The innkeeper was pleased with his new advertisement. The old “bush,” which had been literally a small blackthorn bush tied to a pole, had lasted some months, but had eventually disintegrated, and when twigs and a part of the old pole had fallen on Tanner, the Constable, Paul thought he’d better get a new one quickly before Tanner could express his indignation. Rather than use another bush, he had decided to purchase an alestake. Now a large cross of timbers swung gently in the wind above him, hanging from its new, stronger pole by chains like an X, and he watched it for some minutes with arms akimbo. No one, he thought with satisfaction, could fail to recognize his inn with a clear sign like that one.
He was about to turn and re-enter his hall when he heard something strange in the bustle of the street. The cheerful cries of the water-carriers and hawkers changed, sounding more muted. People stopped their hurried rushing and stared; urchins craned their necks to peer past adults standing in the way, forgetting their games; a maid from the house opposite appeared, bowl in hand, and was about to throw the contents into the sewer when she stopped and gawped.
Following her gaze, Paul found himself wishing he did not have quite such a prominent alestake after all, but he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders with resolution, and scurried inside. “Margery? Margery, where are you?”
“What is it?” His wife appeared from the buttery, wiping her hands on her tunic. She was in the middle of boiling wort for the next brew of ale and could do without her husband bellowing. Eyeing him with long-suffering exasperation, she was about to give vent to her feelings when he waved excitedly at the door.
“There’s a troop of men-at-arms arrived with their captain. Quick, get the girls to help us; there are too many for us to cope with on our own.”
“We only have room for five…”
“They can’t stay, but we can at least provide them with food and drink. Food! I wonder if Adam has anything we could buy? Otherwise we’ll have to rely on the cookshop.”
She glanced from him to the door, her mouth opening, and then was still.
“Good day,” The confident tone of the knight’s voice pulled the innkeeper’s thoughts back to the present with a shock, like a running dog reaching the full extent of its leash.
“Master, how can we serve you?” Paul said quickly, and moved back to invite the man inside. While his wife watched, he led the stranger to the best seat in the hall, bowing and smiling all the way.
“This looks a comfortable enough inn. My troop and I are bound for Gascony but need to rest awhile. Soon we will continue on our way to the coast.”
“Ah, to join a great lord, I expect.”
“I would hope so. We came back to join the King in the north. Took a ship to London, and we missed him, so we went to York, and met with some of the commissioners, but they seemed to prefer raw youths rather than trained men-of-war. Well, they may regret that choice!”
“They refused you?” the innkeeper asked, with a flattering note of surprise in his voice.
The captain nodded curtly. “They rejected us out of hand, so we came back. But London was full of rumors of war. There were no ships to take us across to Gascony, for all vessels were heading north with extra provisions, and the prices were ruinous, so we decided to come this way. We’ll catch a ship from the coast in a few days.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have enough rooms for all your company, but there may be other places in the town where they can be quartered.”
“I would prefer them to stay here with me.”
“Of course, of course. But I fear we do not have room for them. No matter, I’ll seek out what can be…”
Catching sight of the captain’s unblinking gray eyes as he looked at her husband, Margery froze. The way he twitched his short cloak aside was unmistakably threatening, as was the way he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I feel sure that your guests will understand my wishes, and will be happy to allow my men to take over their rooms. Now, I would like a quart of ale for myself, and I’m sure my men would also like some.”
“Yes, sir, of course,” Paul hesitated. “But I must say again, I am afraid the inn is quite full.”
“We shall see.” The captain turned away; the meeting was at an end. “A quart of ale. Now.”
Leaving her husband to serve him, Margery hastened from the room and, lifting her skirts, rushed through the yard behind the inn, her mind whirling. In residence at the inn was the family of merchants, the cloth-buyer and his wife and daughter, and the goldsmith and his apprentice among others. What would they think of sharing their rooms with the motley troop of men-at-arms? She preferred not to dwell on it. And then there were the girls, too: Cristine, Nell, and young Sarra. A sour grin lessened the solemn set of her features for an instant as she thought of Sarra: if Margery knew the girl at all, she would be pleased with the attention of thirty fit and randy troopers.
At the back of the yard, she paused at the bottom of the steps to catch her breath, then clambered up to the room over the stables and hammered with her fist on the door. “Sarra, are you there? Sarra!”
There was a grunt, then a groaning enquiry. Margery cursed under her breath. “Open the door – quickly! You must come and help us. Sarra!”
A bolt shot back, then the door creaked open to reveal a peevish-looking figure. Margery pushed the door wide and stepped into the room. Sarra had been late to her bed the previous night, she recalled. The girl had been serving guests until the early hours, according to Paul, and had been near the goldsmith’s apprentice almost the whole night. The innkeeper had been amused to see how she tried to engage him in conversation, commenting on his clothing, on his enamelled buckle, and when she ran out of ideas, on the weather. The miserable youth, tongue-tied and self-conscious, had gone puce with embarrassment. To Paul he had looked thoroughly unimpressive, but apparently Sarra had formed the opinion that he was sure to become a wealthy and successful smith, and thus worth the investment of a little of her time. When he and his master had gone to their chamber after saying barely a word to her, she had flounced from the room with a face like thunder. Sarra had never hidden her ambition to marry while she was still young.
And she should succeed, Margery thought to herself, eyeing the young girl. She was not the type that Margery favored usually: she was too long in the leg and small in the bosom for a serving girl, but there was no denying that she had the right glint in her eye when a man took her fancy, and her face was that of an angel – though now it was the face of a disgruntled angel, with the indignant sharpness of someone woken too early.
“Well, what is it? I cleared up this morning and did my chores, so what’s the matter? Aren’t I allowed to have a rest before the evening trade?”
Her tunic was thin, and Margery could see the slimness of her body in the sunlight streaming in from the doorway behind. Where it touched her ruffled hair, it made the honey-golden mane glow like a halo. Her neck was bare and it struck Margery how vulnerable the girl looked. For all her desire to wed while she was still young and not wait until she was “old,” as she put it, no doubt thinking of Margery as the symbol of decrepitude, she was still practically a child, and when the innkeeper’s wife thought of the quality of man which was at this moment settling into the hall, she had a pang of conscience. The girl would be thrown to them like a scrap to a pack of hungry hounds.
“Well?” Sarra’s voice was irritable.
Briefly, Margery explained about the men who had arrived. Even as she spoke she saw the girl’s eyes light up, and could read the direction of her thoughts: men, and a wealthy captain at their head – surely a fellow of influence and power to have the control of thirty others. He was bound to be impressed by her calm and mature demeanor. Margery sighed. “Sarra, don’t start thinking you can run away with men like these. They’re not the kind to want to marry a woman and raise children.”
“Oh no?” There was a sneer in her tone.
“No!” Margery snapped. “I know more
about men than you.” The disdainful curl of Sarra’s lip implied that with the difference in their ages, that was no surprise, and the innkeeper’s wife felt her cheeks flame with resentment. “I’ve seen their kind before: they’re the sort to take a tumble with a maiden, then rush off without even a farewell. Their captain is as bad as the rest, or worse.”
“Worse – how?”
Margery paused and stared at her. “He feels nothing for anyone. All he knows is how to wage war. I promise you, Sarra, these men are no good. Serve them, but don’t try to flirt. It’s too dangerous.”
The girl tossed her head, then ran her fingers through her hair, pulling out the knots and tangles before absent-mindedly plaiting the thick tresses. When she spoke her voice was suspiciously meek. “Very well, Margery. I will be careful.”
“Do. Not for me, but for yourself, Sarra. You’re far too good to waste yourself on the likes of them. You spend more time with the apprentice if you want to marry, and leave this captain to Cristine. She knows how to control men like him.”
After she had gone, the girl stood for a moment or two, staring into the middle-distance while her fingers deftly arranged her hair. Then, giving a short giggle, she tugged off her tunic and dressed in clean shift and skirts.
Sir Hector de Gorsone sat back and let the warmth of the alcohol seep into his tired frame. His men were seated all round, with pitchers of beer before them. It was too late in the summer for wine to be available; that would not be shipped in until later, when the weather was cooler and the drink would not spoil so quickly. Ah, how he looked forward to returning to Gascony where the wine would be fresh and strong! After so many years on the continent, wine suited him better. Ale bloated him.
The hall was like any number of inns he had stayed in, and to his way of thinking, they were all hovels. He was too used to good French buildings. Long and ramshackle, it was filled with the vinegar-sweet stench of stale alcohol and rotting food, which lay on the rushes where it had been tossed by other diners. Dark and comfortless it looked to the knight, but the glow of the braziers and sconces created islands of cheeriness. Benches and tables stood haphazardly, and round these the serving-girls and the innkeeper circulated, trying to satisfy the guests by keeping pots filled with ale and trenchers with pottage and bread. The shutters were tightly barred to keep out the night’s chill, and only their rattling proved that there was a strong wind outside.
Sir Hector yawned, then turned his attention back to his thoughts. He was determined, once he had power or wealth enough, to possess a property in the country, away from the squalor of urban life. He wanted a place with extensive buildings to house his retinue. In towns the amount of land available was restricted by the burgesses, so that all should have adequate space. Sir Hector wanted none of that. He was after an estate, with a good-sized manor house at the heart of it, where he could take a wife and begin his family. The road to success and riches which he had trodden was losing its luster. He was tempted to try a life of peace, and start a new dynasty. But first he needed more money.
He sat at the end of the hall, from where he could see his men and the doorway to the screens. There was no chimney; the fireplace in the middle had access to the roof, in which there was a simple pottery louvre to allow the smoke to escape. The wind was gusting, and added another unpleasant aspect to the hall as smoke fitfully wafted around the room, making Sir Hector cough.
His men were determined to enjoy themselves, he could see. There were three girls, and they ran the gauntlet of ribald jokes and grasping hands wherever they went. Two, he saw, were practiced tavern wenches, slapping at unwanted hands or offering quick responses which inevitably made the men howl with laughter, usually at another’s expense. Every now and again one of his men would offer a fresh sally, and then redden or roar as it was rebuffed. The scene was one he had witnessed in taverns and alehouses from London to Rome, but the sight still brought a faint smile to his otherwise ill-humored features.
One girl caught his eye. She looked younger than the others and less worldly-wise. Where the older women used stinging rebukes to respond to the offers made at each table, this one moved quietly from place to place, apparently embarrassed at the more personal questions hurled at her. She was less experienced at avoiding the hands which reached for her, and seemed nervous of resisting forcefully. She reminded the knight of a hunted deer held at bay, aware that the end must be soon, but not knowing which of the slavering monsters would be first to reach her.
As he watched, he saw the two talking. Henry the Hurdle and John Smithson were ever together, always acted in concert. Now Henry stood as the girl approached down the narrow aisle formed by two long tables, and under the lewd encouragement of his mates, he moved toward her. She could only stand, staring at him with fear in her eyes. When she turned at last to flee, John was already there, cutting off her escape.
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 gu
ests 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.
The Crediton Killings aktm-4 Page 2