It was an awkward ride back to Shrewsbury. Though it was no great distance from Jouiae's castle, it felt long on account of the oppressive silence between Eamon and Reed. Rather, Eamon was silent. Reed muttered away, almost incessantly, but spoke so low that his intelligible babble was no more intrusive on his master's brooding than the bubbling of a stream.
They passed many people on the road: a few more peasants and freeholders on their way to the castle of the triumphant Jouiae, and still more on their way into town. Shrewsbury was a busy little place: a final bastion of English and Norman civilization on the frontier of the Welsh Marches, and many people besides Eamon had business within its walls.
Just outside of town, they encountered a small party of men-at-arms, and Eamon's hand went to his sword hilt when he recognized Bairon and his squire among them.
Bairon of Anjou was an ugly little brown lump, but not nearly as fat as his huge jowls and bulbous nose suggested. As his party drew near, he reined in his horse, and looked upon Eamon with a dark, baleful eye; the other stared off into the countryside. He didn't seem at all surprised to see Eamon there alive, though a number of his followers gawked in amazement.
“Quit my cousin already have you?” Bairon asked. He smiled like a man who had just landed some cunning blow against an inept opponent. He wasn't just unaware that his arrogant satisfaction was unjustified; he truly didn't care. “Received your pay and moved on? Smart man. I'm not finished with her yet.”
“Nor am I finished with you,” Eamon replied. “I see you've recovered from your illness. Perhaps you'd like to step into the field with me.”
“I have no quarrel with you,” Bairon scoffed.
“I have with you. Did your squire not tell you? You're a bastard and a pig and I'm sorry not to have killed you already.”
Bairon laughed, but the nervousness of his horse betrayed his fear. “Very well then. After I've settled affairs with Jouiae, I'll seek you out.”
“Why wait?” Eamon asked, but he was asking the rump of Bairon's horse. The man had already cruelly put his spurs to the beast, and was cantering away.
“Fucking coward,” Reed said, and spat. He spoke so out of duty to his master, but once Bairon's entourage was out of earshot, he let his dissatisfaction be known. “What's gotten into you then? What did that pig ever do to you?”
“I don't like his cunt face.”
“That's no reason to kill a man.”
“You're the last person to be lecturing me about such a thing,” Eamon snapped.
“Aye, I'm a wicked old beast,” Reed admitted. “But that's me, innit? Not you.”
Eamon stewed quietly at this admonishment, and lapsed back into his brooding silence.
On the east side of Shrewsbury, nestled deep among the tanneries, smithies and generally smelly, noisy, and unwholesome places of industry, Eamon and Reed approached a particularly filthy and dilapidated warehouse. A brute emerged from within, wagged his cudgel in greeting, confirmed that Weevil was inside, and led their horses around to the back of the warehouse.
The warehouse was chock full of various goods. Bales of stained and stinking wool vied with filthy rotten cages for a majority share of the space. The cages contained cocks, dogs, a few bears and rats; there were thousands of rats. These unfortunate creatures made a terrible din, and the poor quality of the wool was owed to their presence as much as the neglect of the men employed to care for all. The place was foul.
Most people who borrowed from Weevil dealt with his clerks, but Eamon was a special case: not because he was a knight, but because of the nature of his loan. Most of Weevil's debtors were degenerate gamblers and self-described victims of hard luck, but not Eamon. He had little interest in bear-baiting, cockfights or dice. He was the only man to ever borrow money from Weevil to feed himself and his horse.
That was why Weevil liked Eamon; he was unique, and he told him all this just as soon as he saw him. Weevil was talker: a helpless talker. He couldn't stop his mouth from running, and this he said as well as he ushered the young knight into his office and sat him down in a simple canvas sling chair. He whistled into silence when Reed set a purse down in front of him however. He spilled its contents onto the table between them, and he chuckled happily, though fifty shillings was hardly a notable sum to such a man.
“I knew you were a safe bet,” he gloated, pouring wine for himself and his guest. “Didn't I say he was a safe bet Shank?”
“That's what you said,” said the cutthroat lackey, who stood behind Weevil. His look and tone was one of disagreement however. Shank didn't like Eamon.
“Didn't expect to see you so soon though, not when you were staying with such a pretty young widow. Don't tell me the lady didn't hike her skirt for you. She sent you packing? Aw, I'm sorry to hear that,” Weevil gushed. Though Eamon had said nothing, the curdling of his face was all the answer he needed. “I was cheering for you. I really was, and not just because I put money on it.” Weevil took a penny from the pile on his desk, and flicked it over his shoulder.
Shank caught the coin deftly. “I told you he was a hopeless case didn't I? Lad's got no charisma!”
“Charisma,” Weevil laughed. “That's a big word for an alley tom like you Shank. Who needs charisma when you're a killer though, hey? It might be beauty that turns a lass's head or charm that bends her ear, but it's a hard man that gets her hot, hey? It takes a killer to get her proper wet!
“Hard to believe a young fellow like you took down Ogier though. She must still be coming to grips with it. Man was a famous killer around here. Killed twelve men over a cow once.”
“Twas only six,” Shank corrected him.
“Glad you came back so quickly though, lord Eamon. All these days gone by and no interest paid. I was starting to think I'd have to threaten you a little.”
“Careful,” Reed warned. “My lord is in a mood.”
Weevil thought that was hilarious, and he continued to whimper breathlessly for some time after he'd finished laughing properly. “Oh,” he eventually sighed. “I'm not threatening anybody mind. How can I threaten a knight? Especially when he's so good with a lance.”
“No room in here for sticks and horsies,” Shank said, and there was no mistaking the violent promise in his voice. Something about the Saxon's smug, complacent calm irked him: made his palm itch for the handle of the knife at his waist. There wasn't much room for Eamon to swing his sword in the office, and his armor would do him no good if Shank stuck him in his overly confident throat. Weevil waved a calming hand at his man however, and the violent fantasies grudgingly faded.
“This is some coincidence though. Do you know who came to see me a little while ago?” Weevil asked.
“Bairon,” Eamon growled.
“Bairon of Anjou,” Weevil said, utterly surprised and appreciative of Eamon's guess. “How did you know?”
“I saw him leaving town.”
“Did you lend him money?” Reed wanted to know.
“Nah. He wasn't after money mate. He wanted me to kill 'ol Eamon here. Aye, stick a knife in his ribs when he wasn't looking! That's what he asked for! Knew you'd been staying at the Old Thane's too. Asked if I might send Shank there some night to-” Weevil made a popping noise with his tongue and hooked a thumb across his throat.
Reed's eyes flickered to Shank, to Eamon, and back to Weevil. Eamon didn't appear at all concerned by this declaration, but it made Reed nervous. He couldn't help but ask: “What did you tell him?”
“I said it was a lousy bet. I said: in any quarrel he's got with my friend, my money is on Lord Eamon. That's what I said, and not just because we're mates. Even if he wasn't asking for favors on credit, I would have told him no. That pig is a right proper turd.”
“Norman fucking twat,” Shank muttered, and spat on the floor.
Weevil looked deliberately at the spittle and deliberately at his man, until Shank nervously wiped at the flecks with the toe of his boot: “cleaning” the floor. Weevil stooped to wipe the spot with his handkerchief, flicked it angrily at Shank's face, and turned back to Eamon, shaking his head in exasperation.
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Weevil was a strangely fastidious man. He looked like a blacksmith: stout, wildly hairy and bearded, and he dressed like a blacksmith as well, but he was dressed for Sunday Mass, and not working the forge. His office, in sharp contrast to the rest of the warehouse, was immaculate. Even the floor was spotless, and gleamed faintly in the light of several candles- actual candle sticks, and not mere wicks floating in bowls of molten tallow.
“Anyway, he come in here,” Weevil continued, “into my own house asking for favors, and looked down his nose at me! At me! Like I wasn't running this town twenty years before he got the notion of stealing a castle out of from under his cousin's widow.”
“I wish you'd let me slap his eyes straight,” Shank muttered.
Weevil said nothing to this. He lapsed into contemplative silence as he looked down at the money. He drummed his thick fingers on the table. “This takes a fair bite out of what you owe me. What's your plan for the rest mate?”
“I may have something in a few days.”
“Working for the reeve are you? I heard he took a liking to you out there at the lady's.”
Eamon looked at Weevil archly: said nothing.
“We keep our noses to the ground around here,” Weevil explained. “Especially when it comes to the king's man. There are always people interested in what a king's man gets up to.”
Weevil stared at Eamon expectantly, waiting for him to take the hint, but Eamon only stared back impassively. The big man quickly lost patience. “So? What's this work he was telling you about?”
“He didn't say,” Eamon replied. “He wants to talk about it when he comes back to town.”
Weevil studied Eamon closely. He wandered if the young man's open and honest face was all that it seemed, or if he was more cunning and conniving than he'd ever guessed. He was too much a cynic and too paranoid to fully trust his instincts: that Eamon really was an honorable and honest sod (the poor bugger: life is hard for an honest man). He sucked his teeth and sighed unhappily.
“I heard this story a little while back,” Weevil said casually. “Stop me if you've already heard it, yeah?”
“Some other time Weevil,” Eamon said. He rose from his seat, but Weevil began his tale anyway.
“See, there was this young knight: a little Saxon runt raised in the court of the French king.” Eamon paused. “He grew up in this fantastic place, surrounded by fine clothes, perky French tits, Latin, singing angels and all that shite. And this boy, he grew up listening to these stories, these fairy tales, yeah? Gobshite nonsense about Hector and Achilles, Roland and Charlemagne, and his head all full of fantasy about truth and honor, justice, and virgins waiting to squeal hallelujah until after they get married. One day this young knight comes home. He comes home, and he finds out his old dad, this famous knight, who was blinded by the Saracens in the Holy Land, had died a pauper. And why did he die a pauper?”
Weevil paused here to let Eamon guess, but the knight only sat back down. Only the slightest narrowing of his eyes betrayed his displeasure.
“Apparently,” Weevil continued, “the Church up there, this fucking Church, run by Norman fucking priests, was just so grateful for the bravery and sacrifice of this Saxon mutt crusader, that they went and found this hundred year-old deed to his property, saying some earl ancestor or other gave it to the Church.
“Are you following me Eamon?”
“I haven't missed a word.”
“Good. That's good. So, our lad comes home and finds out that the Church went and stole his family lands. He's a smart lad, our young Saxon. He can see the ink on this deed ain't as old as the date, but what can he do about it? Nothing! But he suddenly hears about his dear old dad living with another priest: a good priest mind you -a good Saxon priest who felt sorry for the bugger, and who took him in in his sorry state. And this old knight, he's just barely hanging on when his son comes home, yeah?”
“He was already dead,” Eamon said flatly.
“Oh good! You know this story. He was already dead then? Fuck me. I don't know if that's better or worse. Maybe you'd like to tell the rest of the story then. No? Well, I'll keep telling you what I heard. You just let me know if anything else doesn't sound quite right, yeah?
“So,” Weevil continued, seemingly with relish. He suddenly lost his passion for the story however, and continued in a duller tone. “No, fuck it. The short of it is this. This fucking knight, this fucking sweet and innocent little lamb, raised up to idolize heroes and pray like a good little Christian, he goes and,” Weevil clicked his tongue again, and made a chopping motion with his hand, “he starts lopping off priest heads. Like chickens,” he clicked his tongue, again and again as chopped the air, “one after the other. He kills a whole church and maybe a monastery too. Eh? Word has it, it was a second fucking Harrowing of the bloody North, and priests are still afraid to come out of doors, day or night.
“What do you think of that story Eamon?”
Eamon was slow to answer. “I think you've never been to the French king's court.”
Weevil glowered at this glib answer. He suddenly smiled and shrugged however. “Who can say for sure hey?” His smile wilted, and his eyes burned at Eamon. “Only I can say for sure. Because I fucking went and asked the proper people the proper fucking questions, didn't I? That's how I know it was only just one priest that lost his head, and none other than the fucking bishop. That's how I learned it wasn't actually the knight that done him, like everyone had been saying, but the fucking Saxon priest.” Shank looked squarely at Reed. “You are one surprising, dirty bastard. You had me fooled. I knew you were a greasy rat, but I had no idea you were a greasy rat priest.”
Reed jerked in his chair, and would have rose out of it: to flee or cut Weevil down -even he didn't know for sure, but Eamon's hand on his arm rooted him in place. “What's your point Weevil?” Eamon asked flatly.
“My point? No point mate,” Weevil said. “It just got me thinking about bishops. You ever notice how bishops are always rich Shank?”
“Most priests are,” Shank replied dryly.
“Bishops are richer. You know why? It's because of their families. They're the sons and nephews of lords mate: they're the cousins to cunts like counts, and dukes: like the Duke of Normandy -the King of fucking England mate.
“Oh wait, I just remembered, “ Weevil declared musingly. “I did I have a point, didn't I? Yeah. My point is that I kept my mouth shut about it when I found out your man there, yeah? I didn't run off to the reeve or spill my guts to Bairon of fucking Anjou, did I? And I didn't stick a knife in your ribs like he asked either. Did I? No. And why didn't I do that?”
“Because we're friends,” Eamon said stiffly.
“Fuck me, but you're sharp mate. But that's why we're friends. Now call me ungracious alright? I don't mind being called ungracious, but it seems to me that when a mate goes out of his way to do his mate favors, he should be showed some fucking gratitude, yeah? Some fucking consideration.”
“I'll let you know what the reeve tells me,” Eamon agreed slowly.
“You'd do that for your old mate Weevil?”
“It only seems fair,” Eamon said. “Of course, it doesn't seem right that a friend should be charging his friend interest on a loan though.”
“Fuck interest mate,” Weevil said instantly. “You tell me what fitz William has going on and we're square, yeah? I'll even pay you. This here,” Weevil scooped up the coins on the table. “Let's just say this is still yours, yeah? I'll just hold onto it for you, for safe-keeping like. Just like the Church does for rich lords and ladies. I'll even invest a little of it for you, so that when you come back to get it in a few days, she'll have had babies mate: a proper little litter. Yeah.”
“Well give me back ten bob then,” Eamon said, pointing at the purse in Weevil's hands. “My horse needs oats, and I haven't had a proper pudding in months.”
Weevil wheezed, looked at Shank, and pointed at Eamon as he heaved with amusement. “This fucking cunt,” he gasped. “Fucking pudding!”
Shank wasn't amused. He thought Weevil was being too generous by far, and Eamon's unflappable calm was more galling than ever. It was like the Saxon mutt didn't even realize he was being bent over a barrel, and that if he didn't deliver, he'd have his guts rearranged. He watched Weevil casually count out ten shilling and pass them back to Eamon, and he wanted to scream. He didn't however.
“What are you doing Watcyn?” Shank asked in Welsh, once Eamon had gone. “Why are you so generous to him? He's a Saxon dog, a stranger, but you treat him better than your own family. What-”
Weevil hissed for quiet, and Shank choked down his next words. He waited in impatient silence as Weevil scratched an amount into one of his ledgers, and deposited Eamon's bag of coin into a little strongbox, which contained still more coin: some of it gold.
“I told you cousin,” Weevil replied in his crude English. “We have to be careful with that one.”
“Why? Because he's a knight? Like I haven't dealt with knights before.”
Weevil blinked at his cousin's disdain. “You think you could kill him, hey?” he asked.
“I'd have his throat slit before he could draw his sword.”
“You think you're a hard man, hey cousin? Well there are knights, and then there are knights, and that young cunt was raised to be knight. That cunt grew up getting his head smashed in by people made famous for killing, until he calloused up harder than boiled leather. He fought his first battle when he was fourteen. Fourteen! What were you doing at fourteen, hey? You were sniffing around my sister, begging to have your cod tugged; that's what you were doing. You've never been in a battle, and you've only ever killed frightened chickens what don't pay their debts. That doesn't make you hard cousin.
“Nah. Eamon may be young, but he's a proper killer. That's why Bairon come to us. He didn't even wait to see how his man did in the fight today did he?”
“No,” Shank admitted.
“No. And why didn't he? Because he knew Ogier would lose, that's why. Our Eamon may not look it, but he's deadly. He's not proper famous, but most killers in France and Flanders know his name, just like you know the names of all the promising young terriers being raised up for next year's baiting.”
“So, what then?” Shank demanded sulkily. “What if he doesn't give you what you want?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe we'll take Bairon up on his offer. We'll see. But I'm telling you now cousin, if we end up killing him, it's not going to be with daggers in my office. We might get him, you and me together, with three or four lads coming through the door, but I'm not going to risk my own neck chancing that.” Weevil paused, thinking about Reed then: the greasy rat. Even the best terriers could lose an eye if a rat decided to go down hard. “Nah. We'll have to be smart about it.”
“We have those crossbows that come up with the mastiff from London,” Shank said brightly.
Weevil had nothing to say to this idea. “You have the packet for Cardiff?” he asked in Welsh.
“You don't want to wait to hear back from the Saxon?”
“No. Give it to the Monk. I'll send another rider if he tells us anything juicy.”
“Fitz William ain't hiring men-at-arms for show. It's bound to be something Short Stockings wants to hear about.”
“For sure mate,” Weevil said, in English once more. “But fitz William keeps his mouth shut. I doubt he'll tell Eamon anything we don't already know.”
“Then why-” Shank began: his voice rising to a whine with his frustration.
“Go and take the packet to the Monk.”