An Honourable Estate (13 page)

“A venison supper,” said William with satisfaction.  “If
we can manage to carry it back to the village.”  He turned and saw his
companion’s worried face.  “Surely you don’t fear to poach a little meat?”
he asked him in surprise.  “I thought you were an outlaw?”

“And I... I thought you were a lord,” he replied.

“Not any more,” replied William.  “I’ve become a common
man, just like you.” 

“What was that?”  Scallard spun around and his hand
rested on the hilt of his dagger as he listened intently.  Above the moans
of the dying stag William had also heard something and the two men crept deeper
into the trees, each scanning the ground as they went.

 “Over here!” called Scallard after a moment and William
ducked under the low branches to where he stood, with his drawn knife, looking
down at something.

The man had tried to conceal himself with twigs and
grass.  His face was white, streaked with black mud and, as he tried to
drag himself away from them, William could see that his leg was badly injured.

“It’s all right.  We’re friends.  Who are
you?”  asked William, thinking that the man must be from Chorleigh and had
somehow managed to get away from his captors.   But the man spat on
the ground and swore an oath that although it did not sound English left
William with no doubt as to its general implication.

“A damn Scot!” exploded Scallard and raised his blade to
finish the man there and then as he stared up defiantly from the ground.

“No!”  William was surprised when Scallard obeyed and
lowered the dagger. 

“Don’t you want him dead?” he asked.

“Not just yet.  He may have information that we can
use.”

“I’ll tell ye nothing!” said the man struggling to his feet,
though William saw him wince in agony as soon as he tried to bear any weight on
his right leg.

“Run away then,” he told him.  “If we don’t catch you,
you’re a free man.” 

He saw the man reach inside his jerkin for a weapon, but, as his
fist collided with the Scot’s jaw, William was satisfied to see him stagger
backwards, and as he flexed his fingers against the shock of the blow he saw
Scallard remove the knife from the man’s grasp and hold the blade to his neck.

“Give me one good reason not to slit your throat right now!”

“I’d rather you left him and finished the stag,” said
William.  “Unless you think a Scotsman a more palatable dish.”  He
felt a prickle of pleasure at the fear on the captive’s face at his
words.  “You’ve left us nothing else to eat,” William told him as he
placed his boot firmly on the man’s chest to pin him down, “and there are
children back in that village I would not allow to starve whilst we buried your
vile body in our English soil.”

“Please...” faltered the man.

“That’s better,” William told him.  “A show of respect
and some co-operation may mean that you’re worth something to me alive – as
long as you’re willing to talk.”  The Scot tried to nod as William moved
his boot to the man’s throat and stood on him with even more of his
weight.  He watched as the man struggled for breath, knowing that he had
the power to end his life right there.  But there were answers he would
like to hear from this invader before he was finished with him.

With both the Scot and the stag trussed up they made their
way slowly back to Chorleigh.  The stag, dripping blood, was slung on a
makeshift pole that Scallard and William heaved onto their shoulders and
William at the front made the limping Scotsman walk ahead of him, prodding him
in the backside with the point of his knife every time the man slowed. 
And, as he saw that walking was agony to the man, William felt a satisfaction
that at least one of the murdering mob was being punished, though he knew that
it would take all his authority to stop Harry Palmer and the women from ripping
this Scot to pieces.

“Why
didn’t you kill him?” asked Harry, glaring in the direction of the Scot who was
bound to the market cross, his hands behind him and his legs tied so tightly as
to make him whimper in pain.

“I thought you might like to see him suffer first,” said
William.

“No.  That’s not the reason.  There’s something
more.”

“You’re right,” agreed William as he ate a slice of roasted
venison and watched the silent children and their mothers eat as if they tasted
nothing but the desire for revenge.  “There are four bodies laid out for
burial and the other menfolk are missing, probably taken as slaves – or for
food,” he said, remembering his earlier threat to the Scot and having to
acknowledge that such thoughts would occur to any man if he were hungry enough.
“It’s unusual, though, for a Scots raiding party to venture so far south and I
would like to know what brought them to this village in particular, and why
they didn’t take the women and children as well.”

“You suspect it was not a random raid?” asked Harry.

“I suspect that there may be more than one reason for the
Scots being here,” replied William, knowing that although the English had been
routed at Bannockburn anyone with an ambition to depose the ruling monarch
might just be tempted to ally themselves with Robert Bruce.

As the villagers ate and waited for the priest to come to
bury their dead, William walked over to speak to the Scot again.

“Loosen my bonds, mon, I beg ye,” he said.  “Ye know I’m
unarmed and canna run far.”

“In a little while,” promised William sitting down on the
steps of the cross and placing a small slice of venison between them.  “I
may even let you eat, but first there are some questions I have to ask you.”

“Ask away, mon.  I’ll tell ye everything I know.”

“Why did you come here?”

“For food, mon.  People are starving to death up yon.”

“So you thought you’d just help yourselves?”

“What would ye ha’ done?” asked the man and William’s
conscience troubled him a little as he thought about the way the rebels had
taken supplies.

“You’re a long way south,” he observed, taking a small morsel
from the venison and placing it on his own tongue as he spoke.  “Was there
a reason for that?”  The man stared at the meat as William pulled off a
second piece and held it between his fingers.

“I just do what I’m told,” he replied slowly.

“Were you told to stay behind and spy?”

“No, mon!  If I’d been able to march I’d be halfway back
ta Scotland by now.  I think they must ha’ left me for dead.  What’ll
ye do with me now?”

“If I let you go free these villagers will slaughter you,”
said William, “and I’m not sure I would be able to stop them.  I’m not
their master and I doubt they will listen to me.”

The Scot looked over towards the church where the bare bones
of the stag were all that remained on the spit over the open fire.  It was
already growing dark, though it was still only afternoon, but the women and
children remained huddled around the flames for warmth rather than retreating
to the relative safety of the cold church.  They needed blankets at the
very least, thought William.   He would have to try to arrange some
supplies for them though he knew that others had little to spare.  Perhaps
Harry could be persuaded to go to Haigh after all to ask Mab if she could
intervene on their behalf.

“What would ye have me do?” asked the Scot, interrupting his
thoughts.

“Tell me the real reason why you were so far south into
Lancashire and I will protect you,” William told him, still pursuing his guess
that the man knew more than he was telling. He put the second piece of meat in
his own mouth whilst the man watched hungrily.  The Scot glanced across at
the villagers, who had gone to greet a loaded cart that was squeaking down the
main street between the remains of the houses, and when he looked back at him
William was pleased to see the expression of resignation that crossed his face.

“We came south with a message,” he told him.

“For whom?”

“Loosen my bonds mon, and I’ll tell ye more.  The pain
in my leg’s scarce bearable.”  William looked down at the Scot’s white
face and relented a little, hoping that he was not being tricked.  He bent
and unfastened the rope that bound the man’s legs to his hands behind his back
and pulled tight on his injured thigh.  The man barely concealed his yelp
of pain as he moved the leg.  It needed cleaning and binding, thought
William, or an infection would set in and the man would die anyway.  And
though he had no remorse about running a sword or lance through his enemy on
the battlefield, he baulked at the thought of killing this man face to face or
even allowing him to die in agony.  He tore off another piece from the
meat and held it to the man’s face where he snatched at it with his teeth and
swallowed it almost without chewing.

“For whom?” repeated William.

The Scot swallowed again and glanced across at the crowd of
villagers around the cart before looking back at him.  “The sheriff,
Edmund Neville.”

“Neville!”

“Aye.  He has a house – Middleton Hall – and we’ve been
there afore, but this time his servants said he had ridden south to quell an
uprising so we followed, thinking we could pass on the message and maybe find
some supplies for ourselves as well.”

William stared down at the man.  He looked defeated and
his long and unemotional explanation had a ring of truth.

“Who was the message from?”

“From the king, Robert Bruce, though I think Neville is only
a go-between.”

“And who do you think Robert Bruce is corresponding with?”
asked William, though he was not surprised when the answer came.

“There is talk of a pact wi’ the Earl of Lancaster in return
for the recognition of the Scottish king and the removal of Edward from the
English throne.”

William pulled the knife from his belt and felt a surge of
satisfaction at the fear on the Scot’s face.  He bent to slice through the
rope that held the man’s wrists and then pushed the remainder of the meat
within his reach.  “If you try to escape I will kill you,” he warned and
the Scot nodded.

“I thank ye,” he said.  “You’ve been kinder than I could
ha’ expected.”

William walked back to the church and saw that it was the
priest from Croston who had brought the cart; blankets, tools, a barrel of ale
and some bread and grain were being unloaded and stored in the church.

“People have sent what little they can spare,” said Harry.

“I was thinking of sending to Haigh.  I thought you
might welcome the opportunity to see your wife,” ventured William.  Harry
put down the sack he had lifted from the cart and drew William aside.

“The priest tells me that Haigh is watched by men belonging
to the sheriff,” he said.  “If we go back there we are dead men for sure.”

Chapter
Seven

Dicken

Mabel
was in the kitchen, overseeing the preparation of the supper, when Sir Peter
Lymesey returned from his inspection of the manor.  She had sent Edith to
her home with an excited Amelia and a reluctant Bella, who had been coaxed into
leaving by Mabel allowing her to take Calab. It was better that the dog went
with them anyway, she thought.  She did not trust Lymesey not to harm it
if he got the chance and no matter how often she bid the dog be silent it
growled incessantly whenever it saw the strangers.

She heard Lymesey come in through the front door, slamming it
closed behind him so that the draft reached the kitchen and rattled the lid of
the pot on the trivet over the fire.  She waited and listened, wondering
if she should go to him, but decided that she would not show too willing to
attend to his needs.  She watched through the open crack of the door and
saw him settle himself onto William’s chair once more.  It was as if he
owned the place, thought Mabel, before reminding herself that he actually
did.            

She took up a thick cloth and lifted the lid on the pea soup
and stirred it with a long handled spoon.  It smelt good and she was
hungry.  She must put some on one side for herself and the kitchen boys
before offering it to Lymesey, she thought.  She was not going to starve
herself for his sake.  She replaced the lid, folded the cloth neatly and
told one of the boys to pour some clean water into a jug and basin for him to
wash his hands.  Then she went through to the hall to ask if he was ready
to eat.  He had thrown his fur-lined cloak, hat and gloves aside and his
page had undone the buckles on his muddied boots and was tugging at them whilst
he swore at the boy for not pulling them off more easily.  At last the
first boot parted from his foot and Mabel watched as the boy suddenly staggered
backwards.

“Now pull the other one, you young fool, or you’ll feel my
switch across your backside again!” he roared and Mabel saw by the boy’s
frightened face that the threat was real and that it would not be the first
time he had received a beating.  She watched as he knelt and pulled at his
master’s other boot.  He was no more than nine or ten years old and he
looked thin and underfed in contrast to his portly master.  The second
boot came away and the boy dodged a blow to his left ear as he stood up and
placed them by the fire to dry.