‘Oh, come now!’ the innkeeper said with a hint of anger. ‘You know men who have killed. So do I.’
‘Was he a nervous, fretful man?’
‘Jack? Good God, no! He was calm, considerate. The sort of man any would want as a companion for an evening.’
‘But he was a murderer.’
‘You probably have killed men yourself. Are you any different from him?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Baldwin’s anger made his voice high with outrage. ‘He took money to kill people — and you ask me whether I am different? I would not take money for murder. I would not commit murder. You say I would?’
‘No, not murder, but I’ll bet you’ve killed in the heat of the battle, eh? And you wouldn’t accept pay for going to war, perhaps, but you’d take a new robe each year from your Lord and all his food and expenses …’ He eyed Baldwin’s shabby tunic, and Simon cringed, fearing some smart comment about obviously not accepting the free clothing … but thankfully Henry said nothing about that, merely continuing, ‘Well, Jack looked on himself in the same light, I dare say. He didn’t think of himself as a mercenary or a murderer. Not that we ever discussed such things, of course.’
‘You had best show us where he slept,’ Baldwin said, still smarting over such a gross insult to his chivalry. It was a matter of honour to him that money meant nothing. It could not possess him because he had no interest in it.
Henry led the way through the cross passage to the yard beyond. From here Baldwin found he could look over the river to the grassy and bramble-smothered banks at the other side. The yard itself was muddy, with pools and puddles where the water had collected from the rain, which had, mercifully, stopped for a while. Perpendicular to the inn itself was a stable-block, with space for three horses. Not a profitable tavern, then, Simon found himself thinking.
Baldwin walked inside and remained there for a few moments. When he came out, he whistled and jerked his head towards the open door. ‘If he was able to buy that, he had recently come into a lot of money,’ he said.
Simon walked in, and admired the beast over the half-door. ‘Did you say he had never ridden here before?’ he called out.
‘Never,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Always walked.’
‘Clearly he could ride, when he needed, eh?’ Baldwin said. ‘That is a fellow that would put fear into the hearts of many.’
Simon nodded. It stood with its head above Simon’s, a large monster with gleaming coat and rolling eyes.
‘You will need someone to exercise the horse,’ Baldwin said.
‘I have a groom enters here often enough.’
‘I hope he’s brave,’ Simon said seriously. ‘That thing would eat my servant for its breakfast!’ He grinned at the thought of Rob’s expression, were he to ask him to mount this stallion.
‘Where is this hayloft, then?’ Baldwin asked.
Henry gestured, then said he was off to check on the wort. They knew where to find him if they wanted him.
Simon was about to leave when he noticed a mark in white — bleached hair. He reached out to pat the horse, and was rewarded with a nip on his shoulder. He pulled his hand away swiftly, rubbing at his shoulder, and peered in carefully. The mark on the horse’s shoulder was a brand — not one he recognised so far from his home, of course, but a brand nonetheless.
He walked out, and saw Baldwin disappearing into a chamber above the stables, his legs still resting on a sturdy ladder of larch poles with flat rungs nailed between them. ‘Anything up there, Baldwin?’
‘If you think you can search faster than me, you are welcome to try,’ Baldwin retorted in a muffled voice. ‘It is dark in here.’
His eyes acclimatised swiftly enough to the light that filtered in from beneath the thatched eaves. It was a chamber the length of the stable, and was still half-filled from the previous harvest, the area here nearest the door being clear, loose boards. The thick dust was cloying, and he began to feel it in his nostrils as he moved about. All he could smell was horses and hay, and he wondered how easily the man Jack would have slept in here. At least it wouldn’t have been too cold, with the heat rising from the horses, and the warm hay.
At the far side, a small pile of it had been collected into a mattress and a heavy fustian blanket laid over the top. Baldwin could imagine the fellow lying down here and resting, a blade ever ready in case of attack, ears straining, his eyes wary. What sort of a life would it be, he wondered, accepting money to go and kill men or women you have never known? Was Jack atte Hedge extraordinarily callous, simply devoid of any feeling whatever for others? From all that the innkeeper had said, he was a pleasant enough fellow, or had seemed so.
He thrust about under the blanket, but there was nothing there. The hay itself was piled into a great heap, and he was reluctant to sift through the whole lot. Instead he took his sword and began to prod in amongst it. Probing here and there, he felt the blade strike the wooden boards six or seven times before it met something more soft and giving. Parting the hay carefully, a little squeamishly, he reached in. Once he had thrust into his own hayloft and found something inside. When he sought it, he had almost been bitten by the enormous rat he had unwittingly stabbed.
There was no rat this time, only a large soft package. He pulled it out, undid the knots, and opened it.
‘You all right up there, Baldwin?’
‘I’m fine. Wait a moment,’ he shouted towards the ladder.
Inside was a linen shirt and a pair of rough sailor’s hosen — both slit from the sword’s blade — a belt of good thick leather, a small lead badge from Canterbury to show he had been there on pilgrimage, and a purse of coins. Inside the purse there was also an indenture, a half of a contract written up with a lord, defining the responsibilities of both parties for the contract. As was usual, the contract had been ripped in half roughly so that when the two parts were joined it would be easy to see that they both comprised the one contract by the way that the tears matched. Baldwin stared at this for a short while, then thrust all together again into the pack and retied it. He searched about the hay again, but if there was anything else there, he couldn’t find it. Walking to the ladder, he tossed the package down to Simon before making his way down once more.
‘That horse has a brandmark on it,’ Simon said, jerking his head towards the stalls.
‘Innkeeper, do you know whose brand it is?’ Baldwin shouted into the yard.
‘You ask that messenger brought you here. See if he recognises it,’ the man shouted back, busy with his fire and apparatus.
Baldwin glanced at Simon, frankly surprised, then called the messenger in. The fellow was only in with the black horse for a very short while before rejoining them.
‘We are foreigners up here. Do you recognise it?’ Baldwin asked.
‘You are serious, Sir Baldwin? It is the mark of my Lord Despenser.’
Bishop of Exeter’s House, Straunde
The two men rode back in a contemplative manner, neither wanting to say anything of the fears which both now harboured. Not until they were in the Bishop’s house, in the small room where they slept, did they broach the subject again.
‘I feel I need a pint of strong wine,’ Simon said, staring at the indenture. Across the top in large letters was the name of Sir Hugh le Despenser, beside some date which was indecipherable, apart from the year. It was dated in the eighth year of the King’s reign, so had been drawn up somewhere between July 1314 and June 1315. ‘It’s clear enough, isn’t it? The man was Despenser’s own, had been in his pay for ten years or so, and he was trying to kill the Queen.’
‘Yes — and Sir Hugh gave him that horse down in the stable, either to bring him here to discuss the murder, or as a gift in advance payment.