The Deadliest Sin (5 page)

He held up his purse and jingled it so she could hear the coins inside.

Her eyes widened. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Which is the best tavern in the street?’

She indicated a building with a large bush tied over the door, and he walked with her to it, stumbling only a little as he went, but as they drew nearer, he was shoved, hard, and a man pulled
the woman away.

‘You bitch! You don’t leave your place over there. You know my rules!’ the man shouted.

He was a big man, heavy in the belly, but with the thin, wiry frame of a smith.

Henry pushed himself to his feet. When he felt his head, there was blood running in a thin trickle where he had struck a stone as he fell. He stared at the blood.

‘Get back, bitch!’ the man said again, and shoved her.

Henry was too full of ale to take care of the likely outcome. He drew his knife and struck the cock-bawd. Later, he heard that he slammed the blade into the man more than twenty times, but for
all he knew it could have been once or a hundred times. He didn’t know what he was doing. The ale was driving him.

That was the end of his apprenticeship. He realised, as he stood looking at the crumpled body before him, that he must flee, that this was the end of all he knew. The whore, after giving a
muffled squeak of alarm, began to shriek like a banshee, claiming that someone had murdered her husband, and men began to appear in the street. A horn was blown, and men began to gather.

Henry had to run faster than ever before in his life. He didn’t take the risk of returning home to collect his meagre belongings, he just ran and ran, up to the river, over along the
shoreline, until he found a wherry and begged the oarsman to take him to the other side. A handful of coins persuaded the man. Within a few hours, Henry was safely on board a cog, feeling the
waters roll her side to side, bound for Gascony.

He had never looked back.

There were many men in the army with irregular marriages. These women who joined the men in the camps were known as ‘marching wives’. Some of them were keen to stay
with just one man; some were enthusiastically promiscuous, perhaps because they felt safer knowing that several men would look after them. There was less risk that their investment in time and
effort would prove to be pointless. After all, it took only one arrow to remove their asset.

Janyn had never taken a woman. He had seen them, the sad, grey-faced widows and children, tagging along after the fighting men. Some put on a show of courage and enthusiasm, but for the most
part they were weary, shocked, terrified women, many of whom had seen their menfolk hacked to death in front of them. Janyn had early on sworn that he would never force women like them to share his
blanket with him. Yet there were times, as he listened in the darkness to other men grunting and rutting, when he envied them.

For certain, some of the women did enjoy their status. Sometimes the younger ones could be prickly and acerbic, but when they chose their mate, they were enthusiastic. So long as they
hadn’t witnessed the slaughter of brothers and parents. That did tend to change them.

Many of these marching wives were happy to join the army. They came not from villages that had been pillaged, but from towns further away. Their lives were already mapped out for them: marriage
with a local boy, life under a despotic mother-in-law, a patriarchal father-in-law, who would often hold incestuous desires, all of them ready and waiting to force the young wives into prolonged
servitude. And for what? So that they could become brood-mares for the village. Nothing more. They were valued as highly as a bitch in whelp – not even as highly as a cow in calf, for a cow
brought milk, meat and money. A bitch would only bark and snap. Little surprise, then, that the more enterprising young women would slip their leashes and run to join the army. There, they were
valued as companions and lovers.

But Janyn would not take them. He was content with a simple financial relationship with one of the many whores, but he would not become emotionally entangled. It would take only a moment’s
reflection on a husband’s, brother’s or child’s death for a woman to turn into a knife-wielding avenger, and he had no wish to share his bed with a vengeful harpy. Sex with a
woman who might bear a grudge for her man’s death – that was a risk he could happily live without.

For that reason, when Pelagia joined him in the camp the day after the three had been scared away by Bill and Walter, the men of his vintaine were surprised. They knew their vintener’s
opinions about the marching wives. But none dared say anything. The grim expression on Janyn’s face was enough to dispel any potential humour.

He had come across her lying huddled beside a tree that evening, already cold, shivery, suspicious and wary. She had no cloak to cover herself, nor yet a thick tunic. Instead, she huddled for
warmth closer to the tree. It was like clutching ice in the hope of heat.

‘If you don’t find a man to protect you soon, you’ll be taken by someone less understanding. If you’re not careful, I’ll wake up one morning and find your body. I
don’t want that,’ he said, and shuddered at the thought as though it were a premonition.

She gave him a long, slow stare. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘I would have you live. That is all,’ he said. ‘There has been enough death about these fields. Just live, woman, and I will be content.’

She rose stiffly, and shivered again. He led the way without turning to see if she was behind him. She could have slid away into the welcome concealment of the surrounding trees, for all he
knew, but he continued traipsing on until he reached the circle of his men. There, he turned, and found that she was a mere four paces behind him.

‘Lie down there,’ he said to her, indicating his own blankets. The thick fustian was scratchy and rough, and he saw her eye it doubtfully. ‘It’s all there is,’ he
said. ‘If you want to keep warm, you must roll yourself up in it.’

He said nothing more that evening. As she settled herself, wrapped in the coarse cloth, he sat nearby, his back to a tree, his steady gaze fixed on a point in the distance. Walter brought him a
little pottage, but for the most part the men left him to his bleak meditations. Only one person didn’t seem to hold him in awe. When he glanced down, he saw that her eyes were still fixed on
him. Feline, she seemed, and he could not tell whether, like a cat, she appreciated his protection or doubted his intentions.

Henry the Tun had not thought of the woman in the days since his arrival at Calais. He had been too busy with his men. He had never been an ardent womaniser as such. There were
too many other distractions for a man like him. As he strode about the encampment and as he sat in the hastily erected tavern drinking sack, he had no time to think about women, and Pelagia had
been little more than a bundle of rags in the ditch when he first caught sight of her, but then, one day, he saw her again, and this time he wanted her.

Henry the Tun took women when the urge washed over him, but he was no cruel ravisher of innocents. Those taken prisoner as the army marched tended to be safe from him. He had little use for
them, in truth. Women were necessary on occasion when he was free to indulge his natural desires, and that was all. He preferred the whores who were more likely to be compliant than determined to
avenge a dead lover or relative.

With men he was a natural bully. Janyn knew him of old, and knew that Henry was a bold and fierce fighter. He liked to brawl and wrestle, and even when sober, he would join in a gladiatorial
battle. He was no coward: that was not one of his faults.

His boldness, his conviction of his own strength and authority, led to his intimidating and bullying others. If there was a ready target for his bile, that fellow would suffer. If a stable-boy
mishandled his pony, that boy would receive a clout over the ear that would send him flying, but when he was drunk, Henry would use any as the target of his vicious cruelty.

He was a keen drinker and, when deep in his cups, he was vicious. He would pick on any man, even one of his own company. No matter that the fellow was stronger than most, Henry would willingly
take him on. And often, when he had taken more wine than he should, his thoughts turned to other pleasures.

That night he was feeling comfortably amorous after a few pints of wine, and walking back from the tavern, he was feeling a warm glow. His men were content, his purse was full, and all was well
with his world. Perhaps he should go to the stews and find himself a woman. There were wenches down there who would be willing enough when they saw the weight of his purse, but it was growing
harder to find one to slake his desires. As his reputation was passed from one slut to another, it grew ever more difficult to persuade one to let him lie with her. No woman willingly slept with
him above once or twice when he was deep in his cups, because for him the height of ecstasy was to inflict pain while he rutted.

The roads from one place to another were well marked out by then. All about the town of Calais, where the English were camped, a makeshift town had been thrust up. Now there was a regular
market, with peasants from about the countryside bringing in some goods, and more appearing from English ships. Wine, ale, clothing, and – blessed Mary! – even new boots materialised.
At the same time, ale-houses and taverns appeared, their barrels set up on wagons or simple trestles, and the men tramped along paths that were soon solid-packed earth roads. Gutters ran alongside
the older, long-established roads, and it was into one of these that Henry stumbled drunkenly.

Cursing, he stood and staggered from the filth back to the road itself, and began to make his way back to his men, but now he found his path was blocked by a slowly trundling wagon, and he must
stand aside.

At the side of the road here, he saw a group of huddled figures, and in their midst, he saw her: the girl.

He didn’t recognise her immediately. At that first glimpse all he saw was a woman with a long, willowy throat, her hair indecorously loose over her shoulders, without wimple or coif. She
must have appeared a very lewd woman, sitting there amongst a company of men. Who knows? Perhaps he thought her a common marching wife, or even a whore.

Janyn saw Henry at the side of the roadway, and immediately felt the prickling in his belly that warned of danger.

Henry was a strong man, the commander of a centaine, responsible for the wellbeing of his men, but he had no actual friends, only men to be commanded. Janyn’s was a lonely enough position,
answering to the commands of his banneret, but trying always to keep the men beneath him happy and keen. It wasn’t always easy, and for a man more senior, like Henry, it was still more
difficult. There was no camaraderie for the leader of a hundred. Above him was his lord, Sir John de Sully, who was himself a stern commander, but a knight had his own circle of companions. Henry
had none, only the loneliness of authority.

Seeing him there, Janyn thought Henry had a wistful look about him. Perhaps that was it: sometimes a man just wants to stop, rest, take some comfort. That evening, as drunk as a churl at the
harvest festival, Henry perhaps sought only that at first: companionship. Perhaps that was all he ever wanted from a woman. A moment’s freedom from responsibility, a spurious friendship. And
only later did he come to want to inflict pain to increase his own delight.

When his eyes lit on her, he saw not a prisoner, not a piece of meat, but a young woman of delicacy and beauty. Perhaps, like Janyn, he remembered a vision: a summer’s day, a river bank,
the scent of meadowsweet heavy on the air making him drowsy as he sat with his head resting in the lap of a woman such as this. It was the kind of memory to take a man’s breath away. A
lovely, enticing memory of a time long gone, when a boy could meet a girl and they could enjoy the natural pleasures without shame.

It is often the way that a man will form a picture in his mind, when he is all but befuddled with drink, and he won’t realise that the object of his affections doesn’t share his
dream. So it was this time.

He made his way to them.

‘Maid, I have a mind to take ye,’ he said, belching and dragging at his belt. He was far gone in his cups that night, and once he had the idea of a bout with the maid, nothing would
dissuade him from his determination.

‘She’s not for sale,’ Janyn said. ‘She’s not a slut from a tavern.’

‘Shut your mouth, unless you want to feel the King’s justice for answering a King’s officer,’ Henry said. ‘By Christ’s balls, she is lovely. Maid, I want you.
Won’t you come with me? I’ll look after you better than these churls!’

‘Centener, go!’ Janyn said.

‘Go swive a donkey,’ Henry said.

Henry had lumbered forward like a man almost in a trance. His lips were moving, but Janyn couldn’t hear a word, only a roaring in his ears that muffled all sound. There was a moment when
he felt suffocated with rage, and thought he was going to fall down, but then an intoxication of fury propelled him forwards, and he found himself face to face with Henry.

The centener didn’t look at him. His attention was focused entirely on the girl, and as Janyn thrust himself before him, Henry stopped and blinked as though confused to find that another
man was in his way.

‘She is not for sale,’ Janyn grated. ‘Leave us alone.’

‘You are trying my patience,’ Henry said, his face reddening. His jaw jutted as he leaned towards Janyn. ‘Get out of my way, you cat’s turd.’

‘You try this, and I’ll have you broken,’ Janyn said. ‘All my vintaine here will stop you.’

‘You would stop a King’s officer? You think so? I’ll come back with three vintaines, man, and I’ll take her over your dead bodies!’

‘Try it. You’ll be the first to die,’ Janyn hissed.

There was a moment’s shocked pause. Janyn could feel the tension like a taut bowstring as he stared at Henry. There was a creak and a slight click, the familiar sound of a bow being drawn
taut. Janyn knew that behind him at least one man had nocked an arrow.

‘Hear that, Centener? You try to strike me down, or try to steal her from us, and you’ll be dead before you’ve taken two paces. Now go!’