together as they shared the glory of the moment.
Moore looked across at the riders, and nudged Winterburne. 'That's another end for Talbot, Sir. One more and they win the contest.'
Winterburne wondered how much money had changed hands on the result of the tilt. The citizens of Highport liked to watch a good tournament and many a day's wages had been thrown away on the jousts over the years. He leaned closer to the Sergeant so that he could hear him above the noise of the crowd.
'Who did you back?' he asked.
'Leventhorpe's man, Sir.' Moore looked resigned to the result. 'I never seem to bet well, and it looks like today is no exception.'
'Never mind, Sergeant, there's always tomorrow.'
Winterburne looked around at the throng of people that stood against the ropes marking the edge of the ropes; they were five deep in places already and more and more people seemed to be joining them by the minute.
'I'm going back to the city,' he said, 'this is getting a little too cramped for my liking.' He lifted his hand to signal to the Sergeant, and left the man to his entertainment.
Winterburne pushed his way through the crowd; it thinned out a little as he made his way away from the arena. Over to his right, several hundred yards away, stood the South Gate, open wide and inviting the people to come out of the city to watch the tournament, a popular tradition during the public holidays. The visit of the Governors provided a great opportunity to watch the skills of different men for a change, and despite the rivalries they generated, there was no denying that they created a sense that the citizens of the Empire, from wherever that came, did in fact have much in common with each other. There was also the small matter of the Emperor's Cup, a large silver trophy embossed with an eagle, which would be presented to the victors at the end of the proceedings, on the final day of the Feast Holiday.
Winterburne looked up and saw a horse and rider coming his way. The rider was holding the reins of a second mount, which he had trailed behind him. As the man came closer he could see that it was Cromwell and Winterburne waved him down as he approached. There was a look of dismay on his face.
'Sir!' he called across. 'You need to come with me. We have a problem.'
'What is it?'
'There's a mob at the Watch House!' Cromwell held out the reins of the second horse for Winterburne to take.
'A what?'
'A mob, Sir.'
Winterburne took the reins of his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle. 'Tell me more,' he said.
'There's a few hundred people. They've moved on the Headquarters, and they've taken one of the sailors from that Commonwealth ship in the harbour. They say they are going to hang him.'
Winterburne dug his heels into the side of his horse and the pair galloped off towards the gates. People hurried out of their way, some needing to jump to the side as they passed. It was only moments before they reached the entrance to the city and the sound of the horses' hooves changed as they passed from the mud of the field onto the cobbles of the city streets. The city flashed by and before long they were nearing their destination.
'You weren't kidding, were you?' Winterburne said, as they passed the harbour and turned into West Street. The crowd was much larger than he had pictured in his mind, but the Lieutenant was right, they did have a problem on their hands. 'This is serious,' he said.
A mass of townspeople thronged before the Watch House, and they were shouting in discord. Their anger seemed to be directed at the Watch itself and Winterburne jumped off his horse, running the last few yards to the front door of the Watch House and up the steps of the porch.
'Who speaks for you?' Winterburne demanded. 'Who is it?' He could see over the heads of the crowd from where he was standing and he waited for a leader to make himself known to him.
A grey-haired man, of about about fifty years, stepped forward and the crowd noise subsided as he waved for them to be quiet.
'I do!' he called out, as he approached Winterburne.
Two more men stepped from the crowd behind the speaker. Between them they held the sailor and they had bound the man's hands and feet, a gag fixed firmly across his mouth.
'What's your name?' Winterburne asked.
'My name is Edward Downer,' the man answered.
To Winterburne it seemed that there was nothing exceptional about Downer, but he looked confident and most of the time, he had noticed, the people of the city only needed someone to load the ball into the breach, and the rest, as they say, would take care of itself.
'What is the meaning of this, Master Downer?' he asked.
'We want action,' Downer replied. 'There have been three murders in this city, Captain, and we want action.' The crowd jeered behind him, and he held up his hand, waiting until the noise faded. 'We demand to know when the murderer will be brought to justice!'
'I am well aware of the number of deaths, Master Downer. And as you no doubt know, they are being investigated.' Winterburne raised his voice for the crowd to hear. 'Be patient, we will catch the culprit! You are safe!' The jeering from the crowd did not give him any comfort and he sensed that they were in no mood for reason.
'As you can see,' Downer said, 'your assurances do not seem to be enough.' The man gestured around the crowd, who realised that they were expected to once again raise their voices. They did not disappoint and Downer allowed them to continue for a few seconds before waving them quiet again. 'We intend to give out a message that the people of Highport can take care of themselves.'
'And how do you propose to do that?'
'No citizen of the Empire would do this to their own, Captain,' Downer said. 'The killer must be an outsider.' The crowd responded again.
Winterburne could tell that Downer was a seasoned agitator, and he had the crowd right where he wanted them. 'There is no evidence to suggest anyone from outside the Empire committed these crimes,' he said. Right on cue, the crowd jeered at him again.
Downer let them continue until he read that it was the right time. 'Clearly, Captain,' he said above the noise, 'that does not seem to be what the people of Highport think.'
Winterburne pointed down at the sailor, who's eyes were wide with fear. 'What are you going to do with this man?'
Downer turned to face the crowd, lifting his arms up into the air. 'We are going to hang him!'
The crowd cheered as he finished the words and the sailor struggled in the hands of his captors, but there was nothing that he could do.
'This is not necessary,' Winterburne said. 'Hand him over to me for judgement. I am sure that you would not want to be branded as murderers yourselves.'
The crowd seemed to quieten a little as some of them realised that what they were doing might be questionable in itself.
'No!' Downer looked around the sea of faces. 'Do not be put off by his words. We would send a message to the Commonwealth that we will not be frightened into submission. We will tell them that our kind of justice is best.' A large portion of the crowd raised their voices in support of Downer's words.
'Mob rule is not the answer!' Winterburne called. 'Hand him over to me, for questioning, and, if he is guilty of any crime he will receive the full weight of Imperial justice!'
Above the noise of the crowd, Winterburne could hear the distant sound of the footfalls of men marching in unison, and the steps were getting louder as they approached. A section of the people, to Winterburne's right, seemed to become distracted and had become silent, many of them looking up the street and pointing. Others had started to turn in the same direction and were shouting to each other. As a group, they edged to the left and some had broken and were running towards the harbour. Downer joined them in looking up West Street, and, finally his true nature showed itself; he too ran. Winterburne looked in the direction of the noise to see a body of guards marching down West Street towards him and the crowd. Martell led the men, proudly sitting on his charger.
The troops passed the road leading to Imperial Square and any of the crowd that remained turned as one
and ran down the street. Winterburne grabbed the sailor and pulled him to the relative safety of the porch steps as the mob took off.
'Stay there, and don't move!' he said, to the sailor. The bound and gagged man looked up at him, his fear-filled wide eyes saying everything in reply.
The troops passed the Headquarters, continuing to march down the street, and Martell swivelled in his saddle, raising a fist. 'Fifty paces and form a line!' he commanded.
The troops passed the Watch House for the allotted distance and came to a halt. Although Winterburne had not counted the paces, he knew that the well-drilled men would have followed Martell's orders with precision. The wall of men stood firm, protecting the Watch House from the mob which was dispersing even as the formation stopped.
An eerie silence fell over the scene as the Commander walked his horse over to the Watch House, the sound of the iron shoes ringing around the now quiet street. He dismounted, slipping off the side of his mount before walking the remaining few steps across to join Winterburne, sliding each finger out of his leather gloves, one at a time, before removing them.
'That, Thomas,' Martell said, stepping up onto the porch and drawing close to Winterburne's face, 'is how one restores order to the streets of Highport.'
'That is not order,' Winterburne said, staring back at him, defiant in the face of his embarrassment, 'that is fear.' Winterburne had to admit to himself, though, that the line of men looked strong and formidable, and secretly he was grateful for the intervention.
Martell turned to his right and looked across at his men with a look of pride on his face. He puffed out his chest. 'Order? Fear? What does it matter? In fact, aren't all laws based on fear. The fear of punishment for transgressors. Either way, Thomas,' he said, 'I am sure the Emperor will be able to decide for himself whether your method, or mine, is more effective.'
Both men stood their ground staring into each other's eyes. Time seemed to slow as the moment dragged on and as they stood there together Winterburne could feel his blood boiling.
'If I may say so,' Martell said, 'I can see the look of anger in your face. Try not to let it be so, Thomas. In battle, it is often complacency caused by that very same anger that can be one's undoing.'
'Why don't you go to hell?' Winterburne said.
Martell laughed and slapped his gloves against his leg. 'I think not,' he said. 'At least not today, especially when there are so many little victories for one to enjoy.' He chuckled as he walked towards the edge of the porch and down the steps. As he reached the bottom he stopped and turned. 'Of course,' he said, through a wide grin, 'you could always try to make me. Somehow, though, I don't think you have the strength of character for that.'
oOo
Far away, in the distant reaches of Winterburne's subconscious, he heard the knocking. It was more of an awareness than any direct call to act. He still felt warm and comfortable, and the three full glasses of brandy that he had taken earlier in the evening had helped to insulate him from any thoughts of the mob, or the marching of fully armed troops. The pleasant alcoholic glow in his cheeks was coupled with the warmth from the fire in the hearth which still spread out into the room, and he lounged in the luxuriousness of the feeling as he floated away into sleep once more.
Again, he heard the sound, but this time it was more insistent and he opened his eyes a little. The room was still aglow, but the coals had cooked down more than he remembered before he had dozed off. The candle on the side table next to his chair still burned, only adding to the eerie flickering shadows. The glass in his hand was empty. He reached over and placed in on the tabletop.
As he looked around him, his faculties slowly returning, he remembered the sound of marching boots and Martell's face before him, gloating, his eyes wide with
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