As he shook himself and tugged his hose back into place, Hugh noticed the old bottler glaring at him a short way off and emptying a bucket into the drain. Hugh gave him an apologetic grimace as the old man said, casting an offended eye over the damp patch on the wall: “It’s not a privy, you know.”
Hugh felt his embarrassment mount. “I’m sorry, I thought…”
“I suppose it’s too far for a bailiff’s servant to walk another six yards to the drain?”
“Look – I didn’t think it’d matter…”
“Matter!” The bottler’s tired old eyes stared at Hugh with distaste, then back at the stain. Shaking his head, he turned away. Hugh scampered to walk with him, feeling guilt at causing his disgust. In the face of his mumbled apologies the servant unbent a little, and by the time they reached the hall door, he was almost sorry for his words. “Forget it. We’re all on edge here, since Bruther got killed. Our master has not been himself since then, and now there are all these wounded men too.”
Hugh nodded. From the doorway, they could clearly hear the cries and calls from within the hall, and Hugh hesitated before entering. “They’re all in there?”
“Yes,” the old bottler sighed. “First poor Bruther, and now this.”
“This was because of Bruther, you know. Your master wanted to catch his killer.”
“Bruther’s dead. It’s unfair to blame him for all this, even if it was done in his name,” the bottler said with asperity. He could see the trepidation on Hugh’s face and took sympathy. “Come here into the buttery and have some ale,” he said more kindly.
Recognizing the olive branch, Hugh traipsed after him. In the room with the casks and boxes he sat on a wine barrel while the older man rested carefully on an old stool, settling slowly with a grunt before filling two pewter pots with ale. He paused at a high shriek from the hall, and Hugh stiffened, but then took the proffered drink gratefully and drank deeply.
Nodding toward the door, the bottler said, “There’s a surgeon and his assistants in there. They don’t need you or me to get in their way.”
“You knew Bruther?” Hugh asked, trying to change the subject.
“Yes. He was a good young man to me, very polite, and always had time to share a quart of ale.”
“It’s very good,” Hugh nodded, and the bottler refreshed his pot.
“Bruther always said so. Mind, he liked his drink anyway. It never mattered much what sort it was, but he did say mine was the best ale in Dartmoor.” There was no need for Hugh to speak. The old man wanted company, not talk, and they sat quietly for some minutes. Stirring, the bottler continued, “He was brave, too. Did you hear about him and that knight? He didn’t just send the fool on his way, he took the rope too.”
Frowning, Hugh glanced up at him. “Where did you hear that?”
“He told me, when he came here the day he died. Not for long, he was hoping to see my master, but Thomas was at the camp. Still, he shared a cup or two of ale with me, while his old master bellowed for more wine in the hall.”
“Sir William was here too?”
“Yes. The old bastard was stomping round the hall in a high old mood at being kept waiting for my master. When he wasn’t howling for wine he was cursing and muttering enough to raise the dead. Bruther thought it was funny.”
“Did they speak to each other?”
“No, of course not. Bruther stayed out here with me until he left.”
“So he never went into the hall?”
“Not that I saw. Mind, I wasn’t here all the time.”
“Eh?”
“I had to go out. There was a problem with the fire in the kitchen and I went to help the cook.”
“You left Bruther here?”
“Only long enough to finish his ale. He came and gave me his farewell in the kitchen. Poor devil. He seemed happy again.”
“He was happier when he left than when he arrived?” Hugh asked carefully.
“Yes. He was in a miserable state when he got here, something about a girl, I think. But he always had said that my ale cooled his brain and settled his temper. After a few pints he was happy enough. I watched him go. He turned and waved, down there by the fields near the stream, really cheerful, he was, the rope coiled over his shoulder.”
“But Sir William was still here?”
“Oh yes. I saw him when I got back from the kitchen. He was cooler than before. Not as wrathful, thank God! He just asked where I’d been, didn’t even shout at me. Then requested more wine.”
Hugh scratched at a bite on his scalp. “You were away for some time, then?” he hazarded.
“As long as I could be,” the bottler shrugged. “I didn’t want to be there with him shouting at me. I stayed with the cook for a good time, until I heard my master’s horses.”
“Oh,” said Hugh, deflated. “So you would have heard Sir William ride off if he had gone somewhere, if you could hear your master in the yard.”
“Eh?” Shrewd old eyes glanced up quickly. “Why? What are you…? No, I couldn’t. The kitchen’s out back. I heard my master on the road.”
“Would you have heard a man mounting his horse in the yard and riding off if he went over the moors?” Hugh asked slowly and carefully, suddenly feeling a hollowness of expectation in his belly. He did not need to hear the answer.
25
Back at Beauscyr, Simon and Baldwin sat on chairs close to the unlit fire. Sir William was not there yet. John, anxiously tossing a dagger in the air and catching it, stood near them and looked disapprovingly at Edgar as he lazily leaned against a pillar. Sir Ralph was there too, standing with his back to a wall, arms crossed negligently. For all his appearance of indolence, Baldwin could see the watchfulness flickering in his eyes. Both looked surprised to see Thomas Smyth enter after the others.
Some moments later, Sir Robert Beauscyr and his mother entered. As always, Lady Matillida swept in regally, ignoring her guests as she walked lightly to the table on the dais and seated herself at her chair. After a moment’s thought, her elder son followed, sitting at her side and staring at Simon. At last the door was thrown open and in walked Sir William.
To Simon he seemed to have regained his youth. He marched in with one hand resting on his sword hilt as he moved to his wife’s side. There he touched her shoulder briefly, then sat down, leaning forward on his elbows. Acknowledging Thomas Smyth, who stood tensely behind Simon, the old knight confronted Baldwin and Simon.
“Well, what do you have to report? I want an enquiry into the affairs of the miners. That is crucial now, after their taking of my son.”
“Sir William, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” said Simon gently.
“Why not?” cried Robert, leaping to his feet and staring at the bailiff. Simon sighed, but stiffened as the boy continued, “I suppose they offered you too much money to refuse, did they? Do you have any idea what it is like, to be taken like a common felon? To be dragged away like that, and…”
“Yes,” mused Baldwin. “It must be difficult for someone to be carried off like that. I mean, a merchant might be able to forget it in time, but a noble knight? Someone who wants to impose his will on his demesne? That must be very hard.” And he smiled winningly at the youth.
Robert opened his mouth to speak, but then caught sight of the dangerous glint in Baldwin’s eye, and suddenly snapped it shut. There was something about the knight which had changed over the last few hours, he saw. All diffidence and softness had fled, leaving in their place a strange harshness. It was as if he had made a decision and intended to carry it through, no matter what.
“Yes,” Baldwin said again, standing and strolling toward Sir Ralph. “It would be difficult for a knight to take such an embarrassment, wouldn’t it?” The northern knight’s eyes met his for a moment, then he looked away. Not
