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
H enry walked quickly from the room and through the hall, past men sitting drinking or playing at dice. To those who noticed him, he looked the same as usual: cheerful and calm, if in more of a hurry than normal.
John was playing nine men’s morris, or large merrills. It took all of his concentration to win at this. He was fine with other games, but trying to win seven of his opponent’s pieces while avoiding capture himself always made him frustrated. This game was not helped by the side betting. He caught sight of Henry walking from the room, and their eyes met. Seeing Henry jerk his head, John nodded quickly before returning to his game.
Outside, Henry waited for his accomplice with his nerves fraying. It seemed like hours before John could wind up the game and leave the hall, and Henry spent the time starting at every sound as he walked up and down in the yard, trying to appear unconcerned. “What in God’s name have you been doing? Didn’t you see I had to talk?”
“What’s the problem? I couldn’t just get up and leave when there was money on the table; everyone would have known something was the matter. I came as soon as I could.”
“It’s not soon enough,” Henry said, and for the first time John saw the naked fear in his eyes.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Not here. Come with me.” Henry took his arm and led the way round behind the stables, to a shaded spot in the back lane where they could speak unobserved. “Sir Hector’s just had me in and was asking me about Wat.”
“Does he reckon Wat could have taken all the silver? The old bastard’s not got the sense.”
“No, he doesn’t. What he thinks is: Wat took the tunic he’d collected from the shop to Sarra and tricked her into thinking it was a present for her. Wat told her to get changed into it, expecting Sir Hector to murder her when he saw her wearing it. He probably thinks Wat killed her when his original plan failed.”
“Do you really think he could believe Wat killed her?”
“Yes. Right now, anyway. But if he talks to Wat, we’re dead.”
“He’d never-”
“He’s halfway there already. Just now he asked me if I’d ever plotted against him.”
“Christ Jesus!”
“Yeah.”
They both contemplated their immediate future for a minute. John said, “We’d better get to Wat and silence him before he can say anything.”
“That’s what Sir Hector just told me to do-kill him, but what good’ll that do us? You saw him talking to the bailiff’s servant. Other men heard what the fool said. If he suddenly dies, people will soon put two and two together. The fact that Sir Hector told us to won’t protect us. Anyway, we were seen going to Sir Hector’s room and it wouldn’t take much to guess we might have knocked her out. No. We’ve got to get away. Right away.”
“What, leave the team now? Go away for good?”
Henry nodded glumly. If only John hadn’t killed the bitch, there wouldn’t be a problem, but now things were getting complicated. Henry had knocked her out as soon as he had seen her in the storeroom dressed in that damned tunic, and ever since then their plan had gradually unravelled like a cheap shirt. Stabbing her was unnecessary. She hadn’t seen them-she could have been left there in the trunk for as long as they wanted, and no
