Michael JECKS: Crediton Killings

Sir Hector watched her retrieve her jug and approach. When she was close he held out his pewter jug imperiously, and studied her face as she poured. There was a light down on her arms and face, he saw, and her lips, though tightly pursed, were full and moist. When his mug was filled, she stood a short way back and met his gaze. His eyebrows rose. He could see that she was not scared of him – of the men under him, yes, but not he himself, and he admired her spirit. Her eyes were the light blue-gray of a winter’s sky, and a little of her golden hair escaped from her net. She was not the heavily-built peasant girl he would have expected to find in a small town, but a radiant young woman who would grace the hall of a wealthier man than he.

“Stay here, and serve me,” he said gently. “Do not fear my men. They will leave you alone now.”

She nodded in slow and thoughtful agreement, and then gave him a smile of such warmth that he had to return it.

Outside, the innkeeper let his breath escape in a whistle of relief as he slumped back against the wall. Margery rushed up breathlessly. “What’s happening? Is she all right?”

“Thanks be to God! Yes, she is. The knight protected her; called his men off.”

She peered round the doorway. “She’s lucky. With that lot, there’s no telling how far they’d have gone.”

“No. But at least she’s safe enough for now.”

“Right. Well, I’d better get back in there.”

The innkeeper nodded glumly as she passed by, freshly filled jugs in each hand. He watched as she poured with the quick efficiency of a practiced alewife, neatly sidestepping to avoid a dozen ambushes as she made her way along one side of the hall. He had more pressing difficulties. Sir Hector still insisted on keeping all his men with him, and no suggestions as to where they could be housed carried any weight with him. For the innkeeper, the thought of standing up to the knight and refusing to allow his men to remain was not one to make him feel entirely at ease. Usually Paul would place additional guests in the hall, where they could use the benches or even lie under the tables, and any overflow could use the stables, but with men like these he was sure that such simple solutions would not suffice: the newcomers would demand the best beds, but the existing guests would complain about being evicted from their accommodation.

Leaning against the doorway, his eyes fixed on the hall as he worried over his problem, he did not notice the men who entered from the stableyard. The hall comprised one half of the main building, the other consisting of kitchen, buttery and stores area. Splitting the building was the screens passage where the innkeeper now stood, and from this corridor two doors led to the hall itself. To his horror, he now saw three men stride in. Two were the goldsmith and his apprentice; he did not recognize the third. Stupefied, he could do nothing but stand and watch the disaster unfold before him.

Sir Hector saw them at the same time. He paused, his mug held out to Sarra as she filled it, studying the newcomers with interest. His face registered only mild amusement while he took in the rich fabrics of the goldsmith, the fur trimming on his coat and the heavy rings on his fingers. Walking in briskly, his attitude proclaimed him to be a self-important, busy man with no time to spare for the pleasures available to commoners. Following on close behind, head down, clad in simple hose and shirt, was his apprentice. Sir Hector gave a small smile and motioned toward Henry, who nodded and made his way to the two men.

Sir Hector sipped his ale. His men were a rough group, he knew, but at least a few of them knew how to obey. Henry was a good man when he was properly directed. So long as he knew what was expected, he could achieve results. As a soldier he was excellent material, due in large part to his cruel nature, but also to his greed. He was one of the mercenaries who had swiftly realized that the best way to get rich was by holding the surrounding areas to ransom. Extortion, and the constant threat of a chevauchee to destroy all the crops and village stores, were Henry’s more effective methods of squeezing a profit even from the most desolate-looking districts. It was Henry and his friend John who had helped in the last few campaigns in Gascony, always seeking out the best hostages to ransom, the most promising buildings to raid, the richer merchants to rob. Their zeal for relieving others of their possessions had helped Sir Hector to build up his own fortune, but they did not begrudge him his wealth. They knew they were indispensable to him and, as such, were safe. He would not want to dispose of them while they continued to enrich his coffers.

That mutual reliance was the reason why Sir Hector often gave them special tasks, treating them as his trusted sergeants. He glanced up to see the goldsmith, now ashen-faced, rushing from the room amid the jeers and catcalls of the other men sitting round. The sight made him give a dry smile.

The innkeeper had been called to the buttery and, leaving it, he nearly collided with the goldsmith. “Ah, master, hello. Would you like some…”

“How much do I owe you?”

Paul’s face fell. The goldsmith was trying to smile, but his quivering mouth told the lie. “Are you well, sir?” His voice hardened. “Is it something those buggers in there have said? If they’ve been threatening you, I’ll…”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that, it’s just that I have to leave Crediton. A matter of business, you understand. I… er… I have to get to Exeter. Some problems there. I…” He broke off, noticing the apprentice sulking nearby. “I told you to go and get our things: see to it at once! Apprentices! All they ever think of is food and women,” he added restlessly, feigning a world-weary distraction in an attempt to cover his agitation.

Paul was irritated by the goldsmith’s pretence that he had no fear of the mercenaries and plenty of time to discuss insignificant points with an innkeeper.

The man gave a sickly smile. “I fear you may not have noticed, but he has been making a complete fool of himself over that young wench of yours. Stupid, I know, but there’s little I can do about it.”

While Paul tried to persuade the smith not to leave, though not too enthusiastically because he feared the mercenaries’ response should they find their plans thwarted, Sarra glowed with pride at the right hand of Sir Hector.

It was all very well for Margery to tell her to leave the soldiers alone, but the captain had already taken an interest in her, and anyway, Sarra was sure that Margery’s warnings were prompted more by jealousy than genuine concern; the jealousy of an older, careworn woman for a young girl. Why should Sarra not get attention – for she was surely the most attractive of the women at the inn. Margery’s problem was she was so old she had forgotten what it felt like to be young and desired. And Sarra had a businesslike streak to her thoughts: all her friends had to work until they were almost thirty, trying to save some money to be able to marry upon. They were almost past child-bearing age already before they wed. Sarra wanted none of that. She was young and wished to marry before she grew much older, so that she could bear lots of children and enjoy the rewards a wealthy husband could bestow. This man was surely the wealthiest she had ever known. She had seen the chests of silver and plate being carried to his room. A person with so many valuables must be rich beyond her dreams.

If she had been given even a little education, Sarra’s life might have been very different. Her brain was quick and intuitive, and she often offended others unintentionally by slicing through their long preambles when she could see their point in a few words. Work for her was a tedious exercise, necessary to keep her clothed and fed until she could find a husband, but her mind constantly sought diversions. Through the boredom of days with little to do, she had enjoyed a recurring daydream: a wealthy lord would arrive at the inn, maybe wounded from a fall, and only she could bind his wounds sufficiently to save him. Afterward he would be so devoted to his savior that he would press his suit upon her. There were endless permutations to the basic theme, involving her protecting him from robbers or assassins, to the most basic in which she spurned his expressions of adoration only to be persuaded when he carried her off to his castle.