from a candle. An electric blue light outlined the window, and then a clap of thunder rattled the doors, and still he stood watching as the fine blade of the knife wobbled from one side to the other, trying to force up the timber that locked the shutters closed.
The wood moved a little, and he quietly crept forward. If he was quick and lifted the balk out of the way, he could kill the first assassin, and probably hold the window. He wondered dispassionately how many there would be outside, but he reckoned that there could only be three at most. Wat was bound to be there, and he would hardly attempt to kill Sir Hector on his own, but he could not count on the help of too many of his comrades in murdering his captain. More than two would be a risk – there was always the possibility that someone might decide Sir Hector was a safer master than Wat and take it into his head to warn him. No, if he was Wat, he would have arranged for two accomplices, no more.
As the blade twisted and a crack appeared in the shutter, running upward with the grain, Sir Hector decided to act. He walked into the storeroom and selected a crossbow. Hauling with both hands, forcing the blunt wooden butt into his belly until it felt as though it was going to stab through his skin and into his guts, he managed to pull the string back until the sear caught and held it in place.
There was another splintering from the shutter. He snatched up a heavy metal bolt and fitted it to the grove, then walked out. Taking careful aim, he fired.
The iron bolt struck the wood to the right of the wriggling blade, and disappeared. Simultaneously there was a shrill cry of pain, and the knife was dragged back. Sir Hector heard someone sobbing in fear and pain, and he smiled grimly to himself, cocking the bow once more and taking another bolt. He was sure that there would be no more attempts on his life tonight, but he still slept very lightly, sitting in a chair with the crossbow on his lap.
It was impossible to stay inside. While the rain lanced down, he had to go out and stand in the yard, the drops pelting on to his upturned face so hard it was like being hit by gravel. Giggling, he held his hands over his head and let them slowly fall in reverence to the cleansing water.
His mind was clear now. The lightheadedness of the last few days had gone, as if the killing of her and poor Judith had finally cured him of a fever. He felt as if he had been suffering from some sort of illness, and now, under this rain, he had been redeemed, absolved and strengthened in the one heady downpour.
With the disappearance of the other two, he could finally bring his plan to fruition. Now was the time for the last throw in the game. And after that he would see whether it was sensible to cuckold him.
19
Baldwin grunted, sipped at his water, and then belched volcanically. Peter Clifford threw him an admonishing look.
“Peter, I know. My apologies, but the meal last night was rather rich for my constitution,” the knight said, and burped once more. Grumpily he sat at the table. “Be grateful. It could be the other end.”
“I’m no longer surprised that you were so off-hand about knights and the very concept of chivalry the other night, Sir Baldwin,” the priest admonished him testily.
Baldwin grinned, but soon his features had fixed themselves into a frown of concentration, and the priest sighed. Crediton was an important town for the diocese, bringing in a good income each year, and Peter had wanted to be able to impress the Bishop during his visit. Instead, the conversation invariably revolved around the murders in the town. The plans Peter had set in place to impress had all gone awry: the visit to the hospital, the tour round the recent work on the church, the plans for celebrating St. Boniface’s birth, all were overshadowed by the killings.
Though Exeter was nearby, it was rare for Stapledon to come this way. His business was conducted more often in London, Winchester and York, wherever Parliament met or in the fine homes of other bishops. Stapledon was not by nature a greedy man; he believed in trying to help the souls in his diocese, but Peter knew that the state too often intervened, forcing him to set his religious responsibilities aside and shoulder the burden of civil service.
For many, becoming involved in politics was solely a means of self-advancement, and Peter, being realistic about the motivations of his colleagues in the Church, could see that the Bishop was not averse to extra power and authority, but Stapledon did not have the urge to seek power alone. Much of his efforts were directed toward making the kingdom stable, and to that end he spent weeks in discussions and negotiations, trying to make the King and his enemies see sense.
Peter supposed that, for a man involved in such weighty affairs, the unpleasant, even banal, pair of murders were almost a welcome relief from the petty disputes and arguments which could embroil thousands if the Bishop’s fears were realized. Certainly his interest in the two deaths had been surprising; a wealthy cleric was not usually the kind of man who would show fascination with the dealings and deaths of the poor.
Just then there was a knock at the door, and Peter saw Baldwin spin to face it. When the servant opened it, he was surprised to see the old mercenary, Wat.
Peter made a muttered apology and left the room while Baldwin invited the man to be seated.
Studying him, Baldwin was struck by the demeanor of his visitor. Wat had lost his coldness and truculence and appeared almost meek in the way he entered, his eyes cast demurely downward like a young virgin.
The curtain to the screens rattled, and Baldwin glanced up to see that Simon had entered. Baldwin was pleased to note that his friend appeared fully recovered, and walked in with a steady step, sitting beside the knight.
“You wanted to see us, Wat?” Baldwin asked.
“Yes, sir. I thought you ought to know.”
“Know what?”
The soldier looked up and held Baldwin’s gaze. “My master,” he said simply. “I think he must have killed those women.”
Ignoring the bailiff’s quick intake of breath, Baldwin leaned forward and nodded encouragingly. Wat pulled a grimace, as if any discourse with officers of law was loathsome, but then he began to speak.
“You see, I’ve been with him for longer than most. I know all his ways, and I know how he works. He’s not just an ordinary lord, he’s too used to killing. Far as he’s concerned, the only thing that matters is him. Nothing and nobody else.”
“That’s fine, Wat, but I didn’t realize you were a monk,” said Simon caustically.
The tired old eyes faced him. “I’m not, but when I kill, it’s for a reason. It’s for money or gold or food. It’s not for nothing.”
“Go on, Wat,” Baldwin said quietly.
“Well, sir, like I say, I know him. I’ve been with him so long now, over ten years, that I know some things about him. Has he told you we came through this town before? That young lad, Cole – his brother joined the company then, some five, maybe six years ago, when we were last here. That was when Hector met with Judith.”
Those few words made Baldwin and Simon sit up and listen carefully. “Met Judith? You mean your captain knew her back then?”
“Oh yes! She was a tavern-girl at the time, as young and fresh as a new primrose. Pretty much like that Sarra. He took her on his second night, and she went along to his chamber like it was her bridal bed. Silly cow. Two mornings after I saw her, she was weeping like a child. I don’t know why, but he’d beaten her. She looked like he’d whipped her before he threw her out.”
“Was this at the same inn?” Simon asked.
“Yes, sir. But it was a different owner then.”
Baldwin nodded his head. Paul had taken up the inn a little over four years before. He did not know who had run it until then. “You think he killed Judith?”
“I can’t say. All I know is, Sarra upsets him and she dies. Then he sees Judith again, and she dies.”
“Why should he kill her? It makes no sense.”
“It makes sense to me.”
