“But-”
“No, we have lost a son, and it would be cruel to expect an adopted boy to take Peterkin’s place. He would upset us whenever he misbehaved or got something wrong, and if he was good and obedient, he’d be doing no more than what we’d expect. His life would be a misery, with no comfort or joy.”
“Simon, I think-”
“And I wouldn’t be prepared to allow Margaret to suffer it. Every time she looked at his face she would be reminded of her ordeal today, and that’s a slow torture I’m not going to expose her to.”
“Bailiff, if you would let me speak,” Stapledon smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of forcing the lad on you. I had thought of a much simpler solution- I shall take him to Exeter with me. He may be useful in the kitchen or stables, and if he shows an aptitude I can teach him. Who knows? If he shows any promise, in years to come he might be able to go to my college at Oxford. He can be assured of food and drink and shelter in any case.”
Simon sagged with relief, “Yes, yes. That would be perfect.”
Stapledon nodded happily, but then a small frown crossed his brow. “I wish I knew why that murderous fool had to kill Judith in the first place. It was such an evil act! How could he deprive Rollo of his mother, purely to create a spurious connection with Sir Hector in the hope that it would lead us to arrest him?”
“I think it might be simpler than that,” Sir Baldwin said gently. “You recall I said that people tend to hurry along a street? Well, there is one class which does not.”
“What do you mean?”
Baldwin took the jug and topped up his goblet. “One group in particular will stand in a certain place for a long time every day: beggars. Judith may have spotted something odd on the afternoon of the robbery, and when she heard of the theft, realized that she actually knew someone who had been involved. We shall never know for certain, but she may have mentioned the butcher to Sir Hector when we saw him knock her down. He might have thought she was threatening him. I have often noticed that guilty men hear what they expect to, rather than what is actually said. In this case, any mention of his lover’s husband would very possible make him leap to the wrong conclusion. Yet all Judith was doing was trying to curry a little favor after so many years of neglect by him- especially since most people believe Rollo was his son.”
“Talking of Rollo, didn’t you tell me he screamed when he saw the knight, when Hugh brought him here?”
Baldwin smiled. “Certainly. But then again, right next door to the inn is the butcher’s and Adam was there at the time. I think Rollo saw Adam as he came into the street. For Sir Hector, it was simply the first time he had ever noticed the boy, and he was a little shocked to be confronted with a son who shrieked like a banshee at the sight of him. I don’t know but that I wouldn’t blanch myself if that was to happen to me. Anyway, to return to Judith for a minute, I think it is fair to assume that any loyalty or softer feelings she may once have held for the knight dissipated quickly after he struck her. I expect she went to Adam to ask him for money afterward. What could be more natural than that after her attempt to help Sir Hector had been so publicly scorned, she should go to the other protagonist and demand compensation from him? From Adam’s point of view, killing Judith was not merely useful in forming a link in the chain of evidence against Sir Hector, it also removed someone who could have proved to be an embarrassing witness.”
26
P aul woke to the sound of shuffling feet and banging, and rolled over wearily. After the late nights and forced early mornings of the last few days, he was unwilling to leave the warmth of the bed. Cuddling his wife, he screwed his eyes tight shut and let the noise wash past him, determined to grab a little extra peace before beginning a new day.
Though he sought sleep, it evaded him, and he was forced to lie half awake, his brain meandering indolently. It was typical, he thought, that the mercenaries should not only expect him to continue serving them until past midnight, but that today they should be determined to wake him before dawn as well. It was a measure of their ungenerous attitude to others, he thought sourly. They held the world in contempt.
A loud thud made the building tremble, and young Hob, on his truckle bed nearby, grunted and whimpered in his sleep. Paul swore and got up resentfully. He could not rest with that row going on. Scratching, he made his way to the window, tugging the knotted string free from its notch to let the shutter fall.
Below him the road was clear. The sun had not risen high enough to chase away the shadows, and only an occasional passer-by strolled in the darkness. Two hawkers stood sorting items in baskets ready for the day’s trade. Beyond, over the roof of the jail, he could see the long coils of smoke rising from freshly lighted fires. Soon the town’s women would be warming their pots and making breakfast for their families.
Beyond the bulk of the new church, the mist lay like a sheet of snow, hiding the valley in the chill morning air. He could only tell where the river lay from the trees which lined the far bank, and from the view he knew that the weather was changing at last; winter was approaching. A sudden gust blew along the street and Paul shivered, drawing back into the room. He pulled the cord, yanking the flat wooden board up until the knot met the notch in the timber above and he could let it hang. Only a small gap remained, and the draft from that should not wake his wife.
Pulling on his hose and a jerkin against the cold, he slowly negotiated the ladder to the buttery. When he opened the door, he stopped, his mouth gaping. The hall and screens were the picture of bedlam.
Mercenaries swore their way past him, stumbling under the weight of chests. Others dragged sacks out to the yard. Paul had to wait in the doorway as a pair of soldiers strained by, grasping leather-covered polearms tied in thick bundles. Behind them another trooper wheezed along in their wake, querulously complaining about the pain in his head. Paul was not surprised that the soldier should feel fragile-it would have been a wonder if none of the men had felt sickly. Almost all of Margery’s ale was gone, most of it over the last two days, since the arrest of Wat and the thieves.
Spying a gap in the stream of porters, the innkeeper stepped quickly into his hall. He was determined that Sir Hector would not leave before the bill was settled.
There were fewer men leaving the solar now. Most of the valuables and stores had already been taken to the yard and loaded on to the wagons. From the clattering of iron on stone, the horses were skittishly expectant as they stood by, knowing they would soon be leaving and anticipating the exercise. In his mind’s eye, Paul could see the massive black beast Sir Hector had arrived on, and he gave an involuntary shudder. Proud and arrogant, the horse terrified him.
“You rise early, innkeeper.”
Paul smiled and ducked his head. To Sir Hector he looked at his most obsequious, and the captain was sickened, convinced that, like all innkeepers, all he wanted was his money. Curtly he asked for the reckoning, and the two of them began to negotiate. Paul gave his figure; Sir Hector registered shock and suspicion. Evidence was proffered in the form of empty barrels in the buttery, and rejected on the basis that they might have been half- empty when the mercenaries arrived. Eventually they settled on a sum which satisfied both. If Paul was convinced it gave him only a little profit, at least there was some.
The knight too was content. It had cost him more than he would have hoped, but the charge appeared fair. He carefully counted the coins, sniffing at the expense, then left, striding out to the yard. Ignoring the men standing all round, he stepped onto the mounting stone, and swung his leg over his horse’s back. Once there, he studied his men.
It was a sadly depleted band. When Sir Hector had arrived in Creditor, it was as the leader of a united, battle-hardened force. Now his two sergeants were in jail after stealing from him, his most experienced man was with them awaiting justice for murdering Sarra, and Will had disappeared after the abortive attempt on Sir Hector’s life. Will knew the price for disloyalty. He wouldn’t dare show his face again.
The others stood by sullenly. None wanted to meet his eye, and he considered them silently for a moment. It would be easy to leave them, and the idea was tempting. All he need do was send them away and walk back inside the inn. They would go. One or two might wish to remain, but most would be glad of the opportunity to be free of him, and he could find a new life amongst the merchants of the town.
But fighting was all he knew. What could he do in a small town like this? Crediton was a quiet, profitable
