‘I am, sir, and it is kind of you to ask.’
‘The lord will see you now.’
Ramus offered a short bow and entered the office.
The Moidart was standing by the window, dressed in his habitual black riding shirt and breeches, his long black and silver hair tied in a pony tail. He swung towards Ramus and nodded a greeting. As usual he did not begin with any pleasantries.
‘Do you hear news from the war, apothecary?’
‘Sometimes, lord.’
‘Does it ever concern my son?’
‘Indeed so. He is much lauded for his daring cavalry tactics.’
‘Has anyone spoken to you of his having enemies?’
‘No, lord.’
‘Ah well, it matters not. Come and see the new work. I have to admit I am pleased with it.’
It was a winter scene, cold and brilliant, snow clouds deep and threatening, crowning the majestic peak of Caer Druagh. A tiny figure could be seen, toiling through a blizzard, head bent against a fierce wind. Small though it was against the majesty of nature the figure radiated an intensity of purpose, a determination to survive and prevail. For a time the two men spoke of the use of colour, the addition of a dash of midnight blue giving life to the arctic white of the snow. Ramus was more interested in the forlorn figure. Every line and curve of the work seemed to draw the eye towards him. Never before had the Moidart introduced a human form into his work.
Ramus peered more closely at the painting. There was something about the figure that was vaguely familiar, but he could not quite place it. He stepped back and looked again. There was just the suggestion – the merest speck of grey – to suggest a beard. Then he had it.
‘That is Huntsekker,’ he said. The Moidart seemed surprised. He too re-examined his own work.
‘I suppose it could be,’ he admitted, ‘though it was not a conscious plan. The figure was an afterthought. The piece seemed to lack focus without it.’
Ramus was less comfortable now. Huntsekker was a reminder of the Moidart’s darker side. The man was a killer, known throughout the north as the Harvester. He hunted down the Moidart’s enemies, removing their heads with a wickedly sharp sickle blade. The little apothecary shivered.
The Moidart noted his distaste and said nothing. Ramus was that rarest of men, gentle and absurdly honest. There was no malice in him, and – more astonishingly – no understanding of malice. But then he did not exist in a world of danger and treachery. He did not have enemies at every turn? subtle and vicious, waiting for their moment to strike.
The Moidart glanced back at the painting. Yes, the man facing the deadly blizzard was Huntsekker. It seemed so obvious now. Who else could survive such a storm?
Huntsekker paused at the crest of the hill and gazed down at the small row of shanty houses at the edge of the river. There were boats moored just beyond them, long flat-bottomed craft, garishly painted. Huntsekker had never understood the appeal of living on water. He liked his feet to be on solid ground, his home to be fashioned from wood and stone.
The moon was high and bright, its light gleaming on the silver spikes of his forked beard, the night wind ruffling the ankle length coat of shaggy bearskin he wore. Huntsekker leaned on his staff and ran his gaze along the river front. Several open fires had been set on the shore, and a crowd of river men and women sat around them. They were drinking cheap spirits, and Huntsekker could hear laughter. Several children were playing at the water’s edge, skimming stones out over the icy water.
The big man hoped there were no trouble-making strangers among them. Though he would never admit it he was tired, and the cold wind had brought on a headache that was drumming at his temples.
Slowly and carefully he made his way down the hill, heading for the house of Aran Powdermill. It stood a little beyond the other homes, and Huntsekker could see the glare of golden light coming from the lower window.