'As a plaything for Matisse and his crew,' Hawkwood said. 'They'd have used him and discarded him when the next pretty boy came along.'
'He didn't deserve to die.'
'No, he didn't. But
Lasseur sighed. 'You reckon that absolves us of responsibility? I think not. You know, I once heard an old proverb that says the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. I'm not sure I understood what that meant, until now.' He stared at Hawkwood, dampness misting the corner of his eye. 'I miss my son, Matthew. I want to go home and hold him close and tell him that I love him. This bloody war ...'
'Wars don't start by themselves,' Hawkwood said. 'You want to blame anyone, blame the bastard politicians.'
'And to whom do
Hawkwood said nothing. He watched Lasseur walk away, head down. As a father, it was inevitable that Lasseur should have been hit harder by the boy's murder. Hawkwood thought about his own reaction to Lucien Ballard's death. He'd felt anger but, unlike Lasseur, he'd felt no guilt. He wondered what that said about him. Hawkwood had never wanted the responsibility of fatherhood. Was that something he could live with? Yes, it was. He wondered why he was even asking himself the question, especially when he had more pressing matters on his mind; like how to get a message to Bow Street, for one.
But what information did he have for James Read anyway? Ludd would have been told about the escape by now. He'd know Hawkwood was on the run. Hawkwood's own store of knowledge didn't extend much beyond that. He still needed to find out who was behind the escape organization. Until he had that information, all he could do was maintain his deception and see where the road led him. With luck and application, he'd be able to pick up information further down the line.
As he walked, Lasseur could see that more than a few areas of the farm were in need of repair. There were gaps in the walls of the barn. A corner of the cow stall was falling down. There were gate-posts that needed replacing, and the meadow grass close to the house and a number of trees at the sides and rear needed chopping back. They were small jobs, but Lasseur knew from his wife's parents' farm that, if small jobs were not tackled, they grew into bigger jobs. It was the same on board ship.
The woman had told them that there was a man who helped out, but so far there had been no sign of him. Lasseur glanced over towards the house and caught sight of the stack of logs by the back door, and next to it the axe stuck blade-deep in a chopping block with a birch broom propped up against it. Weren't witches supposed to ride on broomsticks? Lasseur grinned to himself.
Then he saw the dog.
He stopped, uncertain. The animal was behaving strangely; padding to and fro outside the door, breaking off to scratch on the wood, as if it wanted to be let in. There was no sign of the woman. The dog continued its pawing. Lasseur could hear it whining. He drew closer.
The dog saw him coming. He could tell it was unsure, as if it didn't recognize him. He waited for the bark, but it didn't come. Instead, the dog returned to the door and scratched again. Then it turned and came slowly towards Lasseur, head low. It looked as if it couldn't decide whether to wag its tail or not.
'Here, Rab,' Lasseur said softly, crouching down and ruffling the dog's ears. 'What's the matter, boy?'
He realized he was addressing the dog in French. He switched to English. 'Good boy.'
The dog squirmed away from him and headed back towards the door.
At first Lasseur thought it was the dog whining, but the sounds were coming from inside the house. Curious, he walked forward. The closer he got to the door, the more it sounded as though someone was in distress. The dog looked back at him and made a snuffling noise. It obviously wanted to be let in.
Lasseur bent and looked through the window into the kitchen. A large table dominated the centre of the room. The base of the woman's spine was pressed against it. Her skirt hem was raised high upon her bare hips. A lank-haired man was leaning forward over her, his legs between her parted thighs. Lasseur could not see his face and his back obstructed Lasseur's view of the woman's features. The man was reaching down between his legs. Lasseur couldn't tell if he was fumbling with his own clothes or the woman's. He saw a hand reach out and clasp the man's shoulder.
Lasseur stepped back hurriedly, fearful that they might have sensed his shadow at the glass. The sounds he'd taken for whimpers from someone under duress had in fact been cries of passion. He looked down at the dog, which was still watching him expectantly, and smiled ruefully. 'Sorry, my friend, but I'm not sure your mistress would appreciate the interruption.'
Lasseur tried to cast his mind back. Had the dog barked earlier? He couldn't remember. More than likely, he'd been too busy rinsing the grime of the hulk out of his ears.
The woman's lover was probably the man she'd mentioned earlier. He tried to quell the irrational feeling of envy that rose in his chest.
He was turning away from the house when the sound of a blow stopped him in his tracks. This time, there could be no mistake. The utterance that accompanied it was guttural and unmistakably male while the responding cry came from a woman in distress, not the throes of ecstasy.
Lasseur returned quickly to the window and peered into the room. The positions of the two figures had hardly altered. The woman's back was still arched. The man had not moved from between her legs. But this time Lasseur could see it all. The man's left hand was clamped over her mouth, while his right fumbled with the front flap of his breeches. Her hand was still on his shoulder but as Lasseur could now see, she was not trying to pull the man to her but to thrust him away. As he took in the scene, the woman's head turned towards him and Lasseur found himself staring into her face. The woman's eyes widened. Lasseur saw that her blouse was ripped, enough that her left breast was almost fully exposed. He saw then the track of a tear on her cheek.
The dog was already thrusting past him as Lasseur slammed the door back against its hinges.
The man turned, his hand poised over his half-unbuttoned crotch flap. Shock flooded his face. There was no scar. It was not the man Jess had described to them as her helper.
The dog leapt forward with a growl. For its age, it showed unexpected agility.
Instinctively, the man lashed out with his foot. There was a shrill yelp as his boot made contact with the dog's ribs. The woman cried out as Lasseur sprang forward and scythed the back of his hand against the man's jaw. There was a satisfying sound of knuckles striking flesh and bone. The man grunted and jerked away, but not before Lasseur had caught the whiff of alcohol on his breath. Following through, Lasseur took hold of an arm and a fistful of hair. As he hurled the man across the room, the woman pushed herself away from the table and began rearranging her dress. The dog was barking furiously at the man, who twisted free and staggered backwards through the open door. Lasseur, eyes dark with anger, stormed after him. The man dabbed a hand to his lip. It came away stained crimson. He stared at the blood, then at Lasseur and finally at the woman. 'You bitch! You wanted it! Don't tell me you didn't!'
Clutching the torn half of her blouse to her body, she stood in the doorway, her face burning, her breasts rising and falling. 'Not with you, Seth! Never with you. Hell would freeze over before that.'
The man's gaze moved to Lasseur, then flickered sideways.
Lasseur's heart turned over when he saw what had caught the man's attention.
They both moved at the same time, but Lasseur knew he wasn't going to make it, he was too far away. The woman's attacker jerked the axe out of the chopping block. His mouth split in a crooked grin. 'First I'm going to deal with you; then I'll take care of her.'
Lasseur looked for a weapon. He grabbed a log and held it before him like a club. It seemed spectacularly inadequate.
There was a bark. The dog, its courage restored, had made a lumbering dash for the open door. The woman grabbed for the dog's neck and missed. Her blouse slipped, revealing her nakedness once more. 'Rab, no!'
The man swung the axe. The dog jinked aside as the blade missed its skull by inches. It continued to bark, growing more excited.
Lasseur moved forward, brandishing the log.
