Lamentation

The two broke off their talk and looked sharply up at us; hard, hostile faces. The bald one was in his late twenties, large, well-built and handsome, but with more than a touch of cruelty round the fleshy mouth. The fair one with the wart on his brow had narrow, greyhound-like features, and his expression held the same cold intensity as a hunting dog’s.

Loudly enough for the other patrons to hear, I said, ‘Gentlemen, we are making a citizen’s arrest upon you, for the murder of Armistead Greening on the tenth of this month.’

The fair man tensed, his eyes narrowing to slits, but the bald fellow looked at us with large, unreadable brown eyes, and then laughed. ‘Are you mad?’ he asked.

‘That we aren’t,’ Okedene said, raising his knife. ‘You were seen running with a bloody club from Armistead Greening’s workshop after killing him.’

There was a murmur of voices from the other tables. A couple got up hastily and left.

‘You’re not the authorities,’ the fair man growled.

‘We do not need to be,’ Nicholas answered, putting his hand to his sword. ‘Not for a citizen’s arrest.’

The bald man laughed. ‘What are you, a law student, by your little robe? Scratchy clerks come to arrest us?’

I said, ‘I am Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant at Law, charged by the victim’s family with investigating the murder under the coroner.’

The two glanced at each other, and I realized with a shiver that they had recognized my name. They looked over our little group more closely, weighing us up. The fair-haired man quietly slipped the hand furthest from us towards his sword, then jerked back as Nicholas swept his own sword from its scabbard and pointed it at the man’s throat, a glint of sunlight on the razor-sharp edge. ‘Don’t dare move, churl,’ he said, ‘or I’ll slit you. Hands on the table.’ I had wondered whether, when it came to it, Nicholas’s bravado would be matched by action. Now I knew.

The fair man sat stock-still. He looked at me, eyes boring into mine. ‘You’d do best to let us go,’ he said very quietly, ‘or there’ll be big trouble from those above us. You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with, hunchback.’

‘I can make a guess,’ I said, thinking of Richard Rich. ‘In any case, you’re under arrest.’

Both men were looking at me now. With his right hand Barak reached swiftly under the table on the bald man’s side, his left holding the knife on the table. ‘I’ll take your sword, matey,’ he said.

Then, so quickly I could not follow with my eyes, the man pulled a knife from his belt and stabbed it straight through the muscle between the first two fingers of Barak’s left hand, pinning it to the table. Barak yelled and dropped his knife with a clatter. Nicholas turned instinctively, and the narrow-faced man pushed his sword arm away with one hand, grabbing his own from under the bench with the other and slashing at Nicholas with it.

Both had moved with astonishing speed, and for a terrible second I thought Nicholas was lost, but he had raised his own sword in time to parry. Barak, meanwhile, reached for the knife pinning his hand to the table and, with another yell, managed to pull it out. Blood welled up. At the same moment the bald man reached for his sword, but Okedene, who had brought out his own knife, thrust it to the hilt into his shoulder. Quickly I pulled out my own weapon and held it to his throat. Barak could do no more than clutch at his hand.

For a moment I thought we had won, for Nicholas seemed to have the fair man at a disadvantage trying to fight from behind the table. But then with his free hand he reached down and grasped the table’s underside. Despite his slim build he was strong, for he managed to tip the table right over on us, sending pewter tankards flying. Nicholas, staggering back, dropped his sword. The fair man slashed at him, catching him on the chest so that blood gushed out. Okedene, caught by the table, fell over with a yell. The fair-haired man jumped from the alcove. His companion, clutching at his shoulder, reached down with his free hand and took up Nicholas’s sword.

Both made for the door, the fair man slashing at a potman who stood gaping at the scene; he jumped back frantically and a woman screamed. The two men turned in the doorway, menacing us with their swords for a moment, the face of the dark-haired man white with pain, Okedene’s knife still in his shoulder. Then they turned and ran. I stood looking after them. There was nothing I could do alone. Barak and Nicholas were both hurt, though thank heaven not severely, and Okedene was only now stumbling to his feet, pale and groaning.

The innkeeper appeared with two assistants, each bearing a cudgel. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked angrily. ‘Fighting and near murder in my inn. I’ll have the constable on you!’