Baldwin had moved some paces beyond the prone Nicholas, and now he stood facing the others, his sword steady in his hand, peering at them under the shining steel of his blade. He didn’t like the look of the bilclass="underline" no one could protect himself effectively against a weapon with such a long reach. If the man handling it had any skill, Baldwin knew he was lost.
‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Are you going to leave us alone to question your leader?’
The cruel head of the bill pointed towards him now, and he raised his left hand, evaluating likely manoeuvres that might give him some chance of success, but before he could attempt any, another force came to his rescue.
Behind his opponents the grooms had sat open-mouthed as the knight grabbed his sword, but now they had set aside their cloths and oils. Two had quarter-staffs in their hands, and they held them threateningly at the back of Thomas’s men.
‘Put your weapons down,’ Baldwin commanded, and the men shamefacedly set the polearm and axe back against the wall. The grooms relaxed, and Baldwin let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Leaving the grooms guarding the men, who returned to their dice with complete insouciance, Baldwin stood over the recumbent steward. Simon removed his foot and ran his sword back into its scabbard, but Baldwin kept his out, and allowed the point to touch Nicholas’s throat.
‘What happened when your master met the Fleming?’
‘It was nothing. The foreigner wanted to buy lands from the estate. He’d said so the night before, and my master was minded to help him, that’s all.’
‘It wasn’t your master’s to sell,’ Simon growled.
‘He was going to persuade Lady Katharine that she’d be better off without it.’
‘You mean he was going to talk her into breaking up the place for his own profit?’
Nicholas eyed the blade resting on his neck with disgust. He wasn’t used to being disarmed and beaten like this, and the ignominy of his position made his tone bitter. ‘What do you expect? He needs the cash. His last ship foundered, and there’s no other way to buy the wine he needs to keep his business trading.’
‘It is curious,’ said Baldwin, ‘but the Fleming recalls the discussion going in a different direction. He thought it was your master who approached him. As an old comrade, he would hardly be likely to try to rob the squire’s widow.’
‘Him?’ Nicholas spat contemptuously. ‘My master was a better friend to the squire than van Relenghes ever was; the Fleming hated Squire Roger’s guts! They fought for the King, but at one battle van Relenghes captured a wealthy French Duke and ransomed him.’ He noticed Simon’s baffled expression. ‘Don’t you know the law? All important prisoners must be sold to the King so he can personally ransom them. The Fleming was trying to keep all the profit for himself, and that was illegal. He could have had his head taken off for that, and when Squire Roger threatened to tell the King, van Relenghes had no choice but to hand over the prisoner; but he never forgot that it was the squire who had cost him all that money. The Fleming had to flee the army before his attempt at fraud could be discovered, and he blamed the squire for his loss. That’s why he hated Squire Roger.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Talk to Godfrey, the Fleming’s guard,’ Nicholas sneered. ‘He used to be at war with the squire. Ask him what he knows about the man he’s protecting.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Petronilla was up before daylight to do her morning chores. In the hall she found several other servants lying on benches above the rushes and garbage where the rats scurried, and she clicked her tongue irritably at the thought that she should be awake while they snored on. Making no effort to be quiet, she hauled a fresh pair of logs to the fire and dropped them near the still-warm ashes, setting small twigs and tinder above the hottest part and blowing on them until they caught, then setting more logs over the small flames. Soon the dry wood was glowing and spitting, and by then most of the other folk in the room were astir.
Edgar, as Baldwin’s man, was first to his feet as usual; as soon as he had thrown his cloak from his shoulders he went out into the cold to shove his head under the water in the trough. Petronilla had no idea why he should do this – she thought it might be some kind of penance – but she did notice that he always returned looking a lot fresher.
Next to rise was Hugh, but in his case it was because he had been kicked awake by Edgar on his way past. Hugh woke slowly, his head coming up, eyes bleared, grumpily swinging his legs down from the bench upon which he lay, to survey the world through a yawn.
Normally, once Hugh was conscious, he would shake Wat into life, but today Hugh missed his morning routine, for Wat was absent from his patch on the floor next to Hugh’s bench. While Petronilla hauled the hangings from the windows and unbarred the shutters to pull them back, letting in fresh air and a little light, she saw Hugh shuffle out to the buttery in search of the boy, and was rewarded a few moments later by the sight of him dragging Wat out to the yard to rinse him off. He had been sick during the night.
Edgar met them, shaking his head slowly. ‘God’s blood, Wat, you have to keep from trying to finish all the barrels at once. There will always be more to drink the next day. Why get yourself in this state each morning?’
The thirteen-year-old grinned shamefacedly, a faint tinge of green lightening his features. ‘I didn’t realise how strong it was.’
‘Now you know,’ said Hugh not unkindly, ‘you can clear up the mess out there.’ He passed the boy a bucket and old cloth he had found lying in the yard.
‘He’s not a bad fellow,’ Edgar mused.
‘No, he’s going to be a fine lad. Likes his drink – but who doesn’t?’
Edgar forbore to mention his own master’s ambivalence to alcohol. He ran his fingers through his hair, caught a short yawn, and stretched himself like a cat. ‘Time to go.’
Hugh nodded, but before Edgar walked back indoors, he stood a few minutes and watched as the sun lit the eastern sky. It was impressive, with deep purples and golds lighting the country all about them. Hugh knew that Edgar never failed to enjoy this hour of the day; the knight’s servant was geared to early mornings. For Hugh himself, there was infinitely more pleasure in sleeping late and enjoying the night-time.
Still, as he turned and made his way back to the hall, he had to admit to himself that the morning was almost perfect. The birds chattered and sang in the trees, the rooks chuckling and calling as they preened and readied themselves for the day’s excitement. A dog came out from the kennels, sniffed at a wall and cocked its leg before sauntering off to the kitchen, outside which it sat hopefully, scratching and throwing longing looks at the closed door every now and again.
Another dog barked, and there was the sound of horses stamping in their stalls in the stables. Hearing a door slam, Hugh sighed. The place was alive now, and he should get on with helping the other servants. The guests and household would be heading for the vill soon, to witness the Dirige and the burial of the boy.
‘A fine morning, sir,’ came a voice at his side, and Hugh found that Godfrey had joined him.
‘Pleasant enough,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Your master still abed?’
‘If he could, I think he’d remain there all day. Had too much to drink last night.’
Hugh nodded. The Fleming’s face had become very flushed as he drank the strong red wine last night, and when it was time for him to retire, he had required his guard’s help to negotiate the doorway. ‘You worked for him long?’