Then the musketeers had pushed through the crowd and shot Grymauch. Huntsekker had run to him, gently lowering him to the ground. There was nothing to be done. The big man was dying. Huntsekker had pulled Maev Ring clear, taken her through the cathedral and out across the back fields. He had done this in a moment of reckless passion. Not for her. But for the memory of the hero who gave his life to save her.
His actions had surprised him. Not since the long ago days of his youth had such absurdly romantic notions touched him.
Now, as he walked through the winter night, he could no longer summon the precious feeling he had experienced.
One fact was sure, though. Huntsekker’s world had been subtly changed by Jaim’s death.
Not just because life was more interesting while Jaim prowled the highlands, stealing cattle. The man had style, and more than that. He had heart. Huntsekker had not even realized that he himself lacked that quality. Not until he met Jaim.
In all the years Huntsekker had lived in the north he only had two dealings with Jaim Grymauch. On the first occasion Jaim stole his prize bull. Huntsekker knew he would try, and had set traps around the paddock. Then he had sat for night after night, his blunderbuss loaded, waiting for the raid. One night he dozed. When he awoke the bull had gone. Huntsekker and his men scoured the highlands all night and found nothing. When they returned to the farm at dawn they found the bull back in the paddock, a sprig of heather tied to its horn. That memory still made Huntsekker smile.
The second occasion had been more deadly. The Moidart had demanded the death of the fistfighter Chain Shada. Grymauch had spirited him away. Huntsekker guessed their destination and set a trap.
It had not worked. Jaim took to the river and swam behind the ambushers. The first moment Huntsekker realized he had been tricked was when a knife blade pricked at his throat. He was holding his blunderbuss, but there was no way he could turn it.
‘Best be putting that dreadful thing down, Harvester,’ came the voice of Jaim Grymauch. ‘I’d hate to be cutting your throat on such a fine night as this.’
Huntsekker smiled at the memory. He had carefully laid the gun down then looked at Grymauch. The man’s clothes were drenched.
‘You’ll catch a chill, Grymauch,’ he said. ‘You’re not as young as once you were.’
‘Maybe I’ll take that bearskin coat,’ replied Jaim. That’ll keep me warm.’
‘It’s too big for you, son. Takes a man to wear a coat like this.’
Huntsekker had thought his life would be over that night. As well as the massive Chain Shada there was a youth with Grymauch, dark-eyed and carrying two Emburley pistols. Huntsekker looked into his eyes and saw the ferocity there. Kaelin Ring was a killer. Huntsekker knew the type. Hell, Huntsekker was the type. There was no doubt about it. Death waited for Huntsekker, and the only one of his men still conscious, the sharp-featured Boillard Seeton.
But instead Jaim had asked them their intentions. Huntsekker had offered to say nothing about the encounter. Seeton was quick to agree. Huntsekker did not expect Jaim to believe the promises. Boillard Seeton was a man without honour, and Grymauch had no reason to believe in Huntsekker’s word.
‘Well, that’s it, then,’ said Grymauch.
‘The hell it is!’ stormed Kaelin Ring, his voice shaking with anger. ‘I say we kill them.’ Huntsekker saw the pistol come up. It was pointed at his face. He stood very still.
‘We’ll kill no-one!’ said Jaim.
‘We can’t trust them. They’ll betray us as soon as they get to Eldacre.’
‘Aye, maybe they will. That’s for them to decide,’ said Jaim softly, moving to stand between Huntsekker and the youth. ‘Killing shouldn’t be easy, boy. Life should be precious.’
Kaelin Ring hadn’t been convinced, but he had acceded to Grymauch’s wishes. Chain Shada crossed the bridge, and Grymauch and Kaelin Ring moved off into the woods.
Huntsekker had watched them go. The boy had been right. The most sensible course of action would have been to kill them both. Still, Huntsekker had thought, maybe Boillard Seeton would for once justify the faith reposed in him. That hope was short-lived.