Maev was silent for a moment. ‘I never had any ill feeling towards Parsha. In some ways I envied her. Not her life, you understand. Merely the fact that she and Jaim . . . had something I did not. It was kind of you to help her as you did.’
‘And that surprises you?’
‘Why would it not? Kindness is not a trait one would associate with someone in your chosen profession.’
‘A farmer, you mean?’
‘You know very well what I mean, Harvester. You kill for the Moidart. I don’t doubt it was you who wrung the neck of that vile bishop after the trial.’
‘Some tasks are more pleasurable than others,’ he admitted.
It began to rain, and Maev busied herself raising a canvas hood above the driving platform. The wind rippled at it, and the hissing and splattering of raindrops made conversation difficult. This was a blessed relief to Huntsekker.
Sadly the rain did not last long. Huntsekker was beginning to dread the night camp. ‘So how did you become a hunter of men?’ she asked.
‘I forget. It was a long time ago.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘Sometimes. It makes a break from the monotony of farm life. Most of the men I’ve hunted have been killers themselves, or thieves, or rapists.’
‘And that justifies your calling?’
‘I don’t have to justify myself to anyone.’
‘Then what are you doing now?’
‘By heaven, woman, given the choice between continuing this conversation and having a wasps’ nest in my ear I’d choose the latter.’
Her laughter rang out. ‘You are easily nettled, Harvester. Are you usually so short-tempered?’
Huntsekker did not reply. Three men had moved into sight on the road ahead, and were waiting for them. One of the men carried a musket, the other two had pistols in their belts. ‘Good evening to you,’ said the man with the musket, as Huntsekker hauled on the reins.
‘And to you, friend. Now move aside, for I’d not want the wagon wheel to run over your foot.’
‘Nice wagon,’ said the man. ‘Well made. What are you carrying?’
‘I’m going to repeat my order to you, boy, on the off chance that you are either deaf or stupid. Move aside.’
‘Not very friendly, are you, old man? That’s a big mistake out here.’ He swung the musket from his shoulder. As he did so Huntsekker produced a pistol from inside his bearskin coat. Cocking it he pointed it at the man’s head and pulled the trigger. The musket man flew backwards, landing in a heap. One of the others pulled the pistol from his belt. Huntsekker was about to leap from the wagon when a shot came from his left, making him jerk. The second man shouted in pain as a pistol ball slammed into his shoulder. His own weapon fell from his fingers. The third man slowly raised his hands. Huntsekker glanced to his left. Maev Ring was holding two small pistols. Smoke still curled from the barrel of one of them.
Huntsekker looked hard at the men. ‘Is our business here concluded?’ he asked.
Both men nodded.
‘Good. Hand me the pistols and the musket.’
The uninjured young man did so. Huntsekker threw them into the back of the wagon. ‘Best take your friend to the nearest surgeon,’ he said. ‘That ball will have pushed cloth and dirt into the wound. Likely he’ll come down with gangrene.’ Flicking the reins he drove the wagon past the two surviving robbers. The wheels crunched over the body of the musket man.
‘How on earth were you planning to defeat three armed men with one pistol?’ asked Maev.
‘I figured if I shot the first you’d tongue lash the others to death.’ He watched as Maev placed the pistols back in the leather bag at her feet.
‘It’s a wonder to me you’ve survived so long in your chosen profession,’ she said. Huntsekker tugged at the spikes of his beard. ‘I’ve noticed you do that a lot when you are nervous,’ she pointed out.
It was going to be a long ride to Eldacre.
Winter Kay had always been a man of restless energy, with an ability to drive himself harder than his colleagues. Since the death of the king this talent had increased to a level which astounded his officers. He rarely slept, keeping a team of riders on hand around the clock to deliver messages to senior officers and distant army groups.