman had to proceed with but, true to his promise to Jack, he insisted on my coming down to the crypt, where he made me comfortable on the bed down there, fussing round me with pillows, a soft blanket, cool water to drink and with which to bathe my face. I didn’t feel like eating, so I watched, amused, as Gurdyman absently worked his way through the contents of my basket, devouring my share as well. The pain in my jaw had eased considerably, but the swelling was severe. I’d have a huge bruise tomorrow.

I was deeply relaxed, enjoying the luxury of lying with my feet up, warm and cosy, safe with Gurdyman and entertained by watching him work. For long spells there was a peaceful silence down in the crypt, and I lay watching the candlelight play on the ancient walls.

Ancient walls. Old settlement…

Perhaps it was because for once my mind was idling, and not crammed with the day’s usual quota of things to learn, things to memorize, plans to make for the necessities of life, that something floated to the surface, and I understood how it was that Jack had known his way around the workmen’s village so well.

In all probability, he’d been born there.

He had told me, back in September, about his father, who had been a carpenter with Duke William’s army during the conquest of England. His father had worked on the construction of the wooden castles that William ordered to be built, whose purpose was to threaten the defeated foe with their looming presence and keep us under the Norman thumb. He had been sent here to Cambridge in 1068 and that was where he’d met Jack’s mother. It seemed highly likely that the family home had been in one of those lowly dwellings we’d passed. No wonder Jack had known about the chapel.

I dozed for a while, my mind rambling in that half-world between thoughts and dreams where the two flow easily into one another. I saw Jack as a boy, earnest, honest, protective of his mother; he’d told me he was only a boy when his father died. I saw his mother harassed, bullied, forced to do work that demeaned her. I saw Jack use his big fists to protect her. It’s too easy for a man to hit a woman.

I saw him leaning over her, his boy’s face full of distress at her hurts. The same expression he’d worn earlier, when he’d looked at me.

I wondered if he still lived in or near the workmen’s village. Had he perhaps restored one of the more sound houses? The one where he and his parents had lived, perhaps? I couldn’t remember if he’d mentioned any brothers and sisters… He’d said something about being the man of the family after his father’s death, but family could have meant just him and his mother.

I realized I’d very much like to ask him.

I was awakened by Gurdyman, gently shaking my shoulder. ‘Bedtime, Lassair,’ he said. ‘Up you get, and I’ll help you.’

I did as he bade, smiling to myself. Gurdyman can’t even climb the ladder up to my little attic without puffing and panting and going red in the face, so I very much doubted he’d have been able to shove me up it. Not that he needed to; all he was called upon to do was to watch from below, with obvious relief, as I clambered into my room.

‘Call out when you’re safely in bed,’ he said.

I hurriedly took off my outer gown and boots, then fell into bed. I sang out something that sounded like mminned!

‘Goodnight, then,’ came back Gurdyman’s retreating voice. He was already returning to his work.

Smiling, I turned over and went to sleep.