For now, but not for much longer if Wat talked to the Keeper.

If Wat were to talk, only one man’s word would matter: Wat’s.

Sir Hector met Wat’s eyes again, and this time neither man flinched.

Paul was aware of undercurrents of tension all night. Something was wrong, and he was not sure how the evening would end. If matters got worse, he would have to send for the Keeper and the Constable, for he wanted no bloodshed in his inn.

There was a muted hubbub not like the previous nights on which the men had made merry the whole time. Tonight all was subdued and moody, like the sky had been all day, gloomy and threatening.

The girls felt it too, he could see. Cristine weaved her way between the beckoning hands with her usual skill, but even her face was set and drawn, with no sign of her customary smile. Paul went back to the buttery and filled more jugs. He was hoping that if all the men quickly got drunk, they might merely fall asleep as they had done for the previous two nights.

Young Hob was asleep in there, curled up in a corner, and Paul was tempted to kick him awake, but it was only a reflection of his own anxiety and tension. The lad was exhausted, no less than Paul himself. Especially since he was not yet ten years old, and had been up since daybreak. Paul filled his jugs as quietly as possible and made his way back to the hall. If the captain tried to leave, Paul had been instructed to send Hob to the priest’s house to tell the Keeper. Hob could sleep until he was needed. With any luck, he wouldn’t be.

Wat took another refill, acknowledging the gift with a nod and grin of thanks. He concentrated on the men near him. There was no point in glancing at Sir Hector; both men knew that the fight had begun. The question now was, who would be strong enough to win? Wat was determined it would not be the man on the dais.

He had no personal dislike for Sir Hector; this was merely a matter of business. Sir Hector had produced good contracts for them over several years, had kept them all clothed and fed, and supplied with women. There was no cause for him or any of the others to complain, for all had shared in the general wealth created.

But Sir Hector was no longer the capable, astute man he once had been. One thing he could never understand was how a group of soldiers melded together. There was a sense that all belonged to the same family; esprit de corps counted for a great deal, but for it to work properly, their leader must be strong and seen to be fair. In his dealings with Henry the Hurdle and John Smithson, Sir Hector had demonstrated lousy judgment. He should have punished them for taking advantage of their fellows before matters got so out of hand. That way, the company might have held together, the men staying loyal. Sir Hector had forgotten that he depended on all of the men in the band; thinking he could rely on two to keep the rest in line, he unwisely hadn’t heeded the mutterings of dissatisfaction. It was foolish, Wat knew, for a leader to trust in a small number of advisers, for those plotting mutiny would carefully avoid talking to such men and would ensure that any reports getting to the leader through his nominated sergeants would be favorable. His gullibility had cost him the faith of the group.

Matters had come to a head after the robbery. When John and Henry were seen to be subjected to only a mild enquiry and, at least in the view of most of the company, inadequately interrogated, the men began to look askance at their leader. A captain who could not protect his own goods was not to be trusted with another’s life. How Sir Hector could expect them to put their confidence in him when he could not control two petty thieves who made money from blackmail, Wat could not understand. But there was more. Since losing his silver, the captain seemed to have withdrawn into himself, as if he had already accepted defeat. The men had noticed – and drawn their own conclusions. Their leader was grown insipid; he no longer had the edge he once showed.

Whereas Wat had the trust of all the men, and the support of over half of them in this battle for the leadership. He had always stood up against the two blackmailers and supported any new member who was persecuted by them. Gradually, he had found a following among his colleagues, for he was a man who could hold his tongue when told a secret. He had skills as a warrior, could fight with bow or sword, and knew how to motivate men who were almost at their last gasp to leap to their feet and follow him up the siege ladders.

He drank deeply and cast a cautious eye toward the man at the dais. Sir Hector had had his day, and now it was past. Even his title was fiction… “Sir” Hector, Wat thought, his lip curling. Most of the other members of the company didn’t realize he had given himself the title after a clash in Bordeaux. A knight had refused to fight him, saying that to draw sword against a commoner would be an insult to his chivalry and honor. Sir Hector had ambushed him the next day, killing the knight in a bloody ambush, then appropriating the man’s belt and spurs. He was no more chivalrous than Wat.

And now Sir Hector was to be retired. Whether he wished it or not.

Looking round the room, Sir Hector was aware of the eyes on him, and for a while he could not think what they reminded him of. He was so used to his absolute authority in all matters, that he had long since stopped taking notice of the opinions of his men.

There was a uniformity among them now, he noticed. Occasionally he would observe a covert glance, a fleeting expression upon a grubby visage, which he was sure did not augur well for his future. It was as he came to this conclusion that he could suddenly name the look on their faces: speculation.

His hand, as he reached for his tankard, was steady, he noted with inner satisfaction, and he brought the cold pewter to his lips with no sign of his sudden shock.

Not for many years had he seen such feral expectancy. His men displayed the same impassive interest that a wolf pack showed toward an intended victim, when the prey was slowing from cold, terror and hunger, freezing to petrified languor as it waited for the final attack, the sudden rush which would end in the kill.

He set the tankard back on the table. Outwardly calm, his brain raced with near-panic. It wasn’t only Wat he had to contend with, but the whole company. He must set his stamp on them all, and quickly. Otherwise there was no point in planning future campaigns.

If only she was still here, he thought regretfully. Then she might help him to make sense of it all. But she wasn’t, and that was that.

Rising, he made his way to his solar and shut the door, locking it securely with the heavy bolt. He gazed at the symbol of safety with a wry twist to his lips that was nearly a smile. Before, he had always been safe because of the strength of his little force, secure in the knowledge that any attack must first beat through his men before reaching his solar. Now his safety depended on locking himself away from his own troops.

As the first clap of thunder exploded overhead, Margaret leapt upright, eyes wide in alarm. She had never grown used to the fierce demonstrations of the elements. Edith, sleeping by her bed, began to wail, and Margaret forgot her own fear enough to climb from her bed and step cautiously through the rushes to collect her child, holding her close as she crawled back between her sheets, pulling them up close round her daughter’s body while trying not to disturb her husband.

A fresh blue-white flare lanced through the gaps in the wooden shutters, closely followed by another report, and Margaret heard a hound set up a mournful howling. The dismal sound made her shiver – it reminded her all too well of the wolves on the moors, and she recalled the stories of how the Devil rode with the wolves, pointing out the houses which held the youngest children for the beasts to devour, while he took the innocent souls.