by Karen Miller
“Feggit,” Benedikt muttered, and let fall his smock. “I be done with this, Willem. No more crossing blades when they b’aint wrapped. It be too risky.”
He hated to give up. He wouldn’t give up. But he’d have to wait a while. Benedikt could be mule-stubborn when he liked.
“Anyway,” his brother added. “There b’aint no more time for swords. We got to fetch and chop wood, then cart it back to the Whistle, empty the cart, take it back to Farmer Spurfield and leg it home agin afore dark! ’Cause if we dunt, ye d’know Iddo will make our lives a feggit misery.”
He sighed. That was true. They might’ve grown too big for whippings in the cellar, but Iddo was still a mean bastard.
“Iss,” he said. “I know.” Reaching out, he tousled his fretsome brother’s hair. “Sorry I stuck ye, Benedikt. Come on. Let’s chop wood.”
Rushing back and forth between kitchen and public room, Molly started to regret sending them boys out to fetch more wood for the Pig Whistle. With coin so tight she’d long since had to give up hiring a pair of hands to help her and that surely did make for aches and pains when her inn got busy, like it was just now on account of Lord Humbert’s clash with those Harcian spice-merchants and folk wanting to chinwag on it. Sell-swords in the Marches! The faeries protect them, what next? Soon enough Marcher folk wouldn’t be safe in their beds. But though the news was surely alarming, there was a part of her couldn’t be sorry, as such. Sell-swords in the Marches meant her public room was nigh on half-full. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sold so many tankards of ale.
Coming back into the kitchen with a tray of emptied pottage bowls, she caught a whiff of burning. Cursed, abandoned the tray, and dragged a stew pot off the hob. The bottom had caught. Now she’d have folk complaining of spoiled rabbit.
She fetched a clean pot and a ladle and began scooping untainted meat, gravy and vegetables into it. The swollen knuckles on her right hand protested, shooting pain up to her elbow. Joint-ill, Izusa called it. An affliction of advancing age. She didn’t like to think of that but facts were facts and couldn’t be outrun. Her son was almost a man now. Handsome like his father, with the same heart-melting smile. Soon she could step back and let him shoulder the heavy burden of the inn. Him and Willem. Them boys were still joined at the hip.
Iddo wouldn’t like it but she’d talk him round. He deserved a rest as much as she did. He’d hurt his back a month before and it still pained him. Izusa’s pills helped with the worst discomfort–hers and his–but there it was. Even in lean times the Pig Whistle was a mort of hard work and between them they’d been working it day and night for nigh on twenty years.
“Molly! Molly!”
Iddo, sounding fretsome. She set down the pot and ladle, crossed to the unshuttered kitchen window and leaned out. “Iss?”
“How long did ye tell them boys to stay out after wood?” he called, standing at the top of the cellar stairs. “Only I need ’em for hauling up ale kegs. Can’t slake a man’s thirst on promises and air!”
“And I can’t bake pies and cook stew with a cold hob. Nor heat bathwater for them as takes a bed, neither. Bung open a keg where ’tis and ye can fill jugs till them boys come home.”
“Fill jugs?” Iddo pulled off his canvas cap and dashed it the ground. “Run from bar to cellar and back again with jugs? From now till when them boys see fit to show their faces? Molly—”
She slapped the wooden sill. “D’ye stop yer hollering, Iddo! Ye’ll be pleased enough in yer hot bath tonight with a tenday’s worth of dry firewood in the shed.”
He swiped up his cap and stamped lopsided down into the cellar. As she turned again to her burnt stew, a hand-bell clanged out in the public room. That meant a customer wanted her. Whenever Iddo had to leave the bar, and she couldn’t leave the kitchen, there was the bell. Something else she didn’t care to dwell on. That kind of shoddy she’d always left for the Marches’ other inns. Her Pig Whistle was better than that. But while coin was tight what choice did she have?
Forcing a cheerful smile, she swept aside the leather curtain. “Iss, iss, how can I serve ye?”
“Mistress Molly,” Lord Humbert greeted her, standing at the oak bar. His face was hard, his eyes unfriendly. He wore mail beneath his leather jack and his cheek was marred by a livid bruise from his skirmish with the sell-swords. Another lord stood with him. Soft and pampered, he was. She’d never seen him before but his eyes were just as cold. “We’ll step outside to the forecourt. I’d have words with you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Molly smoothed the front of her stew-splashed apron. Behind Humbert and the other lord she could see her customers, some Clemen folk, some Harcian, and a handful of traders, all of them agoggle, staring and whispering and letting their pottage and stew go cold in the spoons stopped halfway ’twixt bowl and belly.
“Lord Humbert,” she said, hearing her voice faint and frightened. She never could see him now without feeling her heart frog-dance in her chest. “I did hear of yer skirmish this morning with them sell-swords. Shameful doings.”
“Shameful, indeed,” he agreed. “But it seems shameful doings are in no short supply these days. The forecourt, Mistress Molly.”
Humbert knew. She could see it in his face, in his eyes. He knew. She wanted to flee. She wanted to weep. She wanted to throw herself on the public room floor at his feet and beg forgiveness. Tell him I never wanted to do it, but what choice did I have? Only–after her wickedness, however could she trust Humbert to protect Benedikt from Waymon?
Ever since the dreadful day Balfre’s man threatened to trump thievery against her Benedikt, and see him hanged, she’d done as she was bid and told lie after lie about Lord Humbert and his duke and all the terrible things they did to poor folk in the Marches and in Clemen. Lied to every passing trader and merchant who’d listen about the hardships they caused foreigners and how Clemen weren’t safe, knowing they’d believe her because she was Mistress Molly of the Pig Whistle inn.
Even after Humbert and his men-at-arms protected the Pig Whistle from rough Clemen men come into the Marches bent on mischief, she lied. After some of Balfre’s men-at-arms had caused a drunken row and Humbert’s man Egann risked himself alone to confront them, she lied. And when Iddo hurt his back, and it was give Izusa coin or pay the poulterer, and Lord Humbert stepped in with a silver ducat and a kind smile, the next day, the next day, she told a silk merchant from Pruges that she’d heard Clemen was looking to impose a special tax on every bolt of trader silk. So many, many lies she’d told. ’Cause if she didn’t, Waymon of Harcia would hang her innocent son for a thief.
But Humbert wouldn’t care why she’d lied. Not now. She’d long since lost her chance to ask him for help or mercy.
The soft, pampered lord she didn’t know snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Why do you stand there gawping, woman? Are you loose in your wits?”
“This is Lord Ercole,” said Humbert. “Come from Duke Roric in Eaglerock.” He scowled. “The forecourt, Mistress Molly.”
Tears pricking, she bobbed a curtsy. “Iss, my lord.”
The Pig Whistle’s forecourt was crowded full of Clemen men-at-arms on horseback, led by Humbert’s wiry, unamused serjeant, Derron. Not once since he was made serjeant after Bodham died had she ever seen the man smile. More mounted men-at-arms sat watchful in the road, two of them holding their lords’ fine horses. Eyeing them warily, looking at all the hands resting suggestive on sword-hilts and daggers, Molly halted with her back to the Pig Whistle’s front wall. Her mouth was dry as old straw.
“My lord, I d’wish ye’d tell me what—”
“Mistress Molly,” Humbert said, booted feet wide, fists on his hips. “There are rumours swirling abroad, touching on Clemen and its duke. False rumours, filthy lies, that plunge a dagger in my duchy’s honest heart.” He leaned close. “Rumours I’m told were started here.”
Her joint-swollen fingers twisted in her apron, the pain a welcome distraction. Overhead, the sun was sliding.
Them boys would be looking to trundle home soon, surely. She felt her heart sieze.
Stay away, imps. Striggle-straggle. Hunt rabbits. Don’t ye let this be the first day ye did ever rush to heed Iddo.
She made herself meet Humbert’s glare. After so many dreadful lies, what was one more? “My lord, I dunt know what ye mean. If there be nasty rumours swirling they b’aint naught to do with the Pig Whistle.”
Lord Ercole, soft and pampered, slapped her so hard she stumbled sideways. “She’s lying, the treacherous bitch. Don’t tell me you can’t see it, Humbert.”
“Molly.” There was pain beneath Humbert’s cold rage. “You’d take Harcian coin to hurt Clemen? To hurt me? I’ve done you no harm. I thought we were friends.”
She pressed a palm to her throbbing, burning cheek. “I never took no Harcian coin, my lord. I never—”
“I’ve heard enough,” said Lord Ercole, turning. “You there! Serjeant!”
Derron nudged his horse forward a few steps. “My lord?”
“Ercole,” Humbert said, warning. “Recall what I told you.”
Pampered Lord Ercole jabbed a ringed finger at Humbert’s chest. “Then cease your lamenting and deal with this, Humbert!”
“Derron,” Humbert said, his loathing stare not shifting from Lord Ercole’s face. “Take half the men, search the Pig Whistle and its outbuildings roof to floorboards. No cupboard’s too small, no mattress unlikely. I want every coin and scrap of paper. The rest of the men can stand ready. Any man or servant tries to flee, take them.”
Derron nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“No!” Molly protested. “Lord Humbert, I’ve guests here b’aint lifted a finger agin ye. What’ll happen to the Pig Whistle d’they talk of being hounded and frighted and jostled by men-at-arms?”
Humbert’s look was like another slap. “Then they talk, Mistress Molly. And you’ll learn how words can wound.”
There was nothing she could do to stop him. Fighting tears, she stood where she was, on pain of custody, and watched as Humbert’s serjeant and his men-at-arms rousted her customers into the forecourt. Rousted Gwatkin and his two lads out of the stables to stand with her. When Iddo didn’t join them she started to tremble. Then Gwatkin, grown old in his years at the Pig Whistle, brushed gnarled fingers agin her elbow and touched his prunish lips to her ear.
“Iddo’s gone to fetch Lord Waymon. Word is he and some of his men-at-arms be down the road a-ways. ’Tisn’t right, what Humbert be doing. We’ll let Harcia set him straight.”
She pressed her fingers to her lips, to keep back a laughing sob. And when Humbert demanded to be told Iddo’s whereabouts she handed him a brazen lie, not sorry at all. Iddo was off with her boys, fetching firewood. And not a soul who heard her, and knew elsewise, breathed a word to Clemen’s bullying Marcher lord.
Heartsick, she huddled with Gwatkin and listened to Humbert and Lord Ercole and Clemen’s men-at-arms rampage through the inn, breaking pottery, splintering timber, wrecking the life she’d sweated to build. Trembled as her customers’ belongings were dragged downstairs from the dormer and into the forecourt to be rummaged through and strewn about. The traders from Khafur and Cassinia thickened the cooling air with loud, foreign protests. And when Clemen’s lords and men ignored them they shouted their outrage at her instead. All she could do was shake her head and spread her hands and say how she was sorry.
Then Lord Waymon came, with a score of his men.
Humbert left the crowded forecourt and stamped into the road to meet him. “You can turn back, Waymon. This is naught to do with you.”
“I’ll turn back when it suits me,” Waymon retorted, halting his horse. His men-at-arms halted behind him, their faces surly. “Clemen doesn’t yet rule in the Marches.” He stared at the Pig Whistle. “What’s this uproar?”
“None of your business.”
“But it must be my business, Humbert.” Waymon pointed. “I see Harcian Marcher-folk there.”
“There are Harcians everywhere,” said Humbert. “More’s the fucking pity.”
Waymon laughed. “And my duke does wonder why the Marches are so contentious.”
“If the Marches are contentious, Waymon, that’s your doing.”
“I don’t recall rousting innocent Harcian spice-merchants and killing their escort. Are you sure that was me?”
“They weren’t innocent!” Humbert shouted. “They broke the law hiring sell-swords!”
“Our merchants would have no need of sell-swords did Roric keep a proper peace!”
“Humbert! This is no time for gossiping!”
Molly watched, almost entertained, as pampered Lord Ercole elbowed his way across the forecourt then strutted to stand with Clemen’s Marcher lord. She hated Waymon enough to vomit but she’d cheer him if he struck the man who’d slapped her face.
Waymon was staring at him, astonished. “Fuck, Humbert. Who’s this prissy turd?”
“Lord Ercole,” said Humbert, over the snide laughter of Waymon’s men. “One of His Grace’s councillors.”
“By the Exarch’s balls. Your duke is in sore need of better men.”
“And your duke should take care,” Lord Ercole retorted, red-faced. “Roric knows full well he is behind the mischief made against our duchy. The lies and calumnies being told of Clemen both at home and abroad. I promise you–Waymon, is it? Harcia’s slander will not go unrewarded.”
“So truth is slander now?” Waymon demanded. “Should I next look for dogs to shit gold? My lord turd, Clemen is a cesspit. ’Tis true Harcia has known that longer than most, but how is Harcia to blame if more people do discover it?”
Lord Ercole snapped his fingers at the nearest Clemen man-at-arms. “You there. Bring me the innkeep.”
The man-at-arms dismounted his horse and started towards the Pig Whistle’s forecourt. Molly felt her knees buckle as Waymon turned his head. In his cold stare she saw the promise of Benedikt hanging should she confess the truth of what she’d been doing–and why. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, shivering. Where was Iddo? She needed Iddo. She couldn’t face this without her man. Around her, frightened, ’prisoned customers were milling and shifting like sheep penned for slaughter.
“Here now! Here now!” Gwatkin protested, his old voice cracking. “Leave her be! This b’aint right!”
Hard hands took hold of her, bruising. She cried out. Gwatkin protested again, and she heard a fist strike flesh, heard the old stableman grunt in pain. Opening her eyes she saw him on the ground and writhing, and then Clemen’s man-at-arms was dragging her across the forecourt towards the road and Waymon, who’d kill her precious Benedikt if she dared open her mouth.
“Leave her be, ye bastard! Get yer filthy hands off my Moll!”
Iddo, shoving his way through the press of men-at-arms in the forecourt. He was panting, sweating, first with running and now with rage. She nearly fainted with terror for him. Her Iddo never could think straight when he was in a rage.
“No–no–Iddo–no—”
But Iddo wasn’t listening. Anger had stopped his ears.
Pulling free of the man-at-arms she lunged towards her bullish man, her man of oak, and tripped over the scattered belongings of a Hentish trader. Crying out, she fell hard against another man-at-arms. Startled, he drew his dagger. She felt the blade punch through her belly and screamed. Heard Iddo scream, a shattering howl of fury and fear.
“Molly!”
Dazed, blood pumping between her fingers, she sank to the ground. Iddo tried to reach her but Humbert’s men-at-arms knocked him down.
“Murder!” Waymon shouted. “Butchery! Harcia, have at these fucking Clemen dogs!”
A rabble of answering shouts as Harcia’s men-at-arms threw themselves at Humbert and Lord Ercole and Clemen’s men. Gasping for air, Molly snatched a glimpse of Humbert as he caught Waymon’s arm and hauled him out of the saddle. Saw pampered Lord Ercole with a dagger. He was waving it in a Harcian man-at-arm’s face. Then the furious fighting spilled into
the forecourt and she lost sight of the brawling Marcher lords.
Crying out with every kick and buffet, she dragged herself across her own forecourt to slump beside the Pig Whistle’s front door. Her customers had run away, Marcher-folk and traders all. After this she’d likely never see them again. And then booted feet trod on her as Waymon’s men-at-arms pounded into the public room in pursuit of their Clemen foe. The clash of sword against sword. A scream. A triumphant shout. Then angry shouts fading as the men-at-arms battled their way upstairs.
Iddo. Where was Iddo? There was Gwatkin on the dirt, unmoving, poor old man, but she couldn’t see her Iddo.
Someone close by was moaning in terrible pain. Then she realised. Oh. It be me. The hand clutching her belly was drenched scarlet. So was her apron. She looked again for Iddo but couldn’t see him. Her eyelids were heavy, wanting to close. Biting her lip, she bullied them open.
Benedikt. Benedikt. Wherever ye be, chick, stay there. Whatever ye do, my precious lamb, don’t come home.
By the time they’d filled the back of the cart with firewood it was nigh dark. There’d be no time to unload the wood into the Pig Whistle’s shed, never mind taking the borrowed horse and cart back to Tiddy Pond farm. They’d have to do that come sunrise.
As Spurfield’s nag picked its way along the rutted cart track leading to the back of the inn, Liam gloomed on what Iddo would have to say about that. Likely he’d spit nails. Then the cart’s front left wheel hit a rock. The lurch shook Benedikt out of his slumping drowse.
“Be we home yet?”
“Nearly.”
Benedikt sat up, yawning. “Good.” Then he leaned forward, peering. “Willem? We should be able to see the Pig Whistle by now.”
He’d been so busy glooming on Iddo he never noticed. But Benedikt was right. No lamps glowing in the stables. No light spilling from the kitchen’s back window. No familiar glow in the upstairs dormer.
They leapt down from Spurfield’s wood-cart, tethered the old nag to a handy tree branch, and ran.
There was dim light in the public room. Two horn lanterns. No candles. No fire. Molly was there. And Iddo. Not a soul else. Every table, bench and stool knocked over and splintered, plates and bowls and tankards and spoons and knives scattered. The air stank of spilled stew and ale. Blood was splashed across the floor, up one wall, over the wrecked furniture.
