The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

Henry the Tun had not thought of the woman in the days since his arrival at Calais. He had been too busy with his men. He had never been an ardent womaniser as such. There were too many other distractions for a man like him. As he strode about the encampment and as he sat in the hastily erected tavern drinking sack, he had no time to think about women, and Pelagia had been little more than a bundle of rags in the ditch when he first caught sight of her, but then, one day, he saw her again, and this time he wanted her.

Henry the Tun took women when the urge washed over him, but he was no cruel ravisher of innocents. Those taken prisoner as the army marched tended to be safe from him. He had little use for them, in truth. Women were necessary on occasion when he was free to indulge his natural desires, and that was all. He preferred the whores who were more likely to be compliant than determined to avenge a dead lover or relative.

With men he was a natural bully. Janyn knew him of old, and knew that Henry was a bold and fierce fighter. He liked to brawl and wrestle, and even when sober, he would join in a gladiatorial battle. He was no coward: that was not one of his faults.

His boldness, his conviction of his own strength and authority, led to his intimidating and bullying others. If there was a ready target for his bile, that fellow would suffer. If a stable-boy mishandled his pony, that boy would receive a clout over the ear that would send him flying, but when he was drunk, Henry would use any as the target of his vicious cruelty.

He was a keen drinker and, when deep in his cups, he was vicious. He would pick on any man, even one of his own company. No matter that the fellow was stronger than most, Henry would willingly take him on. And often, when he had taken more wine than he should, his thoughts turned to other pleasures.

That night he was feeling comfortably amorous after a few pints of wine, and walking back from the tavern, he was feeling a warm glow. His men were content, his purse was full, and all was well with his world. Perhaps he should go to the stews and find himself a woman. There were wenches down there who would be willing enough when they saw the weight of his purse, but it was growing harder to find one to slake his desires. As his reputation was passed from one slut to another, it grew ever more difficult to persuade one to let him lie with her. No woman willingly slept with him above once or twice when he was deep in his cups, because for him the height of ecstasy was to inflict pain while he rutted.

The roads from one place to another were well marked out by then. All about the town of Calais, where the English were camped, a makeshift town had been thrust up. Now there was a regular market, with peasants from about the countryside bringing in some goods, and more appearing from English ships. Wine, ale, clothing, and – blessed Mary! – even new boots materialised. At the same time, ale-houses and taverns appeared, their barrels set up on wagons or simple trestles, and the men tramped along paths that were soon solid-packed earth roads. Gutters ran alongside the older, long-established roads, and it was into one of these that Henry stumbled drunkenly.

Cursing, he stood and staggered from the filth back to the road itself, and began to make his way back to his men, but now he found his path was blocked by a slowly trundling wagon, and he must stand aside.

At the side of the road here, he saw a group of huddled figures, and in their midst, he saw her: the girl.

He didn’t recognise her immediately. At that first glimpse all he saw was a woman with a long, willowy throat, her hair indecorously loose over her shoulders, without wimple or coif. She must have appeared a very lewd woman, sitting there amongst a company of men. Who knows? Perhaps he thought her a common marching wife, or even a whore.

Janyn saw Henry at the side of the roadway, and immediately felt the prickling in his belly that warned of danger.

Henry was a strong man, the commander of a centaine, responsible for the wellbeing of his men, but he had no actual friends, only men to be commanded. Janyn’s was a lonely enough position, answering to the commands of his banneret, but trying always to keep the men beneath him happy and keen. It wasn’t always easy, and for a man more senior, like Henry, it was still more difficult. There was no camaraderie for the leader of a hundred. Above him was his lord, Sir John de Sully, who was himself a stern commander, but a knight had his own circle of companions. Henry had none, only the loneliness of authority.

Seeing him there, Janyn thought Henry had a wistful look about him. Perhaps that was it: sometimes a man just wants to stop, rest, take some comfort. That evening, as drunk as a churl at the harvest festival, Henry perhaps sought only that at first: companionship. Perhaps that was all he ever wanted from a woman. A moment’s freedom from responsibility, a spurious friendship. And only later did he come to want to inflict pain to increase his own delight.

When his eyes lit on her, he saw not a prisoner, not a piece of meat, but a young woman of delicacy and beauty. Perhaps, like Janyn, he remembered a vision: a summer’s day, a river bank, the scent of meadowsweet heavy on the air making him drowsy as he sat with his head resting in the lap of a woman such as this. It was the kind of memory to take a man’s breath away. A lovely, enticing memory of a time long gone, when a boy could meet a girl and they could enjoy the natural pleasures without shame.

It is often the way that a man will form a picture in his mind, when he is all but befuddled with drink, and he won’t realise that the object of his affections doesn’t share his dream. So it was this time.

He made his way to them.

‘Maid, I have a mind to take ye,’ he said, belching and dragging at his belt. He was far gone in his cups that night, and once he had the idea of a bout with the maid, nothing would dissuade him from his determination.

‘She’s not for sale,’ Janyn said. ‘She’s not a slut from a tavern.’

‘Shut your mouth, unless you want to feel the King’s justice for answering a King’s officer,’ Henry said. ‘By Christ’s balls, she is lovely. Maid, I want you. Won’t you come with me? I’ll look after you better than these churls!’

‘Centener, go!’ Janyn said.

‘Go swive a donkey,’ Henry said.

Henry had lumbered forward like a man almost in a trance. His lips were moving, but Janyn couldn’t hear a word, only a roaring in his ears that muffled all sound. There was a moment when he felt suffocated with rage, and thought he was going to fall down, but then an intoxication of fury propelled him forwards, and he found himself face to face with Henry.

The centener didn’t look at him. His attention was focused entirely on the girl, and as Janyn thrust himself before him, Henry stopped and blinked as though confused to find that another man was in his way.

‘She is not for sale,’ Janyn grated. ‘Leave us alone.’

‘You are trying my patience,’ Henry said, his face reddening. His jaw jutted as he leaned towards Janyn. ‘Get out of my way, you cat’s turd.’

‘You try this, and I’ll have you broken,’ Janyn said. ‘All my vintaine here will stop you.’

‘You would stop a King’s officer? You think so? I’ll come back with three vintaines, man, and I’ll take her over your dead bodies!’

‘Try it. You’ll be the first to die,’ Janyn hissed.

There was a moment’s shocked pause. Janyn could feel the tension like a taut bowstring as he stared at Henry. There was a creak and a slight click, the familiar sound of a bow being drawn taut. Janyn knew that behind him at least one man had nocked an arrow.

‘Hear that, Centener? You try to strike me down, or try to steal her from us, and you’ll be dead before you’ve taken two paces. Now go!’