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A blustery wind swept across the flat land, ruffling the leaves of occasional trees and rippling the black water in the deep canals. Occasionally, a windmill broke the monotony of the landscape, their white linen-clad arms turning in the stiff breeze.
An occasional rain shower lent an edge to the night as the temperature dropped. The water iced the steel bars of the empty cage that hung at the crossroads. Turning, turning, the rusted metal lock swung to face all four roads. Left behind by the Inquisition, the cage was the heretic's eternal punishment - their bodies to be left to die and then the bones buried outside a churchyard. Their souls would never find a right path to salvation, or so some priests said.
For twenty years, the cage swayed back and forth, sometimes with a man or a woman in it, mostly empty, as armies fought back and forth across the low-lying Netherlands.
The falling rain was turning into hail as night drew close. A bundle of cloth sitting to one side of the cage, stirred as the man looked both ways, then let his head droop again. The wind snatched at his well-patched cloak, stirring the heavy folds but he held it close around him so the chill didn't penetrate to his clothing. A tattered knitted scarf was wrapped around his head. Beside him was a thick stick, fit for defense or to carry the small leather bag that sat to one side.
He heard the sound of hooves and looked up hopefully. Two men were coming up the south road. The compactly-built leader sat in the saddle like a born horseman, He wore a thick wool cloak ornamented with embroidery which flapped open in the wind to show the silver buttons on the light brown doublet, open at the neck. A white shirt with a small ruffle around the collar was tied tightly to keep him warm. Following him, the other rider was dressed less impressively with a plain cloak over his jerkin, and no ruff. Both men wore dark knee-breeches and hose tucked into dirt-caked boots. The horses were breathing hard; the riders had come a long way.
The first man reined in at the crossroad glancing both ways as if he didn't know where he was going, then glanced at the cloth map in his hand. Behind him the other man waited patiently.
The soldier spotted the vagrant who was watching with curiousity. “Hoy there! Is this the road to Flushing?” he asked in broken Dutch.
The man stood up. His scarf-wrapped head almost touched the bottom of the cage as it swung in the breeze and stiffly he stepped to one side so as to miss being hit.
“Which way to Flushing?”
The man pointed to the east where the lights from a small town twinkled through the blowing trees. “There, sir,” he replied almost indistinctly.
“Why are you out here? It will be a cold night,” the soldier commented, his dark eyes watching the man warily as if he expected the tall beggar to pull out a pistol or a knife from the folds of the cloak.
The man shook his head. “I am warm. The Lord provides for me.”
“Ay, but which Lord is his Lord, Master Troy?” the follower commented in English. “Catholic or Calvinist?”
“Careful, Grew,” Troy snapped in a slightly lower tone. “We are too close to the Spanish lands to talk of religion.” He watched the vagrant sit, folding his arms and hunching his shoulders against the blustery wind. Finally, Troy shrugged. “That way's as good a way as any. We shall have some supper, and a warm bed for the night if we can find one.” He tossed a coin to the vagrant. “Get some wine.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They rode down the road, and behind them, the vagrant smiled as he looked at the coin. English no less. It was good to hear his native tongue after these last two years in France. Good Queen Bess must be sending some more aid to the Protestant cause here in the Netherlands. Someday he would go home to Cambridge and see the college spires against the blue sky -- if he managed to stay alive long enough to get there.
Where was the messenger? He knew to meet at the crossroads tonight. The information was too important to lose. The cage nearly buffeted him as a gust of wind caught it, straining the old bolts and rings, reminding him that the Spanish king still ruled in this part of the land. He had best be wary of all travelers tonight.
* * *
Mark Hitchcock bought bread and cheese, and tucked them away in the pouch at his side. The wind ruffled his long blond hair, pointed beard and moustache. He pulled his cloak tighter around the doublet and trunk hose, and trudged the road to the small tavern he had spotted a mile away. His throat was dry and scratchy. God forbid he fall ill. Not tonight - this was too important.
He would have preferred to be on horseback but that wasn't in keeping with his supposedly impoverished state. He would like to keep the illusion intact in case he met up with some of Phillip's mercenaries. The Spanish king had imported mercenaries from all over Europe to keep the Lowlands under his firm Catholic control, and Hitchcock as a Protestant, knew that anything out of the ordinary could get him arrested and questioned, probably on a portable rack.
He needed to make his midnight meeting at the crossroads five miles out of town, and get the information, then come back to town.
It wasn't the cold wind that made him shiver but the date. The fact that it would soon be All Saints Day reassured him even if he didn't believe in saints. Martyrs, yes - he had known some who died for their beliefs. As a boy, he'd watched Queen Mary's men burn Protestant men and women at the stake. His father whispered that he should remember them as martyrs but never to talk about it. As he grew older, Hitchcock doubted the deads' sanctity but he remembered their courage. Later he saw Catholic neighbors arrested and, sometimes, beheaded, and his mother whispered that they were martyrs as well for a faith she believed in but could never practice again, and would never discuss. So many whispers left him confused but wary. He did not talk of religion.
No matter what religion was practiced, tonight, Hitchcock wanted to meet the messenger, then get back to the stout walls of the local taverns and humanity, maybe even a church, far away from the darkness of the All Hallow's Eve. In three days he'd be on a boat to England if all went well.
At least the rain was ending.
* * * * *
Johannes Dietrich had been given his first sword when he was five by his uncle in Germany. Actually, his mother said he'd fingered the pommel of his father's sword in his crib, and the Ritter had said he'd be a fine soldier, but the man had vanished in some failed campaign in Russia, leaving Dietrich with one small sister, Gutred, and to be raised by his mother and uncle.
All he knew was war and it suited him. It paid well and that was important since he preferred that his mother and sister stayed in their home rather than go to the poor house. He had fought for the last ten years on and off in Switzerland, France and Germany, for whoever paid him the best, but now he took Spanish doubloons and fought to keep the Dutch lands from leaving the realm of his most Catholic Majesty, Phillip II of Spain.
The fact that it was All Hallow's Eve had no effect on his practical mind. He didn't believe in ghosts any more than he believed in the Saints that were beseeched on All Saints Day as his church taught. He listened to the Latin during church services, understanding some of it since his teachers taught him the rudiments as well as to read his native German, but only knew what the priests taught him about the Bible. Sometimes he wondered what they had left out. But that was heresy, thinking of reading the sacred word himself as the Protestants did, and Dietrich immediately dismissed the thought to return to tonight's mission.
He was acting under the orders of his captain, to catch an English spy, someone who was here to undermine the rule of the King of Spain here in the Netherlands. The word was that tonight a messenger would meet the spy at the crossroads. It would be a double payment if he caught them both, and Dietrich intended to do just that.
After he brought back the men, the reward would come off with enough payment to give his sister a dowry. The jeweler would marry her with a dowry, and his mother would be vastly relieved to have such a son-in-law.
The last trace of sunlight faded and all that was left was the ghostly wings of the windmills and a three-quarter moon played hide-and-seek with thick clouds. It was time to move on.
He signaled to the two men behind him. The rest of the guard would follow later. Tonight, there really would be a ghost and his band at the crossroads.
* * * * * *
Troy settled down to finish his hot meat pie and some mulled wine. It was going to be a long night. He knew he had to be with the English garrison at Flushing by daybreak. He had been a soldier all of his life and had come to the Netherlands with the Earl of Leicester three years before, but he'd had to return to England to straighten out his family affairs. Now he was back where he belonged.
Grew had shared the table, eaten his meal in companionable silence, then gone out to re-saddle their horses. He wondered about the man. Stolid, silent, shrewd, he had met Troy at the port with a message from the commander in Flushing that Grew was trustworthy and was going to be Troy's manservant. Was the man a spy for the nobleman who now commanded the English troops? What went on behind those eyes? Troy shook his shoulders shaking tension out. Better not think about it. The man said so little Troy couldn't even tell where he came from.
He looked around as a young man pushed back his dark cloak and called for some food and wine. The English accent was unmistakable even though the man's Dutch was flawless. Troy's curiosity was piqued and he glared at a man who approached the table wanting to take the other seat. The man turned away, and Troy turned back to watching the blond man, not more than a boy, take a goblet from the tavern keeper's hand, and look for space.
The empty table caught his gaze, and he came over just as Troy hoped. “Is there room here?”
“Sit down,” Troy said in broken Dutch, then in English, moving his platter. “Are you from England?”
The boy's face closed in. On closer viewing, Troy thought he had to be in his late teens. His brow was still unmarked with furrows that came with age. His hat was round with a red band and a ragged feather. A peddler, maybe, from his sack. “I have been there, sir. My name is Hitchcock.”
“Mine is Samuel Troy,” he replied. He sipped on his wine. “Where are you headed?”
“Inland, Master. With goods for sale to ladies.”
“English goods? And do you know which is the road to Flushing?” Troy asked edgily. He had found out that the vagrant had sent them the wrong way, and he wondered why.
“Aye. I go that way until I reach the crossroad, and then I go north. Is that where you are headed, Master Troy?”
“And I have to reach it in the next several days or I will be in trouble,” Troy laughed. “Are you planning to walk? Would you like a ride? We have a spare horse that you can ride to the crossroad.”
“That would be too much bother,” Hitchcock answered politely. He took the platter of meat and bread from the keeper, and started to chew on the tough goose.
“This is not a night to be alone,” Troy said firmly. “There are devils abroad.”
Hitchcock smiled. “All Hallow's Eve is just a night, sir, like any other, and besides I have pins and amulets against evil spirits, sir. I need no help to protect myself.“
“You will reach it even sooner if you ride with us,” Troy said firmly, his suspicions aroused. No man wanted to be alone on that night.
Hitchcock realized that he was trapped. The fellow Englishman was obviously a soldier and armed with a long sword by his side, and probably hidden knives. Any further protest would raise suspicions that Hitchcock couldn't afford. At least he would be rid of the man when they reached the crossroad - even if he had to kill him.
“Then I will accept gladly, sir,” he acquiesced.
“From where in England do you come?' Troy asked.
“Oxford.”
“From Oxford? So you have attended the college there?”
“Yes, and have my degree as well,” Hitchcock said proudly.
“And you've traveled then?”
“Yes. From Reims to Geneva but I come from London,” the young man replied.
Troy's eyes narrowed slightly but his tone was lightly inquiring. “Reims? In France?” Where the college was known for its Catholic theological teaching.
“A city of great learning and faith,” Hitchcock commented around a mouthful. “Have you visited it, Master Troy?”
“The last time I was in France over ten years ago was when the blood ran in the streets on the orders of the queen of France,” Troy said bitterly.
“The massacre of the Protestants on Saint Bartholomew's Day?”
“Aye.”
“Why were you in Paris?” Hitchcock asked eagerly. “Or were you a soldier for - “
“I guarded the British embassy when Sir Francis Walsingham was ambassador,” Troy replied. “So many Protestants died that night. Some Catholics as well since there was more than a little revenge taking in the air.”
Hitchcock ignored the latter statement. He stared at Troy with lively curiosity in his eyes. “Sir Francis? You know him? He is high in the Queen's favor.”
“I have met him. He is a very intelligent man. And sometimes frightening,” Troy added with a wary tone. The man was known across Europe for his deviousness. “Where else have you visited, Master Hitchcock?”
Hitchcock shrugged. “Italy. And yourself?”
Troy gave a small laugh. “Farther than that. I go wherever my Queen orders.”
“God bless her. So you are English?”
“Aye. As you are?”
“Aye. And a soldier?”
Troy nodded. “For as long as I live. And you? Do you serve the Queen?”
”With all my soul,” Hitchcock said sincerely.
Grew came to the door. “We're ready, Master Troy.”
Troy stood as Hitchcock swallowed the last of his meat. His platter was empty. “This is Master Hitchcock, and he rides with us on the spare horse. “
Grew nodded. “I will clear the saddle for him.”
“That will give you time to finish your wine,” Troy said as Hitchcock pushed away from the table. “You'll need the warmth against the night air.”
“You are very good to me, sir.”
“I will not leave a fellow Englishman to ride alone on any night.”
* * * *
Dietrich's horse cantered down the rutted path, two men, Willard and Friedrich, following close behind him. He was glad for the padded doublet under his cloak and the tall-crowned hat that kept his ears warm. The horses blew steam from their nostrils and the loud sound of hoof beats echoed in the cold air.
Drawing up close to the crossroads, he could hear the sound of the cage creaking in the wind. He hated that symbol of Spanish rule. Torture was sometimes necessary in war, but this had been used against the peasants who were probably innocent. The Inquisition had gone to his homeland and the other countries run by Spain, and killed so many that didn't believed their teachings. Then again, he'd heard tales that the Protestants were also intolerant of Catholics, and cast them out of their cities or killed them. There was no middle ground in these Wars of Religion except keeping quiet and hoping to escape notice. He'd stick to making war. It was simplier.
Drawing rein at the crossroad, he spotted a beggar near the cage, watching him.
Tendrils of yarn from a scarf dangled around his muddy, bearded face. He looked younger than Dietrich expected from the way he was hunched over.
Behind him, one of the soldiers crossed himself. The man did look like he was from the Devil, from his tattered cloak to the sunken eyes watching them warily. The gnarled wood cane next to him could even be taken for a wand.
Dietrich restrained himself from muttering a charm from his childhood to avert demons, and mentally snapped to himself, “There are no such things as devils.” But the hair on the back of his neck was prickling.
“You there! Where are you from?” he asked imperiously.
““A penny for the poor, sir?” the man beseeched, holding out his grimy hand.
“You sit by crossroads and beg on All Hallows' Eve?”
“My sister's husband goes by here on the way to market come dawn,” the man replied. “It is not so far away.”
“The Devil will carry you away before then, man,” Dietrich replied in exasperation. “Cold and wind will seep into your bones. You would be better even in a hovel in that town.” He pointed to the lights in the distance.
“Then I would miss the farmer. I have a good cloak here, sir, and some water. I am fine, noble sir,” he said obsequiously.
Dietrich wondered suddenly if this was the man he was looking for. The message said that the spy was to meet someone at midnight -- a messenger newly arrived from England, and what better way to collect information than as a beggar?
“You must come with me,” Dietrich ordered. He gestured to his men, who dismounted. “We will find you shelter.”
The beggar climbed to his feet, clad in well-patched shoes, and leaned heavily on his cane. “I have to be here at dawn, sir - “
“Nay, you have a meeting tomorrow with my captain!” Dietrich interrupted. “A beggar out on such a night? I don't believe it! Willard and Friedrich, take him!”
The man raised his cane as if in warning against the two soldiers, and a gust of icy wind blew through. The moon unexpectedly disappeared behind a cloud, and the two soldiers hesitated, one jumping back.
In the sudden darkness, the vagrant threw the cane so it hit Dietrich's horse, causing the stallion to rear, then doffed his cloak and disappeared into the darkness of the trees. One of the soldiers fired, the sound shatteringly loud in the cold night, and Dietrich felt a bullet whistle by him. “You nearly shot me, you clumsy fool! Stop him!”
A minute later, the moon came out again and Dietrich saw the man was gone leaving nothing but his cane and cloak.
“Over there, sir!” Willard called and spurred after the fleeing man. It only took a minute to chase him down. One sharp blow knocked the runner flat on his face in the wet grass and mud that bordered the road.
By the time he'd struggled to his feet, Friedrich was there. The men tied the vagrant's hands behind his back and dragged him to where Dietrich had dismounted and was looking through the leather bag.
“Bread, cheese, wine, pants, shirt…have you nothing here but this?” the German asked in exasperation, ”Why did you run away?”
The man didn't reply just stared at him stubbornly.
“Search him!”
Willard ran his hands over the vagrant, then thrust his hand inside the muddy doublet and pulled out a book. “Sir?”
Dietrich took the heavy tome with its leather covers that was already worn at the edges. “A Bible?” He flipped it open but the moonlight wasn't strong enough for him to see it clearly. There was a name written in the front. “John?”
Then he heard hoof beats. He stuffed the book in his own doublet and gestured to his men.
“Gag him, and take my horse and yours and wait in the woods,” Dietrich ordered. “Keep quiet and wait for my move.” He dismounted, pulled off his hat, tucking it in a saddle bag, and picked up the cloak.
The beggar had nearly been his size and the cloak was still warm from his body. He smelled scent of some type. This had not been a typical beggar. He needed to interrogate the man further, but he needed to find whom he was going to meet.
“Go. I will be here to meet these late night travelers.”
* * * *
As they approached the crossroads, Troy saw the cage glittering as if it were made of silver. The clouds had blown away from the half-moon, and the rays silvered the icy coating on the cage as it swung in the moderating breeze.
“What is that?” Hitchcock questioned as he spotted it.
“Death,” Troy replied soberly. “Not twenty years ago, the King of Spain sent his Inquisitors on these lands to save the souls of dissidents. The Inquisitors were forced to leave - and I'll not go into the politics on that, but some traces remain. I am surprised the people have not taken this down - “
“We are still in the Spanish Netherlands, sir,” Grew interrupted. “The border is just across the canal but you are in their influence here. The Inquisition might have left, but the Spaniards are still here.”
Troy looked at him in surprise. He hadn't realized the silent man knew the area so well. But then again, he didn't know much about the man. Troy put all his trust in the note that had introduced Grew.
“But how do you use it?” Hitchcock persisted as they reined in their horses. “I mean, do they torture people until they recant, by letting them hang in the breeze? It would be rockier than the boat that carried me here!”
“This is for after the torture, Master Hitchcock. They let them hang,” Troy said succinctly. “No food, no drink, no clothing but a shift if they were lucky. They die, they rot, and their bones drop out the bottom and mix with the mud. And if you give the dying succor food or water - you are likely to end up in there as well.”
Hitchcock shivered. “Then the dead haunt this crossroads.”
“Aye, it is a place for necromancers who can raise the dead, indeed,” Grew said unexpectedly. “There is supposed to be a sorcerer abroad who has devils take him from city to city. I heard in the tavern that he was found in Antwerp and then next day in Wittenberg many leagues away.”
“There are no devils here!” Troy retorted, swinging around in his saddle. “And no man could do that! There are no magicians in Antwerp. That city has barely recovered from the siege!”
“So I told them, Master Troy,” Grew replied shifting in his saddle. “Then they told me more tales, even more fantastic. The wizard has a troop of solders that ride with him….”
“The siege of Antwerp?” Hitchcock quizzed. “A few years past?”
Troy's lips tightened and he frowned. “The Spanish soldiers had not been paid in months, and when they took the city, they raped it - men died, women wanted to, children… I do not blame them necessarily - if the King had paid them regularly, the soldiers would not have run wild. Well-treated troops do not ruin cities that provided as good a profit as Antwerp.”
“That was over ten years ago,” Grew commented mildly. “Many people fled the city going to England and Zurich, elsewhere.”
“Where do you come from?” Hitchcock asked him. “Antwerp?”
“Zurich,” said Grew replied succinctly.
Grew was Swiss? He must be a Protestant then. No wonder he knew the borders of the Netherlands. One foot on the one side could mean life or death.
Hitchcock swung down from his horse. “I thank you for the loan of this fine animal, Master Troy.”
“Will you not ride further with us?” Troy asked. “It is a cold and lonely night to be out here.”
Hitchcock shook his head. “No, sir, my path in the other direction - “
“God above,” Grew interrupted pointing. “Look, sir! The beggar!”
Troy saw a pile of rags lying in the shadow of the cage, a long stick nearby. The beggar? The man lay face down as if he'd been attacked.
Hitchcock let out a curse that startled Troy. “Do you know him, Master Hitchcock?”
The young man glanced at the fallen man, his face as closed as it had been in the tavern when Troy first spoke to him. “No.”
“But you recognized him?”
“I can't see his face. The cloak…it can't be the same man. I knew a man who wore a cloak like that when I was in Reims. But that was months ago.”
Troy swung down from his horse. “Let us turn him over. I'll leave no man to devils that ride on a night like this.”
Hitchcock dismounted reluctantly. “He is nothing but a beggar-“
The vagrant flipped himself over, a pistol in his hands. “Stay still!”
Troy thought that he was the best-dressed vagrant he'd ever seen. A silver-studded doublet? It was not the same vagrant as earlier in the day either. This man was not as tall. “What is this?”
“Who are you?” Hitchcock asked staring.
Their fear communicated itself to the horses. They snorted and flinched.
Grew said in a strange tight voice, “You're far from your borders, Captain Dietrich.”
Dietrich rose to his feet, not letting his aim slide from the strangers. “So you recognize me?”
“Aye. The last time I saw you was at the Prince of Navarre's wedding in Paris.”
Troy couldn't help himself. He glanced quickly back at Grew who was watching Dietrich with a piercing stare. Paris? Grew was in Paris?
Dietrich met Grew's eyes then blinked. “Wilhelm?”
“Captain Dietrich.”
“You left the Guards - “
'I went back home, Captain, with adequate pay for what I did in Paris!”
“That was over ten years ago! Why are you here?”
Hitchcock jerked the bridle and his horse reared. Dietrich glanced at the young man. The moment's distraction gave Troy the chance to lunge forward and slam into the German.
They rolled on the icy ground struggling for the pistol. Dietrich was hampered by the entangling cloak, and Troy was trying not to get in front of the barrel. Finally, it went off deafeningly and the ball ricocheted off the metal cage with a shower of sparks. The sound was like a thunderclap in the icy night. The cage spun with a loud screech of rusty metal.
Troy smashed Dietrich in the chin, cutting his face over one eye and blood flowed. The German cursed and struck out but the cloak hampered him. Troy wound the cloak tightly around Dietrich, and slammed him against the pole where the cage swung back and forth, endangering them both.
“Why are you lurking at a crossroad?” Troy asked harshly as he leaned on the man. With one hand, he pulled a poniard from the sheath on his back. “Grew, who is this man?”
“Captain Dietrich of the Queen's men in Paris,” Grew answered tonelessly.
“And you? Who are you, Master Grew?” Hitchcock questioned, holding the reins of both Troy's and his horse's. He couldn't see the young man's face under the cap but Grew's hands tightened on the reins and his horse stirred restively.
“Tell them the truth, Grew!” Dietrich spat out. “You were there in Paris!”
The reply stunned them all. “I was with the Swiss Guard in Rome that guarded the Pope. Then I was sent to France for the Princess's wedding.”
Troy spared him a quick glance. “That was the wedding of Princess Margot and Prince Henry of Navarre. The merging of the two faiths, Catholic and Protestant.“
“Which led to the massacre of the Protestants,” Hitchcock interrupted. “But you were there also, weren't you, Master Troy?”
“Aye.”
Grew pointed to Dietrich, held tightly in Troy's grip. “Princess Margot's brothers assisted in the massacre -- he was the lieutenant of one of the French queen's guards.”
“I had nothing to do with it!” Dietrich denied heatedly He struggled only to be stopped when Troy raised the knifepoint to his throat.
“He slaughtered the innocent?”
The former Swiss guardsman was silent for a second, then shook his head reluctantly. “He tried to save… he sheltered a Protestant child from the killers. He couldn't save her mother.”
“And you were one of those men!” Dietrich blazed back.
Troy sucked in his breath as he stared at Dietrich. “I thought you looked familiar! You brought the child to our door. The English embassy.”
“What happened to her?” Grew asked seriously.
“Why do you care, Grew?” Troy asked.
“I went home to Switzerland to forget it!” Grew said heatedly. “He is one of their soldiers, Master Troy. If you don't kill him now, then you will have to kill him later.”
“But he saved a Protestant girl when all others were slaughtered,” Troy mused. His glance met the German's. What kind of a man was this? A soft-hearted professional soldier?
“I do not involve innocents in war,” Dietrich spat out meeting his gaze.
“Are you a Protestant then or a Catholic?”
The discussion stopped when the two soldiers who came out of the woods. Willard dragged a bound man, his sharp knife at the man's throat. Friedrich had the reins for the three horses looped over his arm.
Troy stared over the German's shoulder. “Your soldiers, Captain?”
Dietrich cursed vehemently. “I told you to stay in the woods!”
Friedrich looked at Willard uncertainly. The sergeant said, “You need help, sir.”
“A trade,” Hitchcock said abruptly. “You for the prisoner, Captain.”
Troy's gaze met Dietrich's in surprise, then the moment of mutual surprise passed. Dietrich struggled, earning himself a nick from the sharp blade. Fresh blood flowed down his face.
“Who is he, Master Hitchcock?” Troy asked. He didn't take his eyes from Dietrich whose cheekbone was bleeding.
“A man I know. Would you leave a prisoner in the hands of England's enemies?” Hitchcock asked seriously. “Exchange him for their captain, Master Troy.”
The stranger finally raised his head. He'd been beaten fairly badly from the blood on his temple and from his nose that stained the white shirt that sagged out of the ragged doublet. His long legs in torn hose were caked with dirt and mud. The face was familiar though, even though the scarf was gone. It was the vagrant from earlier.
“Who are you?” Troy directed over Dietrich's head. “Take out that gag.”
The soldiers exchanged dubious glances. Dietrich cursed. “Take it off before this mad Englishman guts me!”
They untied the gag.
Troy asked again, “Who are you?”
He spat to one side, clearing his mouth of dirt from the gag. “John Moffette,” the stranger finally said in a dry cracked voice.
“Where do you come from?”
“I…I came from France,” Moffitt finally said.
Dietrich snorted. “With that accent? He's lying!”
The German was right. The accent was English. So, this was probably the man that Hitchcock had been meeting here.
Who do I trust? What do I do? Well, Hitchcock is right about one thing. I leave no man in the hands of the Spanish King.
Troy pulled back, spinning the pinned Dietrich around so he faced his men, and held the blade to the man's neck. “Let Moffette go.”
He saw a flicker of vast relief on the vagrant's face. “Tell them to let him go, Captain,” Troy ordered.
“If you kill me, then you lose him,” Dietrich defied him.
“Is he worth your life?”
Dietrich hesitated. What did he know about the stranger? Was he the spy, or was the spy one of the men around him? Their informant had been maddeningly ignorant.
“Release the captain!” Friedrich ordered holding up his pistol and aiming it at Troy.
Both men realized they were likely to be killed if he fired. Dietrich struggled trying to get away.
Moffette knocked into Willard, spinning on one long leg to kick him in a kneecap, and, with a cry of pain, the man fell on the ice-tipped ruts of the road.
Friedrich stared aghast. Moffette scrambled away from the soldiers towards Hitchcock and Troy.
A pistol went off.
A second later Troy realized that Grew had fired over Moffettte's head at Willard who'd raised his pistol to shoot the man in the back. The soldier went limp.
Friedrich's horses reared and separated, knocking him to his knees.
Dietrich cursed
Troy slammed him against the pole, and the officer reeled back against the swaying cage, which finally hitting him in the back and knocking him off his feet.
Hitchcock ran forward and slammed the pommel of his knife against Friedrich's head. The man collapsed. Spinning Moffette around, Hitchcock slashed the bonds that held the man's wrists together.
“Run!”
Moffette turned and grabbed the reins of one of the loose horses and pulled himself into the saddle. Hitchcock mounted another and they took off down the road.
“My men are coming,” Dietrich called from where he was untangling himself from the cloak. His face was hard with anger. “You will not escape me, Englishman!”
Lithely, Troy swung himself onto his horse. “Grew!”
“I'll cover you, sir,” Grew said calmly.
Troy pulled up the horse, “We all leave together, Grew. This is not the time to raise trouble!”
“Give justice.”
“For Paris? Don't be ridiculous!”
Dietrich finally tossed the cloak aside. “Where is my pistol!” he roared.
Both Grew and Troy glanced at each other, then rode hell-for-leather down the road.
Behind they heard Dietrich shouting orders, and realized that the man was going to follow them.
It didn't take long to catch up with Hitchcock and Moffette. The horses were having a hard time with the ruts in the road. They were running the risk of laming them.
Looking back, Troy saw no riders, and held up his hand. The others obediently slowed. “What broil is this, Hitchcock?” he asked bluntly. “We've already killed one man, and now that Captain is out for our blood.”
“Their land ends at the river,” Moffette cut in. He lifted the wine sack which had been tied to the saddle and drank deeply, then wiped his mouth. “The captain can't touch us once we cross.”
“And what is so important that I risk my life for you, Master Moffette?” Troy asked with a dangerous edge to his voice.
“England, Master Troy,” Moffette answered. “I know that that is important to you. I saw you ten years ago in Paris defending Sir Francis and England's Embassy.”
“And which side were you on?” Troy asked with a razor edge.
“I have always worked for England,” Moffette answered.
“And what do you bring that is so important? News of the Spanish fleet? The date they sail against England?” Hitchcock teased. “That they have a fleet is well known.”
Troy saw Moffette's face close up, and was sure the young man had hit the truth by accident. This meant that Moffette was important to the crown. If he a date for the sailing of the Spanish fleet, then England would have a chance to get ready for the invasion and have its fleet guarding the shoreline.
Then again Moffette could be a liar selling false goods for safe passage to England. There was no telling on a night like tonight.
Grew interrupted them by looking back. “Hoof beats!”
“The Captain!” Troy swore looking about.
Dietrich was mounted on a gray horse and followed by the rest of a troop, far outnumbering the four men.
“We'd better be off, then,” Moffette remarked. “We must beat them.”
The race was on to the bridge. The four horsemen were ahead but Dietrich's stallion was eating up the distance with a fast pace.
The bridge was over a canal where the moonlight glittered off floating bits of ice dotting the dark black waters.
They weren't going to reach it in time.
Troy pulled up his horse. “I'll stop him. Go on, Moffette.”
“Not alone, sir,” Grew said drawing rein. “I was asked to watch out for you.”
“Get them to safety, then come back if you must!” Troy ordered. “I order it! Go!”
The others glanced back, saw what was happening, then spurred onwards driven by the look on Troy's face.
Troy dismounted, his hand on his sword hilt, waited for Dietrich. The metal was cold enough to sting, but Troy knew how to fight with cold hands. He had fought in Scotland in winter, and knew what cold really was, and how hard it was win a battle in blizzard conditions.
The German pulled up and they stared at each other for a second, then he flung back his cloak, and dismounted, letting the horse wander.
The swords clashed against each other in the intermittent moonlight. Sparks sprang off as they tested each other's ability.
Troy judged that the man was as good as he was. This would be a fight to remember. But not one to die from - he was better. He was going to live to see the barmaids of Flushing and drink red wine.
Stroke. Parry. A slip as a foot fell into a water-ice-filled rut, splashing doublets and hose, chilling feet in their sodden boots. Dietrich lunged and almost spitted his opponent who thought he had the advantage. Troy regaining his footing and retreated a step, then slashed at Dietrich's thighs. The man jumped back.
It couldn't go on for much longer. Dietrich's men were closing in fast.
With a flurry of blows, Troy began driving Dietrich back towards the black waters. Both of them were exhausted and making mistakes, and their clothes were ragged from cuts, and stained with blood. Troy could feel pain on his left thigh, and saw blood on Dietrich's shoulder where he'd cut him.
“Captain!” Friedrich called, and Troy knew his time had run out. He ducked a swipe, and threw himself under the blade to grapple with Dietrich. The German dropped his sword in surprise.
With a desperate shove, Troy pitched Dietrich into the canal. The man screamed as he hit the icy water.
It was too late for Troy. The troop was closer than he was to the bridge. His hand tightened on his pommel of his sword.
Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man with a flaming torch come running to the middle of the bridge, and wave it in a circle. Next to him was a tall man who raised his hands, made a casting motion, and began to chant.
“Oh my Lord,” Troy muttered, realizing what was happening. He crouched and ran trying to keep out of sight as his former traveling companions acted the fool and tried to bluff the soldiers with witchcraft. What kind of desperation was this born of? Was this Moffette a wizard as well as a spy?
He was astonished to see the men stop. The soldiers milled around in confusion at the thought of a sorcerer on the bridge casting spells on All Hallow's Eve.
The tall man, who Troy recognized as Moffette, chanted his final 'spell' and threw his hands wide, and the other man, Hitchcock, tossed the torch over the edge of the bridge just as a thick cloud passed over the moon.
The resulting darkness brought panic. Troy hadn't realized how dark it was without moonlight, but he knew where the bridge was and he ran towards it, taking advantage of the hubbub.
Friedrich caught sight of him, and aimed a pistol, but a shot came from over the bridge, scattering the troop.
Troy gasped as he passed between Moffette and Hitchcock. “What…are you…doing?”
“Quiet!” Moffette whispered. “I have to finish here.” He began to chant again in Latin, “Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei….”
The hairs on Troy's neck quivered. He swore he could hear the name of God…but was he invoking a devil? Who was this man?
The wind gave a howl just as Moffette was winding up to a climax. He gestured towards the canal, and the soldiers followed his movement. The moon came out of the clouds.
Dietrich was standing there having just pulled himself from the freezing water. He held out his hands as to call, and the moonlight reflected off the drenched and freezing man. The silver studs on his double mixed with ice to make him look like he was wearing chain mail. His skin was chalk-white except where there were cuts on his face and cheekbone, the blood washed clean by the water. He looked like a corpse brought back to life.
There was a howl from one of the troop, and the men fled, all except Friedrich who was frozen in fear from the expression on his face.
Moffette swung about and took off across the bridge, Hitchcock at his heels, to join Troy where he was standing beside Grew. “Time to leave!”
“What was that!” Troy asked. “What did you say!”
“That?” Moffette stared at him in surprise. “It is from their rites of exorcism. It was the only thing I could think of at that moment.”
“Luckily the men don't know Latin,” Hitchcock murmured. “But I'll wager that the Captain does. Let's get moving.”
“You came back for me,” Troy stated flatly as they headed for the horses. “Why?”
Moffette grinned. “Grew would not let us go further without you, Master Troy, and I doubt Sir Francis would approve if I left you behind. We are a good team.”
“Team?” Troy asked. Grew handed him the reins, and Troy mounted. The man sat behind him.
“How do you feel about going back to England?”
“England? I've just come from there!”
* * * * *
Dietrich shuddered as he took the hot goblet of wine from Friedrich's hand. He was still cold to the marrow of his bones and he hated Troy and his friends with a passion surpassing anything he'd felt since he became a soldier. A tiny part of him did admire the swordsmanship of his enemy, but that just made him more determined to take that sword from him. There would be time enough for that. They were at war. They would meet again.
He fumbled for the book that he'd taken from the vagrant, Moffette, and flipped it open. It was a Bible as he thought when he first saw it, but soaked and flimsy from the immersion. The man's signature run until it was a blob of ink.
But it was in German, not Latin, a language that Dietrich knew well. In a split second, a heretical thought crossed Dietrich's mind. “I can read this. By myself.”
He slammed the book shut and crossed himself. He'd give the book to his commanding officer and not think of what he could do. That was too dangerous. It could lead to the Inquisition asking if he'd lost faith in the Church.
And he would not contemplate the lost rewards for the spies either. There would be some other way to get Gutred's dowery. He just had to think of it.
“More wine here!” His gaze strayed to the book.
Would it hurt to take a peek?