Michael JECKS: Crediton Killings

“Well, what is it? I cleared up this morning and did my chores, so what’s the matter? Aren’t I allowed to have a rest before the evening trade?”

Her tunic was thin, and Margery could see the slimness of her body in the sunlight streaming in from the doorway behind. Where it touched her ruffled hair, it made the honey-golden mane glow like a halo. Her neck was bare and it struck Margery how vulnerable the girl looked. For all her desire to wed while she was still young and not wait until she was “old,” as she put it, no doubt thinking of Margery as the symbol of decrepitude, she was still practically a child, and when the innkeeper’s wife thought of the quality of man which was at this moment settling into the hall, she had a pang of conscience. The girl would be thrown to them like a scrap to a pack of hungry hounds.

“Well?” Sarra’s voice was irritable.

Briefly, Margery explained about the men who had arrived. Even as she spoke she saw the girl’s eyes light up, and could read the direction of her thoughts: men, and a wealthy captain at their head – surely a fellow of influence and power to have the control of thirty others. He was bound to be impressed by her calm and mature demeanor. Margery sighed. “Sarra, don’t start thinking you can run away with men like these. They’re not the kind to want to marry a woman and raise children.”

“Oh no?” There was a sneer in her tone.

“No!” Margery snapped. “I know more about men than you.” The disdainful curl of Sarra’s lip implied that with the difference in their ages, that was no surprise, and the innkeeper’s wife felt her cheeks flame with resentment. “I’ve seen their kind before: they’re the sort to take a tumble with a maiden, then rush off without even a farewell. Their captain is as bad as the rest, or worse.”

“Worse – how?”

Margery paused and stared at her. “He feels nothing for anyone. All he knows is how to wage war. I promise you, Sarra, these men are no good. Serve them, but don’t try to flirt. It’s too dangerous.”

The girl tossed her head, then ran her fingers through her hair, pulling out the knots and tangles before absent-mindedly plaiting the thick tresses. When she spoke her voice was suspiciously meek. “Very well, Margery. I will be careful.”

“Do. Not for me, but for yourself, Sarra. You’re far too good to waste yourself on the likes of them. You spend more time with the apprentice if you want to marry, and leave this captain to Cristine. She knows how to control men like him.”

After she had gone, the girl stood for a moment or two, staring into the middle-distance while her fingers deftly arranged her hair. Then, giving a short giggle, she tugged off her tunic and dressed in clean shift and skirts.

Sir Hector de Gorsone sat back and let the warmth of the alcohol seep into his tired frame. His men were seated all round, with pitchers of beer before them. It was too late in the summer for wine to be available; that would not be shipped in until later, when the weather was cooler and the drink would not spoil so quickly. Ah, how he looked forward to returning to Gascony where the wine would be fresh and strong! After so many years on the continent, wine suited him better. Ale bloated him.

The hall was like any number of inns he had stayed in, and to his way of thinking, they were all hovels. He was too used to good French buildings. Long and ramshackle, it was filled with the vinegar-sweet stench of stale alcohol and rotting food, which lay on the rushes where it had been tossed by other diners. Dark and comfortless it looked to the knight, but the glow of the braziers and sconces created islands of cheeriness. Benches and tables stood haphazardly, and round these the serving-girls and the innkeeper circulated, trying to satisfy the guests by keeping pots filled with ale and trenchers with pottage and bread. The shutters were tightly barred to keep out the night’s chill, and only their rattling proved that there was a strong wind outside.

Sir Hector yawned, then turned his attention back to his thoughts. He was determined, once he had power or wealth enough, to possess a property in the country, away from the squalor of urban life. He wanted a place with extensive buildings to house his retinue. In towns the amount of land available was restricted by the burgesses, so that all should have adequate space. Sir Hector wanted none of that. He was after an estate, with a good-sized manor house at the heart of it, where he could take a wife and begin his family. The road to success and riches which he had trodden was losing its luster. He was tempted to try a life of peace, and start a new dynasty. But first he needed more money.

He sat at the end of the hall, from where he could see his men and the doorway to the screens. There was no chimney; the fireplace in the middle had access to the roof, in which there was a simple pottery louvre to allow the smoke to escape. The wind was gusting, and added another unpleasant aspect to the hall as smoke fitfully wafted around the room, making Sir Hector cough.

His men were determined to enjoy themselves, he could see. There were three girls, and they ran the gauntlet of ribald jokes and grasping hands wherever they went. Two, he saw, were practiced tavern wenches, slapping at unwanted hands or offering quick responses which inevitably made the men howl with laughter, usually at another’s expense. Every now and again one of his men would offer a fresh sally, and then redden or roar as it was rebuffed. The scene was one he had witnessed in taverns and alehouses from London to Rome, but the sight still brought a faint smile to his otherwise ill-humored features.

One girl caught his eye. She looked younger than the others and less worldly-wise. Where the older women used stinging rebukes to respond to the offers made at each table, this one moved quietly from place to place, apparently embarrassed at the more personal questions hurled at her. She was less experienced at avoiding the hands which reached for her, and seemed nervous of resisting forcefully. She reminded the knight of a hunted deer held at bay, aware that the end must be soon, but not knowing which of the slavering monsters would be first to reach her.

As he watched, he saw the two talking. Henry the Hurdle and John Smithson were ever together, always acted in concert. Now Henry stood as the girl approached down the narrow aisle formed by two long tables, and under the lewd encouragement of his mates, he moved toward her. She could only stand, staring at him with fear in her eyes. When she turned at last to flee, John was already there, cutting off her escape.

One of the girls tried to get to her, but she was blocked by men who grinned through their beards, hoping she would try to break through them to reach her friend so that they could manhandle her. Cristine was crippled by indecision: should she run and get help, or fight her way to Sarra to protect her? While she deliberated, Henry moved the pots from the table before him and smiled at the girl. Then he gestured at the empty space, inviting her forward.

“Stop!”

The single word, not bellowed, but merely spoken with authority, sliced through the noise and tension like a sword of war cleaving bone. For Sarra, it was like hearing the war-cry of a protective knight-errant, and she looked at the knight by the fire with a rising hope. Her heart was thumping painfully, and in the quiet she felt it was deafening her; she was convinced that all in the hall must be able to hear it. The jug which she gripped with both hands was shaking, and she carefully set it down on a table nearby. There was an emptiness in her belly which would soon rise to sickness, so great was her relief at being saved. That she had been going to be raped she did not doubt.

“Leave her. You, girl! Come and serve me here. Bring ale.”