The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

Henry the Tun’s face went utterly blank. The colour left his features like water running from a leaking bucket, and Janyn could almost imagine he was facing a ghost. The thought made him shiver.

‘You’ll regret this,’ Henry said quietly. He stood, studying Janyn for a long moment, his eyes empty of all emotion. For a while, Janyn held his breath, convinced that his centener would draw steel and try to stab him, but at last, Henry retreated. After some paces, he turned and walked away, but before he had taken more than a few paces, he stopped again.

His eyes took in all the men there: Janyn, the bowman behind him, and the woman, and he nodded as though reminding himself of all their faces, before chuckling to himself and striding off.

Was he evil? Janyn considered that again now, sitting before the fire. He always wanted to see the good side of any man, where possible. In the past he had taken raw, savage men, and from them honed sharp, competent warriors, and he would like to think that there was more to Henry than he met at first sight, but he knew, even as he considered the man, that there was no point.

Some men may be overtaken with rage in an instant and forgive in the next. Henry was not of that mould. He took his hatred and viciousness and nursed it to his breast until it became a focus and concentration of his anger.

Henry was filled with bile and spite at that moment, that was certain. To be forced away from his chosen prize by a few meagre churls from another vintaine, and by one of Sir John’s own vinteners, was demeaning, and that alone incurred his wrath. But to leap from that to declaring him evil was a long jump. Janyn knew that many men, thwarted of their desires, could be vicious. Some would lie in wait for a victim and take revenge for a slight. Many would punish a man by any means. Henry did none of these. He was fixed upon a different revenge. If he could not take her, he would have those who protected her destroyed; he would have her destroyed in time. But he would take her. He had no doubts of his abilities there. He would recognise no bounds to his rage at his humiliation. No, he would see how to get his revenge, and when he did, he would see them all utterly ruined, and they would see his hand in their destruction. He would gain satisfaction in their horror. And he would ensure that they knew he would have her regardless.

That was the mark of his cruelty. Not that he would stab or punch in a moment’s rage, but that he would nurse his hatred and black bile to himself and nurture them, and let them grow and fester, until they took him over entirely.

Henry did not think himself evil. His life had been one of fighting and struggling, but he was only a man, making his way as best he could.

Arriving in Guyenne after he fled London, he had been happy. He had enjoyed his time there. The warmth, the wine, the women, all were to his taste. But a man needed a career as well. He had no trade, but he was good, he learned, at fighting, and he began to take part in the little tournaments for money. He would take on all comers, and his speed and lack of fear usually gave him the victory. Whether he fought with swords, daggers or fists, Henry soon learned that he had an edge over most men.

It was that which led to his joining the King’s men. He fought for many of the noblemen of his day, spending much of his time with Sir John of Norwich, but then he met Sir Walter Manny, and joined his forces. Ten years after the murder of the man in Southwark, Henry was on a ship once more, and fighting with Sir Walter against French ships near Sluys. They won a victory at Cadsand and, from that moment, Henry knew his vocation. He was a fighter for the King.

As the war continued and conflicts spread, he found himself advancing ever further. He joined as an infantry fighter, but then gained a pony and a bow. From there he became vintener, and gradually built a reputation for steadiness in battle, for a cool head, and a ferocity unequalled in Edward’s host. Henry was as fierce as a tiger when he was placed with an enemy before him, but that enemy could be a Frenchman or a recalcitrant fighter from his own vintaine. A man who did not fight for him would often be forced to fight against him. He held an iron discipline in his unit, and all who disliked it were forced to respect it.

When he rose to his current post, it was because the old centener was too incompetent for his own good, let alone the men he was supposed to lead. He couldn’t lead the men into a tavern on a good day. On a bad day, he was too swine drunk to bother. More and more often it was Henry who took the men and led them himself, while his own men rallied them when a sudden reverse struck. And one day, the old man was in the line, fighting, when a sword caught his belly and opened him like a paunched rabbit.

That day, Henry took the top job. It was his right. It was his reward, he felt, for having endured the laziness and cowardice of his predecessor. He had to kill the man for the good of his unit and that whole arm of the King’s host.

In all these last years, no one had dared gainsay him. No one had thought to refuse him anything he demanded. And this miserable cur, this mewling kitten, this streak of piss, this Janyn Hussett, dared to stand before him and deny him the woman he should have as a right!

He would have her. He wanted her, and no one would stand in his way.

No, he did not think himself evil. He merely did not consider how any action of his own would affect other people. He didn’t care.

Janyn and his men could guess that no good could come of this.

‘Well, Janyn, by my faith, you’ve dropped us right into the shite this time,’ Barda muttered, taking the arrow from the string and putting it back with its sheave before reaching up to unstring his bow. ‘Ballocks to that! I didn’t come over the water to fight my own folk. I thought I was going to fight and kill the King of France’s men.’

Barda atte Mill was a short man, with a fuzz of grizzled hair circling his bald pate. About his cheeks and chin was a thick growth of beard as if to compensate for his hairless skull. His eyes were shrewd and kindly, with enough laughter creases to make him look like a modern Bacchus.

‘What would you have had me do? Let him take her?’ Janyn demanded, glancing round at Pelagia.

She was still staring after Henry and, when she felt his eyes on her, she threw him a cursory look before bending and continuing with her work preparing vegetables for the pot.

‘Aye. If it makes our life easier,’ Barda said. His eyes were narrowed as he peered after Henry, but there was no humour in them. ‘It’s a mistake to go upsetting the man who commands you in battle, Jan.’

‘Don’t talk of her like that,’ Bill said. His face blackened with his mood. ‘Would you see the poor maid raped by that son of a dog?’

‘I’d prefer to see her open her legs wide for him rather than see us suffer his anger.’

‘Perhaps. But I wouldn’t let him take her,’ Janyn said.

‘Is she your wife?’

Janyn didn’t answer that.

‘Well, I hope she’s worth it in the end, Vintener,’ Barda said, and walked off.

Bill and Walter stood together, muttering in low voices, their eyes drifting off to where Henry had gone, but Janyn squatted with his back against a tree and closed his eyes. After the rush of excitement, he felt light-headed and slightly sick. He had been so close to drawing a knife that he could feel how it would have been, to have stabbed and slain the centener. There was a metallic taste in his mouth at the thought, just like he had after a battle.

Pelagia was over at the fireside, and Janyn opened his eyes to watch her. She was entirely unaffected by the presence of the men about her, as if she knew that she was safe with them. Sitting amongst them, she pulled her hair up, away from her neck. She had a fine neck, Janyn thought, like a swan’s. Pale, long, slender, it looked vulnerable. He wanted to kiss it. It was rare for him to be attracted to women, but this one had something, an inner strength like a cord of hemp that kept her together. Even when threatened by Henry, she had shown no fear. Perhaps it had been throttled from her. The tribulations of her last weeks, losing her family, seeing her countrymen slaughtered all about her, maybe that had had the effect of squeezing all her feelings from her, so that now there was nothing left at her core but a savage determination to survive.