[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘You must remember,’ cried Havloc wildly. ‘It was near an inn, below the castle!’

  ‘The Gabriel. I know it, your honour,’ the beggar allowed cautiously. ‘The better sort of folk stay there, good charitable folk like yourself. Pity me—’

  ‘He doesn’t remember,’ Straccan said, reaching a hand to help Havloc up. ‘Shame. It was worth a penny. Maybe two.’

  The beggar’s one bright eye stared up at them. ‘What’s worth tuppence?’

  ‘This man saw you near the inn on the eve of Saint Audrey’s Mass, just before he was beaten and robbed,’ said Bane, stepping down to block the little cart’s way.

  The beggar squealed and put his hands over his face. ‘Not by me, sirs! I’m just a poor cripple!’ Through his fingers the poor cripple watched them warily.

  ‘You were there when it happened,’ Havloc said. You must have been; you can’t move fast in this thing. You must have seen it all!’

  ‘No I never,’ the beggar whined. ‘I never seen em, I mean you. Only got one eye, ain’t I? it sees poorly.’

  ‘He’s lying. Let’s wheel him along to the castle,’ Bane suggested, getting hold of the cart. ‘Crowner’s men’ll get the truth out of him.’

  The beggar’s muscles bunched, sliding under the skin with peculiar fluidity as his misshapen body rearranged itself, joints slipping smoothly into place. He scrambled from the cart, trying to duck away between their legs, but Bane had him by the neck of his shirt and yanked him back, twisting the fabric into a bunch to get a stranglehold on the beggar.

  ‘What did you see?’

  The man croaked and wriggled but Bane held on.

  ‘I… can’t… talk…’ the beggar wheezed.

  ‘Squeak, then,’ Bane said. You might still get your tuppence. Or you can tell the crowner’s men instead. They’re not as gentle as me.’

  ‘It was two men,’ the beggar managed.

  ‘That’s better. Go on.’

  ‘I was going home. It was late.’ He jerked a thumb at Havloc. ‘He came staggering up from the river, drunk, I thought. He fell in the midden. That’s when they jumped him. They was behind the stairs, under the angel.’

  ‘Angel?’ said Straccan.

  ‘The Gabriel’s sign.’

  ‘There!’ said Havloc. ‘I told you!’

  ‘You knew they were there, didn’t you,’ said Bane, shaking him. ‘You were in it with them.’

  ‘I wasn’t! I dint see em ’til they jumped him!’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ He squawked as Bane shook him again. ‘I don’t know, honest! One was big and dressed like a monk; I never saw his face. The other was little, bald. Had a patchwork coat like a player wears.’

  ‘Have you seen them since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see what they took from me?’ Havloc asked.

  ‘Purse, shoes and something you had on a string round your neck,’ the beggar said promptly. ‘A little bag.’ He made a fist to indicate size.

  Straccan stooped, picked up the dropped cup and the coins that had spilled from it and handed it back, adding two pennies of his own. Relieved, the beggar relaxed, only to get a nasty surprise when Bane propelled him in the direction of the castle.

  ‘Oi,’ he protested, twisting and tugging in vain. You promised!’

  ‘I promised you tuppence. There it is,’ said Straccan. ‘But you’ll have to tell the coroner what you saw. You’re a valuable witness. We can’t risk anything happening to you.’

  ‘But me lord,’ wriggling desperately, ‘they lock witnesses up!’

  ‘So they do,’ said Straccan, ‘but I’ll see you are fed, and when you’ve given your evidence to the justices you’ll be a free man again. Havloc, fetch his cart along. It’s his livelihood.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Without the ringing of church bells, forbidden under the Interdict, it was difficult to be accurate in the matter of timekeeping, but it was as near as Straccan could guess to the hour of sext when they reached the milestone. He saw no one waiting, but from the bushes at some distance from the road he heard the snort and jangle that betrayed a hidden horse and drew his sword.

  ‘Come out!’

  Larktwist appeared but Straccan did not sheathe his sword. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Course I am. I always work alone.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Straccan. ‘So you are spying again.’

  ‘Not at all, sir!’ Larktwist looked injured. ‘Matter of fact I’m sort of between jobs just now. Resting, you might say. It’s been a busy year.’ And indeed, the little spy looked more prosperous than when they had parted company after last summer’s adventures. He had a horse for one thing, a plain but dependable-looking creature, and though the saddle and harness were old they were good. He wore a decent coat and adequate shoes and his cloak, thrown back, showed a long dagger ready to his hand. Larktwist had come up in the world.

  Sheathing his sword Straccan dismounted, handing the reins to Bane, and crossed the road.

  Over Straccan’s shoulder Larktwist’s bright knowing eyes examined Havloc. ‘Doesn’t look like a murderer, does he? Still, you never can tell. It’s the quiet ones you have to watch.’

  ‘I’m a busy man, spy. Are you going to spill what you know or do I have to squeeze every drop from your weasly throat?’

  ‘There you go again,’ said Larktwist, hurt. ‘Spy’s an unkind word, leads to misunderstandings. I prefer to call myself an agent; it sounds so much more professional. And is that any way to talk to an old friend?’

  ‘Friend?’

  ‘Journey-mate then. Be fair! You had no cause to complain of me last year.’

  ‘True. But a man can’t piss in a corner without you reporting the length of his cock!’

  The spy grinned. ‘It’s my job, sir. If you want to piss go ahead. I won’t look.’

  ‘Get on with it, Larktwist!’

  ‘You’re looking for a stolen cup, or for the man that stole it. There’s a reward, right?’

  Straccan put a friendly-seeming hand on the spy’s shoulder, but his fingers gripped like iron.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘I don’t have time to play patty-cake with you,’ Straccan said, shaking him. ‘If you know anything, spy, stop buggering about and tell me!’

  ‘All right! All right!’ Larktwist settled his dishevelled clothing and gave Straccan a reproachful look. ‘Is it true about the reward?’

  Straccan nodded.

  Larktwist looked pleased. ‘In that case… Have you met the abbot?’

  ‘I’ve met lots of abbots. Which one?’

  ‘The beggars' abbot, the thieves' abbot.’ At Straccan’s blank look Larktwist chuckled. ‘There’s one in every town. Beggars and thieves are all under him, like monks under an abbot, see? They give him part of their takings or whatever they’ve pinched and he finds a buyer and pays them a bit of what he gets. Every thief has to clear any plan with his abbot before doing anything — except for the opportunity of the moment, of course; that’s understood. The abbot’s their law and order.’

  ‘That’s monstrous,’ said Straccan.

  ‘No it ain’t, it’s sense,’ protested Larktwist. ‘Where would thieves be without law and order? How would they earn a decent living? Who could they trust to see fair play and keep knives in sheaths instead of in guts?’

  ‘You’re telling me thieves are organised?’

  ‘It’d be sodding chaos if they weren’t! Over the abbot there’s a bishop — he’s responsible for a whole area, a diocese, if you like — and all the abbots have to give him a rake-off.’

  ‘Who’s the bishop for this area?’

  ‘No one knows that except the abbot.’

  ‘Who’s the abbot, then?’

  ‘Ah, now there I might be able to help you.’

  Ludlow’s beggars and thieves had established a shanty settlement in a disused quarry outside the town. A few shelters were sturdily built of pilfered timber or drif
twood lugged from the river but most were mere tents, and some folk simply tucked themselves into the narrow spaces between shacks, counting themselves lucky to be sheltered on two sides even though they lacked a roof.

  The townsfolk had petitioned the bishop of Gloucester, who owned the land, to have the beggars driven out but the bishop had prudently fled to France, along with every other English bishop save one, and had more important matters to think about. The disgruntled people wanted the settlement pulled down and burned. They called it Beggartown, but the beggars called it Home.

  This wasn’t Sanctuary, where hard cases such as killers and rapists were protected for a time from the law’s retribution; these were not Sanctuary-men but free people and proud of it. There was no thieving in Beggartown — the abbot had no mercy and no one got a second chance. Trussed and gagged, thieves were tossed in the Teme with only themselves to blame. They had all of Ludlow to steal from; Beggartown was sacrosanct.

  ‘Where’s the abbot, then?’ Straccan asked.

  ‘By the fire.’

  Larktwist had met them as arranged, after dark, and brought them here by devious ways. He had abandoned his respectable garb for beggarly rags, and looked and smelled as repellent as the rest.

  A big cloaked figure sat slumped on a barrel by the fire, leaning on a long cudgel. Wearing a spreading leather hat and with a patch over one eye he looked very like Wodan, lacking only the ravens. A small boy leaned against his knee.

  The flames cast a festive light over the crowd of men, women and children, illuminating sunken cheeks and gummy grins, harelips and missing ears, bandages, crutches and the stumps of arms and legs. It lent skinny bodies in their tattered garb a theatrical gaudiness — here a flare of ragged scarlet, there the glint of soiled yellow silk in a patched kirde.

  They were a cheerful pack of vagabonds, for the day’s work was over and it was time for supper. Clutching bowls and cups they queued at the fire. Savoury smells issued from a great pot on a tripod over the flames and a gaunt old woman ladled stew into the bowls held up to her. Nearby stood a thin man with a wax tablet which, as each dish was filled, he marked with a stylus.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Bane asked.

  ‘Everyone pays,’ Larktwist whispered. ‘It’s all reckoned up. We — they — settle accounts weekly.’

  At the tail of the queue, hanging back at a considerate distance, were half a dozen men whose overpowering stink paled Larktwist’s into insignificance.

  Bane gagged. ‘Christ! Who are they?’

  Larktwist shrugged. ‘Gong scourers.’

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘Someone’s got to do it,’ said Larktwist defensively.

  ‘Don’t they ever wash?’

  ‘Course they do,’ said the spy indignandy. ‘First thing they do is dip in the river, even when they have to break the ice. Makes no difference. It’s soaked into them.’

  The reeking band thoughtfully carried their suppers to the farthest reach of Beggartown, but the gusting wind brought their stink back.

  ‘Introduce us to the abbot.’ Straccan’s hand on the spy’s shoulder turned him about and pushed him towards the fire.

  Abbots were elected. Beggartown and like establishments in every other large town had a shifting population with a small core of more or less permanent residents, and they believed in democracy. When the previous abbot had died they chose this one, Dimittis, to take his place. It was no light matter choosing their overlord. He must be a man whom all respected, and — within limits — trusted. A man able to keep bullies and thieves under control. One who would look out for the interests of the weaker among them, children and the genuinely crippled. Cunning and strong enough to enforce his rule, exact his tribute, and reliable enough to use a fair part of it for the benefit of all. Experienced in the wiles and tricks of his own kind and utterly ruthless in defence of their common good.

  Years ago when Dimittis was a boy and his name was Edward, he had been a novice in a poor Cistercian convent. He’d had no vocation. He was that to-be-pitied creature, a younger son. A withered arm from birth prevented him from taking service with any lord or captain, although with his one good arm he was very useful with quarterstaff and axe, well able to look after himself at need. His older brother would inherit their holding, and his father gifted the Cistercians with an orchard on condition they took his worthless second son.

  It was the convent, his father told him, or take to the roads and beg! And that would have been the better choice, he thought, when after six months of gruel, onion soup, black bread, hard labour and diarrhoea, he decided to run away.

  Nunc dimittis, they were singing in Choir when he stuffed the bosom of his robe with stolen bread and hauled himself over the wall and away. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace. He chuckled as he ran, hiding in hedges and ditches, sure of pursuit but certain that he would soon be too far away for any to find him.

  He chopped wood for a woman who paid him with a good meal, the best he’d had for half a year.

  ‘What’s your name, lad?’ she asked.

  He chewed and swallowed. ‘Dimitris,’ he said.

  He’d never gone hungry since then.

  Now he sat on his barrel by the fire with his iron-bound cudgel under the armpit of his useless limb and watched as Straccan approached, followed by Bane and Havloc with Larktwist unhappily wedged between them. All eyes were on them. Greasy faces looked up from gnawing bones, food arrested on its way to open mouths; suspicious, resentful, hungry stares from men, women and children. The woman dishing out second helpings paused with ladle raised and the accountant glowered at them.

  The abbot whispered something to his boy who scuttled off into the shadows rimming the firelit circle. After a moment or two he returned with a wooden bucket.

  ‘Sit down, sir.’ The abbot’s voice was a deep rumble. Straccan sat on the upturned bucket; Larktwist shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortably the centre of attention.

  ‘Master Bird,’ said the abbot to Larktwist, and Straccan raised an eyebrow at the name. ‘You have brought us guests. No doubt you had good reason.’

  ‘The best of reasons,’ said Straccan quickly. ‘My knife at his liver.’

  ‘Ah.’ The abbot smiled. ‘A universal persuader. Well, Master Bird, thank you. Have your supper in peace now while I talk with these gentlemen.’

  Bane and Havloc let go. Larktwist, with a windy sigh of relief, pulled a wooden bowl from his rags and took his place last in the diminishing queue.

  ‘It was you, sir,’ rumbled the abbot to Straccan, ‘if I am not mistaken, who caused Pity Me to be locked up.’

  ‘The beggar? Is that his name? He’s a witness. He’ll be let out when he’s given his evidence. Meanwhile I promise you he’ll be well fed and none shall harm him.’

  ‘That may be, but he is still in prison.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Straccan. ‘That’s the way it is. Witnesses must be kept safely until they can say their piece. We dared not risk losing him.’

  ‘And what was he unfortunate enough to see?’

  ‘He saw two thieves attack and rob this man.’ Straccan touched Havloc’s arm. ‘They stole his purse, his shoes, his belt and a small gold cup which was in a bag round his neck.’

  ‘Why have you come to me?’

  Havloc said, ‘The thief may still have the cup. I will pay a reward to have it back/

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five shillings.’

  ‘You have it with you?’

  ‘Here? Not on your life!’

  ‘At least your misfortune has taught you prudence.’ Dimittis smiled.

  ‘Have you heard anything of the cup?’ Straccan asked.

  ‘If one of my people took it he would have brought it to me. Believe me or not as you choose, but no one has done so. None here would keep such a thing from me. That would be treason and we have a way of dealing with traitors. Your thieves were not of my flock.’

  ‘Pity Me said one was a big man in a monk
ish robe, the other small and bald and wearing a coat of patches,’ said Havloc.

  The abbot shook his head. ‘I don’t know them. You have come on a fruitless errand, gentlemen.’

  ‘Will you at least question your people?’ Straccan asked. ‘Someone may have seen them; someone may know who they are.’ The abbot beckoned to the accountant. ‘Mark, pass the word.’ The thin man gave the two strangers a searching stare before striding away to talk to the various groups and families. They heard exclamations of surprise, snorts and laughs, the hiss of whispered talk. The accountant reappeared in the ring of firelight and bent to mutter in the abbot’s ear.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Dimittis said. ‘No one has anything to tell you. You should leave now, sirs. I noticed some of my people slipping off, no doubt hoping to meet you as you go. I don’t wish any guest of mine to come to harm. I will provide you with an escort back to safety.’ He snapped his fingers and the small boy leaped out of the shadows to his side. The abbot murmured to him and the boy ran off past the row of shacks into the darkness beyond.

  Presently half a dozen men padded back with him, grinning cheerfully and bringing an awesome stench. They were the gong scourers.

  Chapter Twenty

  At the Templars’ Commandery, Straccan withdrew funds enough for his journey.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said the Master, rummaging among the piled deeds, documents and chirographs on his table. ‘Got a letter for you — it’s here somewhere — chap from your manor brought it while you were away. Ah, here it is.’ The Master handed over a grubby packet wrapped in waxed cloth, sealed, and tied with string. Straccan couldn’t make out the device on the smudged seal. He put it in his pocket.

  What tidings of the Irish campaign?’ he asked.

  ‘Sailed at last on Saints Mark-and-Marcellinus; landed on Saint Alban’s,’ said the Master promptly. ‘Marched straight for Kilkenny, but the bird had flown.’