her mouth. She smeared her bloodstained spittle on the mandrake and wrapped the little body again, pushing it back beneath the pallet, then she curled herself up in a little ball and tried to dream of Finch.
Hugh leaned over the wall of the bridge, gazing down into the river below. A pale dawn light was just creeping along the edge of the sky and gilding the filthy water below with flecks of gold. The faint glow of a dying lantern revealed the outline of two watchmen hunched against some hurdles at the far end of the bridge. Bishop's Bridge formed one of the entrances to Norwich by day, but at night the bridge was closed and supposedly guarded. Not this night though, for these two watchmen were snoring like pigs in mud. Hugh was torn between a desire to kick them awake or curl up beside them and sleep. His body felt drained, as if every drop of blood had been sucked from it, but his mind was racing.
He felt for the band of fur beneath his shirt, and smiled. That cunning woman had bestowed her gift on the right man. He was going to obtain everything he desired and deserved. And unlike his brother, he knew how to use power.
It had been so easy to find this runaway of Osborn's. She'd practically crawled into his lap as if she'd been drawn to him. Not that it was the first time a girl had done that. Some women just couldn't help playing with fire; they wanted to be burned. It would be rather annoying if she was dead. He would have enjoyed watching what Osborn would do to her. But he'd call back to the stew later and find out if she lived. If she did, he could find some place in town to keep her safely locked up until he was ready to return to Gastmere. Either way he had no intention of leaving Norwich yet. He had pressing business of his own to pursue.
It had been a blow to learn that fool Raoul had come to Norwich on Osborn's bidding to find the girl. He'd been so sure that Raoul had come here because he'd found out something about the traitor, something that Hugh could use to his advantage. Hugh was still convinced that Raffaele was involved in this treachery somewhere and he was determined to find some proof of it, even if it was only for the pleasure of watching the gelding begging for mercy at the hands of the torturers. But if Hugh could catch Raffaele along with the other men who were helping the French, he'd have something to offer John. He'd not make the same mistake as Osborn, waiting on empty promises of future lands. He'd insist on having his reward now — their heads for a wealthy estate. It was a fair bargain.
The prize had almost been within his grasp before when he'd learned about the Santa Katarina from the marsh-man he'd caught stealing. But even after a thorough beating the man had told him little except that the ship was smuggling Frenchmen, and the wretch couldn't or wouldn't tell him the names of those who were helping the French. Try as he might, Hugh had been unable to find out any more.
So in the end he had to settle for sending an anonymous warning to the garrison. That way, he thought, he could take the credit if the French were captured, but not look a fool if the tale proved to be false. He'd expected the garrison to station John's soldiers on land and seize the Frenchmen when they came ashore. He'd even gone to the bay to watch events unfold, certain that whoever was helping the French would be waiting to meet the ship and he could lead the soldiers to them.
But John's men had ruined everything in their bungled attempt to take the ship itself. With the boat in flames there was nothing even to prove the French had ever been aboard. And for all he knew, the snivelling little thief had invented the tale just to try to save his skin. The whole business had proved worthless to Hugh, but now, if he could discover who had murdered that idiot Raoul, it might yet lead him to the nest of traitors, the perfect gift for a king.
Finding this runaway girl seemed like an omen. Surely, as the cunning woman had prophesied, his star was in its ascendancy? He would