29 - The Oath (61 page)
Authors: Michael Jecks
Another man walked in, but this one didn’t join the other two as they chatted. He stood staring down at Walerand.
‘What?’ the tranter demanded. ‘Who you gawping at, you prickle? Stare somewhere else!’
The man smiled, and there was something about him that stirred Walerand’s memory.
‘Walerand, I note you have a new pony.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘A gull never forgets the thief.’
‘Who are you?’
‘He’s forgotten me, Otho,’ the man called out.
The older one was leaning on the bar, his pot of ale in his hand. ‘Forgotten you, Robert?’ he said pleasantly. ‘No, I reckon he remembers you. He was upset that day, though, don’t forget. He’d just seen his horse die.’
Walerand felt the memory like a kick in his flank. He saw the cart, the filthy, rainswept roadway, and a man shouting at him for thrashing his pony. And he distinctly recalled hitting the fellow over the head and taking his dagger.
‘Oh, master, yes, I remember now,’ he said silkily. ‘I am glad you made it to safety – but I did all I could to help you.’
‘You struck me down and broke my head!’
‘Not I.’
Robert sucked at his bottom lip. ‘Very well friend, I think I should take your dagger now, to repay me for your theft.’
‘I stole nothing. You can go to hell with my blessings!’
‘I want compensation for the theft of my dagger, or you’ll find bad luck will befall you.’
He had moved away from the door towards Walerand, and the latter saw his chance. Quickly flinging his ale in the man’s face, he darted out. It was fortunate that he had possessed the good sense to leave his pony in the traces. It was the work of a moment to jerk the pony’s head around, and whip her into movement. He would keep tight hold of his whip, he decided, and if the arses came close, he’d cut them about the face. They wouldn’t get him that easily.
The cart rumbled and squeaked more than usual. It needed grease on the hub, he reckoned, and the pony neighed and complained, but then the thing was moving . . . and then he heard a rending sound, and the cart lurched. A huge splinter of wood sprang from the wheel, and as he watched with appalled eyes, the whole carriage began to tilt over, the bed moving, and then the wheel fell to pieces. The cart collapsed and shed its load, a bale ripping open on a broken spoke, and all the rest of his goods tumbling out on the muddy roadway.
‘God’s ballocks!’ And in the doorway, he saw the three men peering out and grinning at him.
Robert Vyke raised his pot in a mocking toast. ‘Oh, you can keep the dagger,’ he said. ‘My new one’s got a good enough blade. Shame about your cart, though. Looks like the wheel’s broken.’
And as they watched his crestfallen expression, they began to laugh.
Michael Jecks gave up a career in the computer industry to concentrate on writing and the study of medieval history, especially that of Devon and Cornwall. A regular speaker at library and literary events, he is a past Chairman of the Crime Writers Association and judges awards for the CWA and other literary groups.
Michael lives with his wife, children and dogs in northern Dartmoor.
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bib
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nappy
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pardons
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Wandsworth
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There were three miles to a league, so two hundred and ten miles.
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the boys who lit the way of walkers in the dark were often called ‘moon-cursers’ because when the moon was bright they would swear at the loss of their trade.
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material which has been semi-burned in a fire, like charcoal
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medieval term for brandy
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dim, dickheads
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