Simon stared at him open-mouthed. “He could have, couldn’t he?”
“It would explain the facts: Sir Ralph and John see the miner, words are exchanged, the squire threatens to go and see Molly, the miner promises a fight if he does, the knight and his man go to the inn, meet the girl, the miner returns in their wake, sees her going with the knight and waits outside. A little later the squire goes out, they agree to fight, meet out on the moors, fight to the death, and—”
“And the boy dies. John takes the body to Wistman’s Wood and hangs it, then…”
“Yes, that’s the trouble, isn’t it?” said Baldwin as Simon faltered.
Hugh stared from one to the other. “Surely that explains it, doesn’t it?”
“No, Hugh,” sighed Baldwin. “It doesn’t. Firstly, John would not be afraid to admit it. The challenge issued in front of the miners would give him witnesses and make it self-defense, clearing him from a charge of murder. Secondly, the whole inn would have been aware that there was going to be a fight. And thirdly…”
Simon leapt in, “And thirdly, since when did men fight to the death with only thin cords to strangle each other?”
Glaring at the ground truculently, Hugh said, “Maybe they fought with knives or swords and you didn’t see his wounds?”
Baldwin glanced at him. “No, Hugh. There was no stab—I would have seen it. Bruther died from the cord round his neck. It bruised, and bruises only appear on a live body. The mark was thin, and the cord which killed cannot have been any thicker. If someone lives, their bruises smudge and diminish with time. The more clear the outline, the more recent the wound; but if someone dies shortly after a blow or, in this case, strangling, then the changes in the marks don’t happen. It is as if they are frozen. I was told it was God’s way of helping us to find how a man died.”
The servant looked amazed. “How can that be?” he frowned. “Are you sure?”
“I have seen many dead men, Hugh,” said Baldwin, and his voice was sober. “Too many, maybe. But I have lived through wars and seen their effects on the victims. That is how I know.”
They were all silent for a moment. Simon could see that his friend was sunk into a gloomy reverie, but could not think of a way of pulling him back. To his relief, Edgar did it for him. The servant contemplated his master quickly, then, with a motion as if of disinterest, said, “So, where did these miners go to?”
Simon suppressed a grin as Baldwin turned distractedly to look at his servant. “Eh?”
“I was just thinking—there were miners with Bruther on his way back from the inn that night, but they can’t have been with him when he died. Where did they go?”
Baldwin mused, “We only have the word of John and Sir Ralph that there were any men there at all.”
“If you’re right,” Hugh broke in suddenly, his face still holding his doubtful scowl, “couldn’t John have offered a fight anyway?”
“What?” sighed Simon, throwing his servant a look of long-suffering exasperation.
“Well, if John agreed to meet Bruther alone and fight, maybe he went out early, before Bruther expected him, and got him by the neck. That would explain it, wouldn’t it?”
Simon stared, then turned to Baldwin. The knight nodded. “If, as you say, John had agreed to fight him, had left for the inn and then sneaked off to ambush Bruther, it would make sense. It could also explain why Sir Ralph would keep his silence, for the knight could feel that blame could attach to him, after the way that Bruther had insulted him before. And he might feel guilt for the behavior of his squire, because it would be bound to reflect poorly on him. But,” he sighed, “I find it hard to believe that Bruther or John would have trusted the other enough to agree to meet alone.”
Edgar poured more ale, then topped up the other pots. Setting the jug down, he said, “One moment. Surely there are no other witnesses to say that there were any miners there, only Sir Ralph and John? What if the whole roadside meeting was an invention? Could it not be that the two came across Bruther, throttled him and hid his body, and then went on to the inn for an alibi? Afterward John slipped out, took the body again and rode over to Wistman’s, where he hanged it?”
“His guards were there—or so Molly said,” Baldwin insisted.
“And yet they must have gone before Bruther was killed.”
“Yes,” said Simon. “Where did they go? And why?”
“And when?” muttered Baldwin.
Hearing a door slam, Simon glanced up to see John and his father standing at the top of the stairs. Sir William half-raised a hand as if to beckon him, but then grimaced and let his hand fall.
“Baldwin,” the bailiff said softly, “unless I am much mistaken, our young friend has been persuaded to give us more information.” He stood, finished his ale and set his pot down, and Baldwin rose to join him. They strode together over the yard to the steps and stood at the bottom, gazing up expectantly.
John’s eyes were downcast, but the flaming color of his face showed more humiliation than anger. It was his father, Baldwin noticed, who wore the cloak of absolute rage, his eyes unblinking in the white face. When he spoke, it was with a strangled voice, as if the very act of speaking was intensely difficult.
“Come with us, please, bailiff. And you too, Sir Baldwin. My son has much to tell you. Much! Come on, you cretin!” This was to John, and as he spoke the old man knocked his son on the back. John looked up and met Simon’s steady gaze. There was no fear there, the bailiff saw, just defiance. Walking jerkily, like a prisoner going to the gallows, John descended the stairs, went past the stables and made for the flight of steps that gave on to the wall. These he climbed with every appearance of infinite tiredness.
Simon was astonished at the sight. He trailed after the boy in a state of confusion, glancing every now and again at the lad’s father, who seemed consumed by his temper. If it was full night, the bailiff thought, Sir William would be incandescent.
Up at the wall, Sir William motioned curtly to the guard, and ordered him to leave them alone. Then he led the way to the barbican. “This is the most private place in the Manor. Anywhere in the hall we could be overheard, and this wastrel has done enough already to bring shame on our house.” He cast a bitter eye over his son. “Tell them.”
John had his hands on the wall, staring out over the land before him with a kind of wonder, as though he had not seen the view before. “We did see Bruther,” he said. “And he was with his friends, like I said. They jeered and catcalled, insulting us both and holding up Sir Ralph’s rope, but we could do nothing against so many, not while we were on our riding horses. We had to swallow our pride and carry on.”
“Tell them the rest! Tell them what sort of son I’ve raised—tell them how you have dishonored my name! Go on!” As Sir William shouted, the spittle flew from his mouth, and the boy flinched at the white face so close to his own.
“I have been a soldier for years now, up in the north. We never suffered such humiliation there; if a man gave us offense, he died. That was the rule—and why not?” His eyes met Baldwin’s, and challenged him. “That’s the way of a soldier, after all. When we fought for Sir Gilbert, we would think nothing of killing, for that was our duty—until Sir Ralph forgot his honor when he heard about robbing the cardinals. He decided we must leave Sir Gilbert’s service, just when Sir Gilbert needed our help. We had to scurry down here like rats running from a burning house, to our shame. Well, it seemed to me that being insulted by Bruther was as bad. The villeins here have forgotten their duty of service and respect to their betters, that is clear. I was ashamed when we got to the inn that night. Sir Gilbert would not have allowed such rabble to escape unpunished. But Sir Ralph said we should forget it, said we should leave them, leave Bruther, and carry on with our plan to run from the country. I said to him, ‘But they will think they can insult a knight and escape justice!’ but he just gave that dry little smirk of his and said we would be alive, though. Honor means nothing to him!”
“So
what did you do?” prompted Simon quietly.
“I had a pot or two of wine, but the air smelled foul to me in there. Everyone was trying to enjoy themselves, but no one took any notice of me. Sir Ralph went off with a girl, and I was alone. I decided to go out and clear my head. It was a still evening, and I wanted to avoid any trouble, like Sir Ralph had told me, so I headed away from the moors and the mines and went off toward Chagford. I don’t know exactly which way I went, but after some time I found myself near a wagon. There was a man on it, and when I ordered him to tell me where I was, he made some comment about fools who should know better than to ride out with no idea where they were. So, I…I hit him. And then I saw his purse. It seemed stupid not to take it, and he had been so insulting, I thought it would teach him—”
“So it was you robbed Wat Meavy!” Simon gasped.
“Is that who it was? I didn’t know. Anyway, yes, it was me. And then I rode back to the inn. I was a little confused in my mind, but I didn’t want anyone to hear about my encounter.”
His father turned from him in disgust. John raised a hand as if to touch his shoulder, but hesitated, then let it drop, his head hanging dejectedly. Baldwin thought he looked as miserable as a whipped hound. “You did not see Bruther again after the meeting on the road?” he asked. John did not look up, merely shook his head.
After a moment, Simon sighed heavily. “Very well. You may go for now.”
“But I—” He looked at his father, who suddenly spun round.
“You heard the bailiff. Go!” he shouted tersely, and with a cowed air, John slowly turned from them and walked to the steps.
“So you see, bailiff,” said Sir William, once his son was out of earshot, “he had nothing to do with the murder. He’s only a thief!” He spat the word contemptuously.
Baldwin contemplated him for a moment. Then, speaking calmly, he said, “There are many men who do foolish things when young, Sir William.” The old knight’s head shot round to stare at him. “I do not say this to offer you unfounded hope. Many learn the pleasure of power while young but grow into honor later. Your son has started badly, but if he joins an honorable company of mercenaries in Italy, he can still redeem himself. Do not be too hard on him.”
The old knight nodded thoughtfully with a strangely suspicious expression that also showed a stirring hope. He turned to Simon. “That depends on you, bailiff. Will my son be held as a robber? Or will you let him carry on to go to Italy?”
Simon did not answer immediately. He was mulling over the boy’s story. It certainly fitted the facts as they knew them…but it left him with the same problem as before: who was the rider heard by Coyt on the moor?
“If you will make good Wat Meavy’s losses, I see no reason why I should trouble myself over the matter. He has not yet reported the affair to me, so if you reach him quickly and refund his stolen money, I may never hear more of it. And if I don’t, there’s little point in my getting involved, is there?” Sir William nodded, relieved. “But I would ask that you don’t tell John yet. Let him suffer his feelings of guilt for a while, because it may make him realize just how serious his behavior has been. Let him stew, and we will talk again about him later.”
Sir William nodded again. Uttering a deep sigh, he walked off in the same direction as his son. Baldwin crossed to his friend’s side, staring after the bent figure of the old knight.
“It is hard to believe that he was once a great and feared man, isn’t it?” he mused.
Simon was faintly surprised at the sympathy in his voice. “Yes,” he agreed. “It’s easy to forget that someone like him was once young and full of fire.”
“Oh, I do not know about that! He was full enough of fire earlier on, when he had just learned what sort of man his son was.”
“Yes—but look at him now.” Their eyes followed the knight as he went to the stairs to his hall. At one point, he stumbled and nearly fell. In the shadows near the stables stood a man-at-arms, and he stepped forward quickly to help the old knight. As he moved into the light, Simon saw it was Samuel Hankyn. Sir William stood suddenly still as if shocked at his own lack of coordination, a man forced to recognize his own old age. Simon felt his heart lurch in sympathy at the sight. Sir William Beauscyr was old and worn down by too many crises—a man who had lived overlong and seen his son turn to dishonor, a man waiting for death. The bailiff turned away from the miserable sight as Hankyn escorted his noble employer to the comfort of his chamber.
“Poor old man.” Simon felt Baldwin’s keen eyes on him even as he spoke.
“Perhaps. I wonder if Bruther would feel the same compassion for his old master, though.”
–19–
The clamorous tolling of the chapel bell brought Simon to instant wakefulness, and he lurched to his feet. In the hall it was still half-dark, with the early sun failing to reach high enough to enter through the windows. Standing, he felt a surge of angry resentment. He hated fast wakings. At home, if he was shocked from his slumber he was as fractious as a child for the rest of the day. Now it was worse, for he could see no reason for the interruption of his rest. Hugh sat up on his bench, rubbing bleary eyes, Baldwin stood frowning, and two of the Beauscyr servants scratched and yawned nearby. Only then did they hear the row from outside.
Grasping his sword and belt, Simon fumbled with the buckle as he stumbled to the door. Baldwin joined him in the screens, not bothering with his scabbard. He had simply snatched the blade from its sheath and now stood beside the bailiff with the cold white steel flashing and glinting, Edgar by his side, his face inscrutable. A moment later Hugh was with them, his long dagger gripped so tightly that his knuckles showed white. Simon tugged the door open.
At first the bailiff was convinced the fort was under attack. It was mayhem, with men rushing pell-mell from one end of the courtyard to the other, some holding helmets in their hands, others struggling with belts and shields, all woken by the alarm call. Then he smelled the acrid stench of burning, and when he glanced to his left, he saw that smoke was billowing from the stables. From the look of the column of smoke it was a miracle that the building had not been engulfed, but then, as he knew, grass and straw made a lot more smoke than they warranted.
He was blinking furiously from the stinging fumes. There appeared to be no order or sense to the panicking men. Guards stood at the walls, bellowing and waving, some shouted back from the courtyard, and all was madness: men mindlessly rushing to and fro, and others roaring commands.
Suddenly, Sir William appeared in the courtyard beneath the stairs. He quickly took in the situation and began barking orders. Under his control the men stopped their mad racing and a semblance of calm took over. Horses were pulled from the stables while a chain of men formed from the spring, passing buckets to and fro and hurling water on to the flames. At the knight’s bellow, servants ran to the sheds by the kitchen and grabbed the long poles and ladders stored there. Thatch smoldered above the stables, and these men clambered up to the roof and used the poles to drag it down to the ground, where others stamped on it. Soon all was done, and the men stood or shuffled in the thin light of early morning, laughing in their relief and chattering like children at a fair.
As soon as he saw that the fire was well under control, Sir William pointed to a guard, and Simon saw it was the captain who had fetched Samuel on their first day in the fort. “You! What the devil happened?”
“Sir, I don’t know.” The man shrugged in bafflement. “The guard just found the hay on fire, and when we came out, it was all as you saw it.”
Simon glanced at the kitchen, quiet and deserted this early in the morning. Kitchen fires often released sparks which caught on the thatch of other buildings, and all too often the kitchens themselves would blaze up. That was why they were commonly separated from the hall and other buildings, but it did not stop the odd glowing mote from travelling to other roofs, and that was what must have happened here. There was no mystery in it. He shrugged, gave Baldwin a tired grin, and was about to retur
n to the hall and wait for breakfast, followed by a nap if he could manage it, when another man ran to the foot of the steps.
Ignoring the guard captain, he stared imploringly at Sir William. “Sir William, you must come quickly!”
“What is it now?” the old man snarled.
“Sir, it’s Samuel Hankyn and Ronald Taverner—they’re dead!”
Simon felt his mouth gape, while beside him, the knight froze in horrified shock. Baldwin recovered first and leapt down the stairs, agile as a deer, while Simon rushed after him. Both ran to the little room where they had spoken to the two men.
In the gloomy interior it would have been easy to think that Ronald Taverner was merely sleeping. He lay on his palliasse, his eyes closed and his head resting on his bundle of clothes as if he was shortly to wake, and Simon was tempted to call to him. But the blanket had been pulled aside, and his pale chest could be seen, the evil puckered stab wound showing clearly like a small purse-lipped mouth. Simon groaned and turned away while Baldwin, his face screwed into a frown of intense concentration, slipped forward and surveyed the body. There was a man kneeling beside the bed, and Baldwin was speaking to him as Sir William came in, his son Robert beside him.
“So what is this? Is Taverner dead?”
“Yes, Sir Robert. He’s dead. Another murder,” said Baldwin shortly.
“A murder? And in the fort itself this time? Are you sure?” demanded Robert.
Baldwin did not attempt to answer. If the young man could not see the wound, that was his affair, and the knight had more important work to do.
Sir Robert noticed Simon standing by the doorway. “So, bailiff, it appears you are as incapable of preventing murders as you are at solving them.”
Simon gave him a slow and contemptuous glance, then moved to Baldwin’s side. Something dug into his foot and he bent to pick it up. It was a die, and he handed it to Baldwin, who took it and tossed it up and down as he considered the body. “Well?” Simon asked. He felt miserable at another needless death, and could not take his eyes from the still form before him.
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