André sniffed and reached out with an elegant hand to pick up his drinking horn, a green pottery thing shaped roughly like a horn, but with two legs to convert it into a cup that could stand on its own. ‘I don’t think I understand you, my friend.’
‘I got to thinking that if a man was to steal something from a priory, he’d have to run soon after. Especially if he killed someone to get it. You took the King’s oil and fled. Only to bring it to your master, of course. The question is, have you still got it, or is it given to the Bishop already?’
Pons looked at his companion again, then shrugged. ‘We have no oil.’
‘That is a shame. Because I’ve been offered ten English shillings to get it back from you. With my three-shilling share, that would still leave you with three and a half each.’ Jack smiled and sat opposite them.
André smiled with an easy calmness. ‘And that would indeed be a wonderful present, if we had the oil. But, my friend, we do not. So, you rise, please, and leave us.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you never had it?’ Jack grinned. ‘That’s a shame. I reckon I can get the King to think you did have it. And the Despenser, too. You want him to come looking for the oil? Perfectly possible. I can see to it.’
André eyed him with a cold, calculating expression. ‘You threaten us with this? I think you do not know what you are doing, friend. Pons, do you think the Bishop would miss one man-at-arms on the way homewards?’
The shorter man responded in swift colloquial French, and Jack suddenly felt wary. He had his knife ready under the table, in case these two decided to try to silence him, and now he wished he had kept to a seat nearer the door. He sat more upright, moving his legs underneath him, his left hand on the bench. ‘Well?’ he said.
Pons spat something that sounded like a deeply insulting reference to his mother, and suddenly the two had lifted the table and it was moving towards his face. Jack leaped up and back, hurling the bench away, as the table rose and hit his cheek, but his knife hand was already on it, and he jerked it down and away, slamming the heavy wood down, the edge striking André on the foot and making him howl. Pons was right beside the table, his dagger out. He pushed the table, which now hit Jack’s hip, the weight driving him backwards, while Pons jumped forward, the sharp tip of his dagger snagging in Jack’s linen shirt. Jack felt the prick of the blade in his belly even as his heels both struck the bench he had shoved back, and he began to fall backwards, his eyes on that damned blade.
He hit his rump, then his back, and tried to roll away, but the knife was very close. And then he snapped his legs away, and was on his flank, drawing his legs underneath him, pushing with a hand to lift himself up again, and … felt the knife at the back of his neck, the point tickling just under his skull, where he knew a sharp thrust would cut his spinal cord and end his life in an instant.
‘Now, friend, perhaps we should go and talk somewhere quieter?’ André said. And this time there was no humour in his tone. Only fury — and hatred.
Baldwin and Simon were crossing the New Palace Yard when they saw the three bundling out from the tavern, and Simon was sure he saw a blade glinting wickedly in the grey light. ‘Baldwin!’
The knight swore under his breath and nodded. They both began to run to the group. ‘Halt! You three! Stop!’
There was a flurry of fists, and a sharp cry, and Baldwin saw one man drop to the ground, and then he had his own sword drawn, the blue steel shining clean and pure. ‘Hold there, I say, in the name of the King!’
The two men standing threw a look at him over their shoulders, and he recognised the two from Canterbury. ‘Christ Jesus, Simon, they’ve killed again!’ he shouted as he pelted towards them.
They looked a little indecisive, then started to run. But to Baldwin’s surprise, they didn’t try to bolt for it, out through the main gate, which stood only a few yards from them; instead, they ran the other way, across Baldwin’s and Simon’s front, heading to their right, back towards the main palace.
Baldwin and Simon looked at each other, baffled by this new turn of events, and they were about to set off in pursuit, when a black body hurtled past them. It was Wolf, and he bolted along, looking like a lumbering brute, but covering the ground with speed. He was past Simon and Baldwin, and overhauling the two with ease, when one of them turned and saw the beast. It was Pons, and he gabbled something in a hurry, staring over his shoulder. Then Baldwin saw André stop and pull a dagger from his belt. He tossed it up, caught it by the point, and was about to hurl it at Wolf, when a stone hit his temple. It stunned him, and he dropped his dagger, falling to his knees.
‘Who the hell?’ Simon cried, but even as he said it, he saw the man over to his right, a king’s man, as was apparent from his tabard, who had stooped to pick up another stone. Then he recognised Thomas.
There was no need. Wolf gave a leap, and both forepaws thudded into Pons’s back. He crashed to the ground with a loud gasp that Simon and Baldwin could hear even as they ran, and then they heard the low rumble of Wolf’s growl.
‘Wolf, Wolf,’ Baldwin shouted, anxious that his dog should not kill the man, but he need not have worried. Wolf remained still, standing over Pons, his muzzle touching the back of Pons’s neck, but apart from growling in a blood-curdling manner, he didn’t harm the man.
Simon had already reached the languid figure of André, who was trying to climb to his feet, and then toppling back, as regular as the sweep of Wolf’s tail, up and down.
‘Keep still,’ Simon snarled and thrust hard with his boot. André fell back and stared up bemusedly. His dagger was forgotten a foot or two from his hand, and Simon pushed it further away with the point of his sword.
Baldwin allowed Pons to stand, while Wolf looked on disapprovingly, a growl rumbling deep in his throat every few moments. Pons eyed him with apparent terror, but made no move to escape again. He stood quietly, hands at his sides.
‘So, tell me, master. What made you want to kill the man over there?’
‘He came into the tavern and threatened us. What would you have us do?’
‘Well, friend, firstly I’d have you tell the truth. You see, what I saw, as Keeper of the King’s Peace,’ Baldwin said conversationally, ‘was you pulling a man from the tavern and stabbing him several times, without hesitation, and without provocation. It was witnessed by a king’s bailiff, too, my friend over there.’
‘I am the servant of the Bishop of Orange.’
‘I know — if you recall, I was with you at Canterbury before you fled. So, that does not help you. Another dead man, and clearly a man whom you murdered intentionally. And while you were missing, another king’s man was killed. This begins to look rather as though you are desperate to have yourself arrested. In God’s name, man, why kill someone here, in the open, in the King’s new palace? You must be a fool or mad.’
‘You have no authority over me. I am here with the Bish-’
‘So you said, yes. But I am here with the King, on urgent business from the Queen. I think my word will carry more weight than yours, my fine fellow.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
It was obvious that Jack was not going to survive. Even as Simon and Baldwin reached him, Thomas behind André and Pons to prevent their escape, he was rolling on his back, his hands grasping, bloody talons in the air over his belly and chest. Baldwin could not see how many wounds there were on his body, but from the blood that lay spilled over the ground, it was clear that he had been mortally wounded. He could not speak above a whisper, and as Baldwin knelt beside him, he managed to mutter, ‘Ayrminne. His money. Tell him who did this. He’ll av … enge me.’