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occupied. Jack he had seen walking the short distance to the stables. He had kept himself out of sight and the other had not seen him; Jack’s ability he did not underestimate, having served with him. He had to risk losing him, for Richard was his quarry. Jack was merely something his master would prefer to have stopped from breathing. He could deal with him later.

The third door along the corridor belonged to the man they sought, who by all accounts, for they had watched the inn since their arrival, had not left his room. Peter motioned with his head for the two men to take up positions on either side of the door, flush against the wall. Peter knocked quietly but firmly. There was a muffled reply from within, which he took to mean he should admit himself. Signalling to the others to hold their positions he unlatched the door letting it swing open on its hinges. There was only one occupant, seated reading by the fire. Peter smiled, his expression confident.

“Jack, back so…” Richard was on his feet in a moment, his sword drawn.

“Your mistake,” Peter said, smiling viciously. “So you’re Fitzwarren?”

If the man before him had not met his gaze and silently acknowledged his name, he would have believed he had the wrong room. Expecting the filth of gutter-life, he was instead faced with a vision of tall elegance whose dark eyes showed no fear.

“I’d lay down your blade for it’ll do you no good. Willy, Gad…” The two waiting outside obeyed the command. Richard heard the whistle of steel as swords were drawn and they entered behind their leader.

“Now, put up your blade or you’ll be regretting it.” Peter’s level blade underlined his point.

“The odds seem in my favour. I shall take them I think,” Richard replied.

“I’ll give you one more chance.” Peter was no longer smiling, hoping now that the man would not take it. Then he made his second mistake. Armed only with a short blade, he did not have the advantage that his opponent had. With a jarring crash of silvered steel, Richard brought his longer sword quickly up under Peter’s, making his aggressor’s arm flail wildly in the air. Peter’s face displayed desperation as he fought to regain control of his sword arm and bring the blade back in front of him to protect his torso before it was too late.

It was too late.

Richard’s blade slid easily through leather jerkin and then neatly on, through ribs to pierce the beating heart of Peter Hardwood. In the second it took for Richard to withdraw his sword from the dead man and for the corpse to hit the floor, Peter’s men set on him. The attacker to the left had the advantage of a shorter distance and his fist, tight around the hilt of a dagger, was arcing it towards Richard’s head. The technique was clumsy, relying on power for its deadliness. Richard stepped nimbly back, kicked a chair into the man’s path giving him time to withdraw his sword from the dead man and avoid the lethal sweep of the dagger. His sword, running with the crimson of Peter’s blood, deflected the first thrust from the third man.

The room was small and forced them close together, as the other’s blade hit the hilt, Richard threw the force of his body round and heard the steel snap. The move was perfect but its execution was flawed, for as he spun to break the blade he brought himself to face the man whose ill-aimed death sweep with the dagger he had easily evaded. In the second before the blade broke and his sword was employed and locked, tempered steel sliced into the flesh of his right shoulder. The man leered, exposing a row of glistening black stumped teeth, but believing the game was his proved fatal. Richard’s jacket took the brunt of the force and the wound was still deep. Dropping his sword from the weakening right grasp into his left hand, he brought the blade heavily into the man’s left arm. It was not a killing blow but he reeled from it, his body bending to its force. Richard levelled the blade a second time and forced its point into gut and intestine. The man doubled over then sagged to the floor, hands clasped to the gashed wound in his midsection. Richard turned instinctively to protect his right side from the assailant whose blade he had severed. He had no need; the man’s body slithered from the short knife Dan had pulled across his throat.

“I told you, but do you bloody listen?” Dan moved to the man kneeling with both hands clenched to his guts and moaning loudly. He drew the knife blade quickly across his neck.

Jack fell through the doorway in time to see Dan dispatch the kneeling man and knew that the fight was done. “Bloody hell!” Jack took the sword from his brother and dropped it heavily on the floor. “Are you alright?”

Richard pulled away from Jack’s helping hands. “Do you know how much good steel costs?”

“I’m sure you are going to…God’s bones! It’s Pete – he’s Harry’s man! He was with Harry before I left. How did he track us here?” Jack demanded. “This is terrible! I told you what would bloody happen and you didn’t listen. Is someone going to have to die before you learn?

Richard sat on the bed as Dan examined the wound. “Jack has…” He pulled the sleeve away none too gently. “…got a point.”

“Yes.” Richard flinched from Dan’s ministrations. “So you get to be right for once,” he finished through gritted teeth.

“It’s a clean cut,” Dan pronounced bluntly.

“I’m so pleased.” Richard retorted.

“What are we going to do now?” Jack asked. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

“Take the men to Carney Bridge.” Richard stopped as Dan yanked a makeshift bandage onto his arm. “Damn you! Could you be a bit more careful?”

Dan just grunted.

“Collect the men and go to Carney Bridge.” Richard said through clenched teeth.

There was another rough tug on his arm. “Dan, you’ve made your point! I’ll send word to you, Jack. Now go before anyone else turns up.”

 

Chapter Five

Bedfordshire – May 1553

 

†

 

Jack worried all the way to Carney Bridge and once there he continued to torment himself. Richard’s men had been split into three groups while residing in the city; six were with Richard, eight were billeted at the Fox, and the remaining seven awaited their arrival at Carney Bridge. Joined once more, they would move swiftly to Lord Byrne’s Manor; or at least that was the plan. Now Jack was not so sure. Riding with twelve men at his back, he was uncertain what they would do when they arrived. Jack felt strangely exposed, the feeling prickling up and down his spine; never before had he found himself alone with the solitary role of command. He was plagued with the knowledge that there was no longer a certain, definite course of action. And worse, he was dubious about his own ability now that he was faced with the need to assess it.

He refused to comment to those who rode beside him; there were only three people who knew of the day’s events and Jack had no intention of sharing the news. They would feel leaderless; without their master the thread that held them would break and they would disintegrate back into their component parts, becoming again the rabble they once were. And within that rabble, there were plenty of factions.

There was Alan, a hard and cruel man, and it was well known that to keep on his good side was a sound idea. He had held some rank in the King’s army but, for some reason he didn’t care to share, he had deserted, yet he still craved the rank and power he had once held. Robby was one of Alan’s men. A petty thief, he’d been in and out of gaol most of his life in between a sporadic mercenary career. He kept close to Alan thinking that would ensure an easier life. There were others loyal to Richard, if not particularly keen on Jack. There was Dan who had been with Richard since boyhood, and others who owed him their life or liberty such as Marc and Froggy Tate. Jack knew he could rely on them to follow his brother’s instructions.

He knew he lacked the physical energy and force of will his brother exercised, along with the natural obedience due to him as a Lord’s son, and Jack doubted that the men would follow his command. Richard had negotiated their hire with Lord Byrne and it was unlikely that a Lord would accept a man with no name and no standing in Richard’s place. Jack damned fate, and anything else that got within vocal reach on the journey.

 

†

 

Harry’s thoughts that day also turned to Richard; they were not tinged with concern but coloured crimson with hatred. The assault at the Inn was swiftly reported back, although the details were vague. There had been a fight; Harry’s messenger had seen a commotion as he waited for the return of his fellows but neither they nor the man his master wanted had appeared. Harry yelled, but his temper was ineffectual. The man knew only that the men Harry had sent were missing, and the landlord had left the yard of the inn calling for the watch. Having no wish to be implicated, the messenger had made a judicious exit at this point. Clothed in the righteous indignation of the wronged, Harry rode with a not inconsiderable escort to the inn to ascertain what had occurred, eager still to make of Richard a prize he could present to Robert.

The sight that met his greedy eyes was not the one he had anticipated. Three men, good men at that, had been piled in a bloody mess on the back of a market barrow in the courtyard of the inn. On the top of the pile of lifeless, tangled limbs lay Peter on his back, arms flung akimbo, head tipped back, mouth open in a silent exclamation of surprise as he stared up at his master for the last time. Harry, still on his horse, was unable to take his eyes from the twisted wreckage of his servants. A dog stood patiently licking Peter’s paled hand that hung over the cart’s low wooden side, its grubby fur streaked with crimson from the thick globules that had leaked through the barrow.

“You…” Harry recovered himself and shouted at the two men deep in conversation behind the barrow. One, dressed simply, was talking rapidly, his arms thrown wide in an expression of helplessness. The other, in military garb, was listening intently, his arms folded. Both looked up at the sound of Harry’s voice. Annoyance plainly showed on the soldier’s face.

“You, come here,” Harry addressed the one of rank, pointing arrogantly with his whip. The soldier exchanged another brief and quiet word with the man he had been quizzing and walked past the blood-laden barrow to stand in front of Harry’s horse. He eyed the man’s finery and cost of his clothes but seemed to have decided to wait for the next address rather than speak himself.

Harry waved his whip expansively over the barrow. The words would not easily form. “These…” He paused, his eyes had been drawn back to Peter’s unseeing gaze and it took a moment for him to break away from the dead stare. “These are my men. What happened? Where is the culprit?” Harry’s voice was loud with