Текст книги "The Crediton Killings"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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One of the girls tried to get to her, but she was blocked by men who grinned through their beards, hoping she would try to break through them to reach her friend so that they could manhandle her. Cristine was crippled by indecision: should she run and get help, or fight her way to Sarra to protect her? While she deliberated, Henry moved the pots from the table before him and smiled at the girl. Then he gestured at the empty space, inviting her forward.

“Stop!”

The single word, not bellowed, but merely spoken with authority, sliced through the noise and tension like a sword of war cleaving bone. For Sarra, it was like hearing the war-cry of a protective knight-errant, and she looked at the knight by the fire with a rising hope. Her heart was thumping painfully, and in the quiet she felt it was deafening her; she was convinced that all in the hall must be able to hear it. The jug which she gripped with both hands was shaking, and she carefully set it down on a table nearby. There was an emptiness in her belly which would soon rise to sickness, so great was her relief at being saved. That she had been going to be raped she did not doubt.

“Leave her. You, girl! Come and serve me here. Bring ale.”

Sir Hector watched her retrieve her jug and approach. When she was close he held out his pewter jug imperiously, and studied her face as she poured. There was a light down on her arms and face, he saw, and her lips, though tightly pursed, were full and moist. When his mug was filled, she stood a short way back and met his gaze. His eyebrows rose. He could see that she was not scared of him – of the men under him, yes, but not he himself, and he admired her spirit. Her eyes were the light blue-gray of a winter’s sky, and a little of her golden hair escaped from her net. She was not the heavily-built peasant girl he would have expected to find in a small town, but a radiant young woman who would grace the hall of a wealthier man than he.

“Stay here, and serve me,” he said gently. “Do not fear my men. They will leave you alone now.”

She nodded in slow and thoughtful agreement, and then gave him a smile of such warmth that he had to return it.

Outside, the innkeeper let his breath escape in a whistle of relief as he slumped back against the wall. Margery rushed up breathlessly. “What’s happening? Is she all right?”

“Thanks be to God! Yes, she is. The knight protected her; called his men off.”

She peered round the doorway. “She’s lucky. With that lot, there’s no telling how far they’d have gone.”

“No. But at least she’s safe enough for now.”

“Right. Well, I’d better get back in there.”

The innkeeper nodded glumly as she passed by, freshly filled jugs in each hand. He watched as she poured with the quick efficiency of a practiced alewife, neatly sidestepping to avoid a dozen ambushes as she made her way along one side of the hall. He had more pressing difficulties. Sir Hector still insisted on keeping all his men with him, and no suggestions as to where they could be housed carried any weight with him. For the innkeeper, the thought of standing up to the knight and refusing to allow his men to remain was not one to make him feel entirely at ease. Usually Paul would place additional guests in the hall, where they could use the benches or even lie under the tables, and any overflow could use the stables, but with men like these he was sure that such simple solutions would not suffice: the newcomers would demand the best beds, but the existing guests would complain about being evicted from their accommodation.

Leaning against the doorway, his eyes fixed on the hall as he worried over his problem, he did not notice the men who entered from the stableyard. The hall comprised one half of the main building, the other consisting of kitchen, buttery and stores area. Splitting the building was the screens passage where the innkeeper now stood, and from this corridor two doors led to the hall itself. To his horror, he now saw three men stride in. Two were the goldsmith and his apprentice; he did not recognize the third. Stupefied, he could do nothing but stand and watch the disaster unfold before him.

Sir Hector saw them at the same time. He paused, his mug held out to Sarra as she filled it, studying the newcomers with interest. His face registered only mild amusement while he took in the rich fabrics of the goldsmith, the fur trimming on his coat and the heavy rings on his fingers. Walking in briskly, his attitude proclaimed him to be a self-important, busy man with no time to spare for the pleasures available to commoners. Following on close behind, head down, clad in simple hose and shirt, was his apprentice. Sir Hector gave a small smile and motioned toward Henry, who nodded and made his way to the two men.

Sir Hector sipped his ale. His men were a rough group, he knew, but at least a few of them knew how to obey. Henry was a good man when he was properly directed. So long as he knew what was expected, he could achieve results. As a soldier he was excellent material, due in large part to his cruel nature, but also to his greed. He was one of the mercenaries who had swiftly realized that the best way to get rich was by holding the surrounding areas to ransom. Extortion, and the constant threat of a chevauchee to destroy all the crops and village stores, were Henry’s more effective methods of squeezing a profit even from the most desolate-looking districts. It was Henry and his friend John who had helped in the last few campaigns in Gascony, always seeking out the best hostages to ransom, the most promising buildings to raid, the richer merchants to rob. Their zeal for relieving others of their possessions had helped Sir Hector to build up his own fortune, but they did not begrudge him his wealth. They knew they were indispensable to him and, as such, were safe. He would not want to dispose of them while they continued to enrich his coffers.

That mutual reliance was the reason why Sir Hector often gave them special tasks, treating them as his trusted sergeants. He glanced up to see the goldsmith, now ashen-faced, rushing from the room amid the jeers and catcalls of the other men sitting round. The sight made him give a dry smile.

The innkeeper had been called to the buttery and, leaving it, he nearly collided with the goldsmith. “Ah, master, hello. Would you like some…”

“How much do I owe you?”

Paul’s face fell. The goldsmith was trying to smile, but his quivering mouth told the lie. “Are you well, sir?” His voice hardened. “Is it something those buggers in there have said? If they’ve been threatening you, I’ll…”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that, it’s just that I have to leave Crediton. A matter of business, you understand. I… er… I have to get to Exeter. Some problems there. I…” He broke off, noticing the apprentice sulking nearby. “I told you to go and get our things: see to it at once! Apprentices! All they ever think of is food and women,” he added restlessly, feigning a world-weary distraction in an attempt to cover his agitation.

Paul was irritated by the goldsmith’s pretence that he had no fear of the mercenaries and plenty of time to discuss insignificant points with an innkeeper.

The man gave a sickly smile. “I fear you may not have noticed, but he has been making a complete fool of himself over that young wench of yours. Stupid, I know, but there’s little I can do about it.”

While Paul tried to persuade the smith not to leave, though not too enthusiastically because he feared the mercenaries’ response should they find their plans thwarted, Sarra glowed with pride at the right hand of Sir Hector.

It was all very well for Margery to tell her to leave the soldiers alone, but the captain had already taken an interest in her, and anyway, Sarra was sure that Margery’s warnings were prompted more by jealousy than genuine concern; the jealousy of an older, careworn woman for a young girl. Why should Sarra not get attention – for she was surely the most attractive of the women at the inn. Margery’s problem was she was so old she had forgotten what it felt like to be young and desired. And Sarra had a businesslike streak to her thoughts: all her friends had to work until they were almost thirty, trying to save some money to be able to marry upon. They were almost past child-bearing age already before they wed. Sarra wanted none of that. She was young and wished to marry before she grew much older, so that she could bear lots of children and enjoy the rewards a wealthy husband could bestow. This man was surely the wealthiest she had ever known. She had seen the chests of silver and plate being carried to his room. A person with so many valuables must be rich beyond her dreams.

If she had been given even a little education, Sarra’s life might have been very different. Her brain was quick and intuitive, and she often offended others unintentionally by slicing through their long preambles when she could see their point in a few words. Work for her was a tedious exercise, necessary to keep her clothed and fed until she could find a husband, but her mind constantly sought diversions. Through the boredom of days with little to do, she had enjoyed a recurring daydream: a wealthy lord would arrive at the inn, maybe wounded from a fall, and only she could bind his wounds sufficiently to save him. Afterward he would be so devoted to his savior that he would press his suit upon her. There were endless permutations to the basic theme, involving her protecting him from robbers or assassins, to the most basic in which she spurned his expressions of adoration only to be persuaded when he carried her off to his castle.

Her ability to invent and add to her store of pleasant fantasies was one protection from the dullness of her toil, and now there was a possibility of the realization of her dreams. She glanced into Sir Hector’s eyes as she poured more ale. Catching her look, he subjected her to a serious study for a moment.

She was certainly comely, he thought. Her hair was rapidly coming loose from its moorings, lending her firm and youthful body a deliciously wanton look. Her eyes were bright and swift to smile, if not bold or experienced. He could not wish for a better companion for a couple of days, and when he saw her eyes fall and the blush rise to her neck and cheeks, he felt sure that her thoughts had turned the same way. Her response delighted him, and he turned away confident in the knowledge that his bed would be warm that night.

Henry had not yet returned to his seat, he saw, and a quick frown crossed his brow. The third man who had entered with the goldsmith was still by the doorway, staring at him.

This was no wealthy merchant or burgess. He stood clad in a simple tunic and short hose, both of a green turned pale by overuse. A russet cloak was draped over his shoulders, and a hood darkened his features. No sword hung from his belt, only a long knife. He appeared to be hesitating, and Sir Hector watched his indecision with amusement. He was sure it must be caused by the revelry in the hall; the newcomer must soon decide it would be better to leave and find another tavern.

To his surprise, the man started moving toward him, weaving through the throng of soldiers with casual self-confidence.

“Are you Sir Hector de Gorsone?”

3

The voice was more youthful than he had expected from such a broad-shouldered figure. “Yes, I am Sir Hector,” he replied.

Tossing back his head, the visitor let his hood fall. “I wish to join your band.”

For the second time that evening the hall fell silent. The knight found himself faced by a young man, no more than nineteen or twenty, with long wavy hair the color of unfired clay. His face was narrow and cleanshaven, with a high forehead and narrow nose which was marred by freckles. A thin mouth pointed to obstinacy of character, and the wide-set green eyes showed that he had a serious nature, not given to jokes.

“I have enough men already,” said Sir Hector dismissively.

“One more can always be of help at need.”

“Have you been trained to fight?”

“No, sir. But I am young and strong. You can teach me.”

“Why should I? There are others I could pick from.”

“I’m healthy and loyal. I want to go with your band and learn your ways. I am sick to death of farming. Let me come with you.”

Sir Hector opened his mouth to refuse the insolent puppy, but then allowed himself to reconsider. The young man was a tempting addition to the band. He was solidly built and looked capable of using his hands. There was a determined cast to his mouth, the captain saw, a look of resolution. He carried himself well, straight and tall, moving with an almost feline ease and sureness, and the breadth of his shoulders pointed to strength. He was still now, one hand resting on his dagger-hilt, the other on his purse. There was an aura of purpose and dignity about him which, as Sir Hector knew well, many abbots would do well to emulate.

Out of interest, he let his gaze wander over his men. They sat quietly, for the most part, watching their captain and waiting to see how he would react. One or two were grinning, obviously expecting him to issue a devastating rejection. The look irritated him. He had selected them all in similar ways: he had never felt the need to seek out new recruits – they accumulated round a successful captain as a matter of course. All the men in this room had come to him after hearing about his triumphs, just like this new one. Why should he throw him out when he had accepted them?

“You look brave enough,” he said at last, slowly. “It takes courage to enter a hall like this and ask a favor in front of men you know nothing about.” The stranger inclined his head in acknowledgment, a curiously cynical smile twisting his mouth.

“Come here.” Passing his mug to Sarra, the knight leaned forward and motioned the newcomer to his knees. When he knelt, Sir Hector took both his hands between his own. “Swear to be loyal to me and to take orders from me and no other.”

“I so swear.”

“Good. Henry? Take this man and show him how we are organized. See to his weapons.”

“Thank you, Sir Hector,” the youth said as he stood.

The knight raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Do not thank me yet. I can be a hard master, but if you show loyalty and are prepared to follow my commands, I will be good to you.”

Sarra watched as the stranger walked away with the man who had tried to attack her. He was a handsome lad, she thought. It was a shame that he was going to be indoctrinated by an evil oaf like Henry.

“So what’s your name?” Henry was intrigued by his new charge, who hardly glanced at him as he answered: “Philip Cole.”

Some echo in the name made Henry give a fleeting frown, but they were at their table, and Cole was maneuvering himself into a gap at the bench so he missed the brief grimace. Henry barged in to sit at Cole’s left, while to the young man’s right sat a rough-looking rat-faced fellow with hair as black as a crow’s feathers. His amber eyes roved restlessly around the room as if looking for someone more interesting to talk to, and the candles and sconces reflected in them. To Cole they looked alive with devious, glittering intelligence. Together with the blackened teeth in a slack and dribbling mouth, he possessed an air which gave Cole a feeling of revulsion. His frame was whip-thin and wiry but there was strength and cruelty in the long fingers that tore at the chicken before him.

Henry introduced him. “This is John Smithson. He’s like me, one of the old men of the band.”

“That’s right. We were two of the first to join Sir Hector.”

“That was back in 1309. In Gascony.”

Cole accepted a pot from a passing waitress. “So you must have fought in many battles?” he asked, carefully keeping his tone level.

John smiled. “Yes, all over. For one master and then for another.”

“It’s a good life,” Henry sighed, taking a huge draft of ale and belching. “Others are told to join an army and fight, but we can go where we want and fight for whoever we want. We are more free than any burgess or farmer.”

“Yes – and we can make more money from it,” said John slyly.

His friend laughed. “Aye, and keep it!”

“What do you mean?” asked Cole.

“Just this,” Henry said, leaning toward him. “In a lord’s army, if you were called up to fight, you would be there because of your master and fighting for him. Any money you won would be his; any hostages you wanted to ransom would be his – you would have no rights. With us, we fight for ourselves. If we win a prize, we keep it. Any spoils go to the winner, and the devil with the losers.”

“They rarely live anyway,” said John casually as he bit into a haunch of chicken.

Henry noticed Cole’s expression. “Don’t worry, Sir Hector is a good master. He doesn’t lose, and has few men hurt under him. He’s more likely to change sides when the wind blows sour than stay and be hacked to death. There’s no profit in winning a coffin.”

Cole held his tongue, but nodded as if eased.

Turning to his food, Henry hid a smile. Philip Cole had the typical look of a peasant, one of unfocused goodwill, with bovine slowness of thought and general dullness. Laughing, Henry slapped the recruit on the back. “No need for the long face! You’ll soon find yourself rich enough to be happy.” Henry had open, friendly features which had deceived more experienced men than Cole, and the thick shock of sandy hair made him look much younger than the scars and wrinkles promised; his age was only given away by his strength. Though his arms were short, ending with stubby little fingers, they held enough power to make Cole think, when he was thumped genially over the shoulders, that he had been buffeted by a benign but clumsy giant. “Don’t worry – if Sir Hector isn’t there, John and me’ll look after you, won’t we, John?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Uhn… thanks,” said Cole, feeling that some response was required.

Glancing round cautiously, Henry leaned nearer. “So why did you want to get away?”

“Eh?”

“Why did you want to get away? Everyone has a reason. I had to run because I killed a man – in a fair fight, you understand, but the hue was raised after me.”

“And I had to get away because my master’s wife fancied me. I was apprenticed to a smith, and when I rejected her, she told him I’d put my hands up her skirt and tried to tempt her into my bed. I had to get away before he could catch me. He was going to kill me,” John added in an aggrieved tone. “With an axe.”

“So what made you want to run? We all tell each other everything here. There’s no need to be shy.” Henry smiled encouragingly.

“I… I was to become a father.”

“Ah.” Henry winked knowingly.

“And I did not wish to marry.”

“A girl from your own village, I expect. Where was that? Are you from round here?”

“No. I come from north and east of here, a short way from Exeter – a village called Thorverton.”

“Ah yes. Is it far from here?” asked Henry.

Cole shot him a glance, wondering if his story was being checked. Before he could respond, though, the rat-faced one nudged him, pointing with a chicken bone.

“Well, if you want to try some of the women here, just make sure you don’t touch her.”

He followed the line of the bone. Sarra was laughing at a remark made by the smiling knight. “She’s his, is she?”

Henry’s voice was somber. “There’s one thing you must learn quickly, Philip. Our master is a good warrior and leader, but he won’t have anyone messing with his belongings. It doesn’t matter if it’s his money, horses, or women. If he finds someone near any of them he’s likely to reach for his knife. No, I’d leave her alone until he tires of her. He always does, sooner or later.”

“You stay with us. We remember what it’s like to be new, that’s why Sir Hector usually asks us to look after the recruits. He knows we’ll show them all the ropes.”

“Yes. For instance, your purse looks quite full. There’re some would try to take it, just to see what’s inside.”

“There’s only money in it,” Cole said easily.

“God’s blood! Well, don’t tell any of the others!” Henry whispered urgently, and sat back, perplexed. “There are men here who’d cut your throat just for thinking you had something there. If you don’t go carefully, you’ll get yourself hurt.”

“He’s right, you know,” John muttered darkly, eyes flitting over the other figures in the hall. “Some of the men here, they can’t be trusted. They’d sell their wives – some of them probably have – for a purse like yours. I reckon you’d best stick with us, let us look after you for a bit.”

“Yes. I mean, where you came from, Thorverton way, I expect you never had to worry about thieves or murderers, did you? When you left your girl… what was her name?” Henry asked, but his mind was fixed on the purse. If Cole was a mere peasant from a small village, he could not have collected so much money.

“Who?”

“Your woman. The one you left home for.”

“Oh.” He wavered a moment. “Anne. Anne Fraunceys.”

Henry did not miss the slight hesitation, and his grin broadened. It pointed to invention, and if that part of the story was invented there was sure to be a better secret, a more valuable one, behind this young man’s decision to join the company. Henry intended to root it out, but he could already guess that there was a theft at the bottom of it. A runaway farmer would not legally be able to get his hands on enough money to make a wallet the size of his bulge so attractively.

“Well, when you left your Anne, you were just a free man with little fear of the world, weren’t you?” he said genially. “At your home you could walk around without a sword or axe and know you’d be safe, couldn’t you? Here, though, you’re with a troop of men-at-arms, and some of”em are dangerous. You waving a purse under their noses is like showing a dog a bitch on heat. They’ll have to try to take it, see? You stay with us, though. We’ll look after you.“

“Yes. We’ll protect you like you were our own family.” John smiled, displaying his noisome teeth once more.

Cole looked from one to the other, and when they slapped him on the back in a show of good-natured friendship, he smiled back gratefully. A few minutes later he bent to eat, and Henry and John exchanged a look over his back. Slowly, John winked.

Paul, the innkeeper, was unable to sit down in the buttery until well into the night. The cries and laughter had gradually faded as men fell asleep – some, like the captain himself, staggering to individual rooms. Sir Hector had gone at least three hours ago, Paul thought distractedly, wiping his forehead with his towel, so he at least would be asleep by now.

A step behind him heralded the arrival of his wife. “Margery? I thought you’d have gone to bed by now.”

She sank down onto the bench beside him, gazing round the little room with its wreckage of empty barrels, pots and jugs. “I’d better start a new brew tomorrow,” she said tiredly. Her face was gray even in the yellow candlelight, and the lines at either side of her mouth were like slashes in her skin. Even her green tunic and off-white apron hung dispiritedly as if over-fatigued. She pulled her wimple free and scratched her hair loose.

He put out a hand and touched her arm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get some of them to move, but at least they’ve not caused any trouble. There’s not been any fighting or anything.”

“What of the other guests? What happened to them?”

“They’ve all decided to go. The goldsmith and his apprentice were first, then the burgess from Bath, then the merchant and his family… They all found they had important business elsewhere and had to move on – always shortly after one of the captain’s men had spoken to them. I suppose we should be grateful no one was hurt. There was no violence.”

In answer she shrugged, a tiny gesture of exhaustion. “No, and they’ve done little damage – just some broken jugs, and they can soon be replaced. Let’s hope they’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“I don’t know about that. I heard one of them talking earlier, and he was saying they might stay for a few nights more.”

“I hope not!”

He could sympathize with her hostility. They were used to quieter guests: merchants, clerics and burgesses. It was rare for them to have more than ten staying at the inn, and a group of thirty, all men-at-arms, was unheard of. The money would be welcome, if they did not argue too much about the charge but, as Paul knew, this kind of client was all too likely to balk at the real cost of the stay. Soldiers were prone to preying on the fears of peaceable folk to try to force large discounts. Paul sighed; he would have to add a goodly portion to the amount they had drunk so that he could haggle over the final reckoning. Otherwise he would end up subsidizing their stay, and that was something he could ill-afford.

His wife’s mind was on the same problem. “It’s not just the food and drink, is it? We’ve got the fodder for their horses to buy in as well. What if they refuse to pay enough?”

“We’ll have to see,” he said comfortingly, patting her knee.

She smiled, but then her face hardened. “You know where Sarra’s gone?”

“Sarra?” He could not meet her gaze.

“With him,” she said. “With their captain. She’s gone to his chamber with him.”

Paul sighed. “She’s old enough to know what she’s doing, Margery.”

“Old enough? She may be old enough, but she obviously doesn’t realize!” his wife said hotly. “You know how hopeless she is: her head’s up in the clouds most of the time. And what about him? You know as well as I do what sort of man he is. He’s just taking advantage of her, and she’ll get nothing from him.”

“Margery, she is old enough to know her own mind,” he repeated. “And if he is taking advantage, what can we do?”

“She thought he might marry her; you know what a romantic fool she is.”

“In that case she was trying to take advantage of him as well,” Paul said reasonably.

“But what if she gets with child? He won’t want to help her then, will he? We’ll be the ones left holding the baby!”

The innkeeper squeezed her hand. “We’ll just have to see what we can do for the best if it comes to it.”

“But what if she does have a child? She can’t look after it, can she? And I wouldn’t want to see her on the street like Judith and her poor Rollo.” Her eyes widened. “Rollo! You know what they say about the boy. Perhaps…”

“Enough, Margery,” he said and stood up. “It’s time we were going to our own beds. It’s late, and we have much to do in the morning to get this mess straight. If there is a child, we’ll see what should be done then. I’m not going to worry about it now. Come, let’s go to bed.”

She stared up at him, a little angry at being put off, but then gave a self-mocking smile and rose. “Very well, husband. But I’d be happier if that stupid girl had left him alone.”

“Maybe she’ll have cause to regret her actions too,” Paul said, glancing in the direction of the room where Sarra and the captain now lay, as if he could see through the wattle and timber. For some reason, he had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach; he recognized it as a premonition of something evil about to happen, and the awareness made him shudder.