Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

“If they weren’t bribed at the wrong moment to change allegiance,” Stapledon remarked lightly. “You almost sound as if you hold them in some esteem, Sir Baldwin.”

“Not exactly, but I have been in wars where similar men have shown themselves as brave as any, and where they have been as honorable as many of their seniors should be. One thing I have learned is not to take such men for cowards or fools. They are often forced into their way of life against their judgment and will.”

“They cannot be the equal of a similar troop of men with better morals and clean hearts, surely,” Stapledon said.

“My lord, I fear that if you are ever in a battle arrayed with numbers of the godly on the one hand, all pure in heart and living life to Christ’s own principles, who are nevertheless matched on the other side by trained mercenaries like Sir Hector’s men, all well-versed in warfare and combat, you should look to your armor and ensure you have a fleet-footed destrier nearby. The mercenaries, for all their loose living, will undoubtedly win.”

“I too have fought, Sir Baldwin,” the Bishop said coolly. “And you may be right, but sometimes it is better to die in a good cause than live for a bad one.”

“Of course,” Baldwin said. “But no matter how good you feel your cause to be, you are the more likely to win your battles with trained and expert soldiers.”

“Baldwin!” Peter expostulated. “Are you trying to deny the achievements of centuries of chivalry? The whole of society depends on the virtue and thence the power of our knights, and it has always been so, ever since King Arthur ruled.”

“What is chivalry? It is a method of making war, and sometimes it does not work. We learned that in Outremer, in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, where all too often the Saracens beat us, even when we were strong…”

“Ah, Sir Baldwin, I think you may not understand the problems there,” said the Bishop seriously. “Too many of the knights were ungodly and were motivated by the wrong things.”

“Such as what? The motivation of a knight should be for glory, by fighting honorably to defend the poor and weak. Perhaps the same could be achieved by a smaller number of men better versed in the ways of warfare, and for less cost. Look at the war in Scotland. Will we win it? I have no idea, but I do know this: almost none of our men are warriors. There are wellborn knights in the King’s entourage, but most of the rest are lowly archers and foot soldiers. It is on them that the main fighting will fall – and how many of them are trained in anything other than the scythe and the plow? These few under Sir Hector could be worth three hundred ordinary peasants.”

Simon listened to the discussion in silence. He had no wish to join in and talk about things of which he knew little, for he did not want to display his ignorance about wars and fighting. All he knew about was fighting gangs of outlaws and keeping miners away from the locals on the moors – and neither matched the experiences of a man like Baldwin, who had spent his youth fighting Saracens.

Something else made him hold his tongue. There was a niggling feeling of unease at the back of his mind, a sense that something was wrong, and he was aware of a growing anxiety.

At the end of the meal, once the warmed water had been brought for all to wash away the grease and sauces from fingers, he excused himself and walked out to the road, pleading an overfull stomach.

The sun had sunk behind the far hill, and the street was almost deserted. Buildings rose all round like the high sides of the Teign Valley, rugged and misshapen like moorstone cliffs. All the shops were blank and dead-looking, the houses had their shutters over the windows to keep out the unhealthy night air, and the only light came from louvres and trap doors in the roofs, all opened to let out the smoke from the cooking fires.

There was a curious air of expectancy. He heard a door slam, a shout of laughter and giggling, a dog bark echoing down a street, a man cursing, and the sound of revelry from a tavern. All were the normal marks of a night in a large town. A chicken murmured to itself on the other side of a wall as he passed, grumbling at being disturbed, and a lamb bleated sleepily, but over all these usual, unremarkable sounds, Simon thought there was a stillness, as if the whole town was waiting for something to happen.

Near the jail, Simon paused and watched the inn. There was a gust of raucous humor from the hall, and the bailiff felt sorry for those who lived close by. They would surely regret living so near to an alehouse, he felt, when the guests were as rowdy as these soldiers. He was tempted for a moment to join them and lose himself in drinking with men who had no fear for the future, who lived merely for the present, but he stayed outside, staring wistfully at the glimmer which showed through the closed shutters.

A gentle lowing from the shambles, and a bleating, brought him back to the present. There was no point in his joining the soldiers. They were not of his kind. If he were to go in, there would be silence followed swiftly by a general turning of backs. He was a bailiff, a man used to giving commands, but he had no authority over such as these. They were free men, free of the restraint that others might feel on seeing him. Anyway, he knew that shaking off his black mood would not be helped by going into a crowded room full of cheerful drinkers. His was a mood for which alcohol could provide no cure.

With a wry grimace he accepted that he also might not be safe alone with Sir Hector’s singing and swearing force.

Simon started off toward the western end of town, but his steps faltered as he passed the entrance to the alley where he had seen the woman in gray. Something about it made him pause and frown.

It gaped like the maw of an evil creature, long and noisome as a dragon’s gullet. But like prey beguiled by a tempting bait, he found himself lingering. The alley was a twisting black tunnel, in which sound was altered and the senses dulled. Here lived the poorer people of the town: those who could not afford the cosseted lifestyle of the merchants and priests farther out from the center. The tradesmen had their own rooms over or behind their shops, the smiths and carpenters above their workshops, but here, in the reeking corridor between tightly packed houses, were the families of the others who made the town what it was: tanners and curers; weavers and dyers; cooks and servants for the merchants’ houses – all lived thrown together in as few short feet as possible for warmth and defense. The smell of unwashed bodies, urine, rotting flesh and vegetation from the sewer mingled with that of roasting meat and stews to form a stench which assaulted his nostrils and made him curl his lip in revulsion.

Then he froze, peering intently. There had been a scuffle and muted cry. It was not the swift skitter of a frightened rat, but a kind of shuffling and slithering. Nervously wetting his lips, he stepped in to the alley.

In the dead interior, the sound of his footsteps changed. Rather than the solid, confident ringing of his boots on the cobbles near the market, now his feet sloshed and slapped in the puddles left by people emptying bowls and bedpans. At this time of night those who lived in the alley were all in their beds, and Simon could see nobody. All he was aware of was the light above, where the moon and stars stood out with precise clarity in the deep blue-black sky, compared with the grayness of the buildings on either side.

The steps approached. He could see no one clearly yet, huddled as he was in the doorway, uncomfortable where the drips from the washing overhead had spattered against him until they formed a rivulet down his back. Now in the doorway, at least he was away from that irritation.