‘If I hear you call him Ned again, it will mean a birching.’ Something about his daughter’s posture gave Sir Jean pause. He stared keenly at her slight back for a moment or two, stroked his moustache into place, before turning his attention back to the young Englishman.
‘Now, Sergeant Fletcher.’ His master smiled with charming formality. ‘About your remuneration...’
***
Three weeks later, a leggy stranger whose limbs looked as though they had been flung together, swaggered across the drawbridge of François de Roncier’s main residence, Huelgastel. Bow and quiver were slung over one bony shoulder, and his left forearm was bound with the leather guard of an archer.
Though the castle’s drawbridge was lowered, the gatehouse was shut. The spy-hole in the central door was closed. The man, who was in his late thirties, rattled the door, and when that failed to gain any response, pounded on it with his fist. ‘Hey! Wake up sluggards! I’ve information for Captain Malait.’
Nicholas Warr, archer, had been furious when Jean St Clair had criticised him for slackness. The knight had complained when Warr had asked for a couple of men to spare some time to make more targets. St Clair had had the cheek to infer that it was Warr’s fault they were damaged, when everyone at Kermaria knew the man’s penny-pinching, miserly ways were to blame. The targets had not been replaced since St Clair’s father’s time, and it was only thanks to Warr’s good management that they had given as much service as they had. Not content with that, St Clair had criticised the condition of the spare bows and arrows, not to mention Warr’s method of training the villagers...
Nicholas Warr never stayed anywhere his talents were not appreciated. He had wasted no time in informing Jean St Clair that he had a woman waiting for him and that he was to be married. This had been no lie, but he had not seen the woman for some months, and when the archer had reached his lady-love, he had found himself turned down for a cooper. A cooper! The faithless woman had said she wanted someone who paid her more attention. She wanted someone who wasn’t about to go and get himself killed. Storming off, Warr had drunk his pay away, and then, too proud to go back to St Clair and admit that his woman had deserted him, and that he had been in the wrong, he had decided to head for Huelgastel. Warr was bent on refilling his purse. He had done Otto Malait a good turn once. He hoped the Viking would not have forgotten it, for Malait was to help him gain admittance.
The archer was betting that the Count, St Clair’s old adversary, would be anxious to learn that Waldin St Clair was coming home to roost. Warr could also tell him about St Clair’s forthcoming marriage. He had been quick to see the possibilities. Here was an easy way to feather his nest, for the Count would doubtless pay handsomely for the information. Warr had intended coming here three week ago direct from Kermaria, but after being jilted the prospect of a few weeks’ indulgence had been more temptation than he could stand.
But now, with his wings clipped by a depressingly light purse, Nicholas Warr wished he had come earlier. His idiotic fling was over and he felt desperate. Perhaps they would ignore him. Or perhaps they would listen and then throw him out. Perhaps he should have stayed put at Kermaria. Admittedly the money was poor, but one could always fill one’s belly there.
The peep-hole squeaked open and a blue, bloodshot eye with a mean gleam peered out. ‘State your name, and business,’ the owner of the eye said.
‘Nicholas Warr, archer.’
‘We’ve a full complement of archers.’ The peep-hole slid back with a click, and Warr was left contemplating a blank oak door.
‘Jesus wept.’ Warr reapplied his fist to the door.
The peep-hole slid open. The bloodshot eye came back into view. ‘You deaf?’ The gatekeeper’s snarl was muffled by thick oak. ‘Or merely brainless? Go and plague some other soul.’
Nicholas had to catch the guard’s attention fast, before that loophole was sealed. He took his purse from his belt and shook what he had left of his pay. Being all but empty after three weeks’ riotous living, the purse didn’t make a very convincing noise. Not to be daunted, Warr ploughed on, ‘I fought with Otto Malait in seventy-three.’
‘They all say that.’ The eye rolled disparagingly at Warr’s slender purse.
Losing heart, he tried to make his last coins chink more loudly. ‘It would be worth your while.’
‘And who’ll pay me? You?’ The porter sneered. ‘That wallet sounds more like a baby’s rattle than anything else. What will you pay me with, seashells?’
‘It would be worth your while,’ Warr repeated, tucking his purse back into his belt and speaking fast while the window yet gaped. ‘It’s true I haven’t got much, but you will be rewarded. I must speak to Captain Malait. I’ve valuable information to pass on to the Count.’ The eye blinked. Warr hoped its owner was listening. ‘It would be worth your–’
‘It would mean a flogging if you’re lying.’
In despair, the archer resorted to the truth. ‘Do I look as though I’m lying? Christ on the Cross, you noticed for yourself that my purse is as hungry for coin as I am for food. I need money. Is it likely that I’d be wasting my time and yours if I didn’t think that what I had to say was worth something? Let me in. Please.’
The peep-hole snapped shut. Warr’s nostrils dilated. There was a hollow thud, a grating of bolts which set his teeth on edge. As he heard the heavy iron bars being slowly drawn back in their sockets, he felt the first drops of rain.
Warr spread his hands and blinked gratefully up at a dull sky. ‘My thanks,’ he said. It was not that he believed in the Almighty, but he felt a need to express his gratitude. And just in case, he added, ‘I owe you one.’
***
Slumped in a kingly high-backed chair with padded seat and back-rest, de Roncier heard Captain Malait and the archer out with an ever-darkening brow.
‘So you see, mon seigneur,’ Warr summed up, ‘Jean St Clair is planning to marry Yolande Herevi.’
‘And you say she’s carrying?’ the Count demanded.
‘So her maid, Klara, maintained.’
François rubbed the bridge of his nose, and as his fury rose, so did his high colour.
Having shot his bolt, Nicholas Warr felt sweat break out on his brow. He chewed the inside of his mouth and hoped his bringing this news would not misfire on him; de Roncier looked to be taking it extremely ill. Was the Count a man to punish the bearer of bad tidings? Warr wished he had thought of that earlier instead of waiting until he was so hard-pressed.
‘I’m sorry, mon seigneur, if this news distresses you,’ Warr said, as coolly as he could, ‘but I thought it in your best interests that you should know, so that you could make plans. I thought–’
De Roncier levelled callous hazel eyes at him and Warr’s blood went cold. ‘You thought you saw your way to making a profit.’
‘I...I assure you, mon seigneur...’
The Count stood up. ‘See he’s paid, Malait, and boot him out.’
‘Come on, Warr.’
Warr hung back. ‘Mon seigneur?’
‘What now?’
‘I’d be grateful for a position,’ the archer blurted, stammering to a halt when he saw a cunning, feral gleam enter the Frenchman’s eyes.
‘I’m not convinced I would benefit by employing a loose-tongued serf,’ de Roncier murmured.
Warr was a free man, but he let that one glide past him. ‘L...loose-tongued?’
‘You betray your former master very easily.’
Only a lie would serve Warr now. ‘May I burn in sulphur, but St Clair never paid. Do I give a man my loyalty, if he never shells out?’
François hesitated. He could well believe that St Clair hadn’t settled up. What man did if he could get away with it? Why, he himself often delayed doling out for as long as he could – it was only prudent. And St Clair’s estate could not yield much. He subjected the archer to a thorough scrutiny. ‘And if I employ you – and pay you, naturally...’