The Way Between the Worlds (17 page)

Rollo’s years of experience had taught him not to waste time worrying about things that might not happen. The second man was now some distance away, and Rollo would deal with him when the time came. For now, the man behind him was alone.

Rollo pulled Strega up, drew his sword and spun round. The man had less secure a control of his mount, and it seemed, in addition, that Rollo’s unexpected move had taken him unawares. Leaning back in the saddle in what appeared to be a hopeless attempt to slow his horse’s pace, he kept on riding, straight at Rollo, a long, wickedly pointed knife in one hand and a shorter stabbing knife between his teeth. His dark eyes blazed with blood lust; he was going in for the kill.

As the man drew level, Rollo nudged Strega with his knee to make her step aside. There was little need even to swing his sword – he could simply have held it out – but he swung it anyway.

The man’s head was sliced from his shoulders, and it bounced away across the springy turf. The body remained upright in the saddle for some ten or twelve paces, and then the horse – perhaps aware of a sudden lack of control, perhaps simply alarmed at the smell of blood – abruptly swerved, gave a couple of bucks and threw the headless body to the ground. Then it gave a shrill whinny and, turning, galloped away, back along the track towards the last of the sunlight.

Rollo gathered Strega’s reins, spoke some quiet words to her and then urged her on down the track. He could hear shouts and blood-curdling yells from the two men behind him – much closer now – and Strega needed no spurred heels to tell her she had to hurry. Rollo made himself concentrate on the ambusher who was attempting to head him off, realizing with a feeling of sick dread that the man was well over halfway across the valley and going fast.

It was going to be a race.

Rollo had the advantage of firm ground, but his pursuer had a lot less further to go. Rollo went through the options that would be open to him when the two of them came face to face. None was very attractive. None gave him better than fifty-fifty odds.

As he and Strega flew down the track, he was already calculating. He must get to the interception point first, for then, even if he did not have time to evade his pursuer, at least it would be he who selected the staging of the fight between them. He watched the other man, and it seemed to Rollo that his opponent’s lead was slowly being eroded.

Had he hit wet ground? Was that bright green grass not as firm beneath his horse’s hooves as he had hoped?

The man and his horse were approaching the stream that hurried through the valley. The track remained on higher ground and avoided it, but anyone cutting across the valley would have to ford it, wade through it or jump over it at some point. Rollo watched as the man looked frantically to his right and his left, trying to decide where best to cross.

From the vantage point of the higher ground, Rollo could have advised him. The obvious place was a stretch of water that looked shallow, for it was broken up by what appeared to be stones and boulders on the stream bed. To someone on the same level, it probably looked like a man-made ford.

Rollo could see that it was not; the obvious place was the one spot to avoid.

He couldn’t be sure, but his guess was that it was deep water. What looked at first glance to be stones set in the shallows were the tips of rocks, perhaps the height of a man or more, for the water there was dark, deep and fast-running.

The man appeared to make up his mind. Expecting a firm-bottomed ford where the water would reach his horse’s hocks at most, he spurred his mount on and raced for the stream. The horse tried to swerve, to slow down, to turn away from the danger it could see, but the man drove it on relentlessly, using spurred heels, whip and fists. The horse crashed into the deep water, gave a scream of fear and was swept over on its side and washed away downstream, taking the man with it.

Rollo heard more shouts and cries of dismay from behind him. He risked a quick look and saw that one of the remaining pair was kneeling over the headless body – he appeared to be retching – while the other was setting off recklessly fast across the valley in pursuit of his drowning comrade. Rollo nudged Strega with his heels, and she took off.

It was not until much later that Rollo gave any real thought as to who his attackers had been. He and Strega had gone as hard and as fast as they could for the coast, only making the briefest of stops. The mare seemed as eager to press on as he was, and she pushed herself to the limits.

They rode down towards the great port at the mouth of the Tyne long after darkness had fallen. They were both exhausted, and Strega was soaked in sweat. Rollo knew it was no use trying to get into the town, for curfew would have sealed it long ago. He did not want to advertise his presence by banging on the town gates, alerting the watchman and demanding entry.

There was a sort of temporary camp beside the road leading into the port, where others who had also arrived after curfew huddled against the wooden walls waiting for dawn. There were rough shelters to keep off the wet, and a surly-looking man was doing brisk business selling hay and straw. Rollo found a place out of the keen wind that was blowing in off the sea and, dismounting, swung his packs off his horse’s back and set about tending to her. She was still sweating, and he had to spend some time rubbing her down with handfuls of straw, speaking soothingly to her as he did so, before she would settle.

When he was satisfied that he had done the best he could for her, he tethered her, sat down close beside her and wrapped himself in his cloak and blanket. He took some food out of his pack, washing it down with water. He was almost at the end of his supplies.

Who were they?
The question sprang at him as soon as he had swallowed his last mouthful. Were they opportunist thieves who habitually haunted that stretch of the track, waiting to pounce on solitary travellers and rob them? It was possible, even likely.

But Rollo didn’t believe it. The men who had lain in wait for him had been out to kill him. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. The man he had beheaded had almost succeeded, and he would have done so had Rollo not been mounted on such an intelligent horse. He reached out a hand and touched Strega’s leg, and she gave a gentle whicker in reply, stretching down her head and putting her soft lips to his ear, blowing gently.

Why would a quartet of men lie in wait for him and try to kill him? The answer was obvious. Rollo pictured the faces of the four men slowly and carefully, one by one, and it seemed to him that the features of at least one of them, if not two, were familiar. He had seen both men – or he was almost sure he had – at Hawksclaw’s stronghold.

Weary, he lay down and turned on his side, trying to get comfortable on the cold, hard ground. Maybe he was wrong – it was quite possible, he thought with sudden bitterness, that the wild men of the border lands were inbred and all resembled one another. Nevertheless, there had been four of them waiting for him, and, although one was definitely dead and a second probably drowned, that left two. Two men, who clearly wanted him dead. Whether or not they were out to avenge Hawksclaw was not really relevant.

In the morning
, he told himself as he gave in to his fatigue and allowed himself to drop towards sleep,
my horse and I will get away from here, as fast as we can.

He was up and away as dawn broke. He did not venture within the town’s walls, for the fewer people who might see him and remember his face, the better. He knew he must send word to the king as soon as possible regarding the mission in Carlisle, but he still felt threatened by his pursuers. He knew a good man – very discreet, very efficient – who could normally be found in a small port at the mouth of the Tees river. He would seek him out and entrust the message to him.

He followed the track around the settlement, then at last, with infinite relief, he hit the coast and turned south.

Something made him stop and turn around. Behind the town, inland where the ground rose up towards the moor and the desolate heathland, somebody was watching him. The figure was some way away, and alone. As he watched, it raised an arm and pointed straight at him.

He knew who it was, and also that it was probably a woman. He had seen several of her kind in the border country. The locals called them witches and feared them deeply. They were nothing like the witches of Rollo’s birth country; they were pure evil. He had come across a trio of them in a little dell close to the Wall. They were all grey-haired, wrinkled, dressed in ragged remnants and wild-looking; one of them had a huge wart on her cheek. They were huddled, muttering, around an ancient black cauldron set on a hearth, from which issued a steam so foul-smelling that, even at a distance of some twenty paces, the fumes made him retch and brought tears to his eyes. He had hurried away. He knew they had seen him, but he did not fear pursuit, since he was mounted and they were not. Unless, of course, the rumours were true and they could fly.

Those three had had no reason to wish him harm. They could not have known who he was, and he had done them no wrong. But that was before he had killed Hawksclaw and two of the brigand’s men sent to ambush him. Now he had blood on his hands. Was either Hawksclaw or one of the other dead men under the protection of some powerful crone with malice in her heart? Was she even now standing up there where the hills ended, sending down her furious curse to land on him like some evil black crow, dogging his footsteps until finally he ran out of strength and succumbed?

He realized he was sitting stock-still on Strega’s back, eyes fixed on the figure on the hillside. With a huge effort he made himself look away, and immediately the sense of dread diminished. It was as if he had been standing under a lowering, chilling cloud, which had suddenly moved away to allow the blessed heat of the sun to reach him.

He knew he should instantly ride on, as fast as he could, and put some distance between himself and that sinister figure. But the temptation was too strong. Turning to face her once more, he yelled as loudly as he could, ‘I do not fear you! You have no power over me!’

It might have been his imagination, but as he hastened away down the road, he thought he heard a scream of fury come flying after him.

Once the sun had fully risen and the bright daylight had banished the shadows, he stopped at a decent-looking inn beside the road. He dismounted and led Strega under a low arch into the yard, where he paid a lad handsomely to rub her down, feed and water her and then groom her. He also told the lad to do what he could with the saddle and bridle, which needed a good wash. Then he went inside the inn and ordered the largest breakfast the innkeeper could provide. While it was being prepared, he paid for hot water and towels and set about cleaning himself up.

He shaved, untangled his darkened hair, hacked most of it off with his knife and, liberally using the coarse lye soap, washed it several times, restoring its natural fair colour. He washed his body next, thoroughly ridding himself of lice, and he bundled up the old garments he had been wearing and gave them to the innkeeper to burn. He dressed in clean linen – and what a luxury it was – and a tunic of fine wool, from which he had managed to get out most of the creases by hanging it up in the steam from the lavish hot water in which he was bathing. His good cloak, unrolled from his pack, lay ready on the bench beside him. He had even cleaned the layers of mud from his boots, and the chestnut-coloured leather shone again.

When he sat down to his meal, he suspected he was barely recognizable from the filthy creature who had first walked in. The food was plain but abundant, and by the time he was ready to leave the inn, he felt like a new man.

As he rode the long route south, he tried not to dwell on those he had left behind who sought revenge. He did not allow himself to believe the danger was past: it was not and probably would never be. People had long memories, and, as he had once heard the king say, there was nothing else to do in the border country except pursue blood feuds and plan the next bout of rape, pillage and murder.

He told himself that he had increased his chances by changing his appearance and by keeping off the best-known and most commonly used tracks. Sometimes he barely saw a soul all day. It was lonely – he longed for company, even that of some fellow traveller with whom he had nothing at all in common – but the loneliness kept him safe.

Or so he hoped.

At length he came to the wide estuary of the Humber river. He and the mare were both exhausted. They had travelled perhaps a hundred and fifty miles since turning south, and the cold winter they had left behind in the country around the Wall had turned into a mild spring. They had covered at least five miles every day, and sometimes, when the roads were flat and straight, as much as thirty. Now both of them needed a rest. Rollo, in addition, needed some time in which to think about the next phase of his mission. Its appeal had lessened with each day and every mile that had taken him closer to it, but he knew there was no avoiding it. In his heart he knew that he feared what he had to do. He did not like feeling afraid.

He had been born into a family of tough fighters: men who had gone to the hot southern lands to carve out a kingdom for themselves. His father was a Norman knight, and his mother was equally fierce and fiery. From a young age, Rollo had been taught that the way to deal with fear was to stare it in the eye and shame it into submission. He wondered, with a wry private smile, just how well that advice was going to stand up as he set about carrying out the alarming and strange task his king had entrusted to him.

He found a place to stay – an inn in a small village a few miles inland, on the northern shore of the estuary – and made his plans. He needed more information, and he needed to find the right people to ask. He knew what sort of people they would be and where to find them. He thought as far ahead as he could – as he dared – and then he gave in to his fatigue and went to bed, where in warmth, comfort and peace, he slept dreamlessly from mid-afternoon of one day to mid-morning of the next. Then he rose, bathed, ate, settled his account with the innkeeper and went to fetch Strega from the stables. She was as well rested and restored as he was, and together they set off on the last and most perilous leg of their long journey.