blackthorn bush tied to a pole, had lasted some months, but had eventually disintegrated, and when twigs and a part of the old pole had fallen on Tanner, the Constable, Paul thought he’d better get a new one quickly before Tanner could express his indignation. Rather than use another bush, he had decided to purchase an alestake. Now a large cross of timbers swung gently in the wind above him, hanging from its new, stronger pole by chains like an X, and he watched it for some minutes with arms akimbo. No one, he thought with satisfaction, could fail to recognize his inn with a clear sign like that one.
He was about to turn and re-enter his hall when he heard something strange in the bustle of the street. The cheerful cries of the water-carriers and hawkers changed, sounding more muted. People stopped their hurried rushing and stared; urchins craned their necks to peer past adults standing in the way, forgetting their games; a maid from the house opposite appeared, bowl in hand, and was about to throw the contents into the sewer when she stopped and gawped.
Following her gaze, Paul found himself wishing he did not have quite such a prominent alestake after all, but he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders with resolution, and scurried inside. “Margery? Margery, where are you?”
“What is it?” His wife appeared from the buttery, wiping her hands on her tunic. She was in the middle of boiling wort for the next brew of ale and could do without her husband bellowing. Eyeing him with long-suffering exasperation, she was about to give vent to her feelings when he waved excitedly at the door.
“There’s a troop of men-at-arms arrived with their captain. Quick, get the girls to help us; there are too many for us to cope with on our own.”
“We only have room for five…”
“They can’t stay, but we can at least provide them with food and drink. Food! I wonder if Adam has anything we could buy? Otherwise we’ll have to rely on the cookshop.”
She glanced from him to the door, her mouth opening, and then was still.
“Good day,” The confident tone of the knight’s voice pulled the innkeeper’s thoughts back to the present with a shock, like a running dog reaching the full extent of its leash.
“Master, how can we serve you?” Paul said quickly, and moved back to invite the man inside. While his wife watched, he led the stranger to the best seat in the hall, bowing and smiling all the way.
“This looks a comfortable enough inn. My troop and I are bound for Gascony but need to rest awhile. Soon we will continue on our way to the coast.”
“Ah, to join a great lord, I expect.”
“I would hope so. We came back to join the King in the north. Took a ship to London, and we missed him, so we went to York, and met with some of the commissioners, but they seemed to prefer raw youths rather than trained men-of-war. Well, they may regret that choice!”
“They refused you?” the innkeeper asked, with a flattering note of surprise in his voice.
The captain nodded curtly. “They rejected us out of hand, so we came back. But London was full of rumors of war. There were no ships to take us across to Gascony, for all vessels were heading north with extra provisions, and the prices were ruinous, so we decided to come this way. We’ll catch a ship from the coast in a few days.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have enough rooms for all your company, but there may be other places in the town where they can be quartered.”
“I would prefer them to stay here with me.”
“Of course, of course. But I fear we do not have room for them. No matter, I’ll seek out what can be…”
Catching sight of the captain’s unblinking gray eyes as he looked at her husband, Margery froze. The way he twitched his short cloak aside was unmistakably threatening, as was the way he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I feel sure that your guests will understand my wishes, and will be happy to allow my men to take over their rooms. Now, I would like a quart of ale for myself, and I’m sure my men would also like some.”
“Yes, sir, of course,” Paul hesitated. “But I must say again, I am afraid the inn is quite full.”
“We shall see.” The captain turned away; the meeting was at an end. “A quart of ale. Now.”
Leaving her husband to serve him, Margery hastened from the room and, lifting her skirts, rushed through the yard behind the inn, her mind whirling. In residence at the inn was the family of merchants, the cloth-buyer and his wife and daughter, and the goldsmith and his apprentice among others. What would they think of sharing their rooms with the motley troop of men-at-arms? She preferred not to dwell on it. And then there were the girls, too: Cristine, Nell, and young Sarra. A sour grin lessened the solemn set of her features for an instant as she thought of Sarra: if Margery knew the girl at all, she would be pleased with the attention of thirty fit and randy troopers.
At the back of the yard, she paused at the bottom of the steps to catch her breath, then clambered up to the room over the stables and hammered with her fist on the door. “Sarra, are you there? Sarra!”
There was a grunt, then a groaning enquiry. Margery cursed under her breath. “Open the door – quickly! You must come and help us. Sarra!”
A bolt shot back, then the door creaked open to reveal a peevish-looking figure. Margery pushed the door wide and stepped into the room. Sarra had been late to her bed the previous night, she recalled. The girl had been serving guests until the early hours, according to Paul, and had been near the goldsmith’s apprentice almost the whole night. The innkeeper had been amused to see how she tried to engage him in conversation, commenting on his clothing, on his enamelled buckle, and when she ran out of ideas, on the weather. The miserable youth, tongue- tied and self-conscious, had gone puce with embarrassment. To Paul he had looked thoroughly unimpressive, but apparently Sarra had formed the opinion that he was sure to become a wealthy and successful smith, and thus worth the investment of a little of her time. When he and his master had gone to their chamber after saying barely a word to her, she had flounced from the room with a face like thunder. Sarra had never hidden her ambition to marry while she was still young.
And she should succeed, Margery thought to herself, eyeing the young girl. She was not the type that Margery favored usually: she was too long in the leg and small in the bosom for a serving girl, but there was no denying that she had the right glint in her eye when a man took her fancy, and her face was that of an angel – though now it was the face of a disgruntled angel, with the indignant sharpness of someone woken too early.
“Well, what is it? I cleared up this morning and did my chores, so what’s the matter? Aren’t I allowed to have a rest before the evening trade?”
Her tunic was thin, and Margery could see the slimness of her body in the sunlight streaming in from the doorway behind. Where it touched her ruffled hair, it made the honey-golden mane glow like a halo. Her neck was bare and it struck Margery how vulnerable the girl looked. For all her desire to wed while she was still young and not wait until she was “old,” as she put it, no doubt thinking of Margery as the symbol of decrepitude, she was still practically a child, and when the innkeeper’s wife thought of the quality of man which was at this moment settling into the hall, she had a pang of conscience. The girl would be thrown to them like a scrap to a pack of hungry hounds.
“Well?” Sarra’s voice was irritable.
Briefly, Margery explained about the men who had arrived. Even as she spoke she saw the girl’s eyes light up, and could read the direction of her thoughts: men, and a wealthy captain at their head – surely a fellow of influence and power to have the control of thirty others. He was bound to be impressed by her calm and mature demeanor. Margery sighed. “Sarra, don’t start thinking you can run away with men like these. They’re not the kind to want to marry a woman and raise children.”
“Oh no?” There was a sneer in her tone.
“No!” Margery snapped. “I know more about men than you.” The disdainful curl of Sarra’s lip implied that with the difference in their ages, that was no surprise, and the innkeeper’s wife felt her cheeks flame with resentment. “I’ve seen their kind before: they’re the sort to take a tumble with a maiden, then rush off without even a farewell. Their captain is as bad as the rest, or worse.”
“Worse – how?”
Margery paused and stared at her. “He feels nothing for anyone. All he knows is how to wage war. I promise you, Sarra, these men are no good. Serve them, but don’t try to flirt. It’s too dangerous.”
The girl tossed her head, then ran her fingers through her hair, pulling out the knots and tangles before absent-mindedly plaiting the thick tresses. When she spoke her voice was suspiciously meek. “Very well, Margery. I will be careful.”
“Do. Not for me, but for yourself, Sarra. You’re far too good to waste yourself on the likes of them. You spend
