The Guilt of Innocents

PROLOGUE

York, late November 1372

The tavern noises swirled above Drogo’s bent head, but he found them easier to ignore than the constant chatter of his daughters and wife in his tiny home. He loved them more than his life, but when he was home they could not let him rest. After a week piloting ships on the Ouse he was weary to the bone but they thought he was home to make repairs and listen to their tales of woe. So he’d come to the tavern intending to drink himself into a comfortable stupor and then stumble home to pass out, blissfully oblivious to all.

He had just begun his first ale when the man he least wished to see appeared at his table.

‘Behind the tavern,’ was all the man said before turning sharp and walking back out into the chilly afternoon.

Fearing him too much to ignore him, Drogo gulped down what remained in his tankard and pushed himself from the table, clumsily spilling the drink of the well-dressed man across from him.

‘Watch what you’re doing,’ the man muttered.

Drogo apologised aloud, but beneath his breath he cursed as he walked away. ‘Mewling merchant. Thinks he’s the centre of God’s kingdom on earth. He can afford to spill ale.’

Outside the wind encouraged Drogo to duck quickly into the narrow alley. The overhanging roofs blocked what little light remained in the sky, and Drogo had not yet adjusted to the dark when he felt a sharp blade slice across his cheek. ‘For pity’s sake!’ He flung up his hands to shield himself but too late to prevent another cut, this one on his neck.

‘I warned you what would happen if you crossed me,’ his attacker growled. ‘Thieving and telling tales.’

Another flick of the blade sliced Drogo’s hands.

‘Keep your cursed money!’ Drogo shouted. ‘I wash my hands of you.’

He turned and bolted down Petergate and through Bootham Bar, the streets blessedly empty, not looking back until he stumbled just without the city walls. The bastard was not following. Drogo slowed his pace and hurried on towards the Abbey Staithe and the safety of his fellow bargemen.

‘Dear Lord, I swear I’ll stick to my proper work from now on, I’m a pilot and a bargeman, not a trafficker. I swear.’