With the excitement of the night over with, it was time to deal with the aftermath.
Confiscating one of the small sleeping chambers for Alexander, the tavern keep could find nothing better than heavy woolen thread to stitch up the young squire’s wound. Tor made the man boil it first, knowing that would help keep the poison away.
Alexander was very brave as Tor took that rough, heavy thread and put neat stiches from his neck to his ribcage, but it wasn’t painless in the least. For every grunt of pain that escaped Alexander’s lips, Tor was glad that Steffan de Featherstone was dead because if the man wasn’t, he would have been before the night was over.
Thomas had been right. They had created a hell of a mess, thanks to a runaway groom. Tor couldn’t help but wonder where, exactly, it was all going to end now.
A small spark often ignited a wildfire.
CHAPTER TWO
One week later
The village of Haltwhistle
“He’s starting to smell.”
The words came from Tor, plodding along on Enbarr with the body of Steffan slung over the horse’s rump, still wrapped up in that old horse blanket. Only now, it was held together with a good deal of hemp rope.
No one wanted the putrefying corpse escaping.
Nat, a broad man who looked a good deal like his late father, Kieran Hage, made a point of staying ahead of Tor.
“I know,” he said. “Why do you think I am riding in front of you?”
Tor sighed heavily. “I hate to go through the village, but there is no other way to reach the de Featherstone manse,” he said. “Hopefully, we can get through without attracting too much attention.”
“Or flies.”
That was something they both agreed on.
They continued along, entering the edge of town and passing by people who were going about their business. The sky overhead was relatively clear but puffy, dark clouds loomed, suggesting that more rain was in store for them.
Unfortunately, there had been a good deal of rain over the past week and part of the smell emanating from the body was because it had been repeatedly soaked from the rains and hadn’t entirely dried out. Mildew was sprouting and God only knew what else, and Tor knew that they had to get that corpse into the ground as soon as possible.
“I must admit that I am hesitant to present this corpse in its current state to Steffan’s father,” Tor said. “I haven’t looked at it in a couple of days but, based on the smell, I’m fairly certain it’s not in the best of condition.”
Nat glanced back at the bundle. “It’s starting to seep through the horse blanket,” he said. “Those fluids are beginning to leech out.”
“That’s a charming thought.”
“Do you know Steffan’s father?”
Tor shook his head. “I’ve met the man on a couple of occasions, but nothing more,” he said. “It’s my understanding that Featherstone is the de Featherstone country house. Either they are named for it or it is named for them, I do not know. But I heard once that they have another manse in Carlisle.”
Nat glanced at him. “The family is wealthy?”
“From what I’ve heard, wildly so,” Tor said. “Money made in the merchant trade. De Featherstone’s main support to Brampton is financial – he pays a good deal of support for the man’s army and receives protection from it for his homes and his fleets.”
Nat pondered the wealthy businessman, which here in the north was a fairly rare beast. Most people this far north were either warlords or farmers, or both.
“But his son became a knight,” he said. “Not only does he not serve Brampton, he serves de Royans.”
“It is a more prestigious house.”
“To be sure, but you would think the son would follow the father.”
Tor shrugged his big shoulders. “Steffan de Featherstone seemed to be a man who did as he pleased,” he said. “Mayhap he did not wish to become a merchant like his father, just as he decided not to honor a marital contract with Isabella. Who made that contract, anyway? Was it the father?”
Nat shook his head. “From what I heard, it was Steffan himself,” he said. “Isabella is a pretty thing, you know. He saw her somewhere, I do not know where, and fancied her. He was the one who made the contract.”
“And decided in the end not to honor it.”
“That was my understanding, aye.”
Tor looked on up ahead into the busy village at this time of day. “Then we shall make sure his father understands that,” he said. “You had better let me tell him while you remain out of the manse. In case I am taken prisoner against Steffan’s death, you will need to go for help.”
That thought had occurred to Nat. “Or mayhap you simply dump the body at the door and run.”
“I have considered that.”
When Nat looked at him, he grinned, and the two of them snorted at the suggestion. Honorable knights didn’t run, no matter what the circumstances, and no matter how much they wanted to.
They were going to have to face Steffan’s father.
The deeper they progressed into the town, the busier it became. This was one of the larger villages in between Newcastle and Carlisle, so there were many peasants from the countryside bringing in their produce to sell. This far north, there was a great deal of agriculture and sheep, and as they entered the town center they could see big corrals stuffed with wooly, white sheep.
There were more sheep in small herds outside of the corrals, being kept closely guarded by dogs and shepherds. There were wool merchants haggling with the farmers over the quality of their wool and even as the bargains were struck, sheep were cut out from the herd and clipped by men whose entire profession it was to clip the wool from the sheep. Those men were very precise with their big, steel shears and they were in much demand by the wool merchants because they were very precise. A bad job of shearing could cost them money.
Because there was so much going on in the town, no one seemed to be noticing two knights lumbering through the village on expensive warhorses. They were both wearing de Wolfe tunics, identifying them as being from one of the most powerful families in the north. Tor was hoping that they could get through the village without being noticed at all but, unfortunately, that was not to be.
A situation arose.
It all started out of their sight, in a corral on the other side of a livery that was at the edge of the town center. A man was selling beautiful and expensive Spanish horses, brought all the way from Madrid. He’d had twenty of them with the intention of selling them to the nobility of England, but because times were rather poor at the moment, he’d only been able to sell fifteen of the twenty on his journey through England.
Now, he was down to his last five and they were the most expensive. They were fine Spanish Jennets, horses bred from Arabians and long-legged warmbloods. The resulting horse was a masterpiece of equine breeding, both fast and sturdy. At the moment, the man was trying to sell a gorgeous white mare to a woman who seemed to have a discerning eye for horseflesh. She inspected the horse, looking over every inch of it, before deciding she wanted to sit on it. The horse was only green broke and against the man’s better judgment, he let her sit on the horse.
That was when all hell broke loose.