‘You were not fond of him?’
‘I was not. He was a foolish fellow, and men like that are no good for a small vill like ours. They create dissension and bad feeling.’
‘Can you think of a reason why someone might have chosen to execute him?’
‘I can think of some men who might have been tempted to put an end to his womanising. Jealousy can be a terrible cancer in a man’s breast,’ Cryspyn said sadly. ‘There is one woman — I shall not mention her name — but she delights in tempting any likely men. Her husband was probably angry if he saw her with Luke. Perhaps he chose to exercise his rights as a man, in order to protect his family and his woman? Perhaps there is another man in the same position? Any man would act, surely, and the law support them. Who may tell?’
‘Who indeed?’ Baldwin said. He finished his bread, drained his mazer, and stood. ‘And now that I have taken advantage of your hospitality, Prior, I should leave you. But before I do, may I go to Luke’s chapel and have a look around it? I should like to know whether there are any signs there that a man had been killed.’
‘Very well. I see no difficulty,’ the Prior said. He nodded to William. ‘Brother, would you lead our visitor to the chapel?’
William nodded, his lips a thin line in his saddened features. ‘Of course. I hate to go back there like this, though. My poor little chapel! Do you really think that he could have been killed in there? It would mean the whole place was defiled. Terrible thought, that.’
‘Perhaps the chapel itself was clean,’ Baldwin said. ‘Yet we shall need to find out.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Simon rose to the sound of men arming themselves. There was the steady rattle and scrape of a grinding-wheel as men ran knives, swords and axes over the spinning stone; a subdued chatter filled the hall, as though all were making an effort to be normal, to hide either their fear or their excitement. Simon reckoned there were more who were looking forward to the day than were fearful that the innocent could be harmed. For his part, he wanted to be off, but only so that he was away from Ennor before the gaoler discovered the escape of Sir Charles.
There were some twelve men-at-arms in the guard at the castle, but Ranulph had managed to accumulate a mob of mercenary sailors, all of whom were enthusiastically relating stories of previous fights, and a group of servants from the castle and the farms about, who handled their weapons less enthusiastically.
To kill a man was wrong, Simon knew, although it was excusable on occasion. Clearly a man might protect his own life by killing an attacker, just as he might to protect his wife from death or rape, or protect his property from a felon who sought to take it. Plainly that was fine. Then there were other admissible homicides, such as the execution of a known felon who was on the run from justice, or a man who had accepted exile and then returned. These were judicially approved executions.
What Simon found difficult was the attitude of these sailors. They seemed to think they were entitled to seek out and sink a Breton ship, yet when the latter treated them in like fashion, they were called pirates and labelled as among the most foul of God’s creation.
It was confusing. To an extent Simon had always felt that he had a better understanding of his fellow men than most, which was one reason why he thought he made a reasonable Bailiff, but listening to these men, he was struck by how different they were from the simple miners of Dartmoor. It applied to all seafarers, he told himself. The miners on the whole were reasonable men, while seafarers were quite mad. Any adult male who decided that a good life involved being thrown from side to side in a wooden bucket, or hurled from a mast in a gale, or dying as a pirate or a pirate’s prey, was mad or a fool. Simon didn’t care which, he was only aware that the whole idea of being responsible for a port like Dartmouth was growing steadily less desirable.
‘They nearly took us, the sons of Saracen whores,’ one sailor was saying, ‘so this time we’ll go and rip them all open from tarse to chin. That’ll teach them to try to take the Faucon Dieu.’
‘It’s the same with us. They chased us for hours in the Anne,’ Simon heard a man from his own ship respond. ‘I’m looking forward to cutting the throat of that bastard with the beard.’
‘The same man attacked us,’ the first replied. ‘Short-arsed git! He had a wound, right about here.’
Suddenly Simon remembered that fight, the wind howling, but the men making more noise as they streamed up the side of the Anne and tried to take her. The mad scramble, the stab, block, stab on the treacherous deck, and that evil-looking Breton man … he could have been a Cornishman, Simon supposed; he had the right features and build. Yet Simon was sure that the voices which had cried at them had a different accent to the men here on Ennor. Why should he have had so definite an impression that the pirates were Bretons, if there was nothing to substantiate it? It was very strange — but these men understood the sea, they knew the accents of the people here, and of the ships which had attacked them, so surely they could be trusted. Nobody would be so foolish or so wicked as to attack an innocent vill, would they? And yet had anyone bothered to think of the language of the pirates? He doubted it.
He strapped on his belt, and his eyes narrowed as he studied the workmanship of the blue steel. If he was to fight, he would prefer a good, well-made blade, and he knew that Baldwin’s sword was only recently manufactured. It would be a much better weapon than any he could find in the castle’s armoury.
It was as he was thinking this that Thomas appeared in the doorway and surveyed the men in the room. Another man appeared behind him. When Simon nudged his neighbour and asked who it was, he learned that this was the master of the Faucon Dieu.
Fitting a smile to his face, Simon approached them. ‘Thomas, I am pleased to see that I shall be going with you today.’
‘Yes, it’ll be good to see the pirates finished,’ Thomas said. ‘Still, Bailiff, you were unable to learn anything about the murderer of my man. A great shame.’
There was an emphasis on that ‘my’ that made Simon pause. There was definitely some sort of warning here, maybe a hint that he should stay out of the way while other men went about their business. It made Simon want to hit him, very hard, but he restrained himself, although some devil tempted him to say, ‘I wanted to ask again about my companions from the boat. They should be released. In an attack like this, they would be a considerable help to your cause.’
‘I doubt it. Felons aren’t much help usually,’ Thomas said without thinking. His mind was on other things. Then his thoughts snapped back to the present. ‘I am sorry? You were saying?’
‘Felons?’ Simon repeated.
‘Sorry?’
‘You said “felons” when I mentioned Sir Charles. What did you mean by calling him that?’
‘I was thinking of the men whom we are to capture today,’ Thomas said suavely. ‘Now, your friends are comfortable here. Taking them out to fight for my Lord when they drew weapons against him, that would be irrational and inhospitable. Leaving them here to rest after their exertions is generous. They should be very grateful.’ His voice was grown sharp.
Simon watched him swagger away. ‘No court you run will ever be fair or just, you vain, primping peacock!’ he muttered under his breath. It was better that Sir Charles and Paul had been taken off Ennor. The sanctuary of the church of St Nicholas was their target, and hopefully they were there already.