Crediton Killings

by Michael Jecks

  “Another thing I must consider is the loyalty of the knights in the country. Maybe you could answer me this: where would a good knight like you stand if it did come to war?”

  Baldwin saw Peter return, and was grateful, for it meant that this interrogation must soon be ended. He had been cornered, as he knew he must be, but his answer was ready. “With the man to whom he gave his oath—he could stand by no other, whether it be his lord or his King,” he said heavily, then poured wine and handed it to Peter. “How is she?”

  “Resting,” The priest dropped onto his seat with a sigh. “She asked to be left alone.”

  Stapledon looked as if he wanted to continue with the talk, but as he opened his mouth there was a rising chorus of noises from the street—cries and yells, a clattering of hooves, then a scream and more shouting.

  Baldwin glanced enquiringly at Peter, who shrugged with evident mystification. Feeling gratitude for whatever might have caused the interruption, Baldwin excused himself, then stood and made for the door. Edgar immediately followed. Baldwin’s servant had been with him for many years, since the days when he had been a man-at-arms in the Order of the Knights Templar, and in all that time he had never lost his utter loyalty to his knight. If Baldwin were to get involved in a fight, Edgar would be there with him.

  Two of Peter’s men were at the door before them, one grasping a cudgel, ready to protect the hall against any invasion by rioters, and Baldwin and his man had to push between them. Outside they found a scene of confusion.

  In the dark street, men scurried to and fro with burning torches. Commands were bellowed, and men-at-arms stamped up and down, gesticulating threateningly when they felt their orders were not acted upon fast enough. A thin woman in dusty gray robes knelt at the roadside, cradling a screaming child, a boy of five or six who had been knocked down, while men on skittish horses jostled, iron-shod hooves ringing on the cobbles. More people poured from houses, many in degrees of undress, while the clamor rose. Horses whinnied, there was a thunder of slamming doors; urgent questions flew as people tried to discover the cause of the disturbance. The air was tainted with the sharp fumes of burning wood and pitch, and filled with the hoarse cries of confused and angry men.

  The knight watched for a moment, then made his way over to a rotund figure leaning laconically against a wall. Baldwin recognized him in the glare from a passing torch: it was the butcher. “Hello, Adam, what’s all this about?”

  “There’s been a robbery, I think. Someone at the inn’s had his chest stolen. All his plate and stuff’s gone.”

  Baldwin groaned as the butcher shrugged unconcernedly, then gulped at a large pot of ale. This was turning out to be a worse evening than even he had anticipated. Seeing a man-at-arms approach, he gestured. “You! Who has been robbed?” The man gave him a sneering look, and from his expression was about to snarl an insolent response when he caught sight of the sword at Baldwin’s waist. “Well?”

  “It’s my captain, Sir Hector de Gorsone. His chest of plate has been raided, and much of his silver has gone. The chest needed three men to carry it, it was so heavy, yet it’s all gone.”

  “God’s teeth!” This was all Baldwin needed. First Simon’s child, then being roped into politics, and now a theft, with the hue raised to find the thief. He rubbed at his temple, then: “I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace here. I do not want anyone hurt without reason. Where is your master?”

  “My captain’s over there.”

  Following the finger, Baldwin saw the mercenary leader. He was standing under the new alestake, arms folded, glowering at his men. As Baldwin approached, Edgar warily trudging close behind, he could hear the man bawling: “I don’t care if he went to Scotland. I want him caught and brought back here! Just find him and fetch him to me.”

  “Wait!” Baldwin shouted, and held a hand aloft.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace. I’ll not have bloodshed. Who is it you seek—one of your men?”

  “Yes. He only joined my band the night before last, and tonight he has robbed me!”

  “What is his name?” Baldwin demanded.

  “Philip Cole.”

  “What does he look like?”

  Sir Hector gave a short description. It was not easy, for he had only remarked the lad briefly on the night when he had asked to join the band, and Sir Hector had already been drinking for some time by then. Inwardly he was fuming that a mere yokel lad could take advantage of him so quickly and with such apparent ease. He slapped a fist into the palm of his hand. “He must be from around these parts; he joined my band here, while we were staying at the inn, the bastard!”

  Another of his men standing a little away interrupted: “Thorverton—he said he came from Thorverton.”

  “There you are, Keeper of the King’s Peace,” Sir Hector sneered. “A local man! One of your own. I’m glad you manage to keep your precious peasants under such good control.”

  “The local hue will find him for you.” Baldwin ignored the jibe and kept his voice reasonable. He had no wish to antagonize Sir Hector, for the captain could create mayhem in the little town. In any case, if he had been robbed, he had every right to demand to see the culprit caught.

  “My men can save you the trouble.”

  “Oh yes?” Baldwin gauged the heavily armed men around him. “They will promise to bring him back alive for questioning?”

  “They will bring him back, and my silver!”

  “I am sure they would.”

  “It will take ages for you to organize a posse, and by then Cole will have escaped. It’s better that my men ride on now.”

  He was about to issue more orders, but Baldwin’s calm, firm tone made him pause. “Your men would certainly bring him back, of that I have no doubt, only I wish to see him while he is alive. Can you say you saw him steal from you? No? In that case, I’ll not have him lynched or stabbed before he has had a chance to defend himself. You!” His finger jerked out and pointed to the butcher still lounging against the wall. Adam started. “Go to Peter Clifford and ask him for some men to help us search. We’ll need as many as he can afford. Ask Bishop Stapledon whether we may use some of his entourage as well.”

  “But Cole is getting away while you ask me to wait!” Sir Hector sputtered furiously while the man hurried off.

  “Did anyone here see him leave?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Did he take a horse?”

  Sir Hector scowled, then pointed with his chin to an ostler. “Well—did he?”

  “No, sir. All the horses are still there.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  “Yes.” Baldwin gave a quick frown. One man on foot could not carry away a chestful of silver on his own, not when three men had been required to bring it inside. He shrugged. “If he is on foot, a delay will not signify. If you want to catch him, you’ll need more men. There are two main roads leading east and west out of Crediton, and more to the north and south. We need several teams looking for him, and men to search all of the routes out of the town. He will not get much further in the ten or twenty minutes it will take to assemble my men, but with them we will be more likely to find him. I can double the hunting parties.”

  His speech done, Baldwin smiled reassuringly. “Have no fear, Sir Hector. We will find him—and your silver.”

  “You had better. I hold you responsible for this delay, Keeper. If he escapes, I will demand you compensate me.”

  The men around Baldwin had a threatening air, as if they too blamed him for the slowness in setting off after their quarry, and the mood could soon have become ugly. He knew Edgar was still behind him, but if the two of them were attacked by so many, they would be in a futile position. He was relieved when he heard the sound of horses in Peter’s yard. Soon there was a jingling of harnesses and squeaking of leather as the group approached.

  To his surprise, the men were led by Simon. He rode up, leading Baldwin’s horse, and pass
ed him the reins, giving a dry smile at the look on his friend’s face. Baldwin took them and swung into the saddle, then gave Simon a questioning glance. “You do not have to come, old friend.”

  “I need the exercise.”

  Baldwin nodded gravely, and Simon knew precisely what he was thinking: the bailiff should have stayed with his wife. But Simon was not going to discuss the matter here in the street.

  Surveying the men available, Baldwin began mentally pairing them off; he was about to begin ordering them to specific routes when he realized Simon was no longer beside him. Turning in his saddle, he saw the bailiff riding toward the woman and her child. Cursing under his breath, Baldwin spurred after him.

  A man-at-arms on horseback was pushing at her with the butt-end of his pike. “Out of the way, bitch, before you get run down.”

  She wailed even louder, clutching the child to her. “He’s hurt, I say—by one of the horses.”

  “Move! Out of the way, you old sow. And take that brat with you or I’ll give him something to scream about!”

  Simon forced his horse between them. “Leave her alone,” he hissed.

  “Who are you to tell me what to do?” the man demanded, holding his polearm aggressively, ready to swing it like a club at the bailiff’s head.

  “He’s my friend, and I’m the man who could have you put in jail for a week,” said Baldwin. He had arrived behind the mercenary, and now sat threateningly, one hand on his thigh, near his sword. “Leave us—and leave her alone.”

  Muttering, the man went, his eyes going from one to the other, but Simon ignored him. As soon as he was out of the way, the bailiff dropped from his horse. “He’s not badly hurt,” he said, after examining the lad. “Just bruised. I would go now, though, before that guard returns.”

  He watched her as she shyly took her son from him, ducking her head nervously in the manner of a peasant who finds herself in the presence of a lord. The little matter had enraged him, and the tension, now it was released, left him feeling tired out, and with a hollowness in his belly: she could go home now, her child by her side. Baldwin watched as he clambered aboard his horse again, picking up his reins like a man exhausted after a long race.

  A little later they had finished dividing the men. Baldwin had insisted on four main groups, one to search each of the roads out of the town, and he ensured that there was a good mixture of Peter Clifford’s and the Bishop’s men in each. He did not want a preponderance of mercenaries in any company; he was sure that Sir Hector’s men would want to kill Cole on sight to satisfy their master, and Baldwin was determined to prevent that. Peter and his guest had not joined them, but there were enough men to match the mercenaries, and that was all he wanted.

  Upon reflection, he decided to ride with Simon. He commanded the others to their allotted routes, and then set his face to the south and moved off.

  Simon rode stiffly. His servant Hugh, at his side, seemed to exude disgust. Lean, dark-haired, and with the keen sharp features of a ferret, he had for years yielded only under protest to the need for travelling, and had never enjoyed the experience. At long last he was beginning to get used to riding, and Simon knew that his moroseness tonight was due to having to leave Margaret alone with Peter Clifford. The servant had been devoted to their son and felt the loss of Peterkin as deeply as the parents. Living with them full-time, serving them, eating with them, he was a member of the family. He would have preferred to remain with Margaret to try to ease her desolation.

  The bailiff had hoped that this chase would give him some relief from his misery, but all he sensed was the disapproval of his friends and servants; their censure was a weight he could hardly bear. If only, he thought, if only they could understand. He knew he could not help his wife. No matter how long he spent with her, he could not explain his feelings, and listening to her going on and on about how they had found poor Peterkin lying in his bed, cold and blue, merely added to his anguish and frustration. If he spent too long with her, he wanted to hit her, just to make her quiet. His own despair at his loss was hard enough to carry; he did not have the strength to support her as well. Peterkin had died, and Simon could not think of a future without his son. Without an heir.

  Nearby, Baldwin forced his mind to the search. There was not much chance, he thought, that the thief would be down this way. Still, they had to cover all options. If the lad was local, from Thorverton, there was no reason for him to head down toward the moors. If he had any sense, he would have gone east, to Exeter, where he could hide. There were smiths there who would ask few questions about where silver came from, if the price was right. He pursed his lips. Yes, if he had to guess, he would say the boy had gone that way.

  But Baldwin kept an eye on Simon as they rode. The knight could not understand why Simon did not stay with his wife. It was out of character, like his cold treatment of her earlier, and as such it was incomprehensible. Baldwin had suffered loss himself. In his experience, it always made him more dependent on his friends, not less, so Simon’s apparent withdrawal from his wife was all the more baffling. If there was any fighting, Baldwin decided he must remain close to his friend. Whether from the urgency of the call to horse or simple absent-mindedness, he saw that Simon had forgotten his sword, and only wore his old bone-handled knife. Others in the party were better prepared. Roger de Grosse had joined them on a lively bay, with a short sword at his side. The rector looked flushed but excited, and Baldwin was amused to see such warlike enthusiasm on the face of a man who was devoting his life to God, though he could understand why. Of all prey, he had once heard someone say, the most invigorating to pursue was another man.

  They came to a stream which lay still and strangely solid-looking, like a ribbon of polished metal under the bright moon. Their hooves churned it, creating a luminous spray, and to Baldwin it felt like vandalism to destroy the peaceful water, as if they were knights “riding out” on a chevauchée, leaving mayhem in their wake. The destruction left him with a sense of impending disaster, as if their casual wrecking of such beauty and peace was about to bring doom upon them all. He shook off his black mood irritably. It was Simon’s part to be superstitious, not his. He would not tolerate foolish premonitions.

  A short way after the stream there was another road westward, and here Baldwin separated his force, grateful for the need for thought and action. Five he sent east while he continued south with the others, keeping Simon at his side.

  The trees crowded round the lane like a suspicious army, and Baldwin found himself eyeing the thick trunks with trepidation. In previous manhunts he and Simon had been able to make use of hunters skilled in tracking, and rushing along the road like this made him realize just how much he had depended on them. There could be thousands of signs, even now in the dark, which the hunters of wolves and foxes would be able to discern and advise on. He glared behind. The eleven men of the troop were making so much noise that they could be heard by a man on foot leagues away. It would take mere seconds to duck into the trees and hide. He grunted as the futility of the exercise struck him. Whether the man was on this road or not, there was next to no chance that they would find him. It would take a miracle.

  He was about to hold up a hand and halt the posse when a cry came from in front. Frowning as he tried to pierce the darkness, he set spurs to his horse and quickened his pace. The road bent to the left, gently dropping down the slope over the summit of a small hill. As they came round the bend, Baldwin saw three shadowy figures, one lying unconscious on the ground, two standing over him, a short distance from the verge. Automatically he slowed, feeling for his sword, aware of Edgar at his side. He was about to bellow a challenge when one of the men took a step forward.

  “Thanks to God you’re here! We’ve got him!”

  “Who are you? Who have you got?” Baldwin demanded.

  Two fearful eyes stared up at him, set in a weasellike face. “Sir, we’ve caught a thief. This man stole Sir Hector’s silver.”

  “Who are you?”

&nbs
p; The other moved forward, a confident-looking, strong man, Baldwin thought. “I’m Henry the Hurdle, sir. This here’s my friend, John Smithson. We’re with Sir Hector’s troop.”

  “And who is that?” he asked, pointing.

  “Philip Cole, so he says, but I don’t know if it’s really his name. He only appeared the day before yesterday, and now he’s stolen my master’s silver. Look! We found this on him.” He held up two plates and a small leather purse.

  Baldwin took them and weighed them in his hand thoughtfully. “Why did you follow him? Did you know your master’s silver was missing?”

  “No, sir, but we spotted him skulking round the streets, furtive-like, so we thought we’d follow him, take a look at what he was up to. Then we saw him examining a silver plate, and I thought I recognized it as one of my master’s.”

  Henry’s face was earnest, his eyes compelling, and the knight nodded encouragingly.

  “We called out to him, but he started running away, and we only caught up with him here. We had to knock him out to stop him struggling.” He took a long, weary breath. “We were just wondering how to get him back to town, us not having a horse.”

  “You have done well. Your master will reward you, I’m sure,” Baldwin said, staring down at the still body. The man would have to be tried, and Baldwin would be the man to pursue him in the court. But there was something not quite right about the stolen plate…

  6

  At Crediton they delivered their prisoner to the jail, much to the disgust of Tanner, the Constable. Edgar, who knew him, explained with a malicious smile that Tanner was friendly with a certain widow whom he knew to be lonely quite regularly, and this was an evening when she would expect him.

  Their return had been slow, with the two men-at-arms walking. The thief’s body they had slung, bound, over the horse of another trooper, who had led his mount on foot. By the time they got back to Crediton the prisoner was awake again, and had begun to shout and complain, but he was soon plunged into a horrified silence when he was told who had captured him and why. The prisoner’s eyes were bloodshot, and his gaze wandered as if he found it hard to concentrate. Sir Baldwin knew that a hard knock on the head could addle a man’s mind, and was sure that it would be more profitable to question him the following morning.