Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

She turned away. The hurt in his voice told her clearly enough of the turn his thoughts had taken. “How would you feel if your Peterkin had been murdered, and you knew who the killer was, Simon? How would you feel if you could capture him and have him arrested, put in front of a court and accused? When you saw the man hang, you would know you had done everything you could for your boy.”

“We did everything we could – so why does it hurt so much?”

“Because we couldn’t do enough. And we cannot get revenge for him. All we can do is try to have another Peterkin.”

“No. Not another Peterkin.”

His firmness made her glance round, but there was no harshness in his voice. “Another son, but not another Peterkin. Maybe,” he gave a self-conscious chuckle, “maybe a Baldwin. Ah, you’re tired. Give me Edith for a little while. You try to rest.”

“She is all right here.”

“You spent all last night with me, Meg,” he reminded her, and smiled. “Let me help you. I can at least look after our daughter.”

The thunder was abating as she passed the sleeping girl to him, trying to control the sudden rush of burning hope. This was the first time he had spoken to her of Peterkin since his death, the first time he had mentioned his pain at the hole in their family… And the first time he had raised the idea of a new son.

As she languidly curled and felt herself slipping toward sleep, she could feel the bed shaking with his gentle sobs, but she could not help the smile of relief which broke out on her face. Her husband had returned to her at last.

The scraping noise was an irritation at the edge of Sir Hector’s hearing. He could hear it through the deep fogs of sleep, and while his mind tried to thrust it away and return to unconsciousness, docketing it as the feet of a mouse or another nightly creature, some extra sense made him waken.

His room was in darkness, and his eyes snapped open as the storm broke overhead. The concussion of the thunder relaxed him for a moment, making him think it had been this which had woken him, but then he heard it again: the small, slow, squeaking sound which his ever-wary ears had noticed.

Moving with the stealthy patience learned over many campaigns, he rolled silently to one side until his knees were off his palliasse and on the ground. His great sword was in the storeroom, but his lighter travelling sword, built for only one-handed use, was by the bed, and he picked it up still sheathed, holding it in his left hand ready to be drawn, as he faced the door.

Before sleeping, he had taken the precaution of sliding a heavy chest in front of it, and now he lifted it at one end and hauled it away with painful slowness, making as little noise as possible. The scratching continued, and he cautiously raised the latch on his door and stepped into the corridor before standing stock-still.

He saw the blade jutting through the shutter, the splintered wood, and the oh – so – faint glimmer of light from a candle. An electric blue light outlined the window, and then a clap of thunder rattled the doors, and still he stood watching as the fine blade of the knife wobbled from one side to the other, trying to force up the timber that locked the shutters closed.

The wood moved a little, and he quietly crept forward. If he was quick and lifted the balk out of the way, he could kill the first assassin, and probably hold the window. He wondered dispassionately how many there would be outside, but he reckoned that there could only be three at most. Wat was bound to be there, and he would hardly attempt to kill Sir Hector on his own, but he could not count on the help of too many of his comrades in murdering his captain. More than two would be a risk – there was always the possibility that someone might decide Sir Hector was a safer master than Wat and take it into his head to warn him. No, if he was Wat, he would have arranged for two accomplices, no more.

As the blade twisted and a crack appeared in the shutter, running upward with the grain, Sir Hector decided to act. He walked into the storeroom and selected a crossbow. Hauling with both hands, forcing the blunt wooden butt into his belly until it felt as though it was going to stab through his skin and into his guts, he managed to pull the string back until the sear caught and held it in place.

There was another splintering from the shutter. He snatched up a heavy metal bolt and fitted it to the grove, then walked out. Taking careful aim, he fired.

The iron bolt struck the wood to the right of the wriggling blade, and disappeared. Simultaneously there was a shrill cry of pain, and the knife was dragged back. Sir Hector heard someone sobbing in fear and pain, and he smiled grimly to himself, cocking the bow once more and taking another bolt. He was sure that there would be no more attempts on his life tonight, but he still slept very lightly, sitting in a chair with the crossbow on his lap.

It was impossible to stay inside. While the rain lanced down, he had to go out and stand in the yard, the drops pelting on to his upturned face so hard it was like being hit by gravel. Giggling, he held his hands over his head and let them slowly fall in reverence to the cleansing water.

His mind was clear now. The lightheadedness of the last few days had gone, as if the killing of her and poor Judith had finally cured him of a fever. He felt as if he had been suffering from some sort of illness, and now, under this rain, he had been redeemed, absolved and strengthened in the one heady downpour.

With the disappearance of the other two, he could finally bring his plan to fruition. Now was the time for the last throw in the game. And after that he would see whether it was sensible to cuckold him.

Baldwin grunted, sipped at his water, and then belched volcanically. Peter Clifford threw him an admonishing look.

“Peter, I know. My apologies, but the meal last night was rather rich for my constitution,” the knight said, and burped once more. Grumpily he sat at the table. “Be grateful. It could be the other end.”

“I’m no longer surprised that you were so off-hand about knights and the very concept of chivalry the other night, Sir Baldwin,” the priest admonished him testily.

Baldwin grinned, but soon his features had fixed themselves into a frown of concentration, and the priest sighed. Crediton was an important town for the diocese, bringing in a good income each year, and Peter had wanted to be able to impress the Bishop during his visit. Instead, the conversation invariably revolved around the murders in the town. The plans Peter had set in place to impress had all gone awry: the visit to the hospital, the tour round the recent work on the church, the plans for celebrating St. Boniface’s birth, all were overshadowed by the killings.

Though Exeter was nearby, it was rare for Stapledon to come this way. His business was conducted more often in London, Winchester and York, wherever Parliament met or in the fine homes of other bishops. Stapledon was not by nature a greedy man; he believed in trying to help the souls in his diocese, but Peter knew that the state too often intervened, forcing him to set his religious responsibilities aside and shoulder the burden of civil service.

For many, becoming involved in politics was solely a means of self-advancement, and Peter, being realistic about the motivations of his colleagues in the Church, could see that the Bishop was not averse to extra power and authority, but Stapledon did not have the urge to seek power alone. Much of his efforts were directed toward making the kingdom stable, and to that end he spent weeks in discussions and negotiations, trying to make the King and his enemies see sense.

Peter supposed that, for a man involved in such weighty affairs, the unpleasant, even banal, pair of murders were almost a welcome relief from the petty disputes and arguments which could embroil thousands if the Bishop’s fears were realized. Certainly his interest in the two deaths had been surprising; a wealthy cleric was not usually the kind of man who would show fascination with the dealings and deaths of the poor.