Lasseur closed his eyes, as if he was trying to block off the sound, or not think of the consequences if they allowed themselves to get caught.
They were approaching a wide clearing beyond the trees ahead. As they drew closer, Hawkwood realized the significance of the clearing's width. It wasn't a clearing. It was a lane. They stumbled to a halt, dropping to a crouch behind a small clump of alders.
Hawkwood wondered if it was the same road that had taken them to the Haunt on that first night. In the moonlight, all stretches of road had looked the same. He craned his head. The track was lined with wheel ruts, which meant it was a well- established route. He could see cattle tracks, too.
He eased forward cautiously. Fifty yards to their right, the lane bent out of sight, but showed empty in both directions. A bark sounded from behind them.
'They're catching up!' Lasseur tugged urgently at Hawkwood's sleeve. 'Come on!'
He was on the point of stepping out when Hawkwood pulled him back down. Lasseur was about to protest when he felt the vibrations. He ducked. Three seconds later, two horsemen appeared around the right-hand bend, riding hard.
Their heads were low over their horses' necks as they galloped past.
As the hoofbeats receded, Lasseur raised his head. 'How did you know?' he whispered.
'Practice,' Hawkwood said.
'Morgan's men?' Lasseur suggested.
'We'll have to assume so.'
They crossed the lane and stepped quickly into the woods on the other side. Behind them, they could hear the shouts of the dog handlers. It sounded as if they were beating the underbrush for game, as if they knew they were drawing close to their quarry.
The trees began to thin out once more. Hawkwood and Lasseur moved forward as if walking on glass. At the edge of the woods, they stopped. Hawkwood could see the river. It lay beyond a strip of meadow, less than a pebble's toss from them. It was broad, at least thirty yards in width and shaded by trees on both banks. He looked to his left. Two hundred yards away there was an ancient stone bridge. He could see the parapet and beneath it a keystone and the curve of an arch. He could see the tops of reeds, too, and he could hear water rushing over a weir.
A series of howls, sounding ever closer and rising in volume, reminded them why they had sought out the water. If they could make it to the river, it would be hard - hopefully impossible - for the dogs to track them.
They stepped from the trees.
And a twig snapped at the edge of the wood behind them.
Hawkwood and Lasseur froze. Hawkwood was aware of a shadow moving to his right. His nostrils caught a familiar whiff.
'Got you now,' Del said. As he moved into the open, his mouth formed a grotesque gash in his thin face. He was dressed in work clothes. There was no ghostly skull, nor a monk's robe. Just the pistol gripped in his hand.
Another chorus of baying came from the woods at their back and Hawkwood knew with sickening finality that Morgan's men had finally managed to close the gap.
Del grinned again. 'Saw you coming. You were making a real racket. Now we'll have some fun,' he said. His voice seemed to change, to take on a darker, crueller tone. Suddenly, Del didn't seem quite so oafish.
'No,' Lasseur said. 'I don't think so. Not today.'
It was the timbre in Lasseur's voice that alerted Del to the imminent danger. His response was immediate, driven by panic.
Hawkwood was standing to Lasseur's right and thus partially blocking Del's view as Lasseur drew the pistol from his belt. With an alacrity that belied his doltish looks, Del raised his pistol and fired. Hawkwood felt the impact of the ball against his skull. As he went down in a vortex of pain, he heard Lasseur return fire. His last memory was of seeing a bright flower bloom in scarlet abandon across Del's chest.
Before the world ended.
CHAPTER 19
At one point it felt as if he was falling, the next as if he was floating, drifting at the mercy of a weak tide, ebbing back and forth without purpose, never quite breaching the waves and never quite reaching the shore. One moment he was cold, the next he was bathed in perspiration. During each of these episodes there had been a strange taste - bitter, but not unpleasant - which had lingered on his tongue and at the back of his throat.
He'd also been vaguely aware of shadows and voices. But the shadows, like all shadows, had been without definition and the words he thought he'd heard had been like dry leaves rustling in the wind. Sometimes they had seemed close and almost audible, at other times they were no more than whispers, as if the speakers were far away and afraid of being overheard. He'd suspected they were talking about him and had strained his ears to hear better, but the harder he'd tried the harder it had been to mark the conversation clearly.
He also had a hazy recollection of a cup being placed against his lips and of swallowing, but with no clear memory of what he might have ingested. Once, he thought he heard a dog bark and a cry started in his throat, but then the sound faded abruptly and the tightness in his chest began to ease and the moment passed and he did not feel so afraid.
When he opened his eyes he thought for one terrible moment that he was back in the hulk's sick berth. The stinging sensation along the side of his skull, although mild, seemed horribly reminiscent, until the feel of a cool, damp cloth and gentle fingers smearing something on his scalp began to soothe the hurt away and he heard a woman's voice say softly, 'He's awake.'
The voice sounded vaguely familiar.
He turned his head. He was lying in a narrow bed. Alongside the bed was a night stand upon which stood an unlit candle in a holder, a bowl and some small blue-glass jars. He could not tell what they contained.
A woman's face was looking down at him. It did not belong to Maddie Teague.
'Hello, Captain,' Jess Flynn said.
'About time,' Lasseur said, appearing from behind Jess Flynn's shoulder. 'How do you feel?'
Hawkwood stared at them both and wondered if he was dreaming. He touched fingertips to his skull and winced. 'Tired of getting hit on the head.' He took his fingers away. They were sticky, as if they had been dipped in beeswax. He rubbed the ends of his fingers together.
'Don't worry, Captain, it's only an ointment. I make it myself from special oils and herbs,' Jess Flynn said. 'It reduces the pain and encourages healing. The ball grazed your skull, which was why you lost consciousness. You were very lucky; there was some bleeding and you were feverish for a while, but that's all.'
'Good thing it was only your head,' Lasseur said, smiling. 'Anywhere else and I'd have been worried.'
Hawkwood realized he had felt no residual pain when he moved. Encouraged by the discovery, he tried to sit up. His effort was rewarded with only minor discomfort. He looked around. The room was small with a sloped ceiling. There was a half-open window, through which he could just see the underside of the eaves. There was a simple mirrored dressing table upon which sat another bowl and a pitcher. A chair stood in front of the dressing table. A narrow wardrobe rested against one wall.
He looked down. He appeared to be wearing someone's nightshirt. There was no sign of his clothes, though he could see his boots propped on the floor beside the wardrobe.
'It was my husband's,' Jess Flynn said, indicating the nightshirt. She exchanged glances with Lasseur and smiled. 'I'll leave you to talk.' She squeezed the cloth out into the bowl and stood up. Her hand brushed Lasseur's as she walked towards the door. Lasseur watched her go before pulling the chair to the side of the bed and sitting down.
Hawkwood still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. 'How in the name of God did we get
