Dark hunter, p.2
Dark Hunter, page 2
I nod, speaking softly since I do not wish to be heard at the top of the table. ‘I’m sure you’re right. There is . . .’ I hesitate, for I would not wish to be disloyal to my master. ‘There’s a good reason why Sir Edmund thought it prudent to enter the king’s service.’
‘Have you finished telling tales, Book Boy?’ Will’s loyalties are simple. But I suppose, since he has served Sir Edmund as page and squire, it is his affections that rule him, not his mind. I have been Sir Edmund’s squire only this last, long half-year and can see things as they are.
The scraping of wood alerts us to the rising of our masters. They settle on chairs drawn around a dying fire and Sir Edmund waves us onto the floor beside them. A deerhound lying there like an unkempt carpet turns onto its back and Sir Anthony strokes its belly with his foot. ‘How long do you think you’ll stay?’ he asks Sir Edmund.
I lean forward, not breathing. Our safe-conducts last until Midsummer, some two months away. I have prayed every day we will not stay longer.
‘It depends what Arundel decides to do now. He needs to find a way to push Douglas back so we’ve a chance of taking Roxburgh once the truce is over. I don’t want to sit here on my arse waiting for those dogs to creep up on us, but I need the money.’
Sir Anthony snorts. ‘Don’t we all! I’ve a ransom to pay.’
‘Surely the king is bringing an army to Scotland, sir?’ I do not mean to speak, but the question bursts out of me.
Sir Anthony gives me a long look. ‘The king is always bringing an army north. Every year he orders a muster, and every year he cancels it. He has no money, not without parliament giving him a tax, and he won’t do what they want to get it. We’re on our own, and that’s the truth of it.’ He takes a long swig from his goblet. ‘Have you served the king before?’
I shake my head. ‘I am newly come to soldiering, sir.’
‘How so?’
I hear Will snigger again, and Sir Edmund kicks him.
‘I was supposed to be a clerk. To Sir William Martin.’
‘The king’s Justice in Wales?’
I nod.
‘Then your family has good connections. Surely they could keep you away from here?’
‘Sir William wished to honour a debt to my father for saving his life. He paid for me to go to school and my older brother Peter became his squire. But Peter . . . he went swimming last year and drowned.’ I swallow violent feelings. ‘So, I had to take on his responsibilities. Sir William thought he’d done enough, and Sir Edmund is . . . very good to have me with so little training.’ I sound ungrateful, I know. No one else would take me.
‘Swimming,’ Sir Anthony pronounces, standing up, ‘is a very foolish thing to do. Forgive me – I was on third watch last night and am weary. But I’m glad you’re here. We need more men-at-arms, not the tailors and shoemakers they’ve got up on the walls these days. Weston would have Percival up there if I let him.’ He fondles the dog’s ears. ‘God help us if there’s any fighting to be done.’
I am confused. ‘I thought Sir John had charge of the garrison. Who’s Weston, sir?’
‘He’s a John, too, but this one’s a clerk, even if he calls himself Chamberlain of Scotland. That’s the man with the money.’ Sir Anthony strides away, still talking over his shoulder. ‘Not that there is any. Forget Wysham. He only has eyes for Alice Rydale and the road out of here. It’s Weston you should keep in with. But don’t trust him and keep a close tally of what you’re owed and what you get.’ With this torrent of advice, he and his dog step swiftly through the door, Stephen running to catch up.
Sir Edmund stares after him. ‘I hate clerks.’ It’s true. His own clerk, Thomas Fleet, made it only as far as Newcastle before succumbing to a violent ague that left his huge frame quivering like an old oak in a storm. My master looks at me and plucks his lower lip. ‘I’ll need one, though, till Thomas gets his fat arse up here. Someone good at all that bookish drivel. You can do it. Go to this Weston in the morning and don’t leave till you’re sure I’ll be paid.’ He stretches. ‘I’m going to bed. Will, you can help me.’
Will smirks past and I let them leave. Stepping into the courtyard, I am assailed by the night’s chill and hurry to the stables to bury myself in Morial’s flanks. Into your hands, O Lord. I wait. An owl murmurs a nocturnal greeting nearby and I sense he is speaking to me, but not what message he brings. For I do not understand why the Lord has cast me into a life I do not want, and for which I am entirely unprepared.
Chapter 2
The dawn edges into a heavy sky as we head east along Marygate, bells ringing for Mass. Passing the market cross, we turn left into a narrow street that staggers up a gentle incline and is called Soutergate. The houses loom over our heads like giants, their timber upper storeys almost touching the ones opposite. We pass a baker’s, alive with light and heat and the scurrying of men and boys and even women. The marvellous smell of bread vexes our bellies until we turn right into a narrow lane that Stephen tells us is called Vikerwende. The Church of the Holy Trinity sits on barren ground above it and we pick our way through slumbering graves to reach its main door.
Inside, the building is narrow, with three great windows on each side and a handsome hammerbeam roof. We worshippers gather like chessmen on the stone flag-stones this side of the rood screen with protracted yawns most do not try to conceal. I bow my head, but there is no peace amidst the jostling and coughing. Will seems to have made friends with Stephen, and they whisper loudly about what they would like to do to the pretty kitchen girl.
But now they fall silent and I follow their eyes to a small procession parting the company. At its head glides a matriarch, plump as a fattened goose, her face sweetly proportioned. At her side, a small dark creature rocks and shuffles. But they are not the ones drawing every man’s gaze. Eyes fixed ahead, a girl in a gown of apple green walks like a queen through her courtiers. Her skin is as pale as the lily-flower, with a bright flush on her cheeks, her mouth a glistening cherry-red.
I have never seen a girl as lovely. Knights and merchants move out of the way, smiles leaping to faces that were crumpled and creased only moments ago. Will starts forward, lips moist, but already this little parade has stopped beside Sir John Wysham, who takes the girl’s arm, leaning close to whisper in her ear. Her mother watches like a contented Madonna.
The priest emerges through a door on the other side of the screen flanked by two acolytes waving the incense. I sing softly, closing my eyes and letting the psalms flood my heart, which is still gripped by the girl in the green dress. Alice, wasn’t that the name Sir Anthony gave her? Alice Rydale. I want to look at her, though I know I should be thinking of our Lord’s painful sacrifice. But that is impossible, too, with Will and Stephen chattering behind their hands.
We retrace our steps, raindrops stoning our faces so that I must grasp the hood of my cloak tight at my throat. Will speaks endlessly about how he wishes to steal the beautiful girl from under Wysham’s nose. He is handsome enough to do it, but that is all, and I am tired of his chatter long before we pass into our courtyard and tramp up the stairs to the hall.
Accosting the steward to discuss our keep, Sir Edmund roars his displeasure across the room at what he is expected to pay. But the steward, for all his diminished stature, stands firm. Sir Edmund stamps his foot and barks at Will to come with him to see Sir John and tells me to go and do my best with Master arsesmart Weston, the arsesmart chamberlain, or I’ll feel the back of his hand.
I force my mind on to Master Weston. It pleases me to have been given a task Will could not manage this year or next. But I don’t understand why Sir Anthony thinks we must keep a close watch on a man so trusted by the king. And surely Sir Edmund must account for what he is paid and what he spends anyway? He is always moaning about how much everything costs, and that God surely jests if He thinks he can live on a few acres of land, what with the bad harvests and the cattle disease.
Chills slither down my back, for no one has told me where the chamberlain can be found. I run back into the hall, which is empty but for a bow-backed crone sweeping the floor. She jumps as I pass and mutters something I’m glad I do not understand.
I tarry by the screen that separates the hall from the kitchen, hoping the steward comes back. It is noisy and full of smoke in here, with a cloying stench of raw meat. The cook stands adorned with a red hat, examining a small array of dead animals laid out on a well-scrubbed table. A pretty girl with apple cheeks and sweat on her brow carries an armful of wood towards the great fire in the middle of the room, where an older woman turns the spit. Others clean pots or cut vegetables, and I imagine they are happy there, in the warmth, with each other for company.
A lad with long brown hair faces the cook across the table, twisting his cap vigorously in his hands, apron smeared with rusty streaks. He must be the butcher’s boy who brought the meat. The cook nods and the boy’s shoulders soften and drop. He stuffs his hat on his head, picks up his basket, then turns and runs straight into me. I yelp as his bony shoulder drives into my arm.
‘I’s not seeing you, sir.’ He wrinkles his nose, as if the fault is mine.
‘Is Wat bothering you?’ the cook asks.
‘Not at all. No harm done.’ The boy’s face-pulling makes me smile. ‘Perhaps you should slow down.’ I speak gently, for fear I will startle him off.
‘My master be expecting me, sir.’
‘You are a butcher?’
He bobs his head down, to hide a smile. ‘Apprentice, sir.’
‘Of course.’ And if this lad delivers his master’s meat, he’ll know who lives where. ‘Tell me . . . Wat, is it?’ He nods slowly, as if this were dangerous information. ‘Do you know where Master Weston lives?’
He nods again most gravely.
‘Excellent. Perhaps you might accompany me there? I am new to Berwick and cannot yet find my way.’ I fish inside my pouch and hold up a ha’penny.
His eyes gleam. ‘Will you be quick, sir?’
‘As quick as you.’ But already Wat has scuttled through the kitchen and out of the door. I follow him at a trot across the courtyard and down the lane to the left of our house, which is narrow and muddy but pleasant, with a small wood rising behind a wall. We seem to be moving towards the river, a sharp smell of salt and seaweed thrust into my face by the wind.
Wat turns left again into a broad street, its large buildings made entirely of stone. Opposite is a fine house, a woman kneeling to scrub the entranceway with a gentle rhythm. Wat bobs up and down, pointing at the house, and I throw him the ha’penny. He grins and runs on along the road, apron buffeting skinny legs.
I slide past the woman, two men in tight-fitting gowns not troubling to glance at me as they pass on their way out. Climbing a short set of steps, I enter a wood-panelled hall, a fire snapping brightly in a metal brazier in the middle. A young man in sombre tunic and hose bustles up to demand my business. He goes back to a desk set beneath two windows and writes something down. Then he tells me to wait on a stool some feet away.
I watch him write in a great leather-bound book. He seems to be copying the contents of a pile of papers into this ledger, and I am surprised to find I do not envy him a task that once might have been mine. He glances up and catches me, so I give him a fulsome smile, as if I am a dull-witted youth who struggles to write the shortest of love letters.
I look out of the window, a milky glow of light throwing soft shadows. Two men emerge from a door to my left. One is tall, with a sharp nose and greying hair, his pale blue gown set off by the tawny fur lining it. The other is, like the clerk, dressed in dark colours, but the brown velvet is plush and unmarked, the matching fur as glossy as the man’s raven hair. ‘So, when should we expect you back?’ this one asks the other in soft southern tones.
‘God willing, we should be home around Midsummer. And I will save the best Bordeaux for you, John.’
The chamberlain smiles. ‘You say that, Walter, but I haven’t forgotten the odious stuff you tried to sell me last time.’
‘Never send your son to do your business.’
Weston pats him on the arm and they part. I stand up, but the chamberlain is already turning back into his room, and the clerk makes no move to follow him. I go over to his desk. ‘Master Weston is a busy man,’ he says without looking up.
‘Sir Edmund expects . . .’
‘Then your Sir Edmund will have to wait. Just like you.’
The sky grows darker, rain streaking the window. A boy runs in, splashing droplets across the stone flags. He spills out a rumour that the Scots have captured a Berwick ship coming back from England with supplies. The clerk jumps up, raps on his master’s door and enters. They reappear and follow the boy out.
I sigh. On the side away from the street, the slumbering remains of a garden stretch towards the town wall. An orchard of fruit trees is still half-naked, shivering in the wind. Only the cherry gives any hint of spring’s tentative approach. Passing the clerk’s desk, I look down for lack of anything better to do. The piece of parchment he was copying lies across the ledger alongside a torn scrap on which he has scribbled numerous reckonings. I hop to the other side of the desk.
I was always skilled at making numbers add up. But I cannot make sense of those written in various hands on the originals and the copy in the ledger, for none match. They are clearly quantities of grain, wine and other foodstuffs, the descriptions tallying in both. But the numbers on the copy are always higher. I take myself on a march around the hall, thankfully before the clerk hurries back through the door and returns to his desk.
Playing with the numbers in my head, I see they form a regular pattern, the higher number on the copy around one-tenth more than the original. But what do they mean? Distant church bells ring for Sext and I feel the agony of this waiting, for Sir Edmund will be angry if I tarry or if I return without success. The clerk flings down his quill and gathers up the pile he has been working from. Sailing past me, he throws them on to the fire, which briefly erupts with a great burst of light. He closes the ledger and gives a little smile to himself before disappearing through a door at the other end of the hall.
I look out at the blustery day. It matters not one jot that these numbers danced to my tune if I don’t know why the clerk changed them. I hum ‘Puer natus in Bethlehem’, eventually letting the words spill out as I cast about for an answer.
‘What do you want?’ It is not said unkindly, but I spin round in agitation. Master Weston stands with his back to the fire, hands thrust inside voluminous sleeves. Whipping off my cap, I bow low. ‘Benedict Russell, sir. We are newly come from Yorkshire. In the garrison. Sir Edmund Darel is my master.’ I wonder if disturbed thoughts are easily read on my face. I must remember why I’m here.
‘Ah, yes. Step this way.’ He sweeps back into his room, whose walls are adorned with pictures of saints set against a dark blue background edged with clouds of golden stars. I look with joy at St Ambrose, bees buzzing around his halo, for he was the first to set choirs singing responses to one another.
Master Weston sits down behind his desk. ‘So, you are dressed like a squire, but sing like a scholar. Which is it?’
‘Both, I suppose. Sir Edmund’s clerk is at Newcastle. With an ague.’
‘I see. You have a fine voice. Where did you learn?’
‘Gloucester Abbey, sir.’
He leans back. ‘You’re a long way from there, Benedict Russell. But we must go where God chooses, must we not?’ He rummages on his desk and finds a well-thumbed manuscript. ‘Write down the names of Sir Edmund’s company and I will start his account once I have ascertained the terms of his service with Sir John.’
He motions me over to a table furnished with quills and ink and I write quickly, eager now to tell Sir Edmund of my discovery. Outside the clerk has returned, ignoring me entirely. But he has no reason to feel superior.
Sir Edmund rubs his forehead vigorously. ‘So, every payment that goes into Master Weston’s ledger is for more than what’s on the documents they’re copied from?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not a mistake?’
‘No.’
‘And what was this scoundrel copying?’
‘I think they’re bills for supplies, probably for the garrison. Grain and wine, that sort of thing.’
Will yawns loudly.
Sir Edmund throws an almond at him. ‘But then he burnt them, which shows he was up to something.’
And now I understand and wonder how I did not before. ‘Sweet Jesu! He’ll be charging us what’s in the copy, won’t he? I mean, for the food you buy us out of the king’s wages.’
‘The thieving dog!’ Clasping my shoulder, he squeezes hard. ‘Good work.’
I feel a warm glow even as my belly aches, for what if I’m mistaken? I cannot imagine why the chamberlain should deliberately deceive the king’s own men. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it, is there?’
He frowns. ‘We must speak to Wysham. He must not allow it. But first you must get proof.’ He scratches the rough surface of his ponderous chin.
I feel as if he has punched me in the stomach. ‘But how can I do that?’
‘You’re a clever lad. You’ll think of something. But we’ve got more important things to do now. Where did Wysham say we could practise the sword, Will? Mary Fields, was it? No, Magdalene. Go out the Cowgate, wherever that is.’
I groan to myself. Peter and I trained together when we were boys, but that is many years ago and I have not proved an able pupil despite Sir Edmund’s efforts to teach me, setting me against Will time and again these last months. Will has dealt me many a scratch, for he feints and parries well, dancing in and out while I lumber around trying to get near him.
