The Pardoner's Crime by Keith Souter Page A

to further defend the keep. It was protected by a ditch and innermoat of its own, so that it formed a stepping-stone between the bailey courtyard and the keep. Any attackers would then have to cross an internal drawbridge to reach the barbican, then pass through its gate with a portcullis and then fight their way along a right-angled passageway before coming to another gate and portcullis. From there they would have to traverse yet another drawbridge over the internal moat around the barbican to gain access to the large drum towers that protected an internal stairway leading up the motte to the keep.
    â€˜The architects of this castle were taking no chances of the keep being taken, were they, my lord?’ Hubert asked, mirroring Sir Richard’s own thoughts.
    â€˜And it is a castle with a goodly population,’ returned Richard, pointing to the great semicircular bailey courtyard, which seemed to be thrumming with people, animals, chickens and activity. ‘It is a fair-sized hamlet in its own right.’
    At the far end of the courtyard, some men in aprons and smocks were hefting sacks into what seemed to be a bakehouse , while next door smoke rose from the chimney of what was clearly a kitchen block. Dominating the courtyard though was a great hall, a manor house in itself with three storeys and a parapetted roof, with smaller, but no less grand apartments sweeping the curve of the bailey on its left. Hither and thither men and women criss-crossed the courtyard attending to the various tasks of running the castle, while above them on the battlemented walls half-a-dozen men at arms kept up a watch, on both the castle interior and the countryside without.
    The porter had been standing respectfully in attendance and he now coughed. ‘My master, Sir Thomas Deyville is come, Sir Richard.’
    From a building to their left a door opened and a small stocky man in a knee-length purple robe and wearing a beaver hat came down the steps and stood facing Sir Richard and Hubert. He was of middle years with a pepper and saltbeard and shrewd eyes which shifted from one to the other, as if appraising them as friends or foes.
    â€˜Welcome to Sandal Castle, Sir Richard,’ he said gruffly, with the slightest of bows. ‘I had expected you earlier.’
    His slightly hostile tone did not go unmissed by Richard. From what he had heard about the Deputy Steward of the Manor of Wakefield, he had in fact expected no less. Indeed, it was because of his apparent harshness that King Edward had sent Richard to Wakefield. Richard smiled genially and returned the bow. A pace behind, Hubert followed suit.
    â€˜I am much impressed with the castle,’ Richard said. ‘We had intended arriving earlier, but we came through Wakefield and we became embroiled in an investigation. A criminal matter.’
    Sir Thomas Deyville’s eyes narrowed. ‘A criminal matter? Is this something that should have been reported to me?’ He nodded at the porter, who immediately turned on his heel and returned to the gatehouse. ‘You had best come into my house, Sir Richard. We can talk there.’ He pointed a stubby finger at Hubert. ‘Your man can go over to the kitchens and have refreshment there. We shall dine later, since I have arranged a meal in your honour.’ And turning he mounted the steps and held the door open for Sir Richard.
    They entered an airy room that was plainly furnished with a couple of stout wooden stools, a table covered with scrolls, a map and several earthenware mugs. Sir Thomas rang a handbell and few moments later the door opened and a middle-aged woman in a shapeless grey gown and wimple limped in slowly, followed by a grimy boy bearing a flask and a fresh mug.
    â€˜This is my wife, Lady Alecia,’ Sir Thomas announced.
    Sir Richard bowed and took the lady’s hand, noticing immediately the nodules of arthritis that explained her lameness. Yet, as he gazed at her face, he noted that