“That do?” he challenged. “That’s all I’ve got.”
The steward raised a disbelieving eyebrow. He’d heard the jingle of coins dropping back into the purse. But it had been a long day and he couldn’t be bothered with a confrontation. Best to give the man some food and get rid of him as soon as possible. He gestured to the serving girl by the soup vat.
“Give him a bowl,” he said.
She dumped a healthy portion into a wooden bowl and set it before him, adding a hunk of crusty bread.
The wagoner looked at the tables around him. Many of those seated were drinking noggins of ale as well. There was nothing unusual in that. Ale was relatively cheap and the squire had decided that his people shouldn’t have a dry meal. There was a cask behind the serving table, with ale dripping slowly from its spigot. The wagoner nodded towards it.
“What about ale?” he demanded.
The steward drew himself up a little straighter. He didn’t like the man’s manner. He might be paying for his meal, but it was a paltry amount and he was getting good value for his money.
“That’ll cost extra,” he said. “Two pennigs more.”
Grumbling, the wagoner rummaged in his purse again. He showed no sign of embarrassment at producing more coins after claiming that he had none. He tossed them on the table and the steward nodded to one of his men.
“Give him a noggin,” he said.
The wagoner took his soup, bread and ale and turned away without another word.
“And thank you,” the steward said sarcastically, but the blond man ignored him. He threaded his way through the tables, studying the faces of those sitting there. The steward watched him go. The wagoner was obviously looking for someone and, equally obviously, hoping not to see him.
The servant who had drawn the ale stepped close to him and said in a lowered voice, “He looks like trouble waiting to happen.”
The steward nodded. “Best let him eat and be on his way. Don’t give him any extra, even if he offers to pay.”
The serving man grunted assent, then turned as a farmer and his family approached the table, hopefully looking at the soup cauldron.
“Step up, Jem. Let’s give you and your family something to stick your ribs together, eh?”
Holding his soup bowl and ale high to avoid bumping them against the people seated at the tables, the wagoner made his way to the very rear of the marquee, close by the sandstone walls of the great manor house. He sat at the last table, on his own, facing the front, where he could see new arrivals as they entered the big open tent. He began to eat, but with his eyes constantly flicking up to watch the front of the tent, he managed to spill and dribble a good amount of the soup down his beard and the front of his clothes.
He took a deep draught of his ale, still with his eyes searching above the rim of the wooden noggin. There was only a centimetre left when he set it down again. A serving girl, moving through the tables and collecting empty plates, paused to look into the noggin. Seeing it virtually empty, she reached for it. But the wagoner stopped her, grasping her wrist with unnecessary force so that she gasped.
“Leave it,” he ordered. “Haven’t finished.”
She snatched her wrist away from his grip and curled her lip at him.
“Big man,” she sneered. “Finish off your last few drops of ale then.”
She stalked away angrily, turning once to glare back at him. As she did, a frown came over her face. There was a cloaked and cowled figure standing directly behind the wagoner’s chair. She hadn’t seen him arrive. One moment, there was nobody near the wagoner. Then the cloaked man appeared, seemingly having risen out of the earth. She shook her head. That was fanciful, she thought. Then she reconsidered, noting the mottled green and grey cloak the man wore. It was a Ranger’s cloak, and folk said that Rangers could do all manner of unnatural things—like appearing and disappearing at will.
The Ranger stood directly behind the wagoner’s chair. So far, the ill-tempered man had no idea that he was there.
The shadow of the cowl hid the newcomer’s features. All that was visible was a steel-grey beard. Then he slipped back the cowl to reveal a grim face, with dark eyes and grey, roughly trimmed hair to match the beard.
At the same time, he drew a heavy saxe knife from beneath the cloak and tapped its flat side gently on the wagoner’s shoulder, leaving it resting there so the wagoner could see it with his peripheral vision.
“Don’t turn around.”
The wagoner stiffened, sitting bolt upright on his bench. Instinctively, he began to turn to view the man behind him. The saxe rapped on his shoulder, harder this time.
“I said don’t.”
The command was uttered in a more peremptory tone, and some of those nearby became aware of the scene playing out at the table. The low murmur of voices died away to silence as more people noticed. All eyes turned towards the rear table, where the wagoner sat, seemingly transfixed.
Somewhere, someone recognised the significance of the grey mottled cloak and the heavy saxe knife.
“It’s a Ranger.”
The wagoner slumped as he heard the words, and a haunted look came over his face.
“You’re Henry Wheeler,” the Ranger said.
Now the haunted look changed to one of abject fear. The big man shook his head rapidly, spittle flying from his lips as he denied the name.
“No! I’m Henry Carrier! You’ve got the wrong man! I swear.”
The Ranger’s lips twisted in what might have been a smile. “Wheeler… Carrier. Not a very imaginative stretch if you’re planning to change your name. And you should have got rid of the Henry.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the wagoner babbled. He began to turn to face his accuser. Again, the saxe rapped him sharply on the shoulder.
“I told you. Don’t turn around.”
“What do you want from me?” The wagoner’s voice was rising in pitch. Those watching were convinced that he knew why the grim-faced Ranger had singled him out.
“Perhaps you could tell me.”
“I haven’t done anything! Whoever this Wheeler person is, it’s not me! I tell you, you’ve got the wrong man! Leave me be, I say.”
He tried to put a sense of command into the last few words and failed miserably. They came out more as a guilt-laden plea for mercy than the indignation of an innocent man. The Ranger said nothing for a few seconds. Then he said three words.
“The Wyvern Inn.”
Now the guilt and fear were all too evident on the wagoner’s face.
“Remember it, Henry? The Wyvern Inn in Anselm Fief. Eighteen months ago. You were there.”
“No!”
“What about the name Jory Ruhl, Henry? Remember him? He was the leader of your gang, wasn’t he?”
“I never heard of no Jory Ruhl!”
“Oh, I think you have.”
“I never have! I was never at any Wyvern Inn and I had nothing to do with the…”
The big man stopped, realising he was about to convict himself with his words.
“So you weren’t there, and you had nothing to do with… what exactly, Henry?”
“Nothing! I never did nothing. You’re twisting my words! I wasn’t there! I don’t know anything about what happened!”
“Are you referring to the fire that you and Ruhl set in that inn, by any chance? There was a woman killed in that fire, remember? A Courier. She got out of the building. But there was a child trapped inside. Nobody important, just a peasant girl—the sort of person you would consider beneath your notice.”
“No! You’re making this up!” Wheeler cried.
The Ranger was unrelenting. “But the Courier didn’t think she was unimportant, did she? She went back into the burning building to save her. She shoved the girl out through an upper-floor window, then the roof collapsed and she was killed. Surely you remember now?”