that means something doesn’t strike true to you.”
“I was merely thinking: it seems unlikely that there should be two murderers stalking the town, and yet the boy showed terror when he saw Sir Hector. If Sarra was killed by whoever took the plate, it was not Sir Hector-he would hardly take his own silver. So, if he killed Judith, the two murders must be unconnected, but what possible motive could Sir Hector have to kill this woman Judith? The most obvious suspects for the murder of Sarra were Henry and John, as their rapid departure showed. And yet-”
“Could they have killed Judith and knocked me out?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. We cannot tell how long you were unconscious there. It is feasible that they struck you down, saw who they’d hit, and left quickly to ride from town.”
“But why would the boy have reacted as he did when he saw Sir Hector, unless he saw his mother’s murderer?”
Baldwin sighed with vexation. “Perhaps the murders were nothing to do with the robbery. Maybe there’s something we’ve missed. In any case, we should have the captain watched. The boy certainly shrieked at the sight of him, and that seems to imply he must have had something to do with Judith’s death.”
“That’s easy to arrange. Tell Paul, on the quiet, that we’d like to know if the bugger decides to leave in a hurry.”
“That should be easy enough. Paul has several lads there to help serve customers and do odd jobs. One of them was packing for Sir Hector this morning.”
“I wonder why? He has all those men with him. Didn’t Hugh say Wat was his servant? I seem to remember Hugh saying it was Wat who went into the room when they were looking after Sarra’s body.”
“Perhaps Sir Hector has lost faith in Wat-maybe he thought the inn’s lad would be better trained at such things than a soldier. And I very much doubt whether one of the other girls would want to be alone with him. I get the impression they all distrust him after Sarra’s death.”
“That’d be no surprise.”
“After young Rollo’s reaction to seeing the bastard, I rather tend to agree with the girls. Rollo’s shock was terrible. And the captain’s response was just as marked. He went straight back inside, and I saw him leaning against the wall as if he was about to die.”
“I hope not,” Simon said darkly and touched the lump over his ear. “If he did this and killed those girls, I want to see him hang.”
“Well, we shall know either way when the two are brought back from Exeter.”
“Yes- if they are.”
18
T hat night was a long one for Sir Hector. He had no wish to remain in the hall with his troop after learning that the two men he had trusted most, though mainly from reasons of their own self-interest, had left him. Especially since he was quite certain in his own mind that they had stolen his silver. Henry and John had robbed him. It was impossible to believe, but futile to try to deny. Their disappearance was their confession.
At his board, while he was being served, he caught a knowing look from Wat. When the knight stared, his man-at-arms smiled and looked away; Sir Hector knew what that meant. Wat had been in the band for almost all the time Sir Hector had controlled it, slightly longer than Henry or John. They had proved to be disloyal, and now Wat was as well. Sir Hector had hoarded any rumors or unwary comments like a miser cosseting his money, and he was sure that Wat was plotting against him. That fool thought he could lead the company as well as his master. Sir Hector kept his face impassive, as though unconcerned. Wat would not survive the sea-trip to Gascony either. On that the knight was determined.
It was ever the way with mercenary bands. Sir Hector had taken over when the time was propitious. Old Raymonnet was tired after running things for too long. He had become slack and let his greed get the better of his good sense, taking the best-sounding offers and forgetting to see which side was the more likely to win; he’d even committed the cardinal sin of waiting until it was too late before deciding to switch sides on one occasion! That had cost the band dearly.
No, it had been clear that Raymonnet had to go, and after the miserable affair between the French and English in 1295, Raymonnet was as much use as a broken reed in a fight. The French and English were arguing- once again-over who should control Aquitaine. The French had taken large areas, and in 1294 the old warrior Edward, the present King’s father, had sent his men in. Raymonnet and his band had joined them, and had helped in the taking of Rions. Afterward, seeing how fertile the land was and how wealthy the towns were, they decided to stay, to accept a payment to help protect the town and do garrison duty.
The armies sent over the sea by King Edward I were large, but the land they were going to protect was vast. While the French could quickly concentrate forces wherever they wanted on the border, the English had to rely on men from England to come and defend it. It was a costly exercise, and one in which the English responded only slowly. The money flowed like rock from merchants unwilling to be taxed, and it soon became obvious to Sir Hector that the French were more likely to pay for useful allies than his own King.
Raymonnet could not see it. He was convinced that the English were the more secure of the two-after all, the English lands were under the direct control of the King, whereas the French monarch depended on all his allies and vassals; his own territory was small. It was in vain for Sir Hector, increasingly desperately, to argue that the French had the military muscle, while the English barons had no wish to fight. The result could only be a French victory; they had the soldiers and the most efficient and powerful army in the world.
In March 1295 the French were at the gates, and after carefully bribing some of the garrison, Sir Hector was able to effect the takeover he needed. There was a mutiny, the English troops were killed, and on Palm Sunday the French King was able to enter the town.
Raymonnet was never seen again. He had been stabbed in the back at the beginning of the mutiny, and Sir Hector had tossed his body over the wall, to lie among the besiegers’ dead. From then on, Sir Hector was the leader of the company.
Now he wondered how much longer he could remain so. The knight was no fool; he knew he might never get to the English provinces if someone was to talk. How much had Wat said? The man looked so smug and arrogant at his table, taking generous portions of salt, accepting the comments of his neighbors like a lord receiving praise from subjects-just as Sir Hector had expected his men to behave toward him. It was his right as the leader to be granted full honors, for he was the ruler of this tiny, mobile fiefdom. They lived by martial law, and his word was the only one which counted.
For now, but not for much longer if Wat talked to the Keeper.
If Wat were to talk, only one man’s word would matter: Wat’s.
Sir Hector met Wat’s eyes again, and this time neither man flinched.
Paul was aware of undercurrents of tension all night. Something was wrong, and he was not sure how the evening would end. If matters got worse, he would have to send for the Keeper and the Constable, for he wanted no bloodshed in his inn.
There was a muted hubbub not like the previous nights on which the men had made merry the whole time. Tonight all was subdued and moody, like the sky had been all day, gloomy and threatening.
The girls felt it too, he could see. Cristine weaved her way between the beckoning hands with her usual skill, but even her face was set and drawn, with no sign of her customary smile. Paul went back to the buttery and filled more jugs. He was hoping that if all the men quickly got drunk, they might merely fall asleep as they had done for the previous two nights.
Young Hob was asleep in there, curled up in a corner, and Paul was tempted to kick him awake, but it was only a reflection of his own anxiety and tension. The lad was exhausted, no less than Paul himself. Especially since he was not yet ten years old, and had been up since daybreak. Paul filled his jugs as quietly as possible and made his way back to the hall. If the captain tried to leave, Paul had been instructed to send Hob to the priest’s house to tell the Keeper. Hob could sleep until he was needed. With any luck, he wouldn’t be.
Wat took another refill, acknowledging the gift with a nod and grin of thanks. He concentrated on the men near him. There was no point in glancing at Sir Hector; both men knew that the fight had begun. The question now
