He saw the shuffling, stumbling shape of Serlo, and he saw the other figure step out from behind a tree. As the knife rose, the blade shining with an oily perfection under the moon’s silver light, he blinked, but only once. He watched the blade fall, heard the loud hiccup, the whimper, and the sound of blade striking flesh — once, twice, thrice, and once more for luck. He observed the figure of Serlo crawling on as the life drained from him, saw the man walk alongside and kick him viciously in the head and saw him kick again at the dying man’s flanks. He saw the blade come down again, the fingers knotting in Serlo’s hair, yanking the miller’s head back to expose the throat, and saw the blade swipe cleanly across, like a scythe taking the corn. And then there was silence, other than the loud rasping breath of the killer. Soon even that was gone as the man picked up Serlo’s corpse and carried it down towards the mill.
The owl remained there watching impassively. It was only when he heard a strange rumbling noise that seemed to transmit itself through the ground and up through the trunk of the tree, that he stirred himself and peered about him. Then, a few moments later, he saw a small mouse pushing its nose through the stems of grass at the edge of the meadow.
He glided down once more on assassin’s wings; as efficient a killer as any human.
It was late when Richer got back to the castle. Thankfully the door was open still, even though it was long after dark, but here in the wilds, the gate was often left ajar. Inside his hutch-like shed, the gatekeeper slumbered, snoring and whistling, and Richer tiptoed past, rather than waken him.
‘You have been gone a long while,’ Warin said as he entered the hall.
‘I have been sick. A severe headache …’
‘It’s curious,’ the squire said. He was sitting at a table, and now he leaned forward, elbows on the table-top, staring at Richer unblinking. ‘I have known you many years, and in all that time, you’ve never had such bad headaches — but today you refused to join me because of one, and you say you’ve suffered a worse one since.’
It was true. The headaches had been at their worst when his family had all died, but had reduced in severity over time. ‘I don’t understand it either,’ Richer shrugged. ‘They haven’t been so bad in years. Today I could hardly see for flashing lights and poor vision.’
‘Very peculiar.’ Warin stared at him with a strange look in his eye. ‘So long as you’re sure there’s nothing else the matter?’
‘What else could be wrong?’
‘Perhaps you’re upset over this dead widow? Or could it be something else?’
‘You mean the King’s murder?’
Warin’s eyes hardened. ‘Not so damned loud, fool!’ he hissed. ‘Do you want the whole castle to hear you?’
Richer shook his head, eyes shut. ‘I can’t think straight while my head’s like this. All I meant was, while the King was planning to murder the Lord Marcher.’
‘He intends to execute a traitor, that is all,’ Warin said flatly. ‘Mortimer raised his flag against the King’s friends and officers. That makes him traitor.’
Richer nodded. It was too late and he was too tired to argue. The flickering candles in the hall were making his head start to feel odd again, and he had no desire to be caught here with a fresh migraine. ‘Did you learn all you sought?’
‘The priest agreed to my proposal, yes. And he’ll keep his mouth shut. There were some interesting snippets about the people in this vill though — especially Father Adam.’
‘What sort?’ Richer asked.
‘The man is a sodomite,’ Warin smiled. ‘So he’s another one we can count upon!’
Chapter Seventeen
Simon and Baldwin were woken the next morning by the sudden eruption of noise as the little fortress’s servants began to rouse themselves.
It was something that Simon reckoned he could never get used to, this infernal din heralding each new day. To Baldwin it was as natural as breathing, and he lived with the row perfectly happily, but Simon groaned as the men entered the room, chatting loudly about their plans for the day, issuing orders as they went about which horse was to be taken for exercise first, whether the bitch was going to pup today or hold back for another, whether the falcon with the lame wing would recover, and then the more crucial decisions, such as should the red calf or the black one with the lighter flank be pole-axed today. All the Bailiff wanted was to pull his cloak back over his head and return to the arms of Morpheus. (Simon had no idea who the man was, but he’d heard Baldwin mention him before now, and he liked the sound of the phrase.)
When at last he sat up and pulled on his clothes, the hall was already almost filled. At a nearby wall, Baldwin sat slouched, his face dark as he stared into the distance. Gervase was sitting at a bench on the dais, dealing with the hundred and one little decisions which, as steward here, he must make each day, and not far from him, forlorn and chewing a fingernail, was Jules. His disconsolate clerk peering at his master with a look of impatience on his face.
Simon ran a hand through his tousled hair and felt a slight tension in his left shoulder. It was always the way when he slept on a bench. The damn things were too hard, but he supposed in a little place like this, he was lucky to have been given a bench to himself. All too often even a notable guest might be forced to sleep on the floor in a castle this size. It was good that the lord and his wife at least had their own chamber separate from the men here in their hall. Most modern castles were built this way, as Simon knew, because with so many hired men-at-arms, it was safer for the lord and his lady to be segregated in case of treachery. Things were no longer, as Baldwin was so fond of saying, as they used to be, when each warrior gave his oath to support and protect his lord for as long as either lived. There was no need for payment in those days — the man served his lord and in return he received food, shelter and clothing. Nowadays, the bastards always wanted money.
Simon’s mouth tasted foul. Last night, Jules and he had discovered a joint attraction for the red wine Gervase had stored in the buttery. It was flavoursome — powerful and sweet — and although Baldwin had retired to his sleep before long, Simon and Jules had remained in the corner, talking. Now his mouth tasted like the inside of a chicken house. He needed water to sluice it clean. A little meat to chew on would help — as would a pot of cider.
Outside he ducked his head under the water in the trough and came back up blowing and shaking his head like a dog. God’s heart, but that was cold! Still, at least the wash was refreshing, and he took off his shirt and used it to dry the worst of the dampness. Returning to the room, he saw that Jules was talking to Gervase now, Baldwin listening intently.
‘What is it, Baldwin?’ he asked heartily. His belly rumbled and he thought of breakfast again.
‘There is a possibility that the inquests will be swiftly completed,’ Baldwin said quietly.
Simon stared at him. ‘How so? If there was murder, we’ll have to find out who could have killed her.’
‘The good Coroner has many other calls upon his time,’ Baldwin said sarcastically. ‘He feels this affair is not important enough to hold his interest. He wishes to be away.’
‘The ignorant puppy!’
‘No, sir.’
Looking to his side, Simon saw that the Coroner’s clerk had joined them.
Roger continued, ‘I fear it’s more difficult. This morning we have had a message from the Sheriff. A prisoner of the King’s has escaped from his prison and we’re commanded to raise the Hue and Cry and catch him alive or dead.’
‘Who is this terror?’ Simon asked with a frown. For a man to escape the King was unknown. Surely the fellow would be recaught soon, but the fact that he had caused messengers to be sent all the way here spoke of the man’s dangerous reputation.