Crediton Killings

by Michael Jecks

Smiling, Baldwin said, “He is more madly in love with her than she with him, you mean?”

  “Oh yes,” she said absently, her mind still on the whirlwind romance and wedding, and then her eyes sharpened, and she gave him a quick look that he could not read.

  “Does she love him, do you think?”

  She gave this consideration, the smile still playing round her lips, but it had faded, and there was a touch of sadness as she nodded. “A little. But not enough. No, it would have been better if he didn’t love her so much. Then at least there would be some equality in their house. The trouble is, she’s not the sort to be excited by living with a man like him. He adores her, but she was always the sort to bore easily, and that leads to nagging.”

  “Is she a nag, then?”

  “With poor Adam, yes, though I daresay he’d deny it. He always was a poor fool. I expect he thinks she’s just being precise, and he isn’t. She tells him where to put his things—even his tools in his shop—and he won’t argue. He doesn’t want to upset her.”

  “Not a solid foundation for a marriage,” Baldwin observed.

  “No, sir. Not at all. But, to be fair, they both seem happy enough.”

  “Yes, of course. Tell me, are you good friends with your sister?”

  “There is none better. Whenever we have troubles, it is to each other that we turn.”

  “Rather than your husbands,” Baldwin guessed conspiratorially.

  “Certainly rather than them!” she laughed gaily. “There are some things which only a woman can understand.”

  “And some secrets which can only be shared with another woman.”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Such as men.”

  She was suddenly quite still. Though her hands carried on, carefully turning and kneading the dough, the whole of the rest of her body was unmoving.

  Baldwin stared at the ground pensively. “Ellen, have you heard about the company of mercenaries in Crediton?”

  She looked up. Her smile did not alter one jot, Simon saw, but there was a fixity in her face now as she looked at his friend. Some of the friendliness had gone. “Mercenaries?”

  “Yes. The same troop which your sister noticed so many years ago. The same captain, Sir Hector de Gorsone, the same men in the band. She knew them, didn’t she? She knew him, Sir Hector, better than any, didn’t she?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. It was because of her that Sir Hector threw out another wench, Judith. She’s dead now, you should know that. So is your sister’s latest replacement, another poor girl called Sarra. Both dead, and neither for any good reason.” Baldwin sighed heavily. “If your sister comes here over the next few days, send a message to us, Ellen. We have to speak to her. Otherwise, I think she might be in danger.”

  “Danger!” she scoffed. “What sort of danger?”

  Baldwin looked at her long and hard. “Did you not hear what I have been saying? This knight has had three lovers in Crediton: the first is dead, the third is dead; the second is your sister. Tell me when you hear from her.”

  21

  On the ride back to Crediton, Baldwin was deep in thought. When they reached the top of the hill leading down to the town itself, Simon turned to face him.

  “You said her sister could be in danger, Baldwin—but why? Why on earth should this bloody man want to kill all the women he has known in this town?”

  “That’s not necessarily the way to look at it, Simon,” Baldwin said. He patted his horse, then irritably waved away the small swarm of flies he had disturbed before continuing, “This knight may not have harmed any of them. It is startling how clear the links are to Sir Hector, isn’t it? Two women die, and both were short-term lovers of this knight. Both times there happen to have been arguments or rows with him. Sarra at the inn had a shouting match with him, and was shortly after found in a chest in his very room; Judith bumped into him in the street, and got herself stabbed.”

  “Yes, so there’s a clear link to him.”

  “True, but then, if you reverse the perspective, who would benefit from these women being found and their attachment to Hector being discovered?”

  “Nobody, surely?”

  “I can think of several. The mercenaries themselves. Take Wat: he wants to get rid of his master; I think that is plain enough. Otherwise he would not have been so forthcoming about Sir Hector’s relationship with Judith.”

  “Maybe he wanted to see justice done.”

  Baldwin gave him a long, intense stare. “Justice done—Wat? I think you mistake him for a pleasant man, for a gentleman, Simon. He is not; he is a mercenary—a ruthless, dedicated killer and despoiler. A knight should fight for Christianity, for the greater glory of his name and reputation in this world and the next. He should defend the weak and unfortunate, showing courtesy and largesse. Have you noticed any of these attributes in Hector or his men—Wat, for example?”

  “I’m sure they—”

  With an uncharacteristic burst of anger, Baldwin reined in his horse. “Simon, don’t try to be their apologist. They are evil, nothing more. Men like them ride where they will, offering allegiance only to those who pay them, and no one else, but even that is only for as long as it suits them. They have no conception of honor or largesse; all they want is the next sum of money, and they are casual about how they receive it.”

  “Calm yourself, Baldwin,” Simon said soothingly. “I accept that you understand more about such men than me; I’ve never come across them before.”

  “My apologies, Simon. This whole affair is starting to make me smart, and like a bear baited at the pole, I turn on whoever I can reach.”

  “When we came out today, you were thinking that the matter could be resolved by looking at the local situation. Surely that has worked, in the main? Now we have learned that the butcher’s wife was also known to Sir Hector. It seems fairly clear that he threw over Judith for her, and quite probably the same thing happened to Sarra when he met Mary Butcher again in town.”

  “Yes. And now she too has disappeared,” Baldwin said grimly.

  “She may not be dead, Baldwin. Think on this; if she was intelligent, as soon as she had heard about Sarra and Judith dying, she might have put two and two together. Maybe she’s run off to protect herself?”

  “It is possible, certainly.”

  “In terms of this whole affair, though, let’s just hope that Stapledon’s men catch the two thieves. At least they might be able to shed some light on the thing.”

  Bishop Stapledon wandered out into the garden with Peter Clifford and expressed his delight at the mixture of plants. Peter, he knew, was very keen on his herbs and spices. Several plants he had arranged to be delivered from far afield.

  Irises were among Peter’s favorites. As he explained—at some length—the plant was an almost perfect example of God’s bounty. The roots could be crushed for ink, the flower yielded a juice which could be used as a salve for teeth and gums, the leaves thatched for mats or patching roofs, and if it was needed for none of these purposes, the flowers were both beautiful and sweet-smelling.

  The Bishop smiled and nodded as Peter led him round the garden, keen to avoid hurting his host’s feelings by letting his boredom show. Lilies and roses were pointed out to him—they filled a bed near the house—while further on, toward the orchard where the apple, pear, cherry and nut trees grew, was the herb garden. Rue, whose smell the Bishop cordially detested, flourished here, but there was also sage, chamomile, lavender and other attractively perfumed plants. After an hour, even the enthusiastic Peter began to observe the Bishop’s attention waning, and they walked over the lawn, full of daisies, violets, primroses and periwinkles to create an aromatic and attractive cover, to the shelter of an oak where there was a bench.

  Here they found Margaret and Hugh. Edith was a short distance away, playing a game with Rollo which seemed to involve pulling flowers from the lawn. Hugh stood as the two approached, but the Bishop waved him back to his seat.
“May we join you?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Margaret moved along the bench and Hugh stood again resignedly and went to station himself behind her. From here he could see the children. Rollo had frozen at the sound of men’s voices, but seeing two men he recognized, and after a brief confirmatory glance at Hugh, he resumed his game. Hugh suspected he was so used to seeing the priest dispensing charity that he knew he had nothing to fear from men in holy garments.

  The men sat, and Stapledon looked at Margaret. “I hope you do not mind me noticing it, but you look very refreshed. Are you feeling somewhat better?”

  She could not hide her pleasure from him. “It is not just me,” she confided. “My husband was very sad over the death of our son, but he has almost recovered from it. These last weeks have been difficult, but I think we have got over our pain. Peter’s kindness has helped so much.”

  The Bishop nodded gravely. “Your husband was extremely upset. I know how hard it can be. I suppose all of us in the Church are aware, for we see so many tiny coffins being interred, and death can strike the richest as well as the poorest in the land.”

  “We shall have another son, God willing,” Margaret said.

  “Yes.” Stapledon was watching Rollo. “That young fellow likes playing with your daughter.”

  “Edith likes his company too. They are not so very different in age, and where we live she does not have many friends. It is pleasant for her to find someone with whom she can enjoy a game.”

  “Yes,” he repeated, then frowned, lost in thought.

  “Bishop? Bishop!”

  Stapledon looked up, jerked back to the present, to see Roger running over the lawn. The Bishop forced down a sense of annoyance. At last he had begun to relax, and Roger’s bursting in on his pleasant mood of calm was vexing. By the time the rector had approached, however, the Bishop had managed to dispose of the exasperation and had regained his equanimity. “What is it, Roger? Is the house on fire?”

  “No, sir. But a messenger has just arrived from Exeter. They have found and captured the two runaway mercenaries, sir, and are bringing them here.”

  “Excellent!” said Peter, and rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “Then we should soon be able to put this sorry affair behind us once and for all.”

  “Yes,” said Stapledon, but again his eyes moved to the small figure only a few feet away. “Most of us will.”

  When Simon and the others arrived back in Crediton, they were hot and dusty. The moisture on the road from the night’s downpour had splashed and spattered their legs on the way to Coleford, and red-brown splotches marked their hose and tunics. Returning, the dampness had been driven off by the sun, and instead of soggy droplets they had been assailed by a clinging mist of fine reddish powder which had risen as their horses’ hooves had disturbed the road. Now, looking at Baldwin, Simon could see that his hair had a wiry firmness, his face had darkened, with paler streaks where the sweat had run, and his tunic was, instead of white, a dull ochre at the shoulder and dark orange-brown at the hem. It made him look as if the color had run from the top down in a rainstorm, the bailiff thought with a grin, which faded when he looked at the state of his own hose.

  The powdery dust had not only affected their clothing. Simon’s eyes felt as if they had gravel in them, and his throat was as sore as if he had swallowed a pint of sand. As they passed the inn, he croaked, “Let’s wash away a little of the road with some of Paul’s ale. His wife is a better brewer than Peter’s bottler.”

  Baldwin nodded, and they were soon out in the yard behind, gripping quarts of ale.

  Simon glanced round after taking a long pull at his drink. At another table were a group of soldiers from Sir Hector’s troop, all studiously avoiding the bailiff’s eye. He recognized none of them, and was about to turn away when he saw Wat.

  The mercenary was standing out toward the back of the yard, near the stables, talking to someone Simon could hardly see. Only two boots protruded beyond the stable wall, and a hand which rose and fell in emphasis. Wat was staring with what looked like horrified fascination, occasionally shaking his head in quick denial or nodding in grave agreement.

  “Baldwin,” Simon said, hiding his mouth behind his jug, “Wat is over there, in deep debate with someone, and it looks as if it’s a serious matter.”

  “Eh?” Baldwin surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder. “I wonder what—”

  Catching their eyes on him, the mercenary made a quick gesture to silence his accomplice. He was in two minds whether to speak to the Keeper immediately about this latest discovery, but he could not see how to avoid the unpleasant revelation. It would soon come out anyway, and he saw no way to gain more capital from it. Nothing he could do would reduce the impact of the news.

  All of a sudden he felt tired, worn out from his recent planning and manipulations, from his devious trade-offs in the attempt to win the favors of the stronger elements of the troop. The stage had been set ever since Hector had failed in his bid to win a position with the King, for once his attempt to get a new contract had been summarily dismissed, it was obvious to all the others that his leadership was questionable. His fighting ability was never doubted, but the main responsibility was to find contracts and money for his men, and he had fallen short of their expectations. They could now see that he was ill-considered by recruiters. He had turned his allegiances once too often. Now even a King desperate for aid would not employ Sir Hector and his men.

  They had discussed this, the men of the band, when they had been told of his lack of success. Some had wanted to keep him on, thinking that he could lead them back to France and a new role, but others were so thoroughly disgruntled with his organization and his reputation for losing contracts that they wanted a change.

  It had been this which had prompted Wat to move, to test the water with his colleagues to see whether he could tip the balance and make them all lose their trust in Hector, but this was not how he had intended things to go. From the first, he would have preferred to save his company from any association with murder in England. It would be different if this was France, where killings were sanctioned with the full authority and severity of the power his group could wield, but in England they must live within the law without upsetting too many people, and the spate of murders was impossible for even the most incompetent and corrupt of officials to ignore. In Wat’s estimation, most officials were corrupt, but he was not sure if Baldwin was incompetent.

  The Keeper’s dark eyes were fixed on him, gazing intently with that little frown Wat had come to recognize as curiosity, and Wat did not enjoy having the man’s attention for the second time that day. But he had little choice.

  “Come with me.” Leading the way to their table, Wat gave a curt jerk of his thumb over his shoulder. “This man has found something you should see.”

  “What?” Baldwin said, turning his face to the newcomer. This was another of the mercenaries, but not one he had spoken to as yet. The man named Will was short and very thickset, with a neck like a bull. His round face was pocked and scarred, and he wore a bristle over his jaw to show he shaved but rarely, but he was surprisingly well-spoken. He appeared to have hurt his right arm, for he had it supported in a simple sling, but Baldwin noticed he was stiff in his body too, and wondered whether he had been stabbed or wounded in some other way.

  “Sir, I’ve found a body in the stable. A woman’s body.”

  Baldwin and Simon stared, then leapt to their feet and pounded to the stable.

  Simon was aware only of a kind of desperate yearning for the man to be wrong. He had seen too many deaths over the last week. Two dead women, both stabbed, both for little or no apparent reason, was as much as he felt he could cope with. For there to be yet another was incomprehensible.

  As he entered, he slipped on the hard-packed earth of the stable floor, and nearly fell. The hay was stored on a raised floor, with the horses beneath in their stalls. To reach it they had to ascend a ladder. Simon waited while Baldwin, look
ing more tired than he had ever seen him, slowly went up after Wat and Will, and then Simon followed.

  As he reached the top, there was a scurrying and skittering through the hay. Wat curled his lip. “Rats. They get everywhere.”

  The hay lay all about in an untidy mess, intermingled with the clothing and accoutrements of the mercenaries, for those who could find little space in the hall were accustomed to the comfort and warmth that the hay could offer.

  “I was just getting my gear ready for cleaning,” Will said in a choked voice; looking at him, Simon could see that he was as shocked as the bailiff himself. He stepped forward and pointed.

  At first, all Simon could see was the paraphernalia of warfare. A short sword, a bundle of bolts for a crossbow, a stout leather cap and a chainmail habergeon lay in a bundle on top of a heavy blanket. Nearby was a cup lying on its side. The ale which it had contained had dribbled onto the hay, the beery smell intermingling with the wholesome scent of the dried fodder.

  The cause of the man’s shock was right there in front of them. The blanket, which looked as though it performed the function of bedding for him, had been lifted at one corner and thrown aside. Beneath it, a hole had been scraped in the hay, and some crimson cloth was visible.

  “When I sat down, it felt lumpy and uncomfortable, so I dug around. Then I felt something, and wondered what it was,” he explained. “I pulled at it, lifted the hay, and found…that.”

  Baldwin knelt and gently eased the hay from the crimson dress. It lifted easily to reveal the body of a young woman. Her eyes were dim as they stared upward through a layer of dust from the hay. A thick coating of the same dust lay upon her, but when he touched the cloth, the tiny particles of grass and seed did not move, for in places the material was quite damp.

  “I must have slept right next to her all night,” the mercenary said, with a stricken wonder in his voice.

  “More than one night,” Baldwin remarked callously. “This woman has been dead some days.”

  Simon met the soldier’s horrified gaze for a moment, and then the man was sick.