“Poor old man.” Simon felt Baldwin’s keen eyes on him even as he spoke.
“Perhaps. I wonder if Bruther would feel the same compassion for his old master, though.”
T
he clamorous tolling of the chapel bell brought Simon to instant wakefulness, and he lurched to his feet. In the hall it was still half-dark, with the early sun failing to reach high enough to enter through the windows. Standing, he felt a surge of angry resentment. He hated fast wakings. At home, if he was shocked from his slumber he was as fractious as a child for the rest of the day. Now it was worse, for he could see no reason for the interruption of his rest. Hugh sat up on his bench, rubbing bleary eyes, Baldwin stood frowning, and two of the Beauscyr servants scratched and yawned nearby. Only then did they hear the row from outside.
Grasping his sword and belt, Simon fumbled with the buckle as he stumbled to the door. Baldwin joined him in the screens, not bothering with his scabbard. He had simply snatched the blade from its sheath and now stood beside the bailiff with the cold white steel flashing and glinting, Edgar by his side, his face inscrutable. A moment later Hugh was with them, his long dagger gripped so tightly that his knuckles showed white. Simon tugged the door open.
At first the bailiff was convinced the fort was under attack. It was mayhem, with men rushing pell-mell from one end of the courtyard to the other, some holding helmets in their hands, others struggling with belts and shields, all woken by the alarm call. Then he smelled the acrid stench of burning, and when he glanced to his left, he saw that smoke was billowing from the stables. From the look of the column of smoke it was a miracle that the building had not been engulfed, but then, as he knew, grass and straw made a lot more smoke than they warranted.
He was blinking furiously from the stinging fumes. There appeared to be no order or sense to the panicking men. Guards stood at the walls, bellowing and waving, some shouted back from the courtyard, and all was madness: men mindlessly rushing to and fro, and others roaring commands.
Suddenly, Sir William appeared in the courtyard beneath the stairs. He quickly took in the situation and began barking orders. Under his control the men stopped their mad racing and a semblance of calm took over. Horses were pulled from the stables while a chain of men formed from the spring, passing buckets to and fro and hurling water on to the flames. At the knight’s bellow, servants ran to the sheds by the kitchen and grabbed the long poles and ladders stored there. Thatch smoldered above the stables, and these men clambered up to the roof and used the poles to drag it down to the ground, where others stamped on it. Soon all was done, and the men stood or shuffled in the thin light of early morning, laughing in their relief and chattering like children at a fair.
As soon as he saw that the fire was well under control, Sir William pointed to a guard, and Simon saw it was the captain who had fetched Samuel on their first day in the fort. “You! What the devil happened?”
“Sir, I don’t know.” The man shrugged in bafflement. “The guard just found the hay on fire, and when we came out, it was all as you saw it.”
Simon glanced at the kitchen, quiet and deserted this early in the morning. Kitchen fires often released sparks which caught on the thatch of other buildings, and all too often the kitchens themselves would blaze up. That was why they were commonly separated from the hall and other buildings, but it did not stop the odd glowing mote from travelling to other roofs, and that was what must have happened here. There was no mystery in it. He shrugged, gave Baldwin a tired grin, and was about to return to the hall and wait for breakfast, followed by a nap if he could manage it, when another man ran to the foot of the steps.
Ignoring the guard captain, he stared imploringly at Sir William. “Sir William, you must come quickly!”
“What is it now?” the old man snarled.
“Sir, it’s Samuel Hankyn and Ronald Taverner—they’re dead!”
Simon felt his mouth gape, while beside him, the knight froze in horrified shock. Baldwin recovered first and leapt down the stairs, agile as a deer, while Simon rushed after him. Both ran to the little room where they had spoken to the two men.
In the gloomy interior it would have been easy to think that Ronald Taverner was merely sleeping. He lay on his palliasse, his eyes closed and his head resting on his bundle of clothes as if he was shortly to wake, and Simon was tempted to call to him. But the blanket had been pulled aside, and his pale chest could be seen, the evil puckered stab wound showing clearly like a small purse-lipped mouth. Simon groaned and turned away while Baldwin, his face screwed into a frown of intense concentration, slipped forward and surveyed the body. There was a man kneeling beside the bed, and Baldwin was speaking to him as Sir William came in, his son Robert beside him.
“So what is this? Is Taverner dead?”
“Yes, Sir Robert. He’s dead. Another murder,” said Baldwin shortly.
“A murder? And in the fort itself this time? Are you sure?” demanded Robert.
Baldwin did not attempt to answer. If the young man could not see the wound, that was his affair, and the knight had more important work to do.
Sir Robert noticed Simon standing by the doorway. “So, bailiff, it appears you are as incapable of preventing murders as you are at solving them.”
Simon gave him a slow and contemptuous glance, then moved to Baldwin’s side. Something dug into his foot and he bent to pick it up. It was a die, and he handed it to Baldwin, who took it and tossed it up and down as he considered the body. “Well?” Simon asked. He felt miserable at another needless death, and could not take his eyes from the still form before him.
The knight gave a helpless shrug. “He was stabbed, you can see that for yourself. It must have been very recent. His body is quite hot, not at all cold. You can see there’s almost no blood. I’ve only seen that once or twice before; it’s rare. Normally I would expect to find more…” His voice trailed off.
“Sir? Do you want to see Samuel now?”
The knight looked up with sharp interest. “Where is he?”
“Just out here.” The man led the way through a low door in the far corner. Beyond was a tiny room used as a storehouse. Just inside it was a number of fallen barrels, and here, slumped among them, was Samuel. He lay face down. One arm was twisted up behind his back as if to slap at a mosquito or horse fly, the other resting beneath his head. His body was contorted. He had suffered agony in dying, that much was clear.
Simon could not stare at the crumpled figure before him. It was one death too many, and it radiated a tangible sadness and pain in this little room which had become a mausoleum. He found himself putting a hand to his head, partially covering his eyes, as if to hide from the sight.
Striding out, Baldwin snatched a lantern from a gawping boy, then jerked his head at Edgar. “Get these people out. Hugh will help you.” He jabbed a finger at the man who appeared to have discovered the two bodies. “He can stay.”
Nodding, Edgar began to shepherd the crowd from the little room. It was some moments before they had peace; the men in the courtyard were trying to squeeze through the little doorway as Hugh and Edgar forced them back. At last, when he had the door barred, Edgar noticed that Sir William and his son had remained where they stood. The manservant was considering asking them to leave as well when he heard Baldwin’s call, and forgetting them he hurried to the door. Baldwin gave him the lantern to hold so that he could study the figure.
At first he surveyed the position of the body, standing stock still while his eyes roved over the limbs, fixing their position in his mind, memorizing where the toppled barrels lay and then glancing round at the other stacks of goods. He could see that the man must have fallen forward. Apart from the collapsed pile of barrels on to which he had fallen, there was no other sign of a struggle. He crouched and examined the nearest barrel. Right beside it on the ground was a circle, and he nodded to himself. “Look, Simon, this one tipped over from where it had stood.” He rocked the barrel tentatively. “Not very heavy, either. The others must have been stacked on top of it.”
Letting his eyes take in the scene again, he moved up to the body. A few inches above Samuel’s hand was a sharp tear in the wool of his coat.
Touching it lightly, Baldwin could feel the stickiness, and his lip curled in distaste. “Yes, he was stabbed too. In the back.”
“What can have happened?”
“I’m not sure.” Baldwin’s eyes went to the other body on the bed. Taking the light from Edgar, he strode to the palliasse. “Ah!”
“What?” Simon followed him. “What have you found?”
“Look.” Baldwin turned, and in his hand was a short-bladed knife, its steel dulled with dried blood.
“This must be what killed them.”
Sir William’s voice came from the storeroom. “Sir Baldwin, there’s a knife out here too.”
“What?” The knight’s face registered astonishment for a moment, then he darted through to where the old knight stood frowning at a thin-bladed knife, turning it over and over in his hand.
Baldwin took it from him and studied it. “So what has happened here, then?” he muttered.
“I can guess,” said Sir Robert. “There were regular gambling games down here. The guards get bored too often, and then they resort to playing at dice. These two were obviously playing at some game, began arguing and soon came to blows. They stabbed each other.”
“That is a truly magnificent hypothesis,” murmured Baldwin, and the young knight gave a slight smile, pleased with the older man’s approbation. Simon could hear the dry sarcasm in his friend’s tone and for a moment his mood lightened.
“It would explain it, wouldn’t it?” the young knight said, glancing smugly at Simon.
“Oh, yes!” Baldwin’s voice registered emphatic agreement.
Smiling, Robert walked from the storeroom, stared briefly at the body on the bed, then went out. Hugh closed the door after him. Sir William had watched his son depart, but now his gaze returned to Baldwin, who was again studying Samuel’s figure. “So you aren’t convinced, Sir Baldwin?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.
“No. Not at all.”
“Why?”
“It is too simple on the one hand, and too difficult on the other. Oh, I am sure that the poor lad in there on his mattress died almost instantly from his wound. There was no blood, and I think that means he was dead in an instant. No blood always does seem to indicate a quick death. But this one, Samuel—he managed to stagger all the way out here, over from the bed, before dying.”
“So?”
“Sir William, this man bled a lot. Feel the back of his coat if you don’t believe me. There’s a good pool of blood here where he lies. Yet there’s no blood on the floor by Ronald’s palliasse, or from the bed to here. He was not stabbed there, he died here, where he fell.”
“But…but surely he could still have been killed by the other. Ronald must have stabbed him here, and then made his way back to his bed where he himself died.”
“I fear not. As I said, Ronald died almost instantaneously. What is stored in these boxes and things?”
The question caught Sir William unawares. “Out here? Food and some drink, I think. And spare cloth. Nothing much. Why?”
“I just wondered why this man would have wanted to come out here.” Baldwin’s gaze was travelling around the room as he spoke. There was no window, just a small door which gave onto the courtyard. When Baldwin walked to it and tried it, it was barred.
Simon gave him an enquiring look, and the knight shrugged. “It means nothing,” he said. “It is barred now, but the murderer might have got in last night and barred it afterward, once he had killed Samuel.”
“What are you saying—that someone in the garrison killed these two?” demanded Sir William, his face reddening.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, without a doubt as far as I’m concerned. Somebody came in here, probably through the locked door, and called out or kicked over a stack of barrels to attract Samuel’s attention. Why else should he come here? When the poor man entered he was grabbed and stabbed in the back. It would not have taken long for him to die, not with a wound that high on his back. Then the same man went through to Ronald’s room and stabbed him through the heart, possibly while he was asleep, but that’s a guess. Whether the dice were already on the floor or not is unimportant, but it is possible the killer scattered them as an afterthought to suggest the idea that there had been a gambling fight. Then it was simply a matter of dropping knives about, after dipping them in blood, to leave us with the clear inference that they must have slaughtered each other. I have no doubt we were expected to think that these two had fallen out over money, but I find it hard—no, impossible—to believe that, after seeing the two of them together. They were too friendly.”
Sir William appeared to shrivel as Baldwin spoke. Simon half-expected the old man to fall to the floor as the knight finished talking, he looked so frail and weak. His face took on an introspective look. “And is there anything else? Anything to indicate who it could have been?” he asked, but Baldwin did not respond. He carried on searching the rooms in his quest for clues while the others watched. They were still there when the servant began pounding on the door and shouting once more for Sir William.
Sir Robert watched his brother with a dry, humorless smile. He had heard of the row of the night before, and was amused to see how it had affected his brother. John stood apart, not wanting to talk to the men-at-arms who helped Robert to his horse, or to the men who climbed on to their own horses to join in the hunt. He waited like a sulking child at the periphery of all the noise as the men prepared.
There was still an all-encompassing smell of burned wood and straw from the stable, and it was partly this which had persuaded Robert to go and search for food. He had no desire to wait in the fort and supervise the men clearing up. After the night before he knew that John would prefer to be leaving the Manor for the morning too, and that gave him cause for a certain sadistic pleasure, knowing he could not go. On a whim he walked his horse over to where his brother stood.
“Come, brother. Why don’t you join us?” John looked up, and Robert saw the despair in his eyes. It made him regret his sarcastic, bantering query, to see his brother so smothered by fears. When he spoke again his voice was softer. “John? Are you all right? Would you like me to stay with you? The men can go alone, if you want to talk.”