‘And afterwards,’ Sir Richard said, ‘he would be delighted to learn that the Coroner and villagers all believed that the girl had been murdered by her father, and that he had escaped to London. A search would ensue, and the object of his deepest affections would be safe. Quite touchin’, really.’
‘So who is this murderer, then?’ I said.
‘The fellow who adored the miller’s daughter as much as Hal,’ Humfrie said, and as he did so, the door opened and in walked Atwood.
Atwood glanced about with a half-smile, but I confess that my own mouth gaped. I had not considered that it might be him, but his sudden appearance made it all fit! I knew Atwood of old, of course, and I knew him to be a murderous devil at the best of times, but this surprised even me.
‘You loved her?’ I burst out, and Atwood raised a languid eyebrow to me.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No,’ Humfrie said, and cast a look at me that seemed to mingle confusion and alarm. ‘This man is not the murderer.’
‘How can you tell?’ I said, and then Atwood fixed his full attention on me, and I recalled that my business was not of a nature that would win universal approbation. I glanced at the Coroner and was silent. Atwood nodded approvingly.
‘I came in here to warn you that there are two disreputable gentlemen approaching the village,’ Atwood said. ‘I think you know them as Hamon and Arch, Master Jack.’
‘’S’wounds,’ Sir Richard said. ‘What the devil are they doing back here now?’
I said nothing, but I had the feeling I was about to learn very soon. ‘Are … are they alone?’ I asked hopefully.
‘No, they have a pretty little cavalcade behind them, with the worst degenerates I have seen in many a long year.’
Sir Richard nodded. ‘We are grateful to you for keeping an eye on them, Master Atwood. How many are there?’
‘Five, so seven in total.’
I had an idea. ‘I could go outside and attack them in flank when they arrive,’ I said, thinking quickly. If I were to leave through the back, I could soon be mounted, and I was sure that I could outride Hamon and Arch back to the city. They were no horsemen, if I was any judge.
‘No, best that you stay here,’ Humfrie said.
‘We are more than enough to keep a force of seven at bay. Master Atwood, I think, has some experience of fighting, as do I. And you, of course, Master Jack. Humfrie, you have the look of a man who can hold his own in a fight. Innkeeper, you must have a stout cudgel or two that we could use, I dare say?’
‘Of course.’
‘There, so we are five against seven. Not bad odds. How far are they, Master Atwood?’
‘They will be with us very soon, I fear.’
‘Then let us prepare. Ah, a good, strong oaken stave. I thank you, innkeeper. Atwood, you keep an eye on the front of the inn. They will no doubt separate their force with a view to taking us by surprise, but if we pummel those trying to force the front, the others will be easy to subdue in their turn. So, Nyck, if you and Humfrie could guard the rear of the inn, we can take the front. Jack can wait in here. I shall go to the small chamber over there, and when they enter, we can take them front and rear.’
I listened to his plans with the enthusiasm of a boy waiting for the first lash of the cane. The idea of being trapped here, while the ravening hordes of outlaws attempted to break in, just to punish me for refusing to pay their exorbitant demands, was intolerable. For a moment I actually considered trying to force myself between Humfrie and Nyck, but the two fools had effectively blocked my path, and the only other escape that was open to me was the door at which Sir Richard stood, his sword in his hand.
Today all knights and gentlemen of quality were aping the fashions of the continent for fine, sharp rapiers, but I was glad to see that Sir Richard put his faith more in heavy steel. He had drawn his weapon, and now he stood gazing out at the roadway. ‘Here they come,’ he said, and for once his voice did not make the foundations of the building tremble. He slipped backwards into the chamber where I had spoken to Harknet all those days ago. There, he was all but invisible to anyone entering the inn.
And enter they did, all too soon. Arch came first, pulling off gloves and staring about him. He still wore his smile, but his face held a lunatic blankness. He gave a cry of joy to see me, and slapped his gloves against his hand. ‘Didn’t I tell you,’Amon, that ’e’d be ’ere? How very pleasant it is to see you again! And now we ’ave a little matter of thirty guineas you owe us.’
Hamon came in behind him and stood staring with detestation on his face. He pulled out his snippers from his belt. His voice was strained, and he was forced to swallow as he spoke. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all the long ride here,’ he said, and I heard that foul swish of blade against blade once more.
The two entered the bar, and three followed after them. Hamon looked towards Atwood. ‘Get out! You don’t want to be in here.’
Atwood, whom I had expected to begin fighting as soon as the men entered the room, nodded equably and drained a pot he had found nearby, before beginning to edge his way around the group. I was about to call him back, when another sound was heard. It was that of an oaken cudgel striking a pate with full force.
Suddenly, from the rear entrance to the inn there came a wailing and screaming. ‘He’s broke my ’ead! He’s broke my ’ead!’ from a man who appeared in the doorway now, a hand to his brow. Even as I watched dumbfounded, I saw Humfrie. He lifted both hands and brought them down, gripping a thick staff. There was a cracking noise, and the man in the doorway fell to his knees. He looked about the room pleadingly, before suddenly toppling over sideways.
‘Get ’im!’ Arch said, pointing at me.
I squeaked with alarm as Hamon reached for me, but before he could, there was a bellow behind the group, and Sir Richard launched himself into the fray like a berserker. His pommel struck one man on the head, whose eyes widened like an owl’s, and then he slid to the floor. Atwood had drawn a knife from somewhere, thrown a pot of ale into another man’s face and now had the fellow in a firm grasp, one arm about his throat, his knife at the fellow’s throat even as Sir Richard launched an attack against the third man.
But I had no eyes for them. I was staring at Hamon.
Have you ever seen a man stalk a hare? The creatures will often sit stock-still, as though they could be missed, but perhaps it is only that they fear turning away from their hunter. Because that was how I felt, staring at Hamon. I dared not take my eyes from him, as though the only thing that prevented him capturing me and using those damned snippers was the power of my gaze.
And then he was almost on me. I made a squeak that was as ineffectual as a mouse’s complaint on feeling the hawk’s talons, and I would have run, but there was nowhere to go. In the end, in a futile attempt to warn him off, I grabbed for my dagger.
Now, I don’t know how it happened, but I missed the dagger’s hilt. I suppose I have never been a terribly enthusiastic knife-fighter. I have seen men, bloody and battered, leaving the ring in London after demonstration bouts, and it never enticed me to attempt the same. Once you have seen one knife fight, with all the gore involved, and heard the cries of the injured, you have seen enough to persuade you not to indulge in such a dangerous activity. That was the case for me, at any rate. So I had never attempted to reach for my knife in any great hurry.
But my hand did find something. A metal grip. I pulled and the thing came free, and as I pointed it at Hamon, I saw his snippers approaching my face. I squealed in anticipation, closed my eyes and thrust forward to defend myself. There was a flash, a roar that deafened my ears, and when I opened my eyes, there was a thick mist, like a sea fog early in the morning at Whitstable. I could hear a shrill call, and when I had blinked a few times and could hear again, I saw that it was Arch, who was hurling imprecations at me. He raised a knife over his head and was about to throw himself on me when Humfrie intervened, and I saw his club strike Arch in the throat. Arch gave a horr
ible choking gurgle, dropped his knife, and both his hands went to his throat. Humfrie swung again, and the club struck Arch’s skull with a dull thud. He went down like a badly filled bag of beans.
At the end of the battle, there was one man unscathed, whom Sir Richard had pinned against the wall, and a second, who begged for mercy, and whom Atwood released with a show of disappointment. Sir Richard set the two to binding their companions, all but for Arch and Hamon. Hamon was in no need of binding. The slug from my pistol had caught him in the breast and found its way out through his back. Ben found it later, and I believe he took it as a souvenir, bits of material from Hamon’s coat and shirt, bones and all. Personally, I took one look at it and wanted to throw up. But the youngsters of today are made of sterner stuff. In any case, Hamon was dead. The hole in his breast, the singed material of his shirt and the thick blood that clotted all spoke of the horror of the gun’s effect. It was enough to make me want to throw the thing away, but then I hooked it back on my belt and tried to halt the quaking of my hands.
Arch was dead, too. Humfrie’s blow had been a little over-enthusiastic, and the cudgel had broken his windpipe. Striking him on the head was a merciful end, for else Arch would have had a slow, strangling death, unable to breathe. I did wonder how much of an accident his blow was, for Humfrie had always been an enormously accurate antagonist, but a quick look at his expression told me this was not a question I needed to ask.
The others were all alive, and the two survivors carried them to the yard behind the inn, where they were seated on a low wall, their hands and ankles bound. They were allies of Arch and Hamon only in so far as they had accepted two shillings each to join the little band. Each had expected a short ride, a swift punishment and then a ride back with coins in their purses. The sudden change in their fortunes had left them bemused, if the blows had not.
When the gang was all bound, Sir Richard demanded that the two helpers should carry the dead bodies to the church. They were reluctant, but with Sir Richard and Atwood walking with them, they acquiesced quickly enough. Having seen the short work made of their companions, they had no wish to incur Sir Richard’s wrath. They also appeared to eye me with alarm as I made a show of cleaning my pistol and reloading it. I wound up the mechanism and put the key back in my purse before setting the gun on my belt once more. It was useful work, because the concentration involved stopped my hands from shaking. My expression was probably a little threatening, because the two took one look at me and hurried with their task.
We reached the church in little time. Atwood opened the door, and the two men carried their burdens inside.
Roger was at the font and, on seeing us with the two, he hastily crossed himself and turned to stare back the way we had come. ‘I must—’
‘No, Roger,’ Sir Richard said. ‘You have work here.’
‘But she is well? Mistress Dorothy?’
‘Never better. Now, these two.’
He nodded, but even as he knelt beside the two bodies, muttering his way through the Viaticum and the prayers for the dead, it was obvious that his mind was not on the task at hand. When he stood and made the sign of the cross over the two figures, Sir Richard eyed him and said, ‘We are in the church, Sexton. I would like you to confess now. It is past time.’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘You know. You went to the mill that evening and, to your disgust, you saw the priest bulling the little maid, Jen. She was a sweet little wench, wasn’t she? Sweeter even than Mistress Dorothy, whom you adored. And the same man had abused them both. Peter had deserted Dorothy, and now he was enjoying Jen, the miller’s daughter. As soon as she rose from her bed, you went in and stabbed him, didn’t you? A hard, cruel blow that pierced him through and through. And then you left him there, thinking it was no better than he deserved.’
‘I didn’t think that! God help me, I knew it was entirely wrong, but what else could I do? The man was insatiable! He even tried to rape Sarah here in the church! He told her it was an especial prayer, and then he tried … but she had been married, and she knew the difference between a prayer and a … How many others would he assault, if he wasn’t stopped?’
‘And then you came back here to try to – what, pray for forgiveness?’
‘Yes. But when I had passed the inn, I heard a wailing from the mill, and as I listened, I could hear steps. I had to hide, and I concealed myself in bushes, and poor Jen came flying up the road, her shirt all besmottered with gore, hurrying to the stables. After a little, I saw her appear again, with that boy, Hal, and the two took a cart, rattling down the lane to the mill. Soon they were back, and I saw them ride away on the road to London. They must have brought the body and dropped it off on the road, so that there could be no association with the mill.’
‘Why?’ I said.
Roger cast me a short look. ‘I doubt Hal would like everyone to know that his woman had been sold to men like the priest.’
‘What then?’ Sir Richard said.
‘I was still standing there when that foul-mannered man – the miller – came lurching out. I didn’t mean to do anything, but he barged into me, and I was … I suppose I was already angry and upset, and when he called me names and insulted my parents, I could only see little Jen and her sweet, kind face screwed up as her father raped her, or sold her to his friends, or … I don’t know. Something just snapped in my mind, and I stabbed him, just the once, and he turned away and lurched back into the inn.’
‘And then?’ Sir Richard said.
‘I was about to go to the church when I heard a rumbling noise. When I went to the mill’s road, I saw Nyck, Dorothy and her oldest boy with a wheelbarrow. They had the miller on it, and it was then that I realized I had killed a second man that night.’ He covered his face suddenly, his shoulders moving with silent sobs.
‘Continue.’
He pulled his hands away and stared blankly at the cross on the altar. ‘I don’t know why, but I followed them all the way down that lane to the mill. They lifted the miller’s body and quietly set him inside, and then came away in great haste. I hid in among the trees until they were past me, and then I realized that I had placed Jen and Hal in great danger. I couldn’t leave them suspected of murder. The idea was intolerable. If anyone was to find the miller’s body sitting in his home, people would be bound to assume Jen was guilty. Or Hal. Either way, it was unfair. So I found an old shovel in the mill’s shed and dug a shallow grave. I went as deep as I could, but the ground was very difficult, and I am not built for hard labour. And I returned and dragged the miller’s body out to the grave and buried him as decently as I could.’
‘So you slew my brother and then the miller, too,’ Sir Richard said.
‘I am sorry, sir. Yes.’
‘You have set in train a distressing series of events, and you took away from me my only brother,’ Sir Richard said. He sighed heavily and wiped a huge hand over his features. ‘Will you sit up with these two and hold vigil for their souls? Will you beg forgiveness for your murders every day?’
‘Yes. I must atone.’
‘Aye. Mustn’t we all,’ Sir Richard said. He sounded weary. ‘You have work to do, Master Roger. Best get to it.’
‘Will you not have him arrested?’ Atwood said as we walked from the church.
Sir Richard stared past him, back towards the church. His eyes rose, following the squat tower, and continued up to the sky. ‘Have him arrested? I am only a Crowner, when all is said and done. An officer of the law would be better to arrest him. Perhaps a keeper of the King’s peace, or a bailiff. But I was forgetting: he’s a sexton – he falls under the ecclesiastical law. Which would be best, I wonder? But me? Friends, I came here full of fury and fire, determined to punish the man who killed me brother, but I have learned that Peter was only a man. And one who would take advantage of others. Tryin’ it on with a woman like Sarah – that was forgivable. She was of an age to know her own mind, and if she was willin’, maybe they could have made a
happy enough pair. But accepting Jen, when he knew she wasn’t willing, and that she was forced into it by her father – worse, he knew she was keen to escape. She had come here to the church to let him know what her father was doing to her, using her and selling her – she told him in the confessional. He betrayed her trust by going to her father, and compounded that by paying to share her.’
‘But Roger killed him. He killed the miller – and your brother!’ Atwood protested.
‘Aye, and perhaps it was for the best. He stopped me brother from molestin’ other women, or pursuin’ Jen further. And when he saw that his actions could have dropped Jen or others into trouble, he sought to defend them. He did what he thought – what most people would think – was right.’
‘A murderer.’
‘A homicide, yes. But then I killed today. So did Jack here, and Humfrie. We are also homicides. We killed to defend others, and stop worse injustice … which is what Roger did, too. So should we punish him for doin’ what we did as well?’
Atwood shook his head, bemused. I confess, I was myself surprised. I had expected the knight to take a far more rigorous approach to Roger. I asked him later, and he looked somewhat shamefaced and muttered something about having killed men himself, and not being capable of standing in judgement of others. But then he stared off into the middle distance and said something which sounded quite deep.
‘Ye know, if I had wanted to help me brother, I could have come and spoken to him, rather than waiting till he was dead. Perhaps if he had known I was about, that I cared about him, maybe I would have been able to do more. Perhaps allowed him to stay with his wife and children, so he could have curbed his worse instincts and not assaulted Jen and other women in the area. He died for his assaults on women. Perhaps that is my fault. My inaction helped ensure his murder. If I’d been here, if he’d kept Dorothy at his side, perhaps given up the priesthood, and I’d supported him, maybe he wouldn’t be dead now. So perhaps I helped kill him by doing nothin’. That’s a thought, isn’t it?’
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