Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗

‘And yet here I am.’ Thomas laughed. ‘But what of the other servants? Harris? Chapman?’

The gap-toothed smile that had formed on the old servant’s face faded. ‘They have all gone, sir. I am the last of the retainers.’

‘But you must be nearly seventy if you are a day.’

‘Sixty-eight in December, sir.’ He frowned briefly.

‘Then why are you still in service, Jenkins?’

‘Where else would I be, sir? There is nowhere for me to go. Not while there is still an English knight to serve at the auberge.’

‘What the devil’s all that noise?’ a voice shouted from the shadows. ‘Jenkins, what is it? Speak up, man! Who are those fellows?’

A shadow emerged from a corridor leading off the hall and a powerfully built man with a bull neck - if the transition between his close-cropped head and muscled shoulders could be described as a neck — strode into the pale loom cast by the servant’s candle. He looked to be some ten years younger than Thomas and in need of a close shave about the jowls. He scowled at the new arrivals and Thomas caught a waft of acid wine on his breath as he introduced himself.

‘Sir Thomas Barrett, eh?’ the man repeated. ‘I’ve heard the name. Can’t recall when. Well then, I’m Sir Martin Le Grange, from Wickle Bridge, near Hereford. Ever hear of it?’

‘Alas not.’

‘That’s a great pity — for you. Anyway, make yourself at home. Jenkins will see to your needs. I’m off to bed. I was about to go before you arrived. Speak to you in the morning, eh?’ He nodded and turned, disappearing back into the corridor.

‘Not the most charming salutation I’ve ever received,’ Richard muttered. ‘Is he always so . . . hospitable?’

‘Only when he’s in his cups,’ Jenkins replied.

Thomas coughed. ‘Would you be kind enough to show us to our quarters?’

‘Yes, Sir Thomas. My apologies. If you would follow me, sir.’ Jenkins made to pick up the bags in one hand while he held the candle aloft with the other. Thomas took his arm and gently eased him away from the cumbersome bags.

‘Richard can see to those. He is young and strong.’

‘And tired,’ Richard added.

‘Besides, you should not strain yourself at your age, Jenkins.’ The old man straightened his back and raised his chin proudly. ‘But I am a servant of the English auberge, sir. It is my duty.’

‘Quite so, and how would you carry out your duties if you were to injure yourself by carrying too heavy a burden?’ Thomas asked with a grin.

Jenkins opened his mouth to protest, then shrugged and turned away. ‘Please follow me, sirs.’

Thomas followed while Richard muttered bitterly and picked up the baggage and strode as quickly as he could to catch up and stay within the small pool of light provided by the wavering candle flame. The servant led them to the accommodation corridor leading off the hall. Glancing up to the rafters, Thomas could see the small wooden shields fixed to the cross-beams, each one bearing the coat of arms of an English knight who had served the Order. There were a handful of gaps where the icons had been removed when the knight in question was judged to have brought dishonour upon the Order. His eyes hurriedly sought out the position where the Barrett icon had once hung. Now there was just a wooden peg and he looked away with a heavy sense of guilt, and shame.

‘Are you and Sir Martin the only men living here?’ asked Richard.

‘Yes, young master. There is one other who keeps quarters here, Sir Oliver Stokely, but he rarely visits the auberge. I haven’t seen him here for several months. He has a house near the base of the Sciberras peninsula. That’s where he lives these days. Here we are, sir.’ Jenkins stopped outside a door and lifted the latch and led them inside. ‘It’s not the cell you used to have, sir. After you left, that became a storeroom. I hope this will suit you.’

He raised the candleholder up and Thomas saw that the chamber was perhaps ten feet wide by fifteen long. There was a bed, a chest, a small table and chair, and pegs for his clothes. High up on the rear wall was a shuttered window.

Thomas nodded. ‘This will do. Richard, you may leave my bags here.’

The young man glanced round. ‘And where do I sleep . . . sir?’ The servant chuckled. ‘Rest easy, young master. It’s not the floor for you. There’s a squire’s cell next door. In the old days you’d share that with three others but you’ll have it to yourself.’

‘Does Sir Martin not have a squire?’ asked Thomas.

‘He can’t afford one, sir. His family lost everything when King Henry took their lands many years ago. That’s why Sir Martin joined the Order in the first place. He looks after his own weapons and armour. Insists on it. I just feed him, tend to his fire and cook his food. Of course, now that we have another squire at the auberge, perhaps young Master Richard could serve some of Sir Martin’s needs.’

Richard looked sharply at Thomas and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

‘Of course.’ Thomas smiled. ‘I will see what can be arranged.’ Richard glared at him before he spoke. ‘If you will excuse me, sir, I’ll take the other bags to my cell.’

Thomas nodded.

‘Just a moment.’ Jenkins crossed to the table where a stout candle stood in a hardened pool of wax on top of a small platter. He lit the wick and it sputtered a moment before growing into a steady flame that added to the illumination of the cell. ‘There, young master. Follow me.’

‘When my squire is settled, bring me ajar of heated wine,’ said Thomas. ‘There is much I would know about what has happened during the years of my absence.’

Jenkins nodded. ‘Aye, sir. I’d be pleased to tell you, and hear the news from England.’

The servant gestured to the squire to leave the room and then followed him out and shut the door quietly behind them. Thomas looked around the cell, dimly recalling that it had once been occupied by Sir Anthony Thorpe, a surly older knight from some obscure village in Norfolk who had insisted on sleeping with the door open. His loud snoring had echoed down the corridor, disturbing the sleep of his comrades.

Once he had removed his cloak and hung it on a peg Thomas picked up the plate holding the candle and trod quietly towards the door. The muffled sounds of conversation came from the next cell as Jenkins attempted to engage Richard in conversation. Thomas eased the latch up and stepped into the corridor, raising the candle so that he might see better. To one side the corridor led off towards the kitchen, with doors on either side for the cells of the knights and their squires. A dim glow under the door opposite revealed where Sir Martin had his quarters. Turning the other way, Thomas retraced his steps to the hall.

Despite his careful pace the sound of his footsteps was clearly audible as he made his way across to the hearth opposite the entrance and only served to make the hall seem more empty and still. He stopped to look round slowly, and remember. There was a hint of roast meat in the air, a common enough smell in England but in this place it suddenly evoked in the most tangible way a memory of his first feast day at the auberge. He had been knighted at seventeen and joined the Order a year later and his heart had swelled with pride as he sat at the table to one side of the fire, together with a score of English knights, eating and drinking while the warm fug of the hall was filled with the sound of their loud conversation and laughter. He could even recall their faces. Sir Harry Beltham, whose red-blotched complexion matched the fiery red hair and beard on his round face. His laughter had been deep and infectious, and when he had slapped Thomas on the back, the young knight had been shot halfway across the hall. Sir Matthew Smollett, a Welshman, tall, sinewy and so darkly featured that rumours were spread that he surely must have Moor blood in him. He had been quiet and content to observe his companions with a wry smile and make the occasional dry quip that served to remind the others of his superior intelligence. There were others Thomas recalled with affection. And finally Sir Oliver Stokely, the comrade he had once considered a friend and who had become a bitter enemy by the time they had parted. The earlier icy encounter with his former comrade had shaken Thomas.