They had no respect for Sir Ralph, that was quite evident. Their noise was unmannerly, as though they no longer cared about how the master of the castle might view their rudeness.
Sir Ralph was chewing his food stolidly but by the fact that he spoke not at all and never once so much as glanced towards the disruptive men, Baldwin was convinced that he was more angry than anyone would have guessed.
It was all too common now, because of the number of men who must be hired for money rather than for their loyalty, for mutinies to take place. Mercenaries were everywhere. It was the greed for personal wealth that led to it, Baldwin thought. In his day, men knew their rank, but now ploughmen were demanding more money than they had received the last year, and so were masons, shepherds and others, as though they had a right to more. It was sheer lunacy.
Baldwin remained true to the old ways. His men were all loyal and deserving of his trust because they had been with his family for many years. Some castles he knew had been built specifically to take note of the unruly mob who were supposed to be the armed guards of the castle’s Lord. Instead of sharing a building with their leader, he was segregated in order that he could protect himself and his family in a separate chamber, just in case his men proved disloyal. Such was the case here, Baldwin told himself, glancing back at the strong door to the solar block. Sir Ralph and his wife retired into that separate area where they could at least bolt the door to protect themselves from unruly men-at-arms. It was a dreadful comment on the way that things had changed since the turn of the century.
He frowned a moment. And then his eyes focused. The men here were uncaring for the honour and position of their own master. Unless they were intending to leave immediately, perhaps they had some idea of deposing Sir Ralph: that was what Roger Scut had implied, wasn’t it? That Esmon was planning to overthrow his father and install himself in Sir Ralph’s place?
What better way to achieve that aim than by murdering Sir Ralph, Baldwin thought, using an assassin, like the Hashishim. Someone like that would wait for a signal. He glanced carefully at the men all about, wondering whether any might be about to shout or whistle for an accomplice to attack. Or perhaps not. Men would be most relaxed after a meal, he reasoned. Perhaps the signal was merely the end of eating.
But there was a ritual that signalled the end of the meal, he realised, remembering the meals he had eaten here before.
With that thought, he stood. Aware that he was being watched by all eyes, he edged his way behind the men seated at his table, until he reached the dais. There he bowed slightly to Sir Ralph, who kept a wary eye on him as though expecting Sir Baldwin to leap upon him. The steward appeared to hold the same doubts, and made as though to block Baldwin’s path, but then events suddenly moved so swiftly that Baldwin could only recall what happened when he later spoke to Simon.
First, Sir Ralph held up his hand to his steward, but then he stood. He set his own hand on his sword, ready to pull it out. Roger Scut, sitting nearby, immediately stood and began to speak the Grace. Instantly the tapestries exploded: two, which had been joined to seal a gap, billowing out and exposing the grim, white features of Mark. He held a long dagger in his hand, and with fearful but determined eyes, he launched himself at Sir Ralph.
The knight was concentrating on Baldwin, but some instinct made him turn his head just as Baldwin grabbed his own sword. It came out in a sweep of flashing blue, the peacock-coloured blade hissing as it slithered from the scabbard, and then Baldwin beat at Mark’s dagger hand, severing it cleanly at the elbow. It fell to the floor still holding the blade.
Only then did he see that Mark’s other hand gripped a small eating knife, and this was aimed at Sir Ralph’s throat. Unheeding of his lost fist, Mark pressed on, and Baldwin turned his sword. With scarcely any effort, his blade sank into Mark’s breast, the priest’s onward rush forcing himself onto it like a wild hog spitted upon a lance.
Sir Ralph was retreating to give himself fighting room, his own sword out now, but seeing that Mark was beyond further attack, he spun round as though expecting another from the men in the corner. None of them had moved, however, as though the action was as much of a surprise to them as to all the others in the room. Sir Ralph stood and waited, daring them to make a move. For a short while all was quiet but for the choking and bubbling that came from Mark, and then gradually the men at the table shrugged and turned away.
‘Let me get to him!’ Roger Scut demanded, his face white with shock. Baldwin’s sword had come within a few inches of his own head and the sharp sound of that blade slicing through the air and then thwacking through Mark’s arm had almost made him empty his bowels. It was with relief that he realised his habit was not bespattered with faeces.
Roger Scut was full of mixed emotions. He had automatically risen to come and help this man before he died, for Roger took his duties seriously when they directly affected a soul, especially when that man was a cleric. Now, he felt his heart twist as he looked on the ruin of the man he had wanted to die so that he could take his chapel. Now it was that Roger felt the full shame and dishonour of his actions.
Mark turned and met Roger’s stare unflinchingly, and Roger felt as though Jesus Himself had stabbed him with a look; but where he would have expected hatred or scorn, all he saw was gratitude.
‘Please… my confession…’
Roger knelt quickly at his side. He gripped Mark’s remaining hand and bent his head in prayer. Behind him he heard Sir Ralph hawk and spit. Then he spoke, and Mark had to work to keep his eyes shut as he prayed, trying to ignore the venom in the knight’s voice.
‘Yes, you look after him!’ Sir Ralph sneered. ‘You damned monks always stick together, don’t you! You stopped him from being executed for one murder, and because of your stupid actions, he was able to come here today and nearly kill me. Murderous traitor! Evil degenerate! Well, he’s done now! Let the bastard die slowly, so he can feel the weight of his treachery!’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Having spoken, Sir Ralph stormed from the room up to his solar, his wife joining him. Baldwin remained where he was, his sword still ready, flashing blue and red in the light.
There was no need to fear more violence. He could see that the men at the tables were surprised at the suddenness of the attack and the speed of Mark’s defeat. Taking up a fallen towel, Baldwin carefully cleaned the blood from his blade, then wiped it on his tunic to dry it off. Satisfied, he thrust it home into his scabbard, and he would have left to rejoin Simon and Hugh, except something in the dying man’s eyes made him remain.
‘Must tell you… It was him… made Huward kill his family…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His wife… Gilda was Sir Ralph’s… whore. All children, Sir Ralph’s. None Huward’s.’ He coughed up a ball of bloody phlegm. ‘Huward dead. Hanged himself in a tree.’
‘Where?’
‘Hill behind mill… not far…’
Baldwin nodded. ‘Mary. Did you kill her?’
‘Hit her. Not hard. Loved her.’
‘Did you break her neck?’ Simon asked.
‘Punched. Just once.’
‘You swear you did not break her neck?’ Baldwin pressed.
‘Yes. Told you… I loved her. Went back later… wanted to make up. She was dead. All that blood. Knew I’d be accused. Ran away.’
‘So she did not collapse and lose her child while you were there?’