some comment about fools who should know better than to ride out with no idea where they were. So, I… I hit him. And then I saw his purse. It seemed stupid not to take it, and he had been so insulting, I thought it would teach him…”
“So it was you robbed Wat Meavy!” Simon gasped.
“Is that who it was? I didn’t know. Anyway, yes, it was me. And then I rode back to the inn. I was a little confused in my mind, but I didn’t want anyone to hear about my encounter.”
His father turned from him in disgust. John raised a hand as if to touch his shoulder, but hesitated, then let it drop, his head hanging dejectedly. Baldwin thought he looked as miserable as a whipped hound. “You did not see Bruther again after the meeting on the road?” he asked. John did not look up, merely shook his head.
After a moment, Simon sighed heavily. “Very well. You may go for now.”
“But I…” He looked at his father, who suddenly spun round.
“You heard the bailiff. Go!” he shouted tersely, and with a cowed air, John slowly turned from them and walked to the steps.
“So you see, bailiff,” said Sir William, once his son was out of earshot, “he had nothing to do with the murder. He’s only a thief!” He spat the word contemptuously.
Baldwin contemplated him for a moment. Then, speaking calmly, he said, “There are many men who do foolish things when young, Sir William.” The old knight’s head shot round to stare at him. “I do not say this to offer you unfounded hope. Many learn the pleasure of power while young but grow into honor later. Your son has started badly, but if he joins an honorable company of mercenaries in Italy, he can still redeem himself. Do not be too hard on him.”
The old knight nodded thoughtfully with a strangely suspicious expression that also showed a stirring hope. He turned to Simon. “That depends on you, bailiff. Will my son be held as a robber? Or will you let him carry on to go to Italy?”
Simon did not answer immediately. He was mulling over the boy’s story. It certainly fitted the facts as they knew them… but it left him with the same problem as before: who was the rider heard by Coyt on the moor?
“If you will make good Wat Meavy’s losses, I see no reason why I should trouble myself over the matter. He has not yet reported the affair to me, so if you reach him quickly and refund his stolen money, I may never hear more of it. And if I don’t, there’s little point in my getting involved, is there?” Sir William nodded, relieved. “But I would ask that you don’t tell John yet. Let him suffer his feelings of guilt for a while, because it may make him realize just how serious his behavior has been. Let him stew, and we will talk again about him later.”
Sir William nodded again. Uttering a deep sigh, he walked off in the same direction as his son. Baldwin crossed to his friend’s side, staring after the bent figure of the old knight.
“It is hard to believe that he was once a great and feared man, isn’t it?” he mused.
Simon was faintly surprised at the sympathy in his voice. “Yes,” he agreed. “It’s easy to forget that someone like him was once young and full of fire.”
“Oh, I do not know about that! He was full enough of fire earlier on, when he had just learned what sort of man his son was.”
“Yes – but look at him now.” Their eyes followed the knight as he went to the stairs to his hall. At one point, he stumbled and nearly fell. In the shadows near the stables stood a man-at-arms, and he stepped forward quickly to help the old knight. As he moved into the light, Simon saw it was Samuel Hankyn. Sir William stood suddenly still as if shocked at his own lack of coordination, a man forced to recognize his own old age. Simon felt his heart lurch in sympathy at the sight. Sir William Beauscyr was old and worn down by too many crises – a man who had lived overlong and seen his son turn to dishonor, a man waiting for death. The bailiff turned away from the miserable sight as Hankyn escorted his noble employer to the comfort of his chamber.
“Poor old man.” Simon felt Baldwin’s keen eyes on him even as he spoke.
“Perhaps. I wonder if Bruther would feel the same compassion for his old master, though.”
19
The clamorous tolling of the chapel bell brought Simon to instant wakefulness, and he lurched to his feet. In the hall it was still half-dark, with the early sun failing to reach high enough to enter through the windows. Standing, he felt a surge of angry resentment. He hated fast wakings. At home, if he was shocked from his slumber he was as fractious as a child for the rest of the day. Now it was worse, for he could see no reason for the interruption of his rest. Hugh sat up on his bench, rubbing bleary eyes, Baldwin stood frowning, and two of the Beauscyr servants scratched and yawned nearby. Only then did they hear the row from outside.
Grasping his sword and belt, Simon fumbled with the buckle as he stumbled to the door. Baldwin joined him in the screens, not bothering with his scabbard. He had simply snatched the blade from its sheath and now stood beside the bailiff with the cold white steel flashing and glinting, Edgar by his side, his face inscrutable. A moment later Hugh was with them, his long dagger gripped so tightly that his knuckles showed white. Simon tugged the door open.
At first the bailiff was convinced the fort was under attack. It was mayhem, with men rushing pell-mell from one end of the courtyard to the other, some holding helmets in their hands, others struggling with belts and shields, all woken by the alarm call. Then he smelled the acrid stench of burning, and when he glanced to his left, he saw that smoke was billowing from the stables. From the look of the column of smoke it was a miracle that the building had not been engulfed, but then, as he knew, grass and straw made a lot more smoke than they warranted.
He was blinking furiously from the stinging fumes. There appeared to be no order or sense to the panicking men. Guards stood at the walls, bellowing and waving, some shouted back from the courtyard, and all was madness: men mindlessly rushing to and fro, and others roaring commands.
Suddenly, Sir William appeared in the courtyard beneath the stairs. He quickly took in the situation and began barking orders. Under his control the men stopped their mad racing and a semblance of calm took over. Horses were pulled from the stables while a chain of men formed from the spring, passing buckets to and fro and hurling water on to the flames. At the knight’s bellow, servants ran to the sheds by the kitchen and grabbed the long poles and ladders stored there. Thatch smoldered above the stables, and these men clambered up to the roof and used the poles to drag it down to the ground, where others stamped on it. Soon all was done, and the men stood or shuffled in the thin light of early morning, laughing in their relief and chattering like children at a fair.
As soon as he saw that the fire was well under control, Sir William pointed to a guard, and Simon saw it was the captain who had fetched Samuel on their first day in the fort. “You! What the devil happened?”
“Sir, I don’t know.” The man shrugged in bafflement. “The guard just found the hay on fire, and when we came out, it was all as you saw it.”
Simon glanced at the kitchen, quiet and deserted this early in the morning. Kitchen fires often released sparks which caught on the thatch of other buildings, and all too often the kitchens themselves would blaze up. That was why they were commonly separated from the hall and other buildings, but it did not stop the odd glowing mote from travelling to other roofs, and that was what must have happened here. There was no mystery in it. He shrugged, gave Baldwin a tired grin, and was about to return to the hall and wait for breakfast, followed by a nap if he could manage it, when another man ran to the foot of the steps.
Ignoring the guard captain, he stared imploringly at Sir William. “Sir William, you must come quickly!”
“What is it now?” the old man snarled.
“Sir, it’s Samuel Hankyn and Ronald Taverner – they’re dead!”
Simon felt his mouth gape, while beside him, the knight froze in horrified shock. Baldwin recovered first and leapt down the stairs, agile as a deer, while Simon rushed after him. Both ran to the little room where they had spoken to the two men.
In the gloomy interior it would have been easy to think that Ronald Taverner was merely sleeping. He lay on his palliasse, his eyes closed and his head resting on his bundle of clothes as if he was shortly to wake, and Simon was tempted to call to him. But the blanket had been pulled aside, and his pale chest could be seen, the evil puckered stab wound showing clearly like a small purse-lipped mouth. Simon groaned and turned away while Baldwin, his face screwed into a frown of intense concentration, slipped forward and surveyed the body. There was
