Shutters could be closed against burglars and draw-latches, but sometimes they could seal in a victim.
Chapel near Marshfield
As the sick man began to murmur and moan in his sleep, Paul knelt beside his bed and gently mopped his forehead with a cloth.
It was expensive having this man here. He had already eaten much of Paul’s store of food, and his logpile was sadly depleted, all gone to keep the room warm for the invalid. At least his leg did appear to be healing.
But it was worrying, this story he told. His descriptions were vague, but as soon as news was abroad that he had been out this way, the chances were that his story would take on a new meaning.
‘God help me,’ the priest muttered under his breath.
This fellow was probably the most profound danger to Paul of all the men who walked upon the earth. As soon as his story became known, everybody who had heard of the Capons and Petronilla, the faithless bride, would flock to gawp at him – her lover. It would be impossible to remain here. What would his congregation think?
Squire William had slaughtered his Petronilla and her family, even a babe who could never have hurt anyone. They had all died for nothing. Petronilla and Paul had been foolish, perhaps, but that was no reason to murder the Capons. If anyone, it was Paul who deserved that.
He closed his eyes as the tears came once more. It was hardest now, in darkness, to hold back the terrible misery; the shame that lay so heavily on his soul.
As he opened them again, the rushlight flickered and almost blew out. He glanced across. It was only a gust coming in through one of the many holes in his walls. A rat had gnawed its way through a beam at ground level, and the big hole there was one of the banes of his life. Every so often he would try to fill it with clay, but at this time of year it wouldn’t hold. It would dry out on the inside from the fire’s heat, then wash away outside.
Something glinted temptingly, and he turned to look around. There, in the rushlight’s warm glow, lay the knife with the warped blade.
He reached down to pick it up, but something made him stop. He recognised it.
This knife had been the Squire’s, he was sure. He had seen those gemstones so many times, prominently displayed at the man’s belt. He suddenly realised, with a horror that almost stopped his heart, that this blade might have been the one that ended poor Petronilla’s life. And here, in his bed, lay a man with his leg cruelly harmed by it – more proof of the weapon’s malevolence.
To grip that hilt might take away all the last restraints which manacled him to this church. If Paul took up that knife, he could instantly plunge it into this sleeping man’s heart, for bringing so much danger here to him.
Because as soon as people heard that Squire William had died, they would want to come and arrest Paul. And this fool could tell them exactly where to find him.
Inn outside Winchester
The sound was tiny. A faint, muffled crunch.
In the dark, Wolf awoke and crouched, instantly alert. His movement stirred Baldwin. He had spent much of his youth as a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, and the life of obedience and training had left its mark upon him. His hand closed about the hilt of the sword in his lap, and he opened his eyes slowly, casting about him for any movement.
There was no moon, and the room was as black as pitch. If a man had moved, he doubted that he could have seen it. However, listening intently, he knew that there was something wrong, and then he realised: the breathing in the chamber was not that of sleeping men, but faster – the breathing of men preparing to fight.
Baldwin put out his hand and found Jack’s sleeping form at his left. Good, the boy was still there. There was a rustle from his right, just ahead, and Baldwin knew it was a foot stepping on a palliasse. He felt, rather than heard, a low, ferocious growl from Wolf.
It was that which decided him. He knew that there was about to be an attack, but the darkness meant he might as well have been unarmed. A sword in the darkness was likely to kill the wrong man, and Baldwin had no wish to accidentally stab Jack. Still, Wolf had precipitated action.
He must protect the boy. Rolling to his right, he slipped a hand under his palliasse and threw it over Jack. Wolf was snarling now, and a man shrieked. Springing to his feet, Baldwin stood with his sword, still scabbarded, in both hands, then stabbed the blunted weapon forward. There was a grunt, a muttered curse, and Baldwin knew where two men were. He slammed his right fist forward, the pommel protruding this time, and felt it connect with one head, as a man cried out in pain. There was a shout and stumbling feet, a muffled protest from Jack, and another man whimpered and screamed as Wolf bit his thigh.
Baldwin stepped swiftly to his side, away from any retaliation, only to hear the silken whisper of steel, which ended in a wail of terror as Wolf bit the man’s hand. There was a loud clang as a sword crashed to the ground, a shriek as the man fell with Wolf worrying at his throat. Baldwin stamped his foot, feeling the hand beneath his boot, and chopped down with the hilt of his sword. It crashed into a skull, and he heard the man grunt and collapse. Then he was thrusting at the place where another had been.
There was a rasp, a flash, and he saw his error. In the dark he had moved too far to his left, and now the second man was at his shoulder. Baldwin cocked his elbow and jabbed, felt it crack into the man’s jaw, his teeth clicking together, hard.
Another flash. Someone was striking a flint. Baldwin ducked as the flare glinted from a sword, and shoved his scabbarded sword upwards into the man’s belly. He gave a short retching gasp and fell back as a red glow appeared. There were two more men, and Baldwin finally drew his sword. The grey blade gleamed wickedly, and as the tinder began to catch light, some rushes flaring briefly and leaving a residual glow, Baldwin saw that both had knives, one small, the other a long fighting dagger of almost eighteen inches. The fellow with the shorter knife was the more practised, though – it was the bearded man he had seen with the innkeeper. His skill with the knife was there in the way he held the knife low, thumb on the blade itself, his other hand gripping a cloak, which he wrapped about his wrist and forearm. He knew what he was about. The other was a mere boy, only a little older than Jack, and held his blade out as though it was a magic wand designed to hurl flames at his enemies. He almost looked scared of it.
‘Stay, Wolf,’ Baldwin shouted, before his mastiff could leap and be spitted on the long dagger.
Baldwin always believed in removing the worst threat first. He held his sword up in the hanging guard, the point of his sword aimed at the knife-man’s belly, and waited a moment. In the gloom it was hard to see anything, but he was sure that his opponent flashed his teeth in a snarl. It looked as though he was preparing to launch himself, and Baldwin gave him no more time to think. Instead he sprang forward himself, thrusting down with his sword, and had the satisfaction of feeling his blade sink into the fellow’s flank, before batting away the little knife with the scabbard. He jerked the sword back and out, punched the man on the chin twice, hard, dropped the scabbard, grasped the man’s wrist, and held the knife safely away. There was a loud crunch behind him, and he turned to see the boy with the long knife collapse slowly, falling to his knees with a shocked expression on his young face, and then his eyes rolled up into his head and he toppled sideways to reveal Jack behind him with a splintered baulk of timber in his hands.