So far he’d been quite lucky, hanging around in the vill at every opportunity since he’d first met Julia. He had discovered her route to the Holy Well where she filled her buckets every day, and had carried them for her, and she’d rewarded him after the inquest with a tussle and grope in her room. He was hoping that another trip to town might produce better results. Country wenches were sometimes all for it, but a few like this one needed nurturing, he reckoned. Hey, that was part of the fun though, the thrill of the chase. It was less exciting when the draggle-tail agreed immediately.
He ran out from the stable where he had been loitering, and took hold of Baldwin’s reins while the knight dismounted. ‘Sir? Did you have any joy?’
‘What are you doing here?’ Baldwin growled. ‘Have you no duties to attend to?’
‘I think everyone is waiting to hear what is happening. A fresh messenger has just gone up to see the castellan. How was Temple? Did you learn much?’
‘A little, maybe,’ Baldwin said tersely. He nodded to the Coroner and Roger, who walked their mounts straight to the stables, not wishing to discuss the matter with a mere hobbledehoy like Ivo. He was completely beneath Jules’s dignity, of course. For his part, Baldwin could easily comprehend his feelings.
Ivo recalled something. ‘Maybe you should ask Squire Warin, the friend of Richer, if he saw anything. I saw him going up towards Temple last evening while you were at the inquest.’
‘Squire Warin,’ Simon mused. ‘Richer’s companion. Have you heard anything about him? He isn’t a local man, from his accent.’
Ivo shook his head as he stroked Baldwin’s horse. ‘No. He’s a man-at-arms who came back here with Richer a short while ago. No one here seems to know much about him. Regular mystery, he is.’
‘A close friend of Richer?’ Simon wondered.
‘Seems close enough …’ Ivo said, but added, ‘for a man who’s Richer’s master. That Richer’s just a mounted warrior, when all’s said and done. They’ve been through some things together, though.’
‘Why should you say that?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Just looking at them, you can tell. They mix with others when they want, but not too often, and more often they’ll stay together talking low, away from anyone as might listen. They seem to trust each other, though. Warin often seems wary of others, but he’ll go to talk to Richer; Richer looks to Warin when he feels threatened, too.’
‘You’ve seen him threatened?’ Baldwin asked.
‘When you were with him this morning,’ Ivo said. ‘Soon as you were gone, he went to the bar for a whet, but when he came out, he saw Warin and the two of them went into a little huddle to discuss things. It’s not the first time I’ve seen them do that.’
Baldwin and Simon exchanged a look. Simon was interested in what the lad had said, but he could see Baldwin was reluctant to discuss matters in front of Ivo. He hadn’t got over his initial revulsion during the ride here. In case Baldwin was going to forget the information, Simon said, ‘We’ve heard from the priest at Temple that the maid, Julia, has taken up with the man who was supporting Athelina.’
‘Yeah. But she wouldn’t tell me who it was,’ Ivo said. ‘Why, do you want me to see if I can persuade her?’
Baldwin grunted. ‘If you can find out, it may help us. Otherwise we’ll have to talk to her. Now, can you take our mounts for us and get them groomed?’ When Ivo had gone, he continued: ‘It seems curious to me that Warin and Richer should have turned up here just before these killings began. All those years away, and presumably this vill was quiet enough, with just the odd accidental death, like Serlo’s apprentice, and now suddenly there is this rash of murders.’
The Coroner rejoined them at this moment, accompanied by his clerk. ‘What is this? Don’t tell me that odious little man had something useful to impart?’
‘It is curious,’ Baldwin said coolly, ‘how the shabbiest fellow can occasionally point the way. Take this one: he says that Richer has a good friend who is a squire. The two arrived here together, apparently, and are close companions. Even now they discuss much together.’
‘You make them sound like confederates!’ Jules said. Roger said nothing, but his eyes were heavily lidded as he watched Baldwin.
‘Perhaps I do,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is natural that Richer should come here because of his childhood; a man will often return to the place of his birth – but what is his companion doing here?’
‘Surely no man of any intelligence would think of returning to Cardinham!’ Jules said dismissively. ‘This fellow Richer could have made himself wealthy elsewhere if he had had a mind to work. Why come here?’
Baldwin swallowed his anger. He himself had returned to the manor where he had been raised when the Temple was dissolved. There was nowhere else for him to go. Of course, like all aspiring knights, he had been brought up elsewhere, in a household where he could learn his duties and skills, but still he had wanted to return to his birthplace. It was just as well he did so too, for only when he arrived there did he learn that his older brother, who had inherited their father’s estates, had died, and that he was now the lord of the manor.
‘Some,’ he said, ‘would surely look upon the place of their birth with affection. Even this man Richer, who had seen his family die here, must have felt a strong tug. And if his friend was in any way troubled, it would be natural for Richer to bring him here as well.’
‘Come now! If this fellow Warin is the more senior of the two – and you say he is a squire? – he would have suggested a place for them to go,’ Jules said.
‘Unless,’ Roger put in, ‘Warin had nowhere to go.’
‘What do you mean?’ Baldwin asked.
‘If a man sought to evade justice, this vill would be a good, secure hiding-place,’ Roger said, and then he set his head on one side. ‘I recall Richer, when you spoke to him earlier, immediately saying that he could have had no part in the freeing of the man Mortimer from the Tower, for example.’
‘So?’ Baldwin pressed him.
Jules intervened, frowning darkly. ‘Surely you don’t mean that this man could be … But as he himself said, it would take days to get here after leaving London.’
‘We don’t know exactly when Mortimer escaped from London,’ Roger said reasonably. ‘It could be that he was out of prison weeks ago, and news has only now filtered here. We are not,’ he added, gazing about him, ‘on the main thoroughfare. We are beyond those lands which most would consider civilised.’
Simon was grinning. ‘You mean to say Squire Warin could be Lord Mortimer? But he’s one of the most famous men in the country! How could he hope to travel here without being seen? His face is well-known, surely? He was one of King Edward’s most trusted advisers and friends!’
Roger said grimly, ‘And now he is a homeless wanderer, accused of Grand Treason, reviled by the King, detested by all who may come across him. He—’
‘Yes, I know,’ Simon interrupted. ‘But surely he couldn’t hope to walk abroad without being recognised and arrested.’
‘He has gone somewhere,’ Roger pointed out.
‘He will have gone to the Low Countries,’ Baldwin said with certainty.
‘Would you recognise him?’ Roger asked Simon.
‘Me? Me? Of course not! I’ve never been to London or York,’ Simon laughed.
‘Nor would I. Nor any man here, I should think,’ Roger said pensively. ‘So this would be a perfect place for such a man to conceal himself.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ Simon expostulated. ‘Here we are, three King’s officers and a clerk too, and although we know a man should be taken, none of us can tell whether this man is in fact the one whom we seek! Coroner, do you have a description?’
‘There may be one waiting when I return home to Bodmin,’ Jules said. ‘But I’ve heard nothing of this since I came here.’
The four men stared at each other, and then Baldwin gave a secret grin and resorted to studying the ground at their feet rather than meet the others’
eyes. The other three felt the same trepidation at the thought that the kingdom’s most notorious criminal could be here with them, but, for his money, Baldwin was quite sure that Mortimer had fled across the Channel. From the Tower it would be easy to climb into a small boat and take off along the Thames to meet with a larger ship to cross to the Continent. Far safer.
Some delight was afforded him in the expression of alarm on Sir Jules’s face, although he was more amused still by the look of doubtful horror on Simon’s.
‘There is little chance that this Squire Warin is Sir Roger Mortimer,’ he said at last. ‘But I for one would be glad to learn what the man has to say about his presence. Who is he, and why is he here?’
At that moment, the focus of Sir Baldwin’s interest was in the vill with Richer; the two men were strolling along the roadway towards the tavern. They passed the lane which led down to Alexander’s house and the mill, and soon after there was the church. Richer was tempted to enter, but Warin reminded him that Serlo’s widow would probably still be inside, watching over the body of her son. Richer regretfully agreed to go there later, when the woman had gone home.
At the point where they must turn right to go to the tavern, Richer stopped and glanced back the way they had come. He was almost sure he saw a figure dart in among the shrubs and bushes which lined the roads, and for a moment, he nearly called Warin’s attention to it. However, the squire was already striding towards the alehouse, and Richer told himself not to be such a fool. It was his nerves, that was all. He was anxious because of the way his old enemy had suddenly died, leaving him as the clear suspect.
Richer was still shocked by the idea that Serlo could have fired his home and killed his family. Although he hadn’t admitted it even to Warin, those words of Serlo’s had brought on his migraine with full force last night. It was appalling to think that the devil could have wrought such damage. As the eldest, Richer had gone off to celebrate the finish of the harvest, while the others remained at home. They’d already taken too much cider and ale at the other parties and the castle’s own banquet for the vill.
Strangely enough, Richer could still remember some of those other parties, even though they took place so long ago. He often found that: he could bring to mind events of ten or even twenty years ago perfectly clearly, while forgetting those which happened last week or last month. At least there was some solace in recalling the past: the sweet taste of Athelina’s lips, her lightness when he picked her up, her agility and her laugh, somehow innocent and exciting at the same time. Christ, how he had adored her! And just as he thought that they’d be partners for life, she was snatched from him …
During those sixteen years away his life had consisted of endless journeys with his master to the separate manors which made up Sir Henry’s demesne, enduring rough roads, lousy food, worse ale, and all in the name of his master without benefit to himself. Coming back, all that had been supposed to change; Richer should soon have found himself in a stronger position, and might even have been able to plan a marriage – and now he might lose his position and future because of damned Serlo again.
Warin was not concerned, from the look of him. He was an odd one, though. Richer had often wondered exactly where he stood in Warin’s mind: a mere churl who could be discarded at a whim – or a trusted companion? Until this last week, he would have said definitely the latter. They had been through fire and war together, experiences which forged a strong friendship. Yet Warin was always aware of his position in the world, and a man like that would find it difficult to maintain a solid bond even with the comrades of his youth. Richer had been a close mëat, or mate, as they said in the North, but now … Warin seemed ever more acutely aware of the problems of his position. He trusted Richer usually, but for how much longer was a good question.
The sun was still high in the sky as they walked along the roadway, and Richer could feel the heat seeping through his tunic, but for all that, he knew that a part of his warmth was caused by the accusing stares of the householders.
Before they passed the church it hadn’t been so bad. There had been men splitting hazel in a copse, and they’d stopped to stare as Richer walked by, but here, in the middle of the vill, it was worse. A woman appeared in a doorway, only to slam it shut, as though to prevent any trace of Richer, even his shadow, from entering her room. At the top of the lane there came the sounds of women at work. There were many gathered at the Holy Well, and from the bottom of the road Richer could see the women walking back with filled pitchers in their arms, but all laughter ceased when they saw Richer. Their eyes followed him and Warin as they turned right to go to the alehouse, but even when they were out of view, Richer heard no return of their gladness. There was only a deathly hush, like the silence before a battle.
Warin as usual appeared unaware of the tension about him, but Richer could see that his master was keeping a keen eye on the woods and hedgerows about them, making sure there was no risk of some grubby-arsed villein taking a pot-shot at them.
The alehouse was a reassuring sight. Richer felt calmer just seeing it; it was so much like the house in which he had been born and raised, the one in which his family had perished. Suddenly he was struck with a premonition that, should he enter, he would suffer the same fate. Greyness swam before his eyes and he stumbled and all but fell.
‘What is it? You aren’t scared, are you?’
Richer felt the quick grasp of a fist at his upper arm, and the shock of the jerk as he was caught. The mists cleared and he grew aware of the sun again. As though to soothe his fears, a thrush began to sing in a nearby tree.
‘I’m all right.’ He released his arm from Warin’s hand.
The squire’s face was dark with suspicion and concern. There were deep gashes at either side of his mouth; now his brows came together. ‘Keep with me, friend. Together, I can protect you. Apart, I don’t know. Stay with me. We can face down your accusers and make them retract.’
‘Yes,’ Richer said, but he had already seen his ruin in Warin’s eyes: the man thought he had killed Serlo. For Warin, it would be possible to defend Richer against the charge of murder if Richer could face down the men of the vill, but if Richer failed, Warin could do little to help him. His master couldn’t protect him. Not now. Perhaps never again.
That reflection brought tears to Richer’s eyes. Loathed by the people among whom he had grown, now he had lost the support of the man for whom he had worked more than ten years past. He would surely be killed here.
If he were to die, he could at least do so with honour, he told himself, and he forced his chin a little higher, fixed a look of pride upon his features, and pushed the door wide.
If his own master chose to discard him, he would at least make the whole vill remember him for a long time to come.
Lady Anne walked about her small orchard trying to settle her spirits, but it wasn’t easy. The child in her belly was squirming and kicking, apparently aware of her unease.
She knew the pressure on her husband was immense. When messengers came to speak to him, they often passed on snippets of information which could be fascinating to a man so far from the centre of politics and intrigue. Or woman, of course.
Many believed that a King’s court was a hallowed place in which beautiful men and women engaged themselves in courtly love or discussing great affairs of state, always rational and reasonable, always patient and purposeful.
She knew better.
Any great man’s household was like another’s, and the way a man got on was by stabbing others in the back, literally or metaphorically. In the King’s Household, the currency was favours and power, the same as anywhere else – the only difference being that the winnings were more tempting.
All knew that the King was in the grip of a devious and mendacious politician who would stop at nothing. If he thought he could get away with it, Despenser would be happy to slit the King’s throat and take his realm. As he had already done with Mortimer’s lands.
Poor Mortimer.
Once so powerful and trusted, now an outcast. He had lost his lands and his castles, but at least he was alive. Perhaps he could build a new life.
The messenger today had told of Mortimer’s daring escape, and the instruction brought was: arrest or kill him, but bring Mortimer to the King. Traitor and rebel, he must suffer the punishment due for his crimes. All the realm knew that his offences were against Despenser, not the King himself, but that was enough. Despenser had decided he must die.
Nicholas walked in and went straight to the jug of wine at the table nearest the fire. He poured himself a large cup and drained it in three gulps before sitting and pouring a second.
‘My love?’ she said. ‘What did the messenger say?’
It was painful to see her man in this sort of mood, gruff and unresponsive, but when she had seen Nick’s face blanch as he read through the message, she had known that the news was evil. Especially when he took the messenger into the solar to question him further.
Nicholas grunted. ‘It’s worse than I thought. No one knows where Mortimer is; the King has sent men all over the realm demanding that all strangers be questioned. It seems he believes Mortimer will try to make his way to Ireland. He was respected there after he rebuilt the country once Edward Bruce, the invader, was killed, and the King fears he may build an army. That means he could be around here. It would make sense for Mortimer to find a ship from Wales or Cornwall; to reach Ireland from Wales, though, he’d have to pass through Despenser’s lands, so that’s not likely. No, I think Cornwall would make most sense. That means he could well pass by us. And God help us if he does and we don’t catch him!’
Lady Anne nodded, but she wasn’t persuaded that this was the real reason for his black mood. She knew her husband too well after six years of marriage; he had never fooled her. She went to him now and placed her hands on the back of his neck, kneading his muscles firmly, the way he liked it. Then she leaned down and kissed his head. ‘Come, my love. What is it that concerns you so? Is it him, or is it the other one?’
The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) Page 25
