For his part, Hugh had become aware how much his master meant to him; he was surprised by the strength of his emotions, seeing Simon lying flat on the ladder, an arm dangling at one side.
It was not the fear of unemployment. That was a concern for any man, but Hugh knew he could make his own living, even if it meant returning to his old village and eking out a life with relations, catching rabbits and game for his food and sleeping in a barn. There was always a place for him to live. That was not what made him silent, his eyes fixed on the still form before him, trying to avoid stumbling and tripping as he devoted himself to his master’s safe delivery at the priest’s house; it was the realization that the bailiff was more of a friend than a lord. For the first time, the servant understood that without Simon his existence would lose purpose. His being revolved around Simon and Simon’s family, and without the man, there was nothing.
Just then, Edgar faltered, missing his step on a loose cobble, and made the ladder pitch. Hugh barely managed to restrain an impatient curse at the man for being so clumsy. They were all feeling the weight.
Seeing his white face, Baldwin walked over to him and patted his shoulder. “He will be all right, Hugh,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “He’s strong, and he’ll soon mend.”
“But what’s the matter with him?” Hugh burst out. “He’s breathing, but he won’t wake. Was he stabbed, like that woman?”
“I don’t think so. He’s unconscious, so he must have been hit by someone.”
“Who?”
Baldwin gave him a tired smile. “When we have found out who murdered Sarra, and that poor woman there tonight, I think we’ll be nearer answering that.” They were at Peter’s gate now. “Someone must have hated the poor wretch to kill her and dump her there like that…but who? Who could have hated a beggar so much?”
Simon came to wakefulness only slowly, like a child woken after too little sleep, resentful and fractious. His head felt as if it had been scraped along the ground on one side and bumped over a series of cobbles, and his neck hurt as horribly as the time when he was a boy and had been playing at jousting with a friend. He had fallen off his horse, and the sharp crackle, like lightning exploding at the base of his skull as his head was jerked back in the fall, had shortly afterward led to the same kind of sore, red-hot sensation.
For a moment he enjoyed the comfort of the bed with his eyes shut. For some reason he knew that the pleasure would not last, but he had to force his mind back to think what was wrong, and when he remembered, his eyes snapped open. The woman, lying, her son staring, and then—nothing. Someone had hit him; must have knocked him out. Who?
His anger rose steadily. Somebody had attacked him—him—a bailiff! Had dared to strike him. Whoever had done that would dare anything.
“Are you well?”
He glanced to his side, and there he saw his wife. Margaret sat with her head resting against the back of her chair. She looked exhausted. Her head felt too heavy to lift, her neck too weak to support it after spending the whole night with her husband, hoping and praying that he would recover. Everyone knew how dangerous head wounds could be. Sometimes they looked little more than slight bumps, yet the victim could suddenly begin to have fits, and then might die. Simon’s wound was only a minor scrape apparently, but he had been so deeply asleep she had wondered whether he might ever waken again.
At the first break of dawn, he had begun to mutter in his sleep, calling for her, Margaret, and then for his son. Peterkin’s name was repeated over and over again, and if she was fanciful, she might have said he sounded ever more desperate, as though he was trying to call his son back from danger—or from the dead.
Then the mutters had changed. He still used Peterkin’s name, but had started to call out: “Get away! Boy, come here. You’ll be safe here, come to me. No! Come away from her!”
Baldwin had told her about the woman in the alley, so Margaret had immediately understood that Simon was dreaming about the corpse. For the rest, she had no idea what he was saying as he flung his head from side to side and moaned. To calm him and stop him from hurting himself, she had lain beside him and put her arms round him, cuddling him as she had once cuddled his son, and weeping as he wept.
“How did I get here?”
“The men found you.”
“And—”
“She’s dead.”
“Not her—her boy! Did they find her son?”
“Son—what son?”
“Fetch Baldwin.” Then, as she lurched to her feet, fatigue thinning her features and drawing her skin tight, he gave her a weak smile. “You’ve been here with me all night, Meg, haven’t you? I don’t deserve you. When you’ve found Baldwin, go and get some sleep. I love you.”
His smile was enough to take away much of her sleepiness. She hurried to the hall, where she found Baldwin already up and talking to Peter Clifford. As soon as they heard Simon was awake, they went in to see him.
Baldwin was surprised to see that his friend looked quite refreshed. He would have anticipated heightened color, a feverish gleam in Simon’s eyes and pale, waxy skin. Instead he found a bailiff who was to all intents the same as the day before. “How do you feel?”
“Irritable. And stupid to have been such easy prey.”
“It can happen. Even the best knight has been known to have been attacked.”
“This was different,” Simon explained what he could remember. “Where did the boy go?” he fretted. “That’s what I want to know. Did the murderer catch him too?”
Peter had dropped into Margaret’s chair. “There was a boy there too? My God! What kind of a man could kill like that, in front of a young child?”
“Many, Peter,” Baldwin said.
“Yes,” Simon agreed tightly. “There are thirty or so like that who are staying even now at the inn.”
“What? You think this was done by one of the soldiers?”
“Who else could it have been?”
Peter Clifford leaned forward in his chair. “He’s right, Sir Baldwin. Who else but a man accustomed to rape and loot, murder and pillage, could do such a wicked, inhuman thing?”
“This woman was little more than a girl,” Baldwin said thoughtfully. “Why should a man kill someone he did not know? It makes no sense.”
“One of them just likes killing—that’s what I think,” Simon was definite. “He killed poor Sarra, now this woman. And probably her son too.”
“I fear you must be right,” Peter sighed. “Those poor young women. And that little lad, too.”
Baldwin looked from one to the other. “No,” he said at last. “I can’t believe that. Suppose Sarra was murdered by one of them; why should the same man kill this poor beggar? I can see no connection. It is quite possible that a man from the troop did murder Sarra, I accept that, but I see no reason to suppose that the same one killed the woman last night.”
“Are you saying that there might be two killers in the town?” asked Peter, appalled.
“Possibly.”
“What about Sir Hector?” Simon said. “He could have killed Sarra, and we know he was harsh toward the beggar yesterday. Perhaps he went out again and met her, and—”
“What motive would he have for going down that alley and killing her? No, I think we need to know more facts—such as, did he go out last night?—before we begin to speculate. In any case,” Baldwin made his way to the door, “I must try to find the boy.”
Hugh and Edgar were waiting in the hall. Simon’s servant was playing with Edith, and Baldwin left him, speaking to his own man. “We have to speak to Sir Hector. After his behavior with the dead woman yesterday, we need to find out whether he might have had a chance to kill her—though what his motive could have been, God Himself only knows. The woman had a young child—a boy. We must search for him first. He was there when Simon was attacked, and it’s just possible that he saw the murderer—if it was the same man—who knocked him out.”
Edgar nodded and left the
room without a word. Baldwin knew he would be collecting their swords, and waited by the window, staring out at the town.
The attack upon Simon had upset him more than he liked to admit, even to Edgar. The fact that there were so many men who were, by their nature, uncontrollable, made him doubt whether he would be able to bring one of them to book even if he found conclusive evidence against him. Especially if it was Sir Hector…He had a force of thirty to protect him—sufficient to hold off all the townsmen if need be. Baldwin turned from the window, frowning in concentration. At all costs he must prevent any risk of a battle.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Hugh?” The knight cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Sir, I’d like to help this morning.”
“I think Margaret will need all the help she can get. And Edith needs to be watched.”
“One of Peter’s servants can look after her. And my mistress will soon be asleep, as will my master shortly. I’m not needed here. But I want to help find out who hurt my master last night.”
Baldwin pursed his lips. It was obvious that Hugh was deeply upset about the previous night’s events. He had looked close to tears whenever Baldwin had noticed him, staring for the most part at his master’s body. The knight could sense his need to try to do anything which could help bring the bailiff’s attacker to justice. “Very well. You are good with children; you can help most by trying to find the woman’s child. Go back to where we found Simon and her, and see if you can see any sign of him.”
It was hot and clammy outside and Baldwin’s mouth twisted in displeasure as he shrugged his tunic to lie more loosely over his shoulders. He had always hated muggy weather, ever since the time he had spent at Acre and in Cyprus. The air there was forever humid, in his recollection, and he disliked it intensely. He much preferred the dry heat of Auvergne and Bourbonnais. As soon as they left the cool stone building, the warm air assailed them, making the sweat tickle and itch under their arms and down their spine, and before they had gone far, Baldwin could feel that the back of his clothing was already wet.
When he threw a glance over his shoulder, staring out of town toward the east, he could see that the sky was as gray as the sea, and as intimidating. There was a subtle lightening on the horizon, but above, all was leaden, and that together with the humidity could only mean that foul weather was on its way.
The inn looked busy for so early an hour. When Baldwin and Edgar appeared, men scurried away from the door, and several of them pointed and muttered. One, who looked like Wat, grinned and leaned back against the doorframe, but the others all appeared to develop a sudden embarrassment, and none would meet Baldwin’s eye. The knight waved Hugh off to conduct his search of the alley, and then jerked his head at his own man.
At the door, Wat blocked their way, “Here to see someone?” he sneered.
“We wish to see your captain,” Baldwin agreed.
“I doubt he’ll want to see you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll soon find out.” Wat laughed and stood aside.
Baldwin hesitated, for the expression on the mercenary’s face showed something was amiss, but then he stepped forward and walked into the inn.
The hall was abustle with grumbling men, some rolling up blankets, other stuffing shirts and oddments into small sacks. Men pushed their way past him, carrying their goods out into the yard. Peering through the open doorway, Baldwin could see more men out there, tightening girths and fitting bridles to Sir Hector’s horses.
“Come,” he said grimly to Edgar.
They could hear him before they reached the solar block. “Dolt! Cretin! Moron! I said put it in that chest—that one there. Are you a fool? Are you deaf? God’s teeth! Damn you, you bastard!”
All of a sudden, Baldwin felt his mood lifting.
Without knocking, he lifted the wooden latch and walked in. The captain was standing over a servant, one of the boys whom Paul the innkeeper employed to help guests. Kneeling by the chest, his face red and his eyes damp, he looked as if he could have burst into tears at any moment, and probably would have done so if it wasn’t for the swearing and bellowing captain ordering him around.
“What do you want?” snarled Sir Hector.
“Why, to speak with you,” Baldwin smiled, and seated himself on the edge of a closed chest.
“What if I don’t want to speak to you?”
“You have little to lose. I only need to ask a couple of questions.”
“That may be so, but I, meanwhile, have to supervise this,” he said, kicking the boy as he spoke.
“Where were you last night?”
“What?” He stared, but after a moment his eyes slitted distrustfully. “Why?”
“Were you in the hall all night?”
“I said: Why?”
“A woman was killed. Stabbed, just like Sarra was in here. In that chest.” To add a degree of emphasis, Baldwin stared at the trunk open before the boy, who snatched his hand from it in superstitious awe.
“A woman? What woman? Another tavern slut? A harlot? What’s it to do with me?”
“That depends on where you were last night.”
“I was out.”
“Where?”
Sir Hector glowered. “There’s no reason for me to hide it. I was waiting for a friend, that’s all.”
“Did she arrive?”
“How did you know it was a woman?”
“Who else could it be?” Baldwin said with asperity, suddenly tired of constantly sparring with the captain. “Sir Hector, the woman you spurned yesterday, the woman who was poor and begged you for alms—she was murdered last night. We found her body in an alley. She wasn’t even hidden, just left where she had fallen. Do you know anything of this?”
“No.”
His eyes held Baldwin’s resolutely, and the conviction they carried, and the certainty in his voice, would have been enough to make the Keeper leave immediately if this was any man other than the mercenary leader. “Could it have been one of your men?”
“No.”
“You seem very sure.”
“Keeper, my men and I are here to break a long journey back to Gascony. We have only been here once before, and that was years ago, and right now all I want to do is get away to Gascony and earn some money.”
“What of your silver?” Baldwin said, surprised that the captain could consider leaving before it had been recovered.
“I…” He glanced at the boy. “Leave us!” The lad was not loath to go. When he had scampered from the room, the captain sat on a trunk and stared at the other man. “The silver is gone, Sir Baldwin, but I think I know where it might be.”
“Please explain.”
The captain scowled at the floor. “Last night two of my men decided to leave. Henry and John, the bastards!” The word was spat out with virulence, but he calmed himself and continued more steadily. “They up and left last night, and nobody noticed—even though they had horses. And, no doubt, all my silver. They must have witnessed Cole hiding it, and removed the silver from his hoard.”
“Why do you suppose that?”
“Because they’ve disappeared! It’s the only thing that makes sense: they saw him steal my plate, so they knocked him on the head, took the silver from him, and hid it again. They knew if he told where he had put it, and the place was found empty, we’d assume he was lying and still had it all stashed away.”
“There is another possibility—that Cole had nothing to do with it,” Sir Baldwin reminded him. “I tend to that view.”
“Why?”
“Because they went to the trouble to show it was him. They actually took two plates to prove he had taken the stuff.”
“That means nothing. They could have done that to show who had really stolen it.”
“I doubt it. But why should they have decided to go now? And where do you think they have gone?” Baldwin asked the disgruntled captain.
“As to the why, because they killed the girl a
nd thought you were getting too close to them, I suppose,” said Sir Hector, but he did not meet Baldwin’s eye. He saw no point in letting the Keeper know how much at risk Henry and John were if they were still in Sir Hector’s company when he returned to France. The knight had a long memory for disloyalty, and the suggestion that the two had plotted against him was enough to show that they were dangerous to him. They would never have made it to the French coast, to English Gascony. A channel of water offered endless possibilities for mislaying someone.
“Their running away certainly makes it look as if they are guilty,” Baldwin mused. It was possible, he thought. They were the type of person who would very easily fit the mold of thief and general bad character. He sighed. So much had happened so quickly, he felt he was losing track of essentials: while following one line of questioning, he was being buffeted by gales of irrelevance.
“What do you plan to do?” he asked.
“They have gone. I cannot find them—I hardly know this part of the country. I will go to the coast and find a new lord in Gascony.”
“And leave your silver?” Baldwin was struck by renewed doubt. There was something in the man’s attitude that grated. He had every right to be angry, but there was a hastiness to this decision to depart which was in itself suspicious; when added to the amount of silver which had been taken, it was positively incredible. The captain could not simply go and accept his loss. No leader like him could hope to keep his men loyal if they saw comrades take his money like that and get away with it. Baldwin nodded slowly. It was apparent to him that Sir Hector was determined to hunt down the two men himself without the encumbrance of a Keeper demanding clemency.
“What could I do to find it?”
The cynical question confirmed Baldwin’s conviction. “You must wait here. In my friend Peter Clifford’s house is Walter Stapledon of Exeter, the Bishop. He will know every smith in the city, and he has the men to investigate. Within two days we will have your two back here.”
The Crediton Killings Page 18