She heaved a sigh, hoping he wouldn’t go straight to the Abbot to accuse her, then made her way back into the hall and began pouring ale. When she passed Agatha, she slipped the coin into the alewife’s hand. The alewife always had her fifth for room and rental.
He curled his lip at the smell from the pile of rubbish. It stank of putrefaction and decay, a revolting concoction. Leaning against the wall, he waited while his heartbeat slowed and calmed.
It had been easy to waylay him; easier than he’d dreamed. The burly figure was instantly recognizable, even in the dark with no lanterns or sconces-they weren’t allowed during the fair because of the hazard-and although he’d seen the man waiting patiently, he’d done nothing more than duck his head and make a vague sign of the cross.
The killer nudged tentatively at the corpse with his foot. It was almost an anticlimax now he was dead. The action of stabbing him was so quick, and his gasp and collapse so sudden, that he could hardly believe he’d succeeded. There had been no cry, no shriek for help, just a brief, pained gasp, and then he’d dropped like a felled tree. It gave his murderer a feeling of immense power, knowing he could kill so swiftly and easily with impunity.
But he couldn’t leave the body here, in plain view for any reveller to discover. He gripped the feet and dragged the figure backward into the alley. The midden pile would be an ideal hiding place-nobody would want to approach that in the dark in case of stepping in some of its components. He could hear a short scrabbling as he hauled the body and glanced about him with distaste. Rats!
Dropping the feet, he stood a moment staring down at the corpse before kicking waste from the pile over the body in an attempt to conceal it. Satisfied with his efforts, he hurried down the alley, the habit flapping at his heels as he went. At the road he slowed, stuffed his hands in his sleeves over his chest in an attitude of contemplation, and walked out and down the road. When he saw Arthur Pole and his wife and daughter, he was secretly delighted to see that all bowed their heads respectfully and offered him a good evening.
4
I t was the morning of the fair, and David Holcroft made his way to the Abbey with relief. The previous night had been as bad as he had expected: after all his work, he’d have liked his wife to show some interest in the fair and sympathy for his exertions. Instead she was withdrawn and uncommunicative. They had hardly spoken ten words, and she had soon gone to bed pleading a sickness in her stomach.
At the bottom of the fair’s field, he turned and gazed back: everything was settled and organized, and he was sure the Abbot could have no cause for complaint. In the early-morning light, the colors stood out with startling clarity. There was a thin mistiness in the air which gave all a silvery sheen as if bathed in an intense moonlight. Flags hung dispiritedly from their poles in the still air, and there was a feeling of unreality about the whole place, as though it was a ghostly mirage. That would soon be dispelled when the customers arrived and the fair was declared open. Instantly it would be transformed into a rowdy beargarden as voices rose to argue and haggle over the choice arrays of goods. He could already see people making their way up from the town, keen to be the first to see the latest items from all over the kingdom and farther afield.
As the first hammer strokes sounded he nodded to himself. The furnaces of the smiths were lighted, and he could see the pale streamers of smoke rising like conical wraiths, only to dissipate as they climbed higher. This was the true beginning of the fair, he always felt, when the tradesmen and craftsmen began their morning rituals.
And like the determined call of a church’s bells, he saw that the ringing and clattering from the anvils worked its own magic on the fair’s congregation. The trickle of people heading up to the ground grew into a stream even as he watched, and soon there was a steady river of buyers, hawkers, merchants and entertainers all making their way up from the town itself. It always astonished him how many foreigners the place could hold at fair-time.
He walked with the calm satisfaction that the fair would be a success, but his mood gradually altered as he came close to the Abbey gate. Here he had to wait a moment before being led inside to the large square room beside the gate itself.
Ten constables and twenty-nine watchmen were due to meet him, the complement from the surrounding vills, each man earning two pennies. He had already checked the mounted men the previous afternoon. These, eight all told, were stationed up and down the roads wherever the woods were thickest, to protect any travellers who came to attend the fair from outlaws. Felons often tried robbing merchants: they were easy pickings while tired after a long journey.
The mounted men were always the best, he knew. They were the ones who could afford horses, which necessarily placed them above the average vill watchmen; that was why they earned six pennies a day. It wasn’t only the extra expense of looking after a horse that justified the money, it was the fact that they were simply better men.
Nodding at the clerk who kept records of the payments made to the men, and any amercements, he stood as the men filed in. At the sight of the constables, he closed his eyes in silent despair, offering up a quick prayer before opening them again with resignation.
The first that came into view was Daniel, the farmer’s son from Werrington. Daniel radiated kindness and goodwill, with the open smile of the pathologically truthful man. He gave the impression of bovine clumsiness and dull-wittedness, and the port-reeve meditated grimly on the devious market-traders. They would all try to pull the wool over this one’s eyes.
Next to him were the four watchmen from Denbury, led by Long Jack. David gave them a sour stare.
“Let’s see them, then.” The port-reeve eyed the weapons held out for him to inspect. “What is that?”
Daniel was hurt. “It’s my father’s sword.”
“Father’s? Are you sure it’s not your great-grandfather’s? I can’t see any metal for the rust!” said David in disbelief. He took it and gazed at it. It was so old that the leather grip had worn away, and the wooden handle beneath was rough on his hand. The metal of the tang was sharp, and the pommel had fallen off. In a fight the grip could turn and catch the skin. He tested the blade with his thumb, his expression reflecting his disgust. “A penny.”
“A penny fine? But…”
“If you aren’t happy, I can raise it to a day’s money. For now, get that thing to the blacksmith and see whether he can put an edge of some sort on it, and a new grip. This isn’t just to make the fair look good, it’s to protect people- and so you can protect yourself. How can you keep the King’s peace with an ancient block of rust like that? What have you been doing with it-hedging?”
The watchman shifted uneasily, and mumbled an apology. David shook his head. Any tool was there to be used, in the minds of the peasants of the area, and an old weapon was no more than a good, edged farm implement. It had more cutting power than a bill-hook, and was easier and lighter to carry to a hedge than a heavy axe. While the watchman reddened, David moved on to the next man. This one had a cudgel and a welsh knife, one with a good long blade of over a foot. David gave it a grudging nod and continued along the line, making sure that all the blades were strong and sharp, the sticks solid and not cracked. Almost all were fine, especially those of the men from Denbury, who appeared to have good new blades and oaken clubs.
He watched them go with a lackluster eye. “I don’t know how people feel about outlaws and thieves,” he said to the clerk as the last one tramped out, “but personally that lot scares me more than all the felons in the clink.”