The Crediton Killings

by Michael Jecks

  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 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.

  Matters had come to a head after the robbery. When John and Henry were seen to be subjected to only a mild enquiry and, at least in the view of most of the company, inadequately interrogated, the men began to look askance at their leader. A captain who could not protect his own goods was not to be trusted with another’s life. How Sir Hector could expect them to put their confidence in him when he could not control two petty thieves who made money from blackmail, Wat could not understand. But there was more. Since losing his silver, the captain seemed to have withdrawn into himself, as if he had already accepted defeat. The men had noticed—and drawn their own conclusions. Their leader was grown insipid; he no longer had the edge he once showed.

  Whereas Wat had the trust of all the men, and the support of over half of them in this battle for the leadership. He had always stood up against the two blackmailers and supported any new member who was persecuted by them. Gradually, he had found a following among his colleagues, for he was a man who could hold his tongue when told a secret. He had skills as a warrior, could fight with bow or sword, and knew how to motivate men who were almost at their last gasp to leap to their feet and follow him up the siege ladders.

  He drank deeply and cast a cautious eye toward the man at the dais. Sir Hector had had his day, and now it was past. Even his title was fiction…“Sir” Hector, Wat thought, his lip curling. Most of the other members of the company didn’t realize he had given himself the title after a clash in Bordeaux. A knight had refused to fight him, saying that to draw sword against a commoner would be an insult to his chivalry and honor. Sir Hector had ambushed him the next day, killing the knight in a bloody ambush, then appropriating the man’s belt and spurs. He was no more chivalrous than Wat.

  And now Sir Hector was to be retired. Whether he wished it or not.

  Looking round the room, Sir Hector was aware of the eyes on him, and for a while he could not think what they reminded him of. He was so used to his absolute authority in all matters, that he had long since stopped taking notice of the opinions of his men.

  There was a uniformity among them now, he noticed. Occasionally he would observe a covert glance, a fleeting expression upon a grubby visage, which he was sure did not augur well for his future. It was as he came to this conclusion that he could suddenly name the look on their faces: speculation.

  His hand, as he reached for his tankard, was steady, he noted with inner satisfaction, and he brought the cold pewter to his lips with no sign of his sudden shock.

  Not for many years had he seen such feral expectancy. His men displayed the same impassive interest that a wolf pack showed toward an intended victim, when the prey was slowing from cold, terror and hunger, freezing to petrified languor as it waited for the final attack, the sudden rush which would end in the kill.

  He set the tankard back on the table. Outwardly calm, his brain raced with near-panic. It wasn’t only Wat he had to contend with, but the whole company. He must set his stamp on them all, and quickly. Otherwise there was no point in planning future campaigns.

  If only she was still here, he thought regretfully. Then she might help him to make sense of it all. But she wasn’t, and that was that.

  Rising, he made his way to his solar and shut the door, locking it securely with the heavy bolt. He gazed at the symbol of safety with a wry twist to his lips that was nearly a smile. Before, he had always been safe because of the strength of his little force, secure in the knowledge that any attack must first beat through his men before reaching his solar. Now his safety depended on locking himself away from his own troops.

  As the first clap of thunder exploded overhead, Margaret leapt upright, eyes wide in alarm. She had never grown used to the fierce demonstrations of the elements. Edith, sleeping by her bed, began to wail, and Margaret forgot her own fear enough to climb from her bed and step cautiously through the rushes to collect her child, holding her c
lose as she crawled back between her sheets, pulling them up close round her daughter’s body while trying not to disturb her husband.

  A fresh blue-white flare lanced through the gaps in the wooden shutters, closely followed by another report, and Margaret heard a hound set up a mournful howling. The dismal sound made her shiver—it reminded her all too well of the wolves on the moors, and she recalled the stories of how the Devil rode with the wolves, pointing out the houses which held the youngest children for the beasts to devour, while he took the innocent souls.

  Edith murmured drowsily, comforted by her mother’s warmth, but at another crackle she stuffed her thumb in her mouth, squirming furiously.

  “Has she only just woken up?” Simon asked.

  “Yes. I tried to keep her still so she wouldn’t stir you, but—”

  “Don’t worry, Meg,” he said, and she nearly gave a groan of relief, it was so good to hear the gentleness in his voice. She smiled as he rolled onto his back. As the lightning flickered, illuminating the room with its cold blue-gray light, she could see his face.

  Hearing a low moan, which rose to a keening scream, he half-rose from the bed, and only subsided when her hand took his shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do to help him, Simon. Let him be.”

  She was right, he had to admit. The boy was inconsolable—and seeing the bailiff, a man he associated with his mother’s death, would certainly not help him. Then Simon heard a stealthily opened door, a faint creak as someone stepped out into the hall…followed shortly by the clatter of a falling polearm and a muttered curse. He could recognize the voice of Stapledon’s rector. It was typical of the young man that he would want to go to the aid of a scared child, and equally typical that the three-footed clumsy fool should wake the household in so doing.

  “Will he ever get over it?” he wondered aloud.

  “Of course. We all do.”

  He studied her profile. Her face glimmered under the benign glow of the dying fire, giving her an orange-pink flush, and he smiled when she looked at him with feminine confidence. “You have great faith in his powers of recuperation, but I’m not so certain. He’s seen his mother slaughtered before his eyes, and that’s something I don’t think many children could cope with.”

  “Really? And do you not know that all the people in those alleys are as poor as beggars? How many of them have had to watch their mothers and fathers, children, wives and husbands, as they died?”

  “That’s not the same! Someone dying of natural causes is hard to take, but it’s not the same as seeing someone stabbed to death in the street.”

  “No. If the boy had seen his mother fail slowly, if he had seen her fade with weakness over weeks instead of falling quickly, he might have been torn by disgust. He might even have come to hate her, if he had to wipe her wounds, wash her, feed her, clean away her soiled bedclothes, and still try to find food to feed himself. He would have hated her all the more for the food and water he had wasted on her, just keeping her alive for an extra day or two, when that same food might have fed him instead of her illness.”

  “You think him seeing his mother die quickly is better?” he frowned.

  “Yes. In time he will know that nothing he could have done would have saved her. He will not hate her; he will remember her as a caring mother who never begrudged him a mouthful of her food or a sip of her water. Judith gave him life, and for that he will always be grateful. And now, because her death was unnecessary, he can enjoy the satisfaction of seeing her avenged. Not only that, he can participate in condemning her murderer.” Her voice was quiet, but absolute in her conviction. “And in years to come he will feel stronger for having helped bring her killer to justice. His healing will begin when he sees the killer hang, for then he will see that the fears of his boyhood are unfounded.”

  “And he will forget his pain and his mother that quickly?” Simon asked patronizingly, and she responded as if stung.

  “No, of course not! He will always miss her, and always regret not having had her with him for longer. No man can lose his mother without feeling the misery of the loss. But that does not take away from the inner strength he will gain from this. All I said was, it is better for him that she died this way.”

  “Is it the same for others?”

  She turned away. The hurt in his voice told her clearly enough of the turn his thoughts had taken. “How would you feel if your Peterkin had been murdered, and you knew who the killer was, Simon? How would you feel if you could capture him and have him arrested, put in front of a court and accused? When you saw the man hang, you would know you had done everything you could for your boy.”

  “We did everything we could—so why does it hurt so much?”

  “Because we couldn’t do enough. And we cannot get revenge for him. All we can do is try to have another Peterkin.”

  “No. Not another Peterkin.”

  His firmness made her glance round, but there was no harshness in his voice. “Another son, but not another Peterkin. Maybe,” he gave a self-conscious chuckle, “maybe a Baldwin. Ah, you’re tired. Give me Edith for a little while. You try to rest.”

  “She is all right here.”

  “You spent all last night with me, Meg,” he reminded her, and smiled. “Let me help you. I can at least look after our daughter.”

  The thunder was abating as she passed the sleeping girl to him, trying to control the sudden rush of burning hope. This was the first time he had spoken to her of Peterkin since his death, the first time he had mentioned his pain at the hole in their family…And the first time he had raised the idea of a new son.

  As she languidly curled and felt herself slipping toward sleep, she could feel the bed shaking with his gentle sobs, but she could not help the smile of relief which broke out on her face. Her husband had returned to her at last.

  The scraping noise was an irritation at the edge of Sir Hector’s hearing. He could hear it through the deep fogs of sleep, and while his mind tried to thrust it away and return to unconsciousness, docketing it as the feet of a mouse or another nightly creature, some extra sense made him waken.

  His room was in darkness, and his eyes snapped open as the storm broke overhead. The concussion of the thunder relaxed him for a moment, making him think it had been this which had woken him, but then he heard it again: the small, slow, squeaking sound which his ever-wary ears had noticed.

  Moving with the stealthy patience learned over many campaigns, he rolled silently to one side until his knees were off his palliasse and on the ground. His great sword was in the storeroom, but his lighter travelling sword, built for only one-handed use, was by the bed, and he picked it up still sheathed, holding it in his left hand ready to be drawn, as he faced the door.

  Before sleeping, he had taken the precaution of sliding a heavy chest in front of it, and now he lifted it at one end and hauled it away with painful slowness, making as little noise as possible. The scratching continued, and he cautiously raised the latch on his door and stepped into the corridor before standing stock-still.

  He saw the blade jutting through the shutter, the splintered wood, and the oh-so-faint glimmer of light from a candle. An electric blue light outlined the window, and then a clap of thunder rattled the doors, and still he stood watching as the fine blade of the knife wobbled from one side to the other, trying to force up the timber that locked the shutters closed.

  The wood moved a little, and he quietly crept forward. If he was quick and lifted the balk out of the way, he could kill the first assassin, and probably hold the window. He wondered dispassionately how many there would be outside, but he reckoned that there could only be three at most. Wat was bound to be there, and he would hardly attempt to kill Sir Hector on his own, but he could not count on the help of too many of his comrades in murdering his captain. More than two would be a risk—there was always the possibility that someone might decide Sir Hector was a safer master than Wat and take it into his head to warn him. No, if he was Wat, he would have arranged for
two accomplices, no more.

  As the blade twisted and a crack appeared in the shutter, running upward with the grain, Sir Hector decided to act. He walked into the storeroom and selected a crossbow. Hauling with both hands, forcing the blunt wooden butt into his belly until it felt as though it was going to stab through his skin and into his guts, he managed to pull the string back until the sear caught and held it in place.

  There was another splintering from the shutter. He snatched up a heavy metal bolt and fitted it to the grove, then walked out. Taking careful aim, he fired.

  The iron bolt struck the wood to the right of the wriggling blade, and disappeared. Simultaneously there was a shrill cry of pain, and the knife was dragged back. Sir Hector heard someone sobbing in fear and pain, and he smiled grimly to himself, cocking the bow once more and taking another bolt. He was sure that there would be no more attempts on his life tonight, but he still slept very lightly, sitting in a chair with the crossbow on his lap.

  It was impossible to stay inside. While the rain lanced down, he had to go out and stand in the yard, the drops pelting on to his upturned face so hard it was like being hit by gravel. Giggling, he held his hands over his head and let them slowly fall in reverence to the cleansing water.

  His mind was clear now. The lightheadedness of the last few days had gone, as if the killing of her and poor Judith had finally cured him of a fever. He felt as if he had been suffering from some sort of illness, and now, under this rain, he had been redeemed, absolved and strengthened in the one heady downpour.