Daniel was hurt. “It’s my father’s sword.”
“Father’s? Are you sure it’s not your great-grandfather’s? I can’t see any metal for the rust!” said David in disbelief. He took it and gazed at it. It was so old that the leather grip had worn away, and the wooden handle beneath was rough on his hand. The metal of the tang was sharp, and the pommel had fallen off. In a fight the grip could turn and catch the skin. He tested the blade with his thumb, his expression reflecting his disgust. “A penny.”
“A penny fine? But…”
“If you aren’t happy, I can raise it to a day’s money. For now, get that thing to the blacksmith and see whether he can put an edge of some sort on it, and a new grip. This isn’t just to make the fair look good, it’s to protect people – and so you can protect yourself. How can you keep the King’s peace with an ancient block of rust like that? What have you been doing with it – hedging?”
The watchman shifted uneasily, and mumbled an apology. David shook his head. Any tool was there to be used, in the minds of the peasants of the area, and an old weapon was no more than a good, edged farm implement. It had more cutting power than a bill-hook, and was easier and lighter to carry to a hedge than a heavy axe. While the watchman reddened, David moved on to the next man. This one had a cudgel and a welsh knife, one with a good long blade of over a foot. David gave it a grudging nod and continued along the line, making sure that all the blades were strong and sharp, the sticks solid and not cracked. Almost all were fine, especially those of the men from Denbury, who appeared to have good new blades and oaken clubs.
He watched them go with a lackluster eye. “I don’t know how people feel about outlaws and thieves,” he said to the clerk as the last one tramped out, “but personally that lot scares me more than all the felons in the clink.”
Will Ruby sliced through the skin quickly in a long cut round the vent, and thrust two fingers into the capon, drawing the innards out and dropping them into the midden basket by his feet. Feeling around inside, he located the kidneys where they lay on the back of the ribcage, and tugged them free. He cut through the flesh of the neck and exposed the bones beneath before removing the head. That too went into the basket.
The carcass was tossed onto the growing pile as he reached for the next. Beside him, his wife and son sat on stools, surrounded by a gently billowing cloud as they plucked furiously, stuffing the feathers into sacks. His apprentice was fetching the other carcasses from the wagon stationed by the fairground, setting them out on their hooks or laying them on the boards where the customers would be able to inspect them. Will was pleased to see that the boy had learned how to conceal the worse parts of any joint and laid out the cuts to best advantage. There was no point in giving a customer an opportunity to argue for a lower price. He nodded approvingly. The boy had gone again while he inspected his wares, and when Will glanced over, he saw that there were no more chickens ready to be drawn yet. His wife and son were still plucking.
The midden-basket was almost full, and he was beginning to feel warm as the sun rose higher. At this rate he would need more than the one basket. A draft of ale would help cool him, too. “I’ll just empty this,” he said to his wife. She hardly looked up, just nodded, as he wiped his hands on his bloody apron and moved off along the stalls carrying the basket.
There was another good reason for taking a walk: to look at how the other stalls had presented their stock to the world. Being butchers, there was the benefit of having no outside competition, because the Abbot promised them their monopoly, but Will knew that all would have bought in extra stock, and he wanted to see how good it looked.
From a distance he stopped and gazed back. His own stall was bright and colorful with its red and yellow awning. He’d picked the colors because they stood out among the greens and blues of the other stalls. The trestle was almost filled to overflowing, and he had enough meat hidden behind in barrels and boxes to supply a lord and his retinue. Feeling satisfied, he carried on, casting an eye to right and left as he went, assessing how others were doing.
The midden lay at the far side of the fairground, and he passed by the new toll-booth on the way. A long queue of merchants from outside the borough stood there, waiting. All had goods to sell, and they grumbled together about the costs. “A halfpenny for a cart of wheat? It’s theft, that’s what it is.” A red-faced farmer was insisting that he should have free access because he came from an ancient tenement on the moors and shouldn’t have to pay, while his geese extended their necks and waddled nearby, a skinny and mangy dog herding them whenever they strolled too far.
Will barged past the arguing men. It was much like any other year. Prices were higher, but they had been rising since the disastrous famines of four or five years before; at least people could expect to make a profit. There were good reasons for a goose-farmer to want to avoid paying, because from every fourteen birds brought in, one must be given in toll, and that was a heavy price.
Whistling tunelessly, the butcher arrived at the midden. So early in the morning, it was not as violent on the nose as it would become, but there was enough of a rotten stench to make him hurry. In future, he decided, someone else would discard the garbage.
He upended the basket and set off back to his shop. Another basket or two would be needed, and he might as well fetch them now – especially since the journey would take him past the tavern.
It took little time to enter through the town gate and make his way to his shop, where he at once went in and fetched the spare baskets from under his bench. He was still whistling as he slammed the door behind him and moved toward the tavern, but at the entrance to the alleyway he paused.
Shaking his head, he surveyed the pile. It had been reduced, he saw, but that would not satisfy the port- reeve. David Holcroft was easy-going about many things, but the Abbot was his master; and Abbot Robert was known to abhor the messy habits of some of the townspeople. He would be sure to demand that Elias was amerced. Will tutted to himself, and was about to go and beat on Elias’ door when he stopped, lips pursed in readiness for a whistle. He could just make out the shape of an old and worn boot, and the sight was strangely out of place. Elias was not the sort to throw out an old boot: he’d be more likely to take it to be mended. Will blinked, peering down into the gloom, then rushed forward, his baskets bouncing and spinning in the road behind him. Under the mound of rubbish he could see the shape of a leg.
Grabbing the boot and hurriedly scraping round it, he stopped with the horrified realization that there was a body concealed beneath the mound. Seizing the ankle, he hauled, grimly noting that the flesh was as cold as any of the carcasses he handled in his shop. Whoever this was, he was not living. The mound shifted, rags and bits of pastry and bones falling as he dragged the body free. A knee appeared, and a thigh. The hose were sodden and rucked up as he pulled. More garbage slid aside with a revolting sucking noise, and now he could see the other leg. Gingerly, he gripped it and leaned back. A muscle snapped in his shoulder, but still he tugged, and at last the body came free with a slight jerk, and he fell back on his rump. “Ow! God’s blood!”
Standing, he rubbed his backside, then his shoulder, and walked forward to view the red-leather-clad corpse. Staring in horror, he cursed again, more softly now, and swallowed hard.
Sir Baldwin Furnshill winced as a gust of wind threw dust in his eyes, and blinked furiously. “This fair had better match your expectations, Margaret,” he said as his eyes streamed. “After travelling so far, first from Crediton to Lydford, and now on to Tavistock, all I wish to see is a comfortable seat and a good trencher of stew.”
“Baldwin, of course you’ll find it enjoyable,” she said lightly. Her fair hair was whipping free of her wimple and she had to keep pushing back the stray tresses.
“You do not care, madam, about my soreness or boredom. No! So long as you can feel the quality of the cloths on sale, so long as you can try on the newest gloves, the best shoes, and buy the choicest spices from around the world, you will be content.”
“No,” her husband grunted. “She won’t be made happy by feeling bolts of cloth and trying on shoes; she won’t be happy until she’s bought the lot.”
Baldwin wiped his face. “I will not be happy until we have arrived and I have finally managed to get some rest.”
“In any case, husband, I seem to remember that you first suggested we should come to the fair, so that you could buy some new plates.”
“That’s very different. We need plates for when we have to entertain lords,” said Simon. He had not realized how many feasts he would be expected to give as bailiff of Lydford Castle. To be fair, he accepted that a good
