Sword of shadows, p.18
Sword of Shadows, page 18
He walked with his horse past the inn and heard music coming through its doors. The players. He wondered how Master Crispin was doing at the pagan village. He wanted to know more about it … and he was feeling a bit parched. He turned into the innyard, left the horse with the stableman again and entered.
The woman player had returned and she sawed on her rebec while another played the shawm.
Gertrude, the innkeeper’s wife, came over to him and brought him ale in a jug with a horn cup. He drank it slowly and watched the others who sang along with the musicians. After a time, they stopped to drink their own cups and the room settled down again to quiet murmuring.
Jack glanced over to the next table and noticed a villager with a dark beard. Jack rose, grabbed his jug, and sat with him, drinking quietly for a time, before he got up the courage to speak to him. ‘It’s a fair village you have here.’
The man smiled and raised his cup. Jack offered him more ale from his jug and the man gladly took some.
‘Much thanks,’ he said. ‘You’re from London with that other man investigating up at the castle.’
‘Aye, I’m Jack Tucker.’ He offered his hand and the other took it.
‘Clemo,’ said the man.
‘Master Clemo. What do you make of them murders?’
‘Murders? Two of them now?’
‘Roger Bennet and another knight from the castle, Thomas Dunning.’
He crossed himself. ‘Holy saints.’
Jack sipped his brew. ‘Any ideas? Do you think it’s some of the women in the village angry at being made a fool of?’
‘That would be a sore thing, wouldn’t it? Women taking to murdering men.’
‘It’s happened more often than you think.’
‘You’ve seen a lot of it, have you? I shouldn’t like to have a job like that.’
Jack settled back, holding his cup close to his chest. ‘It’s more interesting than any other vocation I could have had. Chasing down murderers. Catching thieves. It’s thrilling to a man’s heart, I can tell you. But you have to use your wiles more oft than not.’
He looked Jack over, appraising. ‘Aye. I can see that. Well. Mabyn, Gwendolyn, Janet Penhall …’ He scrubbed at the back of his neck, lifting his long hair out of the way. ‘Those are some, er … strong women. I shouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of them.’
‘But murder?’ Jack took another sip, gazing at the man from over the rim of his cup.
Clemo shrugged. ‘Is not any man … or woman, for that matter … capable? I don’t know. I don’t know that I am fit to say.’
‘It’s just an opinion,’ said Jack. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘What do you know of Prasgwig?’
The man frowned. ‘We don’t talk about that place.’
‘And why not? They are just over the hedge.’
‘Farther than that … I hope.’ Clemo leaned in too, speaking in low tones. ‘They’re pagan. Some believe they are descended from the druw with their druwish ways. You hear stories. They’re brutes. Unchristian. If we could get up the courage, we’d burn them out.’
‘What have they done to you and your village, sir?’
‘They took some women. We never saw them again.’
‘Have you gone to their village to find them?’
He shook his head. ‘No one’s brave enough. Men were killed. Do you think they murdered your knights?’
‘All I know is my master is there right now, investigating, questioning.’
There was true fear in the man’s eyes when he looked steadily at Jack. ‘If I were you and that were my master, I’d go fetch him. Or you might not have a master to go fetch.’
A warm wash of fear flashed over his chest. ‘Why?’
‘Because they’re pagans. They have strange ways. Not like us. They sacrifice to their gods in the old religions. They sacrifice humans. And it’s end of harvest. That’s one of their times.’
Jack staggered to his feet. ‘Maybe I should go. Will you and your fellows come with me?’
Clemo shook his head. ‘We don’t stick our necks in nooses for sowsneks.’
‘To hell with your sowsneks. We’re all English under King Richard.’
The man stood toe to toe with Jack. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. We’re Cornish. This is our land.’
‘But a Christian soul might be in trouble.’
He would only shake his head and walked away from Jack.
Jack watched him leave, swept his gaze over the men in the room who seemed to be looking his way. Had they kenned what he had been saying? None of them would help. Their expressions clearly said it all. England was England and Cornwall was another country, just like Wales or Scotland. He spit on the floor as they watched, tossed his chair aside, and strode out of the inn.
Grabbing his horse away from the stableman, he mounted and kicked Seb’s sides, galloping toward the road to Prasgwig.
NINETEEN
Crispin grabbed Kat’s arm and stalked away from the crowd. They tried to follow, but he shot them a glare that many took as a proper warning. When he was far enough away, he threw her forward. She stumbled but righted herself.
‘You’ve been lying to me since we met. Want to try the truth this time?’
She straightened her clothes as best she could with their rips and dirt. ‘About what?’
‘You said you met a caretaker and he showed you Carantok Teague’s “holes”, as you called them. Whom did you meet? Tell me now or so help me …’
‘Well … you won’t like it.’
‘Who!’
She winced. ‘Roger Bennet.’
He wanted to punch something. Where was Gloyn’s face when you needed it? Instead, he clutched his already bruised fist with his palm, rubbing it there. ‘You told Jack you did not know him,’ he growled.
‘Well … that was a little fib. I didn’t want you thinking I killed him.’
‘Did you?’
‘Now, you see, that is the very thing I wanted to avoid. For the hundredth time, I didn’t!’ She fisted her cloak, wadding up the material.
‘But you met him and bedded him …’
She gave him a look that meant she knew exactly what he was thinking, that he was jealous of a dead man … and damn her, he was. He yanked the brooch from her chest, ripping more fabric, and stalked away, turning his back to her.
‘That’s my brooch!’ She took a step toward it with an outstretched hand, but when he closed his fist over it, she stopped. ‘He said he found it and was going to give it to me. If I …’
She didn’t need to finish. He opened his palm and looked at it. ‘It was found in his hand. His dead hand. Do you know where he got it?’
‘From one of the “holes”, he said. I was running out of money. He—’
‘He was a seducer. He promised marriage to several women in this village as well as Treknow.’
‘I didn’t want to marry him, I just wanted to know where these “holes” were.’
With a sigh he stuffed the brooch back in his pouch.
Her eyes followed his every move. ‘Aren’t you … aren’t you going to give that back to me? It is mine. It was promised to me.’
He gave her a filthy look.
She folded her arms. ‘That looks like no.’
‘The time for truth is now, Kat. There are two dead men and I haven’t ruled you out as the murderer.’
‘Crispin, I—’
‘No more. I tell you now, Mistress Pyke, if you are guilty, I will hand you over to the hangman.’
Her features softened and she approached him, arms loose, eyes sincere. Ah, if only he could trust them. ‘But I didn’t, Crispin,’ she said softly. She cast about her an aura of innocence. He knew it was all a fabrication. ‘I never murdered those men or anyone. I’m completely innocent.’ She closed her eyes and blew out a breath. ‘You know what I mean. Innocent of murder. I’m not lying to you … about that.’
It was then that he noticed how quiet the crowds had become. When he turned, he shouldn’t have been surprised to see that all eyes were on them. And all ears too, he reckoned.
The old man, the elder Branok Trethewey, was suddenly standing there, leaning heavily on a staff decorated with oak leaves and braided wheat sheaves. ‘Master Guest,’ he said in a wispy voice. ‘It seems that your accusations are closer to home. That perhaps when you look for murderers, you need not go as far as fair Prasgwig.’
Crispin did not so much as glance at Kat standing behind him. ‘You may yet be right, my Lord Trethewey. But surely you must see how I must dispel all possibilities. And there are guilty here, though perhaps not of murder.’
Trethewey squinted up at the sun. ‘It is near the end of the day, Master Guest. We have Hærfest to celebrate this night, the end of the summer harvest and the beginning of autumn. It is best that all sowsnek leave our village. It is a private affair for only our own.’
Scanning the solemn faces of the villagers looking on, Crispin had no choice but to accede to their wishes. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘If there are any further developments – and I’m certain the good folk here would see justice done – I can be reached at the castle.’ He bowed, grabbed Kat’s wrist, and dragged her toward the horses.
Treeve was there, sitting on his horse while it nervously stamped. ‘Shall we leave this place, Master Guest?’ he asked nervously.
‘There is no further business here. For now.’
They’d only just headed out of the village when Jack Tucker, like one of the Four Horsemen, charged out of the brush, dagger held high. He yanked on his horse’s reins to skid him to a halt.
‘Oh,’ was all he said, mouth hanging open in something like surprise.
‘What are you doing, Tucker?’
He glanced around and sheepishly sheathed his dagger. ‘I … I was rescuing you.’
Crispin cocked his head. ‘I see.’ He clucked to the horse and moved it forward. Kat gave Jack an endearing smile. Treeve merely stared at him before Jack turned his horse around and followed a few paces behind.
Once they left the village and the forest and traveled down the winding road on the outskirts of Treknow with open meadow around them, Crispin, without turning to him, asked, ‘What was all that about, Jack?’
‘Well … I was told in the village, in Treknow, that you’d be killed there. That no one from Treknow ever went to their village. That they were brutish pagans, sir. And womenfolk went missing and never returned.’
‘There is something odd about them.’
‘Your man is right,’ said Treeve. ‘We were lucky. And if you don’t mind, I won’t be going there again. I think you can find your way back if you’ve still a mind to it.’
‘Much thanks, Master Treeve.’
He nodded to Crispin, looked Jack over, and kicked in his heels. His horse galloped on ahead back toward Treknow.
‘There, there, Jack. I appreciate your concern.’
Jack made more unintelligible grumbles before Crispin asked, ‘What did you find out?’
Girding himself (and hiding his reddened face), Jack began. ‘I first went to the Penhall farm and talked to both the father and the daughter. They were very different from the first time I talked with them when I gave them the tidings of Roger’s death. Today, they both seemed rather haughty about it. And they knew. The whole village knew that Roger was an amorous devil. And they lied about the last time they saw him.’
Crispin couldn’t help but flick a glance in Kat’s direction. She discreetly said nothing.
‘When was the last time they saw him?’
‘Monday,’ said Jack.
‘I see. Go on.’
‘Then I went to Mabyn and Gwendolyn. They’re sisters, sir, and sore angry that the other was deceived. They got into a fierce fight. One even bit me.’ He pushed up his sleeve to show him, shaking his head over it.
Crispin kept as straight a face as he could. ‘Then what?’
‘Well, sir, they got to talking and … I don’t believe either one of them done it. And there’s proof aplenty that they didn’t leave the village. And why kill Thomas Dunning into the bargain? He don’t seem to have aught to do with it. But I’ve got my suspicions of Jowan Penhall. He’s got pretentions. Thinks he’ll be a knight someday soon what with his lands and wealth.’
‘He does, does he?’ Crispin kept the envy from his voice.
‘Aye, sir. And a man that disgraces his family like Roger did … well. I think he’d be angry enough to do something about it. And like I said, he lied about the last time he saw him.’
‘That’s an interesting notion. Then what of Dunning’s demise?’
‘Maybe Dunning saw him. That would assure that no one remembered it.’
‘Yes, that fits well. We shall have to investigate further.’
‘But sir, what of that man that broke into our chamber at the inn, the one that tried to kill you?’
‘What?’ asked Kat, the sound of genuine concern in her voice. ‘Someone tried to kill you, Crispin?’
‘A foolish attempt. It was Menhyr Rouse, I’m certain of it.’
Jack rubbed at his beard in thought. ‘Why him?’
‘Because he didn’t like being threatened. And being the cuckold of the village.’
‘The churl! He should be whipped for what he done.’
Crispin stared ahead. ‘I don’t need to bother with him. I think he’s being punished enough. No harm done.’
‘No harm done?’
‘Tucker, if I am not vexed over it, why should you be?’
‘Then who the hell – pardon me, demoiselle – killed Bennet and Dunning?’
‘As you said, we must investigate the Penhalls further. Who knows? They could have plotted together, Janet standing as lookout.’
Jack shook his head and crossed himself. ‘That’s a sore thing.’
‘Indeed.’ He stretched, getting the kinks out of his back. ‘I’m hungry. I hope we can get some food up at the castle.’
They skirted the edge of Treknow and Kat looked back anxiously.
‘Do you crave the company of your players?’ asked Crispin.
‘Well … I did promise. They have another performance tonight. And they owe me money.’
Crispin ignored the temptation to let her go to them. ‘I don’t want you out of my sight, Mistress Pyke.’
She gave a pretty pout. ‘But the money, Crispin.’
‘You’ve only yourself to blame.’
‘That’s not very generous of you.’
He said nothing more, but couldn’t help but notice Jack’s brows lowering over his eyes.
Once they passed through the first narrow gate and to the mainland courtyard, Crispin turned on the saddle to look back at the entry. No porter in sight.
He threw himself from the horse and stomped up to the gatehouse. ‘Porter!’ he yelled. The damn fools! What in blazes is wrong with their heads?
Peter Shipley scrambled down the steps and met Crispin partway up them in the narrow stairwell.
‘Master Guest, I am here.’
‘But you were not there, Master Shipley,’ he said, pointing down toward the courtyard. ‘You do recall that you were ordered to greet all who entered.’
‘But … I know you, sir.’
He ran a hand over his chin stubble. ‘The point, Shipley, of your position as porter, is to greet each who enter and each who leave to make certain all is well … whether you know them or not.’
‘Oh. It seems a waste of time for those that I know.’
‘For instance, have any from the castle left it?’
‘Not that I am aware of.’
And what is that worth, he thought harshly. ‘You are not aware or you didn’t notice?’
The man’s face transitioned from curious to questioning. Was it possible he had no idea what his duties truly were?
‘Erm … I am fairly certain?’
Crispin clasped the man’s shoulders. ‘Look, Shipley. You have an important task. It might mean the life or death for those who live in this castle. It must be known at all hours of the day or night who passes under that arch. And to that end, I want you to close the portcullis.’
‘Close the portcullis? I don’t know that I’ve ever—’
‘Close the damn portcullis. Now!’
He jerked up at Crispin’s tone and finally seemed to understand the gravity. ‘Yes, my lord.’
He squeezed past Crispin, eyes flicking away in embarrassment, as he made his way up the stairs and to the portcullis windlass.
Crispin followed him to an arched doorway to a room, domed by its vaulted ceiling. Two arrow slits let in dim light in front of the wooden windlass. At one end there was an iron ratchet and pawl. The windlass itself, a heavy beam cut to an octagonal shape, was mounted some three feet above the floor, and wrapped with heavy rope. The face of the portcullis – a grate of iron and wood – nearly blocked the arrow slits in its raised position. And the same heavy rope held it in place through block and tackle.
Shipley positioned himself at the pawl and released it from its ratchet, and began lowering the portcullis with the windlass. Crispin helped at the other end of the machine. The mechanism whined and squealed, shuddering as the portcullis gate slowly traveled through the tight space before its teeth met the holes in the stone-flagged entry.
When it was finally secure, the portcullis seemed to breathe a sigh as it once again found its useful place in the world.
Shipley ran his hand over his forehead. ‘I don’t rightly believe I’ve lowered that ever.’
Crispin gave him a sharp look. ‘Get used to it.’ He stomped down the stairs to the courtyard. He grabbed the reins from Jack and mounted again, turning the beast once more past the battlements toward the bridge to the inner courtyard.
When they reached the second gatehouse, he squinted angrily at that raised portcullis, but since there was only the one porter, that one wasn’t likely to be lowered any time soon. It made no matter. The first one was sufficient for his purposes.
As they entered the courtyard, Crispin noticed Regis in a high window, looking down at them. He could not see the expression on his face, but the gaze was concentrated. Perhaps it was his imagination, since the man appeared mostly bored every time he’d encountered him.
