Sir Hector de Gorsone sat back and let the warmth of the alcohol seep into his tired frame. His men were seated all round, with pitchers of beer before them. It was too late in the summer for wine to be available; that would not be shipped in until later, when the weather was cooler and the drink would not spoil so quickly. Ah, how he looked forward to returning to Gascony where the wine would be fresh and strong! After so many years on the continent, wine suited him better. Ale bloated him.
The hall was like any number of inns he had stayed in, and to his way of thinking, they were all hovels. He was too used to good French buildings. Long and ramshackle, it was filled with the vinegar-sweet stench of stale alcohol and rotting food, which lay on the rushes where it had been tossed by other diners. Dark and comfortless it looked to the knight, but the glow of the braziers and sconces created islands of cheeriness. Benches and tables stood haphazardly, and round these the serving-girls and the innkeeper circulated, trying to satisfy the guests by keeping pots filled with ale and trenchers with pottage and bread. The shutters were tightly barred to keep out the night’s chill, and only their rattling proved that there was a strong wind outside.
Sir Hector yawned, then turned his attention back to his thoughts. He was determined, once he had power or wealth enough, to possess a property in the country, away from the squalor of urban life. He wanted a place with extensive buildings to house his retinue. In towns the amount of land available was restricted by the burgesses, so that all should have adequate space. Sir Hector wanted none of that. He was after an estate, with a good-sized manor house at the heart of it, where he could take a wife and begin his family. The road to success and riches which he had trodden was losing its luster. He was tempted to try a life of peace, and start a new dynasty. But first he needed more money.
He sat at the end of the hall, from where he could see his men and the doorway to the screens. There was no chimney; the fireplace in the middle had access to the roof, in which there was a simple pottery louvre to allow the smoke to escape. The wind was gusting, and added another unpleasant aspect to the hall as smoke fitfully wafted around the room, making Sir Hector cough.
His men were determined to enjoy themselves, he could see. There were three girls, and they ran the gauntlet of ribald jokes and grasping hands wherever they went. Two, he saw, were practiced tavern wenches, slapping at unwanted hands or offering quick responses which inevitably made the men howl with laughter, usually at another’s expense. Every now and again one of his men would offer a fresh sally, and then redden or roar as it was rebuffed. The scene was one he had witnessed in taverns and alehouses from London to Rome, but the sight still brought a faint smile to his otherwise ill-humored features.
One girl caught his eye. She looked younger than the others and less worldly-wise. Where the older women used stinging rebukes to respond to the offers made at each table, this one moved quietly from place to place, apparently embarrassed at the more personal questions hurled at her. She was less experienced at avoiding the hands which reached for her, and seemed nervous of resisting forcefully. She reminded the knight of a hunted deer held at bay, aware that the end must be soon, but not knowing which of the slavering monsters would be first to reach her.
As he watched, he saw the two talking. Henry the Hurdle and John Smithson were ever together, always acted in concert. Now Henry stood as the girl approached down the narrow aisle formed by two long tables, and under the lewd encouragement of his mates, he moved toward her. She could only stand, staring at him with fear in her eyes. When she turned at last to flee, John was already there, cutting off her escape.
One of the girls tried to get to her, but she was blocked by men who grinned through their beards, hoping she would try to break through them to reach her friend so that they could manhandle her. Cristine was crippled by indecision: should she run and get help, or fight her way to Sarra to protect her? While she deliberated, Henry moved the pots from the table before him and smiled at the girl. Then he gestured at the empty space, inviting her forward.
“Stop!”
The single word, not bellowed, but merely spoken with authority, sliced through the noise and tension like a sword of war cleaving bone. For Sarra, it was like hearing the war-cry of a protective knight-errant, and she looked at the knight by the fire with a rising hope. Her heart was thumping painfully, and in the quiet she felt it was deafening her; she was convinced that all in the hall must be able to hear it. The jug which she gripped with both hands was shaking, and she carefully set it down on a table nearby. There was an emptiness in her belly which would soon rise to sickness, so great was her relief at being saved. That she had been going to be raped she did not doubt.
“Leave her. You, girl! Come and serve me here. Bring ale.”
Sir Hector watched her retrieve her jug and approach. When she was close he held out his pewter jug imperiously, and studied her face as she poured. There was a light down on her arms and face, he saw, and her lips, though tightly pursed, were full and moist. When his mug was filled, she stood a short way back and met his gaze. His eyebrows rose. He could see that she was not scared of him-of the men under him, yes, but not he himself, and he admired her spirit. Her eyes were the light blue-gray of a winter’s sky, and a little of her golden hair escaped from her net. She was not the heavily-built peasant girl he would have expected to find in a small town, but a radiant young woman who would grace the hall of a wealthier man than he.
“Stay here, and serve me,” he said gently. “Do not fear my men. They will leave you alone now.”
She nodded in slow and thoughtful agreement, and then gave him a smile of such warmth that he had to return it.
Outside, the innkeeper let his breath escape in a whistle of relief as he slumped back against the wall. Margery rushed up breathlessly. “What’s happening? Is she all right?”
“Thanks be to God! Yes, she is. The knight protected her; called his men off.”
She peered round the doorway. “She’s lucky. With that lot, there’s no telling how far they’d have gone.”
“No. But at least she’s safe enough for now.”
“Right. Well, I’d better get back in there.”
The innkeeper nodded glumly as she passed by, freshly filled jugs in each hand. He watched as she poured with the quick efficiency of a practiced alewife, neatly sidestepping to avoid a dozen ambushes as she made her way along one side of the hall. He had more pressing difficulties. Sir Hector still insisted on keeping all his men with him, and no suggestions as to where they could be housed carried any weight with him. For the innkeeper, the thought of standing up to the knight and refusing to allow his men to remain was not one to make him feel entirely at ease. Usually Paul would place additional guests in the hall, where they could use the benches or even lie under the tables, and any overflow could use the stables, but with men like these he was sure that such simple solutions would not suffice: the newcomers would demand the best beds, but the existing guests would complain about being evicted from their accommodation.
Leaning against the doorway, his eyes fixed on the hall as he worried over his problem, he did not notice the men who entered from the stableyard. The hall comprised one half of the main building, the other consisting of kitchen, buttery and stores area. Splitting the building was the screens passage where the innkeeper now stood, and from this corridor two doors led to the hall itself. To his horror, he now saw three men stride in. Two were the goldsmith and his apprentice; he did not recognize the third. Stupefied, he could do nothing but stand and watch the disaster unfold before him.
Sir Hector saw them at the same time. He paused, his mug held out to Sarra as she filled it, studying the newcomers with interest. His face registered only mild amusement while he took in the rich fabrics of the goldsmith, the fur trimming on his coat and the heavy rings on his fingers. Walking in briskly, his attitude proclaimed him to be a self-important, busy man with no time to spare for the pleasures available to commoners. Following on close behind, head down, clad in simple hose and shirt, was his apprentice. Sir Hector gave a small smile and motioned toward Henry, who nodded and made his way to the two men.
Sir Hector sipped his ale. His men were a rough group, he knew, but at least a few of them knew how to obey. Henry was a good man when he was properly directed. So long as he knew what was expected, he could achieve results. As a soldier he was excellent material, due in large part to his cruel nature, but also to his greed. He was one of the mercenaries who had swiftly realized that the best way to get rich was by holding the surrounding areas to ransom. Extortion, and the constant threat of a chevauchee to destroy all the crops and village stores, were Henry’s more effective methods of squeezing a profit even from the most desolate-looking districts. It was Henry and his friend John who had helped in the last few campaigns in Gascony, always seeking out the best hostages to ransom, the most promising buildings to raid, the richer merchants to rob. Their zeal for relieving others of their possessions had helped Sir Hector to build up his own fortune, but they did not begrudge him his
