His master and Baldwin had covered her with a bolt of cloth they had found in the chest, thus her face was hidden, but she held a fascination for Hugh. It was sad to see her dead. He was used to death in all its forms, from starvation during the appalling famines of 1315 and 1316, to those killed by swords and axes during the attacks of the trail bastons four years ago, but this little figure, whose hair tumbled silkily from beneath the cloth, seemed still more sad than all those.

“God’s blood! Will you sit down and stop fidgeting! You’re making me twitchy.”

Hugh grunted and wandered to a convenient chest. Sitting, he rested a hand on another nearby and unconsciously began knocking out a rapid percussion. Edgar had opened his mouth to snap at him, when there was a tap at the door. Muttering with irritation, Edgar pulled it open.

Outside stood an old soldier. “My master has told me to fetch him some clothing.” Edgar said nothing, but held the door tightly. The man glanced past him to the body and shook his head sadly. “Poor lass.”

Rather than have the man stare through the door all morning, Edgar opened it wide. “Be quick. And touch nothing from the open chest.”

He wandered in, going from one chest to another. Hugh saw how his eyes moved to the figure on the floor occasionally. There was no fear or horror, merely a kind of disinterested acceptance, as if it was too commonplace a sight to justify particular curiosity. This piqued Hugh. He had been quite proud of enduring the vigil by the corpse, and felt that others should be awed by the courage of two men who dared to defy ghosts and ghouls alike by sitting up with a murdered body.

Sir Hector’s man walked toward him and gestured. “I’ve got to open that one, too.”

Hugh rose, disgruntled, and waited while he rifled through the chest for oddments, selecting a short cloak and decorative belt with an enamelled buckle.

No sooner had he left than Simon and Baldwin arrived with Roger. To Hugh’s disgust, neither asked how his night had been – they simply strode in and lifted the cloth from the body, so that Baldwin could study it more closely. Almost immediately his attention was drawn to Sarra’s head.

Sucking his teeth, Simon moved to the tiny window and peered out. Wagons and carts passed by, interspersed with riders on horseback. People hurried by on foot. It was a busy street, and he fell to wondering again whether someone could have stood passing items out to an accomplice hidden behind a wagon. Leaning forward, he meditatively touched the frame. There was certainly enough space for a man to wriggle through if he was small enough – and if the shutters had been opened first.

Baldwin asked Edgar to help him; together, they rolled the body gently over onto its side. Over Sarra’s left ear was a lump, and a crusting of blood. It looked much like Cole’s wound, with one difference: hers was more like the result of a glancing blow which had scraped the skin and caused bleeding. She must have been alive when struck, for she bled, he thought. That explained a little of the mystery about her: she was alive but unconscious when gagged and bound. The next question, he knew, was why she had been stabbed. He studied her, then walked to the chest and looked at her outline. Where Simon had pulled the cloth aside, he carefully laid it back in place. There, where her head had lain, was a small patch of brownish black. So she was definitely alive when she was placed in the chest; dead people did not bleed, he knew. So she had been killed later.

Sighing, he rose. Simon had finished staring out of the window, and now left the room. Baldwin paused, then knelt and, using his dagger, cut off a large swatch of the material of her tunic. Stuffing it in his purse, he followed his friend into Sir Hector’s room, and stood gazing round with an introspective air while Simon peered out of the window. Roger trailed in after them.

Outside, in the yard, Simon could see several men sitting at a table and drinking, laughing and joking in the shade of an old elm tree, while others worked on their weapons. Some were polishing helmets and shields until, when they caught the sun, they were painful to look at. Two men were fletching, expertly winding string round arrows to hold the feathers in place, and another was running a stone over his sword to give it an edge.

Behind him he could hear Baldwin muttering to himself, but his attention was caught by the scene in the yard. It was rare to see men-of-war in a place like this, going about their business with a casual unconcern that made it seem normal. If they had been farmers cleaning tools and preparing for a day’s work, the sight could not have been more tranquil. As if to emphasize this, the inn’s hens scratched and stepped all round, their jerky motion an odd contrast to the smoothness of the armorer with his weapon. The stone sweeping along the sword’s blade gave a rhythmic background to the setting, like a man scything wheat. Cloths buffing shields to a mirror-like finish added an air of domesticity which tended to confirm the impression of rustic calm.

“What are you staring at?”

Simon pointed. “You’d hardly think it was necessary to polish armor so clean, would you?”

The knight gave a small smile at the bailiff’s ignorance. “Professional warriors often do that. Most armies are made up of peasants who have been ordered from their fields by their lords to go and fight for a cause they often understand only very sketchily. If they are hurled against another, similar army, they can sometimes do well, but if they find themselves arrayed against men who are clothed in armor, who shine like angels when the sun touches them, and who gleam so brightly that it is painful to look upon them, the average peasant will want to turn and run. Mercenaries are naturally warlike people because that’s how they earn their living, and they practice and train to make sure that they are likely to win. After all, there is no profit for anybody in fighting if you’re going to die. All soldiers intend winning, and living to enjoy their gains. A shining shield and helmet simply helps put the odds more in the mercenaries’ favor.”

“Whatever they do is designed to help them kill.”

“Not only that: more to win,” Baldwin studied his friend. “All they want is to make money, the same as any other businessman. They make nothing by killing. Prisoners who are worth money are ransomed, but in the main a mercenary army would be happier to see their poorer enemies put to flight.”

“What if they fail, and they capture prisoners who are worth little or nothing in ransoms?”

“They will die,” said Baldwin, his voice hardening. “But ruthlessness is not unique to mercenary bands. In any war it is the weak and poor who suffer. The same will be happening in Scotland as the army of England tries to hold back the Bruce.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “At that table – aren’t they the two who found Cole last night?”

Baldwin nodded. “We have to talk to them at some point; it might as well be now,” he said. He walked from the room, and with the others in tow, he and Simon led the way from the solar.

In the hall, Sir Hector was seated, complaining irritably about the quality of his food to an agitated Paul. Baldwin gave him a quick look of sympathy, and the innkeeper rolled his eyes. As they got to the doorway, Cristine was coming the other way, carrying a large tray. She stood back, out of Baldwin’s path, with a respectful bowing of her head, but then he caught sight of a different emotion. She smiled with a sunny brilliance that transformed her tired visage, and when Baldwin checked, he saw that her face was turned toward his servant.

Edgar noticed his master’s glance, and quickly fixed his features into their usual blank expressionlessness, but not quite fast enough. He could see that he had not fooled Sir Baldwin, and the knight had to struggle to keep the smile from his mouth. There were, he noted, depths to his servant which were still capable of surprising him.