A slow grin spread over his face. And now they were off to seek the man who had robbed the captain. They were bound to find suspects: only men who had something to hide would join a mercenary band.
Yes, he thought. There should be plenty of suspicious characters in a band like that. It was good to keep the King’s man busy.
“Hugh, would you please stop that!” Edgar usually displayed the tolerance of an older brother toward a younger in his dealings with Simon’s servant, but when the man had pulled his dagger out of its scabbard for the seventh time and scrutinized its edge as if suspicious that it had developed a fault, his temper began to fray. When Simon’s servant was not studying his blade, he was whistling—a hollow, deathly sound that reminded Edgar of the wind in the branches of trees over a churchyard at the dead of night. Even when the man was sitting, his fingers would keep drumming on any convenient surface near to hand. “What is it?” he asked irritably. “Can’t you just be quiet?”
“No,” Hugh scowled. “I’m not used to guarding a dead body.” His face reflected his mood. It was not only that he was missing Peter Clifford’s hospitality, which had lived up to expectation in the excellence of his ale and the fullness of his board; Hugh had grown up on the moors, a little to the south in the old forest of Dartmoor, and his superstitious soul cringed at having to share a room with a murdered woman. The only thing that could make it worse, from his point of view, would be if she was a suicide, but even a murder victim was full of terrors. He had stayed awake all night less from a sense of duty than from a terror of the Devil coming to take an unshriven soul. Hugh might not be learned, but he knew what the priests said: if a man or woman were to die without having been given the chance to confess their sins, they could not be buried on hallowed ground. They could not go to Heaven, they belonged to the Devil, and all night Hugh had fretted, thinking that every sound he heard was Old Nick coming to take her away. Now, in the warm sunlight of a fresh morning, he had a feeling of anticlimax.
“You’re a farmer’s son. Surely you’ve had to sit up with a corpse before.”
Hugh stared at him for a moment. “Of course I have! But I’ve never been told by my master to guard a room with a corpse in it, in case some mad bugger comes in trying to move things around.” He stood and went to the chest again, looking down at Sarra where she lay on the floor.
His master and Baldwin had covered her with a bolt of cloth they had found in the chest, thus her face was hidden, but she held a fascination for Hugh. It was sad to see her dead. He was used to death in all its forms, from starvation during the appalling famines of 1315 and 1316, to those killed by swords and axes during the attacks of the trail bastons four years ago, but this little figure, whose hair tumbled silkily from beneath the cloth, seemed still more sad than all those.
“God’s blood! Will you sit down and stop fidgeting! You’re making me twitchy.”
Hugh grunted and wandered to a convenient chest. Sitting, he rested a hand on another nearby and unconsciously began knocking out a rapid percussion. Edgar had opened his mouth to snap at him, when there was a tap at the door. Muttering with irritation, Edgar pulled it open.
Outside stood an old soldier. “My master has told me to fetch him some clothing.” Edgar said nothing, but held the door tightly. The man glanced past him to the body and shook his head sadly. “Poor lass.”
Rather than have the man stare through the door all morning, Edgar opened it wide. “Be quick. And touch nothing from the open chest.”
He wandered in, going from one chest to another. Hugh saw how his eyes moved to the figure on the floor occasionally. There was no fear or horror, merely a kind of disinterested acceptance, as if it was too commonplace a sight to justify particular curiosity. This piqued Hugh. He had been quite proud of enduring the vigil by the corpse, and felt that others should be awed by the courage of two men who dared to defy ghosts and ghouls alike by sitting up with a murdered body.
Sir Hector’s man walked toward him and gestured. “I’ve got to open that one, too.”
Hugh rose, disgruntled, and waited while he rifled through the chest for oddments, selecting a short cloak and decorative belt with an enamelled buckle.
No sooner had he left than Simon and Baldwin arrived with Roger. To Hugh’s disgust, neither asked how his night had been—they simply strode in and lifted the cloth from the body, so that Baldwin could study it more closely. Almost immediately his attention was drawn to Sarra’s head.
Sucking his teeth, Simon moved to the tiny window and peered out. Wagons and carts passed by, interspersed with riders on horseback. People hurried by on foot. It was a busy street, and he fell to wondering again whether someone could have stood passing items out to an accomplice hidden behind a wagon. Leaning forward, he meditatively touched the frame. There was certainly enough space for a man to wriggle through if he was small enough—and if the shutters had been opened first.
Baldwin asked Edgar to help him; together, they rolled the body gently over onto its side. Over Sarra’s left ear was a lump, and a crusting of blood. It looked much like Cole’s wound, with one difference: hers was more like the result of a glancing blow which had scraped the skin and caused bleeding. She must have been alive when struck, for she bled, he thought. That explained a little of the mystery about her: she was alive but unconscious when gagged and bound. The next question, he knew, was why she had been stabbed. He studied her, then walked to the chest and looked at her outline. Where Simon had pulled the cloth aside, he carefully laid it back in place. There, where her head had lain, was a small patch of brownish black. So she was definitely alive when she was placed in the chest; dead people did not bleed, he knew. So she had been killed later.
Sighing, he rose. Simon had finished staring out of the window, and now left the room. Baldwin paused, then knelt and, using his dagger, cut off a large swatch of the material of her tunic. Stuffing it in his purse, he followed his friend into Sir Hector’s room, and stood gazing round with an introspective air while Simon peered out of the window. Roger trailed in after them.
Outside, in the yard, Simon could see several men sitting at a table and drinking, laughing and joking in the shade of an old elm tree, while others worked on their weapons. Some were polishing helmets and shields until, when they caught the sun, they were painful to look at. Two men were fletching, expertly winding string round arrows to hold the feathers in place, and another was running a stone over his sword to give it an edge.
Behind him he could hear Baldwin muttering to himself, but his attention was caught by the scene in the yard. It was rare to see men-of-war in a place like this, going about their business with a casual unconcern that made it seem normal. If they had been farmers cleaning tools and preparing for a day’s work, the sight could not have been more tranquil. As if to emphasize this, the inn’s hens scratched and stepped all round, their jerky motion an odd contrast to the smoothness of the armorer with his weapon. The stone sweeping along the sword’s blade gave a rhythmic background to the setting, like a man scything wheat. Cloths buffing shields to a mirror-like finish added an air of domesticity which tended to confirm the impression of rustic calm.
“What are you staring at?”
Simon pointed. “You’d hardly think it was necessary to polish armor so clean, would you?”
The knight gave a small smile at the bailiff’s ignorance. “Professional warriors often do that. Most armies are made up of peasants who have been ordered from their fields by their lords to go and fight for a cause they often understand only very sketchily. If they are hurled against another, similar army, they can sometimes do well, but if they find themselves arrayed against men who are clothed in armor, who shine like angels when the sun touches them, and who gleam so brightly that it is painful to look upon them, the average peasant will want to turn and run. Mercenaries are naturally warlike people because that’s how they earn their living, and they practice and train to make sure that they are likely to win. After all, there is no prof
it for anybody in fighting if you’re going to die. All soldiers intend winning, and living to enjoy their gains. A shining shield and helmet simply helps put the odds more in the mercenaries’ favor.”
“Whatever they do is designed to help them kill.”
“Not only that: more to win,” Baldwin studied his friend. “All they want is to make money, the same as any other businessman. They make nothing by killing. Prisoners who are worth money are ransomed, but in the main a mercenary army would be happier to see their poorer enemies put to flight.”
“What if they fail, and they capture prisoners who are worth little or nothing in ransoms?”
“They will die,” said Baldwin, his voice hardening. “But ruthlessness is not unique to mercenary bands. In any war it is the weak and poor who suffer. The same will be happening in Scotland as the army of England tries to hold back the Bruce.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “At that table—aren’t they the two who found Cole last night?”
Baldwin nodded. “We have to talk to them at some point; it might as well be now,” he said. He walked from the room, and with the others in tow, he and Simon led the way from the solar.
In the hall, Sir Hector was seated, complaining irritably about the quality of his food to an agitated Paul. Baldwin gave him a quick look of sympathy, and the innkeeper rolled his eyes. As they got to the doorway, Cristine was coming the other way, carrying a large tray. She stood back, out of Baldwin’s path, with a respectful bowing of her head, but then he caught sight of a different emotion. She smiled with a sunny brilliance that transformed her tired visage, and when Baldwin checked, he saw that her face was turned toward his servant.
Edgar noticed his master’s glance, and quickly fixed his features into their usual blank expressionlessness, but not quite fast enough. He could see that he had not fooled Sir Baldwin, and the knight had to struggle to keep the smile from his mouth. There were, he noted, depths to his servant which were still capable of surprising him.
Henry the Hurdle lounged in his seat, back resting against the inn’s wall, his hands in his belt, belching softly and contentedly with his eyes half-closed. With the sun warming him, he thought he could be in France, except he preferred the drink in England. Watered wine was a pale substitute for good ale, even if it was weak ale. Margery was a very capable alewife, and her strong ale was powerful enough to put men to sleep when they were unused to it; her weak ale, brewed with less malt, had a pleasing, silky mildness, and Henry had already enjoyed three pints. He disliked the continental habit of adulterating good ale with weeds like hops; it made the drink too bitter, and everyone knew it was bad for the health, making the Flemish in northern France, who drank it in huge quantities, fat and bellicose. Beer was not as wholesome as good English ale.
His sense of well-being was rudely shattered when John dug him in the ribs. “It’s the Keeper, Henry. Henry, wake up! The Keeper and his friend are here, the two who found us last night. They’re back again.”
Risking a quick glance from lowered brows, Henry watched the bailiff and his friend. They paused in the doorway, taking in the scene, three men close behind them, before beginning to stroll in the direction of their table. He stretched and yawned, then forced himself upright. “Let’s see what they want.”
Smiling cheerfully, he was the picture of relaxed honesty, but in his mind he was running through the story of what had happened the night before. Henry knew of the Keeper’s reputation in the area: he was able to divine the truth in the way that people spoke, if you trusted what was said about him in the town. Henry did not believe in such powers, but he was prepared to accept that Baldwin was astute, and Henry did not want the knight guessing what had really happened the previous day, so he fixed his smile as firmly as if it had been nailed in place, and waited.
To Baldwin, from a distance they were like any ordinary pair of men taking their ease in the sun. One dozing, the other resting his elbows on the table and sipping at a large pot of ale. It was as he approached and could see their faces that he felt a pang of disgust. If his first impression of Cole was favorable, his immediate reaction to these two in the daylight was the reverse.
The night before he had thought that one was an ill-favored wretch, and now he could see that his recollection was overly generous. In broad daylight John Smithson was as unpleasing a sight as it was possible to imagine, with sallow features, a narrow, steeply raked forehead, sharp face and light, unsettling eyes which avoided Baldwin’s gaze. As they got closer, Baldwin was treated to a sight of Smithson taking a swallow of his ale. A portion fell from his mouth, and he wiped at it with the back of his hand. The knight was grateful not to have seen him eating.
There was nobody else at their table. Several other tables were filled with men from the band, and Simon wondered why these two sat alone, but the thought was fleeting, and he put it from his mind as he took his rest.
This discussion would take some time, Hugh saw moodily. He stood glumly behind his master as the inevitable questions began, Baldwin staring pensively at Henry.
“Last night we were all tired, and the excitement of the chase dulled our wits. I can hardly recall what you said about this man Cole and how you caught him. Could you run through it again?”
Hugh listened while the man told how he and his friend had noticed Cole in town. Originally they had gone after him to invite him to join them in a drink, but on approaching him, they had become suspicious at his behavior. He walked furtively, like a man who had something to hide, so they decided to follow him. He clearly knew the town, for he ducked into narrow alleys, only rarely passed where he could be seen and avoided places where the other members of Sir Hector’s troop might go. They passed under lines of washing, being spattered by drips, and around filthy dumps, until they saw him drop something. They heard it rattle and spin like a coin, saw it glitter, and realized it must be a plate. With horror, they suddenly understood what must have happened: he’d stolen their master’s silver and run away.
As he bent to pick up the fallen plate, Cole happened to glance behind him and—here Henry gave a chagrined smile as if he was disgraced by his stupidity—caught sight of Henry. If Henry had been less keen to see what it was he had dropped, he implied, Cole might not have spotted him. As it was, he had started to run away. They had called for help, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around, and they had chased after him for miles until catching up with him some way out of the town.
Hugh’s attention began to wander. He had heard it all the night before, and was not interested in the finer details of how the two heroes had managed to bring down their prey. At another table a short way off was space for three men, with a slight squeeze. He knew Edgar was committed to the protection of his master come what may, but there was little need to stand immediately behind Simon and Baldwin; a seat a few yards further off would surely be no difficulty. He indicated such to Roger, who leaned against the tree, bored, then tried to get Edgar’s attention. It was only when Hugh took a step back that Edgar noticed him. Hugh jerked his head to the table silently, and Edgar looked from it to his master, then nodded.
Simon was aware of the departure of the three. He saw them taking their seats nearby, then turned back to Henry.
“I am surprised that no one heard you when you called for help,” Baldwin observed.
“So was I, sir,” Henry spread his hands, palms up, in a show of exasperation. “If someone had helped it would have saved us a long run.”
“Yes. It seems quite clear, though, what happened.” Baldwin was lapsing into the slow way of speaking which some mistook for drowsiness, but which Simon recognized as proof of extreme concentration on details. “You were after him for how long, roughly?”
“I suppose about three hours,” Henry said, shooting a glance at his friend. John shrugged.
“How can I tell? It was afternoon when we first saw him, and dark when you caught up with us.”
“Let us assume it was late afternoon, then. Perh
aps you could tell us approximately how long you spent following him and how long chasing him?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t say. No, I’ve got no idea. Anyway, does it matter?”
“Perhaps not, but I was wondering where Cole could have disposed of the silver he stole. And when, of course.”
“When?”
Simon broke in, “Yes, when. When seems to be an interesting problem with every aspect of this matter. When did he get into your captain’s room; when did he take the silver; when did he escape with it; when did he hide it? The only point of any interest apart from that is where he hid it, or with whom.”
“Because, of course, there was more than one man involved,” Baldwin added.
“How can you tell that?” asked Smithson quickly.
Baldwin ignored him. “Sir Hector is a cautious man, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Very. He has to be. In his time he has managed to annoy some powerful men, both here in England and in France. It is only natural that he should be careful.”
“He must be very wary of strangers.”
“Yes.”
“And I suppose he makes sure that nobody he does not know, and know well, can get close to his food or drink.”
Henry leaned back comfortably in his seat. “Yes. Some of his enemies might try to hurt him through poison.”
“And he must be sure, really sure, of only a small number of men.”
“That’s right.”
“Like you, for example.”
“Yes. I’ve been with him for many years.” He smiled.
“Do you remember Cole’s brother?”
The Crediton Killings Page 11