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 chevauchée 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 usi
ng 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.
The Crediton Killings Page 3