don it.”
“So what are you getting at?”
“This, Sir Hector. Since she changed in her room, the only reason I can see for her doing that and then going to the solar is that she thought it was hers. And logically, I think she must have found the tunic in her room, or been given it there.”
Baldwin stared at his friend. “I see what you’re getting at: if she thought it was a present, she would have gone straight to Sir Hector to thank him.”
“It’s how a woman would behave – dressing in the tunic to show how pleased she was with the gift.”
The mercenary glowered from one to the other. “Are you seriously suggesting that she somehow found it in her room and rushed over here to thank me for buying it for her?”
Simon shrugged. “It’s the only explanation I can believe right now. Either she found it there or she was given it there – and was told that you had bought it for her.”
“Who could have said that to her?”
“That we need to find out,” said Baldwin. “In the meantime, you never answered my question: for whom did you purchase the tunic?”
“That’s my business. It’s got nothing to do with you.”
Baldwin noticed how the captain’s gaze kept straying to the road behind him. He was sure that Sir Hector had been waiting for the same woman, whoever it might be, when he had knocked the bowl from the poor beggar’s hand. But there was little he could do to force the man to name her – and for some reason Baldwin had an instinct not to press him. “Very well. But is there anything else you forgot to mention to us this morning?”
The captain’s eyes were gray flints as he snarled, “No!”
As the Keeper of the King’s Peace and his friend left the inn, it was hard for the man watching to restrain his feelings. They had found out about the new dress; that at least should put them further on the correct track, and when he saw their faces, they told him all he wanted to know. The knight, Baldwin, kept glancing over his shoulder, back toward the inn, with his features set into a black scowl of suspicion, while his friend seemed lost in thought, brows fixed into a mask of perplexity.
At last the fruits of his plans were ripening, and would soon be ready to be plucked.
When they had gone, Sir Hector stormed through the hall and into his solar like a bear with a foot in a trap. At the door to his rooms, he pointed to one of his men. “Get me Henry the Hurdle. Bring him to my solar. Now!”
He was seated in front of his cabinet when Henry walked in. The man looked nervous, but that was no surprise to Sir Hector. He would expect any of his men responding to an urgent summons to be anxious.
“Shut the door,” he said, and waved the servant out. Henry did as he was commanded, then, darting looks all round, he sat himself on a trunk.
Sir Hector knew his men well. It was one of the basic rules of being a leader that the men under him should always feel their captain understood them and their needs. At the same time, they had to believe in his infallibility and total power. It was not kindness that had made Sir Hector the commander of warriors, but his willingness to kill ruthlessly all those who threatened him and his authority. Surveying Henry, he was aware that the man might well have thought about toppling him – might possibly even have succeeded. Henry was devious enough, though Sir Hector doubted that his Sergeant was quite clever enough to pull the wool over his eyes completely.
But he was troubled by the thought that even his most trusted man could have plotted against him.
There was nothing unusual in potential disloyalty, for that was the normal way for a mercenary band to select a new commander: he was replaced by another, stronger man, one who could instill more fear in the men beneath. The risk was always there in any group, where malcontents could easily persuade others that a better leader was available. Disaffected employers often tried to foment trouble, considering it advantageous to change commanders in order to renegotiate contracts during the interregnum. Then again, many a mercenary captain had discovered that when he went abroad without the bulk of his men, either the bulk were no longer there on his return, or they ambushed him. Loyalty was a rare commodity for a warrior! And that was what Sarra had alleged, or something similar: that Henry had plotted to oust him and take control himself.
The stupid bitch had brought her end down upon herself, he thought savagely. She had made the allegations in the middle of an inn where Henry had his spies. He was bound to have been informed and warned.
Henry shifted, waiting for his master to speak, and the movement dragged Sir Hector’s attention back to the present. “Wat – is he reliable?”
“As reliable as any old bugger is who’s seen too many battles. I don’t know. He’s certainly always fought well, but he’s been moaning about things for some time…”
“What sort of things?”
Henry scratched his head. He couldn’t see where this was leading, and he did not want to volunteer too much in case he found himself in the firing line. “Oh, about how the group is organized generally. He’s always going on about money and such.”
“Has he complained about you?”
“Me?” Henry decided that a little bluff honesty could do no harm. “No, but he’s never liked me. Not many of the men do, they think I have too much say in things – don’t like me giving orders and disciplining them. That’s nothing new. But I’ve overheard him whingeing to others.”
“Sir Baldwin reckons Wat might have told Sarra to come and see me in that tunic.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Maybe to make me angry enough to kill her.”
“You’d get that angry just seeing her wearing a tunic?” Henry queried dubiously.
“I had bought it that day for another woman. If I had seen her in it, I might have killed her for polluting it with her filthy body.”
Henry wondered how filthy his master had thought that same body on the night they arrived, but kept his face blank. “I don’t know that Wat could have thought that out, sir. Why should he think you’d get so cross you’d kill for that?”
Sir Hector stared at him unblinking, and Henry had the grace to look away. All of them, over the course of many years, had killed in any number of battles and running fights. Henry himself had been involved in some of the vicious border wars between France and England on the Gascon marches, and none of them were free of the stain of blood spilt while their blood was up. Sir Hector knew that Henry, after the sack of one town, had found two men arguing over a captured woman. With his own rough humor he had hit upon an easy solution to their problem, and, sweeping out his great hand-and-a-half sword, had declared “Half each!” and cut her in two. No, none of them were free of the stain of blood.
“I want you to find out, Henry. Ask around. If he put her up to it, he’s unreliable, and I want him gone. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you… did you plot to remove me, Henry?”
As Sir Hector’s unnerving eyes snapped to his face, Henry felt himself go pale, as if the eyes themselves had stabbed him and let his blood run out onto the rushes. He shook his head silently, but did not trust his voice.
After he had left the room, Sir Hector sat for a long time, deep in thought. They had a long way to go before they were back again in Gascony, where the wars were, and the money was waiting to be plundered, but he was sure now that he must lose Wat before they got there.
And he must also get rid of Henry. He couldn’t be trusted anymore. Sir Hector nodded to himself. He must think of someone else who could take on the responsibilities of Sergeant for the band.
13
Henry walked quickly from the room and through the hall, past men sitting drinking or playing at dice. To
