An hour later they clattered into the village. The high street was fairly deserted. Stalls and booths had not been set up. Peasants and cottagers were still making their way out to the fields. They stopped and looked surly-eyed at the mailed men from the castle. The Pot of Thyme was shuttered and closed. Beardsmore kicked at the door until a haggard-faced serving girl answered.
‘What do you want?’ Her tone was surly.
Beardsmore shoved her aside and walked in. He dug into his pouch, took out Sir John’s writ and, finding a nail in one of the supporting posts, pushed the commission onto it.
‘Right!’ He started kicking away stools and tables. ‘Where’s the taverner?’
‘I’m here, Beardsmore.’ A small, grey-faced man with greasy black hair stepped out of the scullery behind the wine vats. He wiped dirty fingers on a leather apron and stood, legs apart, as if to show he was not frightened of this show of force. ‘What do you want?’
Beardsmore pointed to the commission.
‘I can’t read but I can see the seal.’ The taverner’s heavylidded glance moved to Ralph. ‘You’re here about Goodman Winthrop, aren’t you?’
‘You were always quick of wit, Master Taylis,’ Beardsmore replied. ‘Goodman Winthrop was a tax collector and the King’s official. He was found stabbed, his corpse left on the high road.’ He pointed to the hour candle. ‘Before noon he will be buried in the castle cemetery.’
‘Quite a few deaths in the castle,’ The taverner remarked.
Ralph would have stepped forward but Beardsmore held him back.
‘What happens in the castle, Master Taylis, is none of your business. However, it is our business what happens in your tavern.’
‘Goodman Winthrop wasn’t killed here.’
‘He was seen drinking here. We also have it on good report that he left with a wench. I want to speak to her.’
‘I don’t know who she is. Some wandering whore who stopped in the village.’
‘If that’s the way you wish to dance, Master Taverner,’ Beardsmore snapped, ‘then dance you will!’
He drew his two-handed sword and walked towards the taverner who quickly stepped back. Ralph was too surprised to intervene. The sword came up in one great cutting arc and sliced down into the wooden wine vat. It splintered and cracked, its contents splashing out.
‘For the love of God!’ Taylis roared. His hand went to the knife beneath his apron.
One of the archers brought up his arbalest and released the bolt which whistled above the taverner’s head to bury itself deep in the plaster.
‘That’s good burgundy!’ Taylis bellowed. ‘It cost seven pounds!’
‘Before I’m finished it’s going to cost you more.’
‘You can’t!’
Beardsmore was already stepping forward, sword level, ready to strike at a second vat. ‘Goodman Winthrop,’ he declared, ‘was a royal official. He drank in this tavern. He left here with a wench. He was murdered. To refuse to help the Crown apprehend his assassins is treason.’ He spread his feet, balancing his sword. ‘When you are sent to Newgate in London to stand trial before the King’s Bench, Master Taylis, who will care about your vats of wine? They’ll be Crown property anyway.’ The sword came up.
‘No!’ Taylis shrieked. ‘Eleanora!’
‘Eleanora? Never heard of her.’ Beardsmore raised his sword higher.
‘Stay there!’ Taylis ran back into the scullery.
They heard shouts and screams. Taylis came back grasping a young, greasy-haired slattern by the shoulder. She was dressed in a dark-brown smock which was two sizes too short for her and emphasised her swelling breasts and broad hips. One of the archers whistled provocatively. The girl turned and spat in Taylis’s face but the taverner forced her to her knees in front of Beardsmore. The sergeant-at-arms crouched down, jabbed his finger under her chin and lifted her head.
‘You’re a buxom wench, Eleanora. How would you like to visit the castle? There are dungeons beneath the moat, full of rats, they are. Worse than you’ll ever find at the Pot of Thyme.’ He grinned at the taverner. ‘Of course some of the lads here can keep you company but not for long. You’ll stand trial before Sir John Grasse. He will prove that you had a hand in Winthrop’s death. The least you can expect is to hang, which takes some time – the rope tightens round your neck like a cord round a sack, tighter and tighter until you’ve got no breath left.’
The girl’s face went slack with fear.
‘Then again,’ Beardsmore went on ‘you might have to face the full rigours of treason. If that happens, you could be hanged and then dismembered. No, no, I’m wrong.’ He teasingly tapped his head. ‘You’re a woman, you could burn.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Eleanora whimpered.
‘But you drank with him, yes?’
The girl nodded.
‘And you left the tavern with him?’
Again a nod.
‘And what happened then?’
‘He wanted me to go back to the castle that night. So I left him and ran back here.’
‘Is that true, Master Taverner?’
Taylis gazed back, bleak-eyed.
‘You see, Eleanora,’ said Beardsmore. ‘That’s what happens when you lie, particularly about treason. No one wants to get involved. Now, what I’ll do is arrest the whole tavern, everyone who was here that night, including Master Taylis. I’ll ask them all one question: did you come back.’
Taylis regained his wits. ‘Of course she did.’
‘And then what did she do?’ Beardsmore didn’t wait for an answer but got to his feet, dragging the girl with him. ‘Eleanora, I am placing you under arrest.’
The girl threw herself about but the archers seized her, handling her roughly. Ralph shouted that they were not to abuse her. The archers looked at Beardsmore who nodded.
‘Master Taylis, I shall return.’ Beardsmore raised his voice. ‘I do hope no one leaves. If I can’t find certain people because they’ve suddenly discovered they have business in Chelmsford or Colchester, I’ll know they are my suspects.’
They bundled Eleanora out of the tavern. One of the archers put her up on his horse. The cavalcade mounted and left, going back along the high street. Ralph felt sorry for the girl but knew that Beardsmore was correct. She had probably been the lure, a ploy to take Goodman Winthrop out into the dark to be killed, and the law would have its way.
He did not like what he saw as their horses trotted up the cobbled high street. Rumours were rife about how castles had been attacked elsewhere in Essex and Kent, royal officials wounded, even murdered. Ralph realised that Sir John Grasse had made a serious mistake: the people of Maldon were plotting rebellion. He could tell that from the hateful looks, the way women turned away, slamming doors and shutters. And as they left the village, a clod of earth narrowly missed Ralph’s head.
‘There’ll be trouble before long,’ said Beardsmore grimly.
Ralph pulled his horse back so as to protect Eleanora from the salacious jibes and pokes of the escorting archers. Once they were clear of the town, Beardsmore reined in, dismounted and dragged Eleanora from the saddle. He cut her bonds and took her away from the rest, indicating that Ralph should join them. They walked along the trackway and stopped under sycamore tree.
‘Look, mistress,’ Beardsmore said kindly, ‘I no more wish to see you hang than I would my own sister.’
The tavern wench stared dourly back. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, pawing at her dusty skirt.
‘Not what you think,’ Beardsmore said drily. ‘But I can protect you. I do not want to see your pretty neck twisted. I want to arrest the nimble jacks who killed Goodman Winthrop. I’ll tell you what will really happen. You’ll be taken to the castle, Sir John will keep you until the royal commissioners arrive. Then the merry jig will begin. They won’t care about who you are or where you are from. They will regard you as a hungry mastiff would a piece of meat.’
Eleanora’s courage deserted her, her shoulder’s sagged and she muttered, ‘I can name them. And I can also tell you why.’