Soon Stephen could see what was happening. Even as the scarred man grasped his shoulder and pulled him down, he could see that the noise was a man on an ancient cart.
‘Messenger boy, if you want to live to deliver another note, you’ll keep your mouth and your eyes shut!’ the man said, and his dagger was already unsheathed, the point at Stephen’s throat, in the dent below his windpipe.
There was nothing Stephen could say. He merely nodded his head slowly, and watched.
The man was a farmer, so far as he could see. An ordinary farmer on the way to the market at Bow, likely. He had some produce in the back of his little cart. A pathetic amount, but enough to justify the journey. The man was almost asleep as he knelt in the cart, his head nodding with the cart’s jerking, his eyes all but closed.
‘Old man, what have you got in there?’
Stephen looked over to see that one of the men had grabbed the horse’s rein and was grinning up at the farmer.
‘Who are you? I’m-’
‘No, old man. What have you got in there, is what I asked.’
‘Nothing. Just some beans and cheese for market. What do you want with me?’
‘We are taking tolls for the market,’ the man said smoothly, and nodded to one of the others.
Immediately Stephen saw this fellow slip around the cart and grab for the back of it. The farmer scowled and turned, watching as the fellow eyed the goods and reached in to take a cheese.
‘I’ll see you in hell before you take that or anything else of mine,’ the farmer snarled.
‘Pox on your threats, old man,’ the man at the reins said.
‘Leave my goods, you shite!’
‘Who do you think you are, peasant?’
‘I am Jack Begbeer, you little hog, and I won’t be robbed!’
‘Hey, Osbert, look at this! There’s a good barrel of ale here too!’ the man at the back said, and was soon clambering over the cart.
The farmer glanced at him, and then reached down to his side. He came up gripping a whip; flicking his wrist, the long end rose, curled around and lashed out. The man at the back of the cart gave a cry, and his hand went to his brow. As he stood, hands cupping his face, blood began to ooze from a slash across his forehead, and he sprang down to hide from the stinging whip.
‘Old git!’ the man at the reins bellowed, and ducked as the whip end came towards him.
Stephen saw it as it passed over the man’s head. It had been cut and woven into a fine point, and when it touched flesh, it cut like a razor. Already the farmer was thrashing it about him with abandon, standing warily on his cart, keeping the men at bay, snarling defiance at them all. ‘You think you can rob any man passing here? We all know you and your evil master. Well you won’t take my things, not without some of you getting hurt, you sons of dogs! Go to hell, you soulless devils! The pox on you and your children, if you can father them!’
In front of him, Stephen saw that the scarred man had laughed at first to see the men trounced by an old peasant, but his humour was fading now. ‘Old man, get down from the cart. You’ve hurt one of Sir Robert of Traci’s men, and that means your toll has become more expensive.’
‘You? You think to steal all my goods? You think I don’t know you, Osbert? Son of a whore, your father was, and you too! Think you that you can scare me? I’ll be damned if I’ll let you rob me like you rob so many others, damn your soul!’
As he spoke, he flung back his arm, then lashed. The whip sprang towards the scarred man like a viper. He swore, stepped aside, and let the whip fly past him, and as it rose a second time, he darted forward, under the horses, and reappeared on the other side, his dagger held by the point. He hefted it, took his aim, and hurled.
The dagger spun lazily in the air, and Stephen could see its flight as it turned over and over and then sank to the hilt in the old farmer’s throat. He dropped reins and whip, clutching at the hilt, spinning as he tried to pull it free, eyes wide with horror, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to breathe. Then he fell backwards, dropping heavily on to his backside near the front of the cart even as the blood began to dribble from his lips.
‘Stupid old peasant! Couldn’t you restrain yourself? Eh?’ Scarface shouted. ‘You had to keep on, didn’t you? See where that gets you, you old git! Straightway to hell. Well, give my regards to the devil!’
The farmer slumped, his body jerking and writhing as he died slowly. Gradually his efforts to keep upright became too much of a struggle, and he toppled over the cart’s wall, ending up on his back beside his carthorse, his eyes fixed on the man he had called Osbert. The man with the scarred face walked to the farmer, reached for his knife and jerked it free. A fine spray of blood erupted from the dying man’s throat, and Osbert laughed to see the way that the horse pulling the cart neighed and tried to jerk away from the warm blood.
‘Come on, fools!’ he bellowed, and kicked the farmer’s body from cart’s path. He took up the reins and cracked them to get the beast moving again.
Stephen felt a hand on his elbow, and submitted to being pushed along. He couldn’t help but glance back at the body in the dirt at the side of the track. The farmer’s face was already mottled with death, the blood staining his clothes, while a red, oily sheen lay upon his face. Stephen was sure that he could see the man’s lips working, but it was impossible to tell what he was trying to say. Perhaps it was ‘Avenge me!’
If that was what the old peasant hoped, he would have to remain hopeful. Stephen wanted nothing to do with fighting those devils.
St Pancras Lane, Exeter
Edith waited at the table until her husband arrived, and then rose to greet him.
‘My sweet, you shouldn’t have waited,’ he protested.
The maidservant was still in the room, and his greeting must remain cordial but restrained, he felt. Although he had grown up with servants in his household, it was a novel experience still to have his own maid.
Edith smiled. ‘God speed, husband. Sit, please, and let me serve you.’
‘I am most grateful for your attendance, my love. Send the maid away,’ he added in a hiss.
At Edith’s gesture, young Jane curtsied and left, walking carefully as though she might break some of the wonderful carvings on the cupboard.
‘Thank you, my love,’ Peter murmured, and pulled his wife towards him.
‘Oho, so you want to let your food get cold?’ Edith protested.
He had her by the waist already. ‘Not half, my precious! Come here, and let me …’
Edith fell back over his lap to sit with a low chuckle. She pointed her chin to the ceiling while he nuzzled at her throat, his hands roving over her simple tunic, feeling the firmness of her body beneath, the rounded swelling of her breasts, the smooth flesh of her flanks. ‘Oh, my love. I have been dreaming of this all day!’
‘Well you will have to continue dreaming for a little longer. I am petrified with hunger,’ she said, and was about to climb from him when there was a loud knocking on the door. She looked down at him. ‘Who can that be?’
‘Christ’s bones, but I don’t know, I swear,’ Peter said with conviction, standing and walking to the door.
It was dark out, but as he threw the door wide, he could see the lanterns shining, the candles flickering in their horn boxes. ‘What do you want?’
The nearest man was a stout fellow with an ancient-looking cap of steel. He had shrewd dark eyes set widely below a strong forehead, and a beard that was very dark. He was young enough not to have any frost on his head or in his moustache. He looked at Edith. ‘We’d heard that Sir Richard de Welles was here. Have you seen him? Or Sir Baldwin, the Keeper?’