Crediton Killings

by Michael Jecks

  Simon’s servant glowered truculently. Jerking a thumb at Rollo, he was about to speak out when Baldwin hastily cut him off.

  “Right, let’s get back before anything else can happen.”

  The last thing he needed was for the boy to be even more scared than he already was. Baldwin did not want Hugh to point out that, of all of them, Rollo himself must be in the most danger.

  Walter Stapledon pulled the spectacles from his nose with a wry smile and sighed. There was no doubt that the two discs of glass helped enormously, and with them he could see as well as he ever had, but they were tiring for his eyes. Roger was reading at another table, and he looked up on hearing his Bishop’s despairing exhalation. Stapledon was staring up at one of the windows as if for inspiration, his brow furrowed with affairs that Roger could only guess at.

  The matters which were causing so much distress to the Bishop were not simple issues about the cathedral, or the founding of Stapledon College at Oxford; nor were they to do with the grammar school the Bishop was bent on creating. They were affairs of state.

  This letter was from his friend John Sandale, the Bishop of Winchester and, more recently, the King’s Treasurer as well. John had written to tell him of the appalling state of the Exchequer’s records. There was no classification of records—most were not even dated. The staff were being smothered by their work, and had little, if any, guidance as to what they were expected to achieve.

  Standing, Stapledon stretched and went to the screens. He stopped a passing servant and asked for wine, then returned to his desk. Soon the jug and a large goblet arrived, and he sipped sparingly.

  The trouble was, the King was weak and ineffectual. He could be too easily swayed by any man with a persuasive turn of phrase—or a man who was too pretty, he admitted, sourly staring into his drink. That was one piece of information the country would be happier not to know. In general his friendships were passed off as being the natural desire of a young man to meet with others of his own age, but there was no way to hide his more flagrant affairs from closer members of his household, and, reading between the lines of Sandale’s letter, Stapledon knew that the King had set his hopes on yet another man. How the Queen could tolerate such behavior, he had no idea.

  If the King was not careful, he might lose his crown—and his head. It would not be easy to force some of his more strident critics, especially those who also enjoyed positions of power, to restrain their public condemnation of him. No, it was beyond the Bishop how the poor Queen could bear to be near him, and if she were to lose her reserve, the King’s fate would soon be sealed.

  Hearing the stamp of approaching feet, he looked up. Soon the door was thrown open and Baldwin and the others walked in. Smiling his welcome, Stapledon put his letters aside, folded, to be free from prying eyes, then froze at the sight of the expression on Baldwin’s face.

  “Hugh,” the knight said, and gestured curtly. “I’m sure the lad would like to see the garden. And might enjoy playing with Edith—uhn, after he’s had a wash, perhaps. Oh, and give him some food. See to it that he’s comfortable.”

  Stapledon watched as the servant took the boy out, then turned enquiringly to the knight. Baldwin sat on a bench at his table, and explained who the boy was, then told of his fears for the lad’s safety since the screaming fit in the town.

  “And there is more,” Baldwin went on. “Two of the mercenaries have run away.”

  Roger sat open-mouthed while Baldwin told of his discussion with the captain until he could not help bursting out, “They must have been the men I saw last night!”

  “What? Where?” Baldwin frowned.

  “Two men on horses, with a pack animal on a long line. I saw them just before I heard the commotion in the alley, and it put them from my mind.”

  “Where were they heading?” Baldwin asked keenly, suppressing his excitement, and when Roger told him, he gave a groan of delight. “Then I was right! They are going toward Exeter. Bishop, could you send a messenger to alert your men at the cathedral? Have them check on all the silversmiths and find out if they’ve had a large amount of plate offered to them? Much, if not all, will be foreign, I would imagine. It must be easy to tell.”

  “I can try,” the Bishop said, “but are you sure? They might simply have gone that way as far as the first village, then turned north. There’s nothing to suggest that they would definitely have gone to Exeter.”

  “No, but I’m sure they will have done, nonetheless. They have no local knowledge, and would expect their captain to be after them at the earliest opportunity. Where else could they go, other than to the nearest city where at least they could try to hide themselves in the crowd, and where there would be many ships and other roads to take? These men, from what I saw of them, have a certain cunning, but I doubt whether they’d be able to think up a more detailed plan.”

  “But they might have been planning this for months.”

  “Possibly, but I doubt it. Sir Hector and his men have been up north. They were trying to get themselves recruited by the army. John Smithson comes from near St. Albans, while Henry the Hurdle is from Surrey, near London. The mercenaries passed nearby both places, once while they were going northward, to offer their services to the King. If they were going to steal all this stuff, surely they’d have done it near one of their homes? Then they’d know people to sell it to, people who could hide them until the fuss died down and their captain had gone. No, the robbery was perpetrated here because of something about this place. I just wish I knew what it was.”

  “Roger—could you fetch me Stephen, please. And tell the groom to prepare his mare. He will be leaving as soon as possible.” The Bishop turned to Baldwin. “Now, would you like a little wine?”

  “No, thank you, my lord. I must see that child and make sure he is all right, and I want to see Simon too.”

  “I suppose I should return to my work as well,” the Bishop muttered, throwing the papers a look of repugnance so virulent that Baldwin laughed.

  “It is our duty to work, my lord.”

  “Yes. Strangely, though, I sometimes wonder what made the Good Lord decide to inflict papers on us. We must have done something appalling to have deserved such a punishment.”

  Simon was not in his bed. Leaving his chamber, it was only when he reached the garden that Baldwin could find him.

  Immediately outside the house, on a terrace, Peter had created a pleasing display of medicinal and culinary herbs. Below it, beyond a group of massive oaks and elms, was a large meadow, and in here Baldwin saw Margaret playing with Edith. Judith’s son was nearby, sitting on a bench with Simon, while Hugh hovered, scowling distrustfully at the world at large.

  To Baldwin’s relief, apart from a certain pallor, Simon looked fine. While the knight had been at the inn, Peter Clifford had asked one of the canons who was well practiced with medicines to come and see Simon, and he had impressed the priest with a professional display, holding up a number of fingers before Simon and asking him to confirm how many, inspecting the wound itself and smearing egg-white over it to cleanse it, and making sure Simon’s tongue had not gone black. Peter had no idea what this last could possibly show, but he was prepared to take the word of a trained man when he was told that Simon was fit, though he might be prone to headaches for a while to come.

  Baldwin took a seat next to his friend. “How are you?”

  “Grim.” Simon winced. “And this weather doesn’t help.”

  Baldwin nodded. The damp heat smothered everything like a blanket, and he was already sweating profusely after the cool of the hall. “How is your head?”

  “I feel as if I’ve spent the whole of last night drinking with Sir Hector’s men, matching each of them pint for pint individually, before being used as a football. And every time I speak, someone hits me again, from the feel of it.”

  “It will improve.” Baldwin smiled. He had little sympathy with small knocks. Now he was sure Simon was to recover fully, he saw no need for excessive compassio
n. Men had suffered from worse, and would continue to do so.

  “I am grateful for your sympathy,” Simon said ironically. “Margaret told me about last night. Thanks for coming and fetching me. So! What happened this morning?”

  Baldwin told him, beginning with Hugh finding the boy and then recounting his interview with the captain. “And Roger saw them riding off, so we know where to search.”

  “It shouldn’t take long,” Simon said speculatively. “There aren’t all that many silversmiths in Exeter.”

  “No. We should have an answer—or a pair of prisoners—tomorrow evening.”

  “With any luck, we can put them straight behind bars.”

  “But what are we to make of the other instance? The boy clearly identified the captain, albeit unintentionally.”

  “The two in Exeter must have stolen the silver.”

  “Probably stole—not must have stolen. After all, it could still have been Cole who took the plate, and they saw where he hid it.”

  “True, in which case either Cole or those two also murdered Sarra.”

  “Yes…”

  “Baldwin, you’ve gone into one of your ruminations. You’re staring out over the meadow and frowning, and 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

  That 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 n
either 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 was, who would be strong enough to win? Wat was determined it would not be the man on the dais.

  He had no personal dislike for Sir Hector; this was merely a matter of business. Sir Hector had produced good contracts for them over several years, had kept them all clothed and fed, and supplied with women. There was no cause for him or any of the others to complain, for all had shared in the general wealth created.

  But Sir Hector was no longer the capable, astute man he once had been. One thing he could never understand was how a group of soldiers melded together. There was a sense that all belonged to the same family; esprit de corps counted for a great deal, but for it to work properly, their leader must be strong and seen to be fair. In his dealings with Henry the Hurdle and John Smithson, Sir Hector had demonstrated lousy judgment. He should have punished them for taking advantage of their fellows before matters got so out of hand. That way, the company might have held together, the men staying loyal. Sir Hector had forgotten that he depended on all of the men in the band; thinking he could rely on two to keep the rest in line, he unwisely hadn’t heeded the mutterings of dissatisfaction. It was foolish, Wat knew, for a leader to trust in a small number of advisers, for those plotting mutiny would carefully avoid talking to such men and would ensure that any reports getting to the leader through his nominated sergeants would be favorable. His gullibility had cost him the faith of the group.