Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

“Yes,” Sir Hector admitted.

Baldwin frowned. “What exactly did she say?”

“She accused him of trying to set the men against me; she thought he was a danger to me.”

“You didn’t believe her?” Simon asked.

“In God’s name, no! She hated Henry. On the night we came here, he tried to rape her – he would have done so, too, if I hadn’t intervened – and from then on she clearly wanted to get her own back. She made up this story to discredit him, and I wasn’t in a mood to listen.”

“So you ignored it?”

“Yes. I told her to get out and not to bother coming back. Henry the Hurdle is one of my best men.”

“Did it not occur to you that he might be the man who stole your plate?”

“He’s my leading sergeant! Who else can I trust if not him? He always has access to my money and silver. I can’t imagine anyone less likely to have been the thief. And in any case, why should I think of other men when you have the thief already held in jail?”

Baldwin stirred. “So you ejected Sarra from your room and she left immediately?”

“Yes. She went to her own room, I suppose.”

“When did you next see her?”

“When I was called to look at the open chest – when we got back from the chase for Cole.”

“So you didn’t see her alive again?”

“No.”

“One last point, Sir Hector. The tunic she was wearing when she died – have you seen it before?”

The mercenary clenched his jaw. He had hoped that the knight would not have led on to that, but it was a natural question, he knew. The dress was far too good for a tavern slut like her. “No,” he said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

Simon glanced up at him, his dagger taking another shaving from the stick. The captain’s voice had been quieter, almost contemplative, and Simon was sure he was lying.

Paul was in the yard when they got out, serving three travellers, who sat eyeing the mercenaries with such trepidation they reminded Baldwin of rabbits watching a crouching fox. Hugh and Edgar joined them by the door to the hall, and as the innkeeper passed by on the way to his buttery, Baldwin stood in his path. “Paul, do you mind if we go and take a look round Sarra’s room?” Taking his shrug for agreement, the knight led the way. They climbed the staircase to her door and tried the handle. It opened.

“I can see why she would prefer to get herself married” Baldwin observed.

It was a sparsely furnished little room. A palliasse lay on the floor to the right for her mattress, and a table held her few belongings. Some tunics and an apron were hooked over pegs in the timber frame of the building, but one lay as if kicked aside on the floor, and a belt rested on the bed itself.

“She must have changed into the blue tunic here,” Baldwin murmured. “But where did she get it?”

“Baldwin, are you beginning to think that Cole didn’t kill her?” Simon asked.

The knight waved a hand, vaguely encompassing the inn. “I don’t know what to think. That lad Cole seems pleasant, while the two who caught him are… well, I would be happier not to have to rely on them myself. The girl could have upset them: if Henry had overheard her telling his master that he was about to try to depose him as leader, he might have lost his temper and knocked her out, put her in the chest, and then killed her, although it hardly seems likely. Why put her in the chest in the first place? Why not kill her outright?”

“Perhaps he was going to do so, but got interrupted? Someone arrived, so he had to stuff the girl into the chest and came back later to kill her.”

“No.” Baldwin dropped on to the palliasse and stared round the room. “That can’t be it. If he was in such a hurry to hide her away, how could he find time to bind and gag her? It makes no sense!”

He opened the door and peered round cautiously. There was an odd feeling of anticipation as he went in, as if he expected her to hurl herself at him and attack. But she couldn’t – not now. Still, the dream would keep coming back, and even while he was awake the memory of it lurched around in his mind like a heavy rock which occasionally bludgeoned other thoughts out of the way.

That night he had rubbed down his horse after his journey and stretched, making his muscles strain taut as he tried to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. It was late, and he hadn’t wanted to wake his staff.

Shutting the stable door quietly, he had made his way over the yard to the hall, but had then hesitated. Before bed, he had reasoned, a last drink would be a comfort, and he had gone through to the buttery. A cask had already been broached and, filling a pot with ale, he had tipped it up to finish the last drop before opening the door and emptying his bladder onto the packed earth of his yard. Tugging his tunic back into position with a tired shrug, he had been unable to stop another yawn before going to his bedchamber.

The building was old, and he must go through the hall to get to the bedroom in the small solar block beyond. Stepping quietly, he had avoided waking the men sleeping on either side. The door beyond opened silently.

He was strong and known to be bold, but the sight that met his eyes made him stand stock-still in horror.

The fire was dying, and only offered a dull orange glow to light the betrayal. She had not bothered to pull the bedclothes back to cover herself, and her inelegantly sprawled body gleamed with a silken sheen, while beside her the figure grunted and snored in his sleep like a hog after truffles.

Standing in the doorway and staring at the two figures, his mind had worked with a fresh clarity. He could have bellowed, calling for his men to hold the man while he whipped the adulterous bitch, but they must already know of the treachery, for this libertine could only have got in through the hall, and he must surely have been seen by one or more of the servants.

No, he had thought: there was a better way to punish her. And him.

None of the servants had woken. Closing the door with care, stiff with the dread of being heard, he had made his way from the room and out to the stable. Nobody had expected him, and no one had seen him. He would ride away, and return tomorrow as if nothing had happened; no one would be any the wiser. And he could begin his revenge by agreeing to the plan proposed that evening.

He had calmed the tired beast, speaking low to soothe it, thrown the blanket over and tightened the girth straps, but his actions were mechanical, his mind back in the bedchamber. She was his. And someone else had stolen her. They must both pay – one for the dishonor, one for the theft of his woman.

And now they were going to pay, he smirked, drawing the dagger and resting the metal against his cheek. The blade sat against his belly while sheathed, and it was warm; just as it had been when he had pulled it free of her body.

Henry strolled out into the yard and walked to a table far from the inn’s hall, where he could see the door. After a few minutes, John left the stables and, seeing his friend, sauntered over to join him.

The other men of the band were inside, mostly dozing after eating and drinking too much of Margery’s strong ale, and this was the first time the two had been alone since their questioning about the robbery and murder. Henry found himself eyeing his companion suspiciously.

“Has anyone been talking to you?” he asked.

“Me? No – why? Someone been bending your ear?”

“No,” Henry muttered, and glanced at the hall again. “But Sir Hector has been very quiet toward me. I keep seeing him staring at me when he thinks I won’t notice. And I saw him talking to old Wat.”

“That cruddy old bastard! He should have kept his trap shut.”