‘You say one of us is?’ a voice sneered, and Richer sensed his master stiffening.
Richer felt it too. There was passion in the crowd. Richer could hear low, bitter mutterings. They were like the apprentices after the ale had flowed too freely in the taverns; a mob that hunted in a pack, attacking anyone in their path, whether an enemy or passerby. None was safe when the mob prowled. These usually submissive peasants had been welded together by a sense of injustice; few might have liked Serlo, but he was at least one of them. In comparison, Richer was a stranger after running away fifteen years ago.
They were ready to tear Richer to pieces with their bare hands.
There was a blow at his shoulder, and a heavy earthenware pot fell and smashed on the floor. A platter span across the room: it slashed a cut into his cheek and bounced from the wall behind him. A metallic rasp spoke of a blade being pulled from a wooden scabbard, and Richer knew he must die. Next to him, Warin drew his own sword and the polished blade gleamed evilly in the dimly-lit room.
Warin bared his teeth. He hadn’t expected violence to flare so swiftly, damn it! He’d wanted to use his authority to persuade the men in here that Richer was innocent, but events had moved too quickly. Now it seemed certain that Richer must die. In a moment the hot rage in his belly was fired, but now, seeing the churls baying, Alexander’s pale and resolute face approaching, he felt his ire fade and a strange new sensation take its place: fear. He had brought his servant here to save him, and instead he had escorted Richer to his doom. Richer was stunned by a jug hitting his head, his sword still sheathed. Warin shouted: ‘Richer! Defend yourself!’
Other voices took up the cry of rebellion. ‘Catch him — let’s string him up! Who else could have wanted to have Serlo killed? Only you, Richer!’
To Warin’s surprise, a loud, calm voice answered. ‘Oh, I reckon any man here who took oats to be ground and found his grain had melted away when his back was turned. Serlo was good at taking more than his multure.’
It was old Iwan. He had remained at the back of the room when the men pressed forward to encircle Richer and Warin, but his voice was clear through the baying of men become animals. He was staring at Alexander with a fixed intensity.
Alexander glared and pointed a shivering finger at him. ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead, old heretic! You never liked him, did you? Leave his memory alone, lest you have cause to regret it later!’
Some of the men were readying to spring on Richer and Warin, but some, if only a few, were glancing from Iwan to Alexander. They wore puzzled frowns, like men who were recovering from a strange dream.
Iwan’s eyes narrowed as though in amusement at some joke the others hadn’t seen. His posture, though, was not that of an ancient, but of a warrior who was capable of teaching a man half his age many lessons. ‘Do you think to threaten me?’
‘Don’t push me, old man!’
‘Alex, boy, I reckon ’tis time you was goin’ home.’
There was a chuckle, instantly stilled, but Warin saw some faces lighten for a moment. Then another rolled his eyes ceiling-wards, and Warin realised that Alexander had lost the momentum of the crowd about him.
‘Shut up, Iwan! I’ve got business here.’
‘Alex, I’ll ignore your manners, but I call on the tithing to witness you’re breaking your pledge to hold the King’s Peace. You may be the Constable, but that don’t put you above the good King’s laws. You’re trying to raise a mob, and I won’t let you.’
Those words made some men take pause. A fellow at the back moved a little away from the men ringing the two. He was less reluctant to join in.
‘You can’t stop me!’ Alexander spat.
‘Oh I can, Alex,’ Iwan said, crossing the floor until he stood with Warin and Richer. He frowned at Richer. ‘No one can really believe that this man’s guilty of murder. We all remember him: he’s one of us.’
‘He hated my brother!’
Alexander’s voice was taut with emotion, his face pale, but although he held out his hands in appeal to the men about him, they didn’t return his gaze. There was some shuffling in the dirt of the floor. Two more men left the crowd, joining the first, who now stood at the doorway. The three exchanged a look, and then darted out. The door slamming made more men glance about them, and some noticed the gaps and looked more anxious.
‘He didn’t get on with Serlo. Like I said, many didn’t,’ Iwan agreed. ‘That’s no reason to murder.’
‘Serlo told him,’ Alex said quietly but venomously.
Iwan cocked his head. ‘Aye?’
‘Told him that it was he who had fired his house: Serlo burned it, killed Richer’s family. He told him in this very tavern. You heard him!’ he demanded, pointing at two men. They both looked away.
‘That true?’ Iwan said to Richer.
‘No! I didn’t hear him say that. I left the place when I saw him here, to save his grief.’
Iwan studied him intently for a few moments. ‘It’d be good reason for a killing, if you had, but I don’t reckon there’s enough anger in you even now to do something like that. You might accuse him in front of witnesses, maybe even catch him and call on him to pull a sword — but not more than that. No, Richer’s no murderer.’
‘Out of my way!’ Alexander snarled, and gripped Iwan’s upper arm to shove him aside.
Warin saw it all, and it still astonished him, many years later. The older man’s face emptied, as though all emotion had fled, and his left hand whipped around his body, pulling Alexander’s hand away from his biceps. At the same time, his right hand snaked forward, grabbing the Constable’s throat and pushing with all the force of his body behind his hand. Alexander was thrust back between Richer and Warin, against the wall, the air exploding from his lungs in a gasp of pain, and then he found himself inches from the ground, staring down at Iwan’s face.
‘Constable, I’ll thank you not to push me around.’ The smith smiled without humour. ‘You could hurt a poor old man. Besides,’ he added, ‘you wouldn’t want to tempt the vill to rise against the Lord’s own son, would you?’
‘What do you mean, the Lord’s own son?’ Alexander managed, trying to breathe. Iwan’s fingers felt like talons of iron and he was growing light-headed.
‘This man Warin. Take a good look at him, Constable. He’s Sir Henry’s boy.’
Anne saw Simon and Baldwin leaving her husband at the solar door when she entered the hall, and she could see Nicholas’s tension as he stood there watching them go. Then, slowly, like a man who had aged ten years in as many minutes, he returned to the solar.
There was a fluttering in her breast at the sight. It made her realise just how fragile was his spirit nowadays, how fragile was her own security, and her hand went to her womb in a gesture that was growing habitual.
He had always been so confident in his power and position, and now that was fading. In some measure she felt it was his memories which plagued him still. They were growing in virulence recently, and there seemed nothing she could do about them; if anything, they appeared to grow worse when she was with him, as though her presence was a cause of shame and anguish, rather than a balm easing his pain.
He had been so happy to hear she was with child, yet more recently he had lost his vigour, especially since Athelina’s death. In the last few days Nicholas had grown more inward-looking and less responsive.
Perhaps it was Warin. It was the problem with a yeoman like Nicholas running a castle. Squires like Warin were noble-born and might be knighted, whereas the likelihood of that happening to Nicholas was remote. He was a stolid, reliable man, and trusted by Sir Henry, but that was all. A man who held a castle for the King might win a knight’s belt and spurs, but Nicholas was slowly rotting here. There was nothing for him.
Still, Nicholas had never suffered jealousy like that before. No, this was more like grief. Perhaps — my God, but her heart was fluttering fit to burst! — he had realised the child wasn’t his!