by Keith Moray
His spirits rose when Beatrice came in, shaking her head and cursing the incompetence and impudence of the town ale-taster. The girl who had served Hubert whispered to her and she turned and spied Hubert.
‘Good day, Master Hubert,’ she greeted, her voluptuous lips forming into a smile that revealed her strong white teeth and the appealing gap between the two front ones. ‘Is your master Sir Richard not with you this afternoon?’
‘He has gone to the apothecary’s,’ Hubert replied, standing and gesturing to the seat beside him. ‘But I would be grateful for some of your time and the answer to a question or two.’
Beatrice’s eyes sparkled and she winked. ‘Questions about the law, or did you want to ask me questions of a more personal nature?’
Hubert laughed. He certainly found Beatrice Quigley an attractive woman, and he was pretty sure that she had felt the same force. A handsome couple they would make, he felt. And a handsome coupling, a little demon in his mind urged. ‘A few of both,’ he grinned. ‘Will you drink some ale with me?’
‘I will have a little mead,’ she returned, signalling to the serving girl.
‘A sweet drink for a sweet lass,’ Hubert said, raising his mug to her.
In return she smiled coquettishly and gave him a playful prod in the ribs with an elbow. Her drink arrived and they politely clinked pots. As they drank, they naturally fell into conversation. He told her of himself and she told him of how she had inherited the Bucket Inn when her husband had died of apoplexy.
‘That was after a night of excessive passion, Master Hubert,’ she confided.
‘Enough of the “Master”, Beatrice. I am plain Hubert to you.’ And already his mind was thinking of the coupling that he hoped would be not long in coming, especially as she was being so candid. ‘But to business, now,’ he said, tweaking her knee through her dress. ‘Mayhap we shall have time for further chat later.’
‘I am all attention, Hubert. Ask what you will.’
‘Sir Richard is concerned about the murder of the man William Scathelocke. Do you know anything of him?’
Beatrice coloured and took a sip of her mead. ‘Of course. He was one of the pinders and an excellent slaughterman. He could dispatch an ox, pig or horse as quickly as that,’ she said, snapping her fingers in front of her. ‘His main problem was that he drank too much. Of late he was always drunk.’
‘Why did he drink?’
Beatrice bit her lower lip. ‘A woman, of course.’
‘Which woman?’
‘Matilda Oxley.’
Hubert’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean —’
‘Lillian’s cousin. That is right.’
‘But she is betrothed to the outlaw Robert Hood, isn’t she?’
‘She is now. He and William Scathelocke were friends once, then they became rivals for Matilda’s affections.’ Beatrice sighed. ‘And she chose Robin. And then he began drinking. He was always drunk. It made him ill and he became incompetent and stopped doing his job properly. That is how he ended up in the stocks, although in everyone’s opinion the punishment was too harsh.’
‘Did he drink here?’
‘He used to, until he was spurned by Matilda. From then on he hated her, Robin and everything to do with them.’
Hubert contemplated taking another sip of his ale, but laid the mug down instead. He leaned closer to Beatrice and whispered, ‘Could he have been the one who raped Lillian?’
Beatrice’s eyes opened wide in first alarm, then in shock. ‘So that’s it! You want to tidy this case away and have it pinned on poor William Scathelocke?’ She shot to her feet, her eyes blazing. ‘You know full well that a Pardoner confessed to the crime this morning. Why are you trying to say such a … a horrible thing?’
A trio of men drinking at a neighbouring table looked round to see what all the commotion was. As one they stood up and advanced towards Hubert.
‘Is this bumpkin causing you grief, Beatrice?’ asked one, a big man in a horsehair mantle. ‘Shall we show him the dust of the lane?’
‘It looks like that judge’s man,’ said another, with a cloth over one eye socket.
‘That’s no excuse for upsetting Beatrice,’ said the third, a bald older man with a grey beard. ‘Just say the word, Beatrice.’
Hubert eyed them all, but without fear. With the possible exception of the big man, he felt sure that he could give a good account of himself against all three if needs be.
But Beatrice shook her head. ‘He is just leaving, thank you, lads. I don’t want you or your gang breaking any more of my chairs like last night.’
George-a-Green was contrite. ‘That wasn’t my fault, mistress. That was all because some jackanapes set fire to my cloak.’
The others chorused support for the pinder.
‘Beatrice, I did not mean —’ Hubert began.
But the look in her eye told him that remonstration would be useless. He stood and bowed before taking his leave.
Once outside, he chided himself for being so unsubtle. Then he grinned as the image of her standing over him with her flashing eyes and heaving breast came into his mind. She was certainly a woman of spirit. Taming that spirit was going to be a challenge that he would relish.
Neither Richard nor Hubert made any mention to each other of the emotional meetings that they had both had since leaving the Moot Hall. Together they made their way back to Sandal Castle.
After visiting the guildhall and finding it closed and locked, Richard had paid a visit to the shambles and talked with several of the butchers there. All had known and used William Scathelocke and confirmed that he had been a good and useful slaughterman. They had all mentioned his drinking and his rowdy behaviour, but none had known why he had started drinking so much. The news of him being a rival for the affections of Matilda Oxley had come as a surprise to Richard.
‘Could that be another link with the Hood then?’ Richard mused. ‘Perhaps the Hood could have been getting rid of an old enemy when he found him there like a sitting duck? Or perhaps he could have been ensuring his silence.’
‘How so, my lord?’
‘Suppose that the Hood had been the rapist? The stocks are not far from the cemetery. It is possible that Scathelocke had seen something.’
Hubert chewed his lip. ‘I asked Beatrice Quigley if she thought that Scathelocke could have raped the girl. She went half mad and virtually threw me out of the Bucket Inn. She went on about the Pardoner having confessed.’
Richard nodded. ‘And, of course, there is nothing to suggest that the two crimes are in any way linked. Unless the Hood is involved.’ He patted his mount’s neck and it snickered back at him. ‘But the more one thinks about it, the more likely that seems. One thing is a pity though.’
‘What is that, sir?’
‘That we don’t have one of the Hood’s arrows. And we were so close to them only yesterday morning.’
It was late afternoon by the time the little procession left Wakefield and took the road towards Kirklees Priory, some ten miles distant. Lady Katherine and Father Daniel went first in a horse-drawn common cart, followed by Ned Burkin and the Pardoner, then by Owen Kidd, the Northgate constable and two other men of the watch.
The prioress and the nun’s priest were busily discussing a priory matter, Ned Burkin was slurping from a skin of ale, and the Pardoner was hunched over his donkey, mumbling in Latin.
Owen Kidd prodded the Pardoner with the staff and cross that he was carrying along with the Pardoner’s other belongings. ‘You are a lucky dog, Pardoner,’ he said. ‘Sir Thomas would have had your balls cut off and your eyes fed to the crows by this afternoon if he had his way. The new judge seems a much more … mealy-mouthed type.’
Albin of Rouncivale mumbled obsequiously and seemed to hunch up further, as if in attempting to do so he would disappear and escape further taunts. He was feeling totally wretched and more than a little scared. So far, no one had shown him any shred of kindness. He knew that everyone would consider him an outcast, gu
ilty and worthy of nothing except castration, blinding and even death. He knew that he would have to bide his time and try to gain the support of the prioress and the nun’s priest, and then perhaps he would have a chance at the consistory court in York.
The two men of the watch chuckled away to each other.
‘Come on, Ned, let us have some of that ale,’ one of the men complained.
In answer Constable Burkin made a sign, took another swig, then said, ‘You men just keep your eyes peeled. I will watch the prisoner; you just look out for robbers and outlaws as we pass through these woods.’ He turned and blinked at the Pardoner. ‘I must say though, you don’t actually look like the sort of a man who would rape a young girl.’
Albin of Rouncivale looked up at the constable. He shook his head. ‘I didn’t rape her.’
Ned Burkin stared at him as though he was talking to a madman. ‘What are you saying to me, you dog? You said yourself that you raped her. And you stood before the judge this morning and —’
‘I admitted no crime this morning. I just claimed benefit of clergy. I was fleeing for my life last night and I had to get away from two men. That is why I confessed and let you arrest me. I think they were going to kill me.’
‘What foolery is this?’
‘I needed to have my case tried by a consistory court. Once we get to Kirklees Priory, I will talk to the prioress and the nun’s priest.’
Ned Burkin scowled. ‘I think that you should be talking to them now, you villain.’ And he called out to Father Daniel.
The nun’s priest pulled on the reins and stopped the cart and turned round as the constable and his prisoner drew near.
‘Gad, we’re stopping now!’ exclaimed one of the men of the watch. ‘It will be nightfall before we reach Kirklees Priory at this rate.’
‘I can’t say I like these woods,’ groaned the other man of the watch, a gangly fellow with yellow teeth. ‘These shadows make me feel uneasy.’
Constable Burkin touched his forelock. ‘This Pardoner says he needs to talk to you both. He says that he only confessed to this rape to escape from two —’
A high-pitched whistle rang out, followed by a call from behind them.
‘Pardoner! Prepare to pay for your crime!’
They all turned round, but saw no one on the road.
Then there was a whooshing sound followed by a chunking noise and the Pardoner shrieked.
As they all turned at the sound, they saw him slowly tumble backwards off his donkey to lie fumbling helplessly at an arrow that had skewered him through the throat. Blood was gushing from the wound and he was making dreadful gurgling noises, his eyes rolled up so that only the whites showed. Then, before anyone could dismount and reach him, his body convulsed once then he lay flaccid, his arms thrown out in a macabre cruciform position.
The Pardoner, Albin of Rouncivale was dead.
7
Dinner at the castle was a wholly different occasion from the previous evening. Richard supped at the high table with Sir Thomas, Lady Alecia and Lady Wilhelmina, while Hubert ate at one of the long tables with the castle servants and their families. The food was less varied but of an agreeable standard, served with aplomb by Pringle the butler and his staff, while the minstrels played in the gallery above.
‘You are a widower I believe, Sir Richard,’ Lady Alecia stated rather than asked.
‘I am, Lady Alecia. My wife died in childbirth less than twelve months ago. My son lived for a few days. May the Lord bless their souls.’
Sir Thomas grunted. ‘My wife lost two sons before we had Wilhelmina,’ he said sourly. ‘Although she has a mind faster than most men.’
‘Father, please!’ Lady Wilhelmina protested.
‘Oh but you have, my dear,’ said her mother. ‘And you have so many accomplishments. You can sing, play the harp, and speak French and Latin. And you can read and write like —’
Sir Thomas thumped his fist on the table. ‘Enough, Alecia! Are you trying to marry our daughter off to Sir Richard?’
Richard smiled inwardly. He knew that Lady Alecia had probably touched a raw nerve with her husband when she had alluded to her daughter’s literacy. He suspected that Sir Thomas had somehow managed to keep his own illiteracy from her with his overbearing ways.
Lady Wilhelmina gave her own spirited reply. ‘Father! Mother! You have embarrassed both Sir Richard and me. May I withdraw?’
Richard raised a hand to protest, but Lady Wilhelmina had already risen, studiously keeping her gaze averted from him.
‘Lady Wilhelmina,’ Richard pleaded, ‘there is no need to feel —’
But it was too late. After curtsying to no one in particular, she flounced out of the hall. As she did so, all of the other diners had either shot to their feet or were busily pushing back their stools in order to do so. Sir Thomas had said nothing to try to restrain her and he said nothing when his wife also retired after first giving her most profuse apologies to Richard. Once again, the rest of the hall stood as the Deputy Steward’s wife swept out of the hall.
Sir Thomas reached across the table for a jug and replenished his mug. ‘Women, eh?’ he chuckled. ‘I fear that they do not understand much of the real world.’
Richard shook his head in disagreement. ‘Yet your daughter attended the Manor Court today. That implies to me that she is very interested in what is happening in the real world.’
Sir Thomas quaffed his ale and pursed his lips pensively. ‘She has a curious nature, Sir Richard,’ he explained. ‘It is no more than that.’ He leaned forward on one elbow. ‘Actually, I rather think she may have inherited that curiosity from me. I am very curious to know what you have learned about the murder of that villain Scathelocke?’
Richard was surprised by the question. ‘And how do you know that I have learned anything, Sir Thomas?’
The Deputy Steward laughed. ‘Perhaps you think that I am a complete simpleton, Sir Richard,’ he said, fixing Richard with a less than friendly regard. ‘Let me assure you that I am not. I mean to be the true steward of Sandal Castle very soon. Perhaps even Lord of the Manor of Wakefield in time. Suffice it to say that I know of all of your movements today.’
Richard felt his hackles rise, yet he restrained himself from showing any disquiet. ‘So you have had spies watching me, Sir Thomas? I am not sure that His Majesty would take too kindly to having one of his Sergeants-at-Law interfered with when he is investigating the murder of one of his subjects. Remember that I am here under his warrant.’
Sir Thomas merely grunted and gulped more ale. Then he belched slowly. ‘Then if I were you, I would be careful in your investigations. You don’t want to discover a viper’s nest. You know what an aversion His Majesty has to snakes. Just think of what happened to Earl Lancaster.’
After supper, Hubert had gone for another stroll round the battlement walk. As he expected, Adam Crigg was on duty on the same section of wall as the night before.
‘Did that oaf grumble at you last night?’ Hubert asked.
Adam gave a lopsided grin. ‘He yelled a bit and tried to belittle me in front of the guardroom, but quite honestly, I don’t give a witch’s wart for him.’
They walked on, Adam keeping a constant watch on the approach to the castle.
‘What are the castle defences like?’ Hubert asked.
Adam grinned again. ‘If you weren’t the judge’s man and a fellow soldier, I might take you for a spy,’ he joked. He turned and spat. ‘But the truth is that this castle would take a good siege now. It didn’t before Earl Lancaster took it, but he shored it up and did a lot of reinforcements. With the drawbridge up, it should be pretty damned impregnable. We’ve got an outer and an inner moat, machicolations above the main gate and on the barbican. And that barbican would defend the keep against an army. We’ve got three wells and plenty of food to last a few months.’ He grinned again. ‘And plenty of ale and wine.’
Hubert tapped Adam’s pike. ‘Your weapons seem to be well sharpened and in good co
ndition. I suppose you’ve got an armourer to maintain everything.’
Adam clicked his tongue. ‘We did have a good one. Old Jomo was the armourer and castle blacksmith for twenty years. What he didn’t know about ballistas, onagars, axes and halberds just wasn’t worth knowing. And he could mend anything from a ploughshare to a church bell. It was him that I told you about last night. Earl Lancaster had him make new bells for his chapel in the west tower and for the Church of St Helens in Sandal Magna. And the Earl had him make all those other little bells that the Deputy Steward is so fond of.’
‘What happened? You talk as if he isn’t here anymore.’
‘He isn’t anywhere, friend Hubert.’ He crossed his heart. ‘I just hope he’s forging bells and angel arrows up in heaven, and not working on the Devil’s forge down below. He died one afternoon about a year or so ago. He had a good breakfast, then just got ill straight afterwards. Master Oldthorpe was sent for by the Earl, but there was nothing he could do. By noon he had given up the ghost. Gideon Kitchen was bloody inconsolable for a week and thought that he must have poisoned him.’
Hubert shook his head sympathetically. ‘These things happen sometimes. An Act of God, maybe?’
‘Maybe. It was just fortunate that he had no family. Anyway, he’s buried over the hill. I sometimes salute him when I hear the chapel bell ringing.’
Hubert patted the sword at his side. ‘It is a pity, right enough. I would have liked to get this faithful old fellow of mine sharpened.’
Adam looked at it with the eye of a professional soldier. ‘I’ll take care of that for you, friend Hubert. For a mug of ale!’
‘Right willingly will I buy you one, or several. A good drinking session would go down well with me,’ Hubert replied with a laugh. He looked about the walls, where two other guards were watching their sections. ‘Where is your sergeant this evening?’
‘Sleeping! The dozy clod. He is taking a party out at first light. Sir Thomas came back this afternoon huffing and puffing about your master. He says that he is going to capture Robert Hood.’