“I appreciate that, Jorgen. If you can help me capture whoever is responsible for this poaching ring, I will reward you well, I assure you.” The margrave held out a small drawstring purse of plain brown leather. “This should be enough for the bribes.”
“Knowing that the poachers have been caught will be a great reward, my lord. I have reason enough to want to capture them.”
“I believe your father, the gamekeeper, was killed by a poacher when my brother was margrave. Is that true?”
“Yes, my lord. His killer was never caught, and I believe this new poacher could be the same person who murdered my father.”
The margrave gave him a direct look. “I want this poacher caught, whether dead or alive. If you encounter a poacher, you have my permission to shoot him in order to capture him, and if you kill him accidentally, you will not be held at fault. You do carry a bow and arrows when you are in the forest, do you not?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Poaching is a serious offense against the king’s property, and I am the king’s steward. It must not be tolerated.”
“I shall do all in my power to stop them.” He would have few qualms about shooting any poacher, especially the one who had killed his father.
“Thank you, Jorgen. And remember.” He paused, staring intently into his eyes. “I am not asking you to violate your conscience. Just see if you can find out something.”
“I understand, my lord.”
Jorgen made his way to the street behind the marketplace. The Red House was just ahead. Even though the evening was rather warm, he wore the same cloak and hood he had worn when he found the illegal meat market.
The wooden beams that striped the front of The Red House were carved with the faces and names of the former owner and builders of the house, as it had begun as a wealthy merchant’s home. The beams were also carved with flowers and birds and animals and painted red, an unusual color for house timbers.
The front door, also red, was open, but a large man stood, his feet planted between the planks framing the door, guarding the entrance. Jorgen whispered a plea to God for help as he strode forward.
The doorkeeper crossed his massive arms and fixed Jorgen with a blank stare. “What do you want?”
“What does anyone want when he comes to The Red House?”
He gave a low grunt, then stepped to one side, allowing Jorgen to cross the threshold.
Heat rose from Jorgen’s neck into his face. A few women stood around a counter. A man sat at a table holding a young woman on his lap. She laughed.
One of the women at the counter looked nearly old enough to be his mother, but she also looked like she might be the person in charge. Jorgen flipped his hood down off his head and stepped toward her. She stared at him from beneath lowered eyelids.
Jorgen put down some money. “Two goblets of wine.”
The woman never took her eyes off him as she lifted her wine to her lips. He did the same, taking a sip as he continued to take in his surroundings. The walls were covered in hangings that were the same color as the red wine in his goblet. The windows were shuttered, and candles glowed from sconces on the walls and on each table.
“A man who is accustomed to getting what he wants.” She squeezed his arm. “You are too young for me, but I have just the one for you.” She turned and snapped her fingers at one of the girls.
The girl lurched forward, then walked toward them. She was so very young, and she wobbled as if her legs could hardly hold her up.
“This is Kathryn. She will keep you company. Two marks for me, and five marks for Kathryn, unless you stay longer than an hour.” She held out her hand.
Outrage turned to heat, which rose to the top of his head. He ignored it and pulled out the coins, then placed them on her open palm. She grabbed his hand and one of Kathryn’s hands and put them together. Without looking at him, Kathryn led him toward the stairs at the back of the room.
Sweat trickled down Jorgen’s hairline and between his shoulder blades as he followed her up. She walked slowly, her shoulders hunched forward. She came to a door and reached out to open it. Her hand was trembling, and the one he was holding was cold and clammy. She entered the room and he followed, then shut the door behind him.
She let go of his hand and backed away from him.
Jorgen held up his hands. “I will not touch you. Do not be afraid.”
She backed farther away, toward a bed that was almost the only thing in the room. Her face was pale.
“I only want to talk. I will not hurt you.” He stared at her face. “You couldn’t be more than fifteen. How old are you?”