Paul, the innkeeper, was unable to sit down in the buttery until well into the night. The cries and laughter had gradually faded as men fell asleep—some, like the captain himself, staggering to individual rooms. Sir Hector had gone at least three hours ago, Paul thought distractedly, wiping his forehead with his towel, so he at least would be asleep by now.
A step behind him heralded the arrival of his wife. “Margery? I thought you’d have gone to bed by now.”
She sank down onto the bench beside him, gazing round the little room with its wreckage of empty barrels, pots and jugs. “I’d better start a new brew tomorrow,” she said tiredly. Her face was gray even in the yellow candlelight, and the lines at either side of her mouth were like slashes in her skin. Even her green tunic and off-white apron hung dispiritedly as if over-fatigued. She pulled her wimple free and scratched her hair loose.
He put out a hand and touched her arm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get some of them to move, but at least they’ve not caused any trouble. There’s not been any fighting or anything.”
“What of the other guests? What happened to them?”
“They’ve all decided to go. The goldsmith and his apprentice were first, then the burgess from Bath, then the merchant and his family…They all found they had important business elsewhere and had to move on—always shortly after one of the captain’s men had spoken to them. I suppose we should be grateful no one was hurt. There was no violence.”
In answer she shrugged, a tiny gesture of exhaustion. “No, and they’ve done little damage—just some broken jugs, and they can soon be replaced. Let’s hope they’ll be gone tomorrow.”
“I don’t know about that. I heard one of them talking earlier, and he was saying they might stay for a few nights more.”
“I hope not!”
He could sympathize with her hostility. They were used to quieter guests: merchants, clerics and burgesses. It was rare for them to have more than ten staying at the inn, and a group of thirty, all men-at-arms, was unheard of. The money would be welcome, if they did not argue too much about the charge but, as Paul knew, this kind of client was all too likely to balk at the real cost of the stay. Soldiers were prone to preying on the fears of peaceable folk to try to force large discounts. Paul sighed; he would have to add a goodly portion to the amount they had drunk so that he could haggle over the final reckoning. Otherwise he would end up subsidizing their stay, and that was something he could ill-afford.
His wife’s mind was on the same problem. “It’s not just the food and drink, is it? We’ve got the fodder for their horses to buy in as well. What if they refuse to pay enough?”
“We’ll have to see,” he said comfortingly, patting her knee.
She smiled, but then her face hardened. “You know where Sarra’s gone?”
“Sarra?” He could not meet her gaze.
“With him,” she said. “With their captain. She’s gone to his chamber with him.”
Paul sighed. “She’s old enough to know what she’s doing, Margery.”
“Old enough? She may be old enough, but she obviously doesn’t realize!” his wife said hotly. “You know how hopeless she is: her head’s up in the clouds most of the time. And what about him? You know as well as I do what sort of man he is. He’s just taking advantage of her, and she’ll get nothing from him.”
“Margery, she is old enough to know her own mind,” he repeated. “And if he is taking advantage, what can we do?”
“She thought he might marry her; you know what a romantic fool she is.”
“In that case she was trying to take advantage of him as well,” Paul said reasonably.
“But what if she gets with child? He won’t want to help her then, will he? We’ll be the ones left holding the baby!”
The innkeeper squeezed her hand. “We’ll just have to see what we can do for the best if it comes to it.”
“But what if she does have a child? She can’t look after it, can she? And I wouldn’t want to see her on the street like Judith and her poor Rollo.” Her eyes widened. “Rollo! You know what they say about the boy. Perhaps…”
“Enough, Margery,” he said and stood up. “It’s time we were going to our own beds. It’s late, and we have much to do in the morning to get this mess straight. If there is a child, we’ll see what should be done then. I’m not going to worry about it now. Come, let’s go to bed.”
She stared up at him, a little angry at being put off, but then gave a self-mocking smile and rose. “Very well, husband. But I’d be happier if that stupid girl had left him alone.”
“Maybe she’ll have cause to regret her actions too,” Paul said, glancing in the direction of the room where Sarra and the captain now lay, as if he could see through the wattle and timber. For some reason, he had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach; he recognized it as a premonition of something evil about to happen, and the awareness made him shudder.
4
It was two days later that the knight of Furnshill, Baldwin, strode out into the sunshine with a feeling of impending doom. The morning was clear and bright, small clouds like freshly cleaned balls of fleece hung suspended in a deep blue sky, and the sound of larks singing high overhead, the chirruping of the tits in the bushes, and the raucous, chuckling sqawks of blackbirds scurrying off, flying inches from the ground in urgent panic at his appearance, gave him a momentary respite from his black mood.
Tall, with brown hair shot through with silver and a neat black beard which just followed the line of his jaw, Baldwin was an anachronistic figure for a modern knight. Most men went cleanshaven these days, like his friend Simon Puttock, the bailiff of Lydford; few sported even a moustache. Nor did his dress follow the latest fashion for ostentatious display, for he preferred to appear in a stained old tunic which hung loosely until nipped in at his belt. Other knights would have commented on his shabby old boots, which hardly had any toe at all, and did not match the modern courtly trend for elongated points curling back toward the ankle. A long scar marked Sir Baldwin’s cheek, stretching from temple to jaw; the sole remaining evidence of a lively past.
As his attire showed, Sir Baldwin Furnshill was not like other men in this increasingly secular world. He had been a warrior monk, one of the Knights Templar, until the Order had been disbanded; with its destruction his own faith in the church had been shattered. Now forty-six, he was well into his middle age and content to spend the remainder of his life as a rural knight, leading a quiet existence, avoiding the pomp of tournaments and other royal festivals. The supposed excitements of life at the center of politics bored him, not because he disliked power, but because he saw those that sought it to be manipulative and unprincipled. His own experience had led him to doubt the honor of those at the very pinnacle of political and religious authority, and the thought of circulating among men who were, to his mind, corrupt and dishonest was unattractive to him.
At a time when King Edward II was so ineffectual, this was not a common point of view. Many wished to get close to the monarch, hoping that by proximity they would be able to snatch the control which constantly eluded Edward himself. Baldwin Furnshill was happier leaving such machinations and knavery to others. For himself, he was content to stay in Devon and find satisfaction in his work, leaving the administration of the nation to those who felt they had an aptitude for it.
But there were times when he could not help becoming involved, and this was one of them. As he thought of his meeting, his face took on a glowering aspect, and the beauty of the countryside ahead could not relieve his sudden ill-humor.
This was usually his favorite position, before his old long house, looking down to the south. The building itself was on rising land, and in front the ground fell away for a short distance. Apart from a small hillock, there was nothing to obscure the view, and Baldwin often came out here to sit on the old tree-trunk to consider any problems he had, letting his mind range over issues and solutions while he gazed into the distance.
Today he kn
ew he would not find peace. He seated himself, resting his arms on his thighs and staring, but could not see a way out of it.
The problem had its roots in his acceptance two years before of the position of Keeper of the King’s Peace. At the time he had been wary of taking on the responsibility, knowing that it must inevitably embroil him in any arguments or disputes which exercised the local population, but holding magisterial powers meant that he could at least display a little restraint with some of the more paltry of crimes, and he had managed to help in two serious investigations over the last two or three years, bringing two murderers to justice. That was the positive side; the negative side lay in the inevitable calls to meet others who felt he was important enough to be courted.
And now he had been asked to go to Peter Clifford’s to meet Walter Stapledon.
He sighed, forcing himself to sit upright and scowling at a house so far off near the horizon it appeared as a mere splash of white among the green of the trees which surrounded it. If there was a way to avoid the meeting, he failed to see it.
It was not that he disliked Stapledon—he had never met the man—but the Bishop of Exeter was an astute politician, not a mere priest. In late 1316 Walter Stapledon had helped create a new movement which strove to break the deadlock between the King and his cousin, Thomas of Lancaster. Acrimonious disputes between Edward II and his Steward of England had led to the brink of civil war, and Walter and his friends had managed to avert it only through skilled negotiation.
And now Baldwin was invited to meet him…The knight set his jaw: there was only one reason why the Bishop would want to meet him, and that was to force him to declare his allegiances. Baldwin had few loyalties: in the main he recognized a commitment to his villeins, but that was as far as his convictions took him. From his bitter experience, prelates and kings were equally capable of squashing people with as little compunction as they would a flea if there was a profit in it, and he saw no need to ally himself to any of them. He was reluctant to meet the imposing Bishop and be questioned, but there was no way to evade the invitation; he would have to go.
There was one silver lining to this storm cloud: his old friend Simon Puttock would also be there. Peter Clifford’s messenger had taken special care to mention that the bailiff to Lydford and his wife would be visiting Peter at the same time. This carefully appended comment showed how alive Peter was to the knight’s antipathy to politicians, and Baldwin had nearly laughed when the youth had recited his message, frowning with concentration: “And my master said to be sure to tell you that Simon Puttock, bailiff of Lydford, will also be there, and his family. He knows you will want to see them. They will be joining my master for supper.”
Baldwin snorted.
Yes, he would have to go and meet this Bishop—but he must be alive to the risks and take care not to become embroiled in any political matters.
As it happened, the meeting with Stapledon was the least of his difficulties that night.
Peter Clifford’s house was a pleasant, airy building near the new church, which was still some way from being completed. Piles of rubble and masonry waiting to be dressed lay all round in untidy heaps as if a siege had been in progress with heavy artillery. When Baldwin arrived at a little after noon, his servant by his side, he gazed about the place with interest.
The walls of the new church looked to him like the wharves of a busy port: the scaffolding rose on all sides like the thrusting masts and flag-poles of a fleet in harbor. He paused at the sight, studying the grotesque structure of the scaffolding, all bound together with hemp and with walkways of flimsy timber, with a wince. Baldwin feared no man alive—he had witnessed the worst sufferings that men could inflict—but he had a dislike verging on loathing when it came to heights. He could not understand how men could scramble along such insubstantial planks like monkeys, putting their faith in the strength of knots tied by others. Too many regularly died, proving that such faith was misplaced.
“So, Baldwin. You’ve not lost your distrust of English workers then, to judge from the disgust on your face?”
Just by his stirrup was a tall, dark-haired man with a square face burned brown from sun and wind and, as Baldwin turned, he gave a slow smile.
“Simon!” The knight passed his reins to Edgar, his waiting servant, and dropped from his horse. In a moment he was shaking hands and grinning, but the expression on his friend’s face made him hesitate. There was a pinched tiredness in Simon’s grin which he had not seen before. It looked as if the bailiff was concealing a secret pain.
“Baldwin, it’s good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you too.”
Pulling away, Simon said thinly, attempting humor, “Oh yes—just so you have someone to talk to while the good Bishop is spouting forth about affairs of state, you mean?”
Baldwin grimaced shamefacedly. “Well, not entirely, old friend, but your company would help to—perhaps—divert the conversation from some of the more serious affairs of state.”
“I hope so,” Simon laughed. “If not, Margaret will slit my throat.”
“Margaret is here?”
“Where else should my wife be, but at my side? Yes, she’s here.”
While Edgar led the horses away to the stables, they walked to Peter’s house, but before they arrived at the door Baldwin took his friend by the arm and halted, studying him. Simon had lost weight; his face was thinner than Baldwin recalled, and lines of strain were etched deep into his forehead and at either side of his mouth. His dark hair had begun to recede, giving him a distinguished appearance, but his gray eyes, once sparkling with intelligence, were now dim and vapid. “Simon, tell me if I am prying where I’m not wanted, but is there something wrong?” Baldwin said gently.
“You’re my closest friend,” Simon said, and the other man was shocked to see his eyes glisten. “I…You can’t intrude, Baldwin, I have no secrets from you.” He looked away and said in a broken voice: “It’s Peterkin, my boy.”
The knight frowned in quick concern. Peterkin was Simon and Margaret’s son, a lad of just over a year and a half. “What is it, Simon?”
“He’s dead.”
“Simon…I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’m almost over it. It has been hard, though. You know how much we both wanted a son, and to have lost him like this is very cruel.”
“When? I mean, how did he die?”
Simon made a futile little gesture. “Three weeks ago. He had been fractious for some time, crying and whining, but we didn’t know why. For a day and a night he had a fever, and wouldn’t eat, diarrhea all the time, and then…And then he was dead.”
“My friend, I…” Baldwin murmured, but Simon shook his head.
“It’s all right, Baldwin.”
“And Margaret?”
“She has taken it cruelly. It’s not surprising.” His voice was taut.
“Let us go inside,” said Baldwin. Simon’s anguish, though he tried to keep it under control, was painful to witness. The knight could feel his misery.
They walked into the house. Inside, Baldwin saw Simon’s wife sitting by the fire, her daughter Edith at her side. Behind them was Hugh, Simon’s servant, and a short way away Peter Clifford sat on his chair. Baldwin was glad that the Bishop had not yet arrived—a stranger’s presence would have inhibited Margaret. As it was, she had little desire to talk. The knight nodded to Peter, who gave him a twisted grin. He had been a close friend of Simon’s since before Baldwin had met the bailiff, yet he found it difficult to know what to say to them. Peter had never married, and consoling those who had lost their children was, he felt, beyond his powers. It was a relief for him to see another friend arrive.
Rather than greet the priest, Baldwin walked over to Margaret and knelt before her, his sword scabbard clattering on the flagged floor as he took her hands in his. “Margaret, I have just heard about Peterkin. I am terribly sorry. There’s nothing I can do or say which will ease your loss, but you know you have my
deepest sympathy.”
“Baldwin, thank you.” She gave him a fragile smile. “Of course we miss him awfully. We can only hope that God grants us another son to take his place.”
Peter Clifford leaned forward and patted her hand. “He will, my dear. He will. Keep your faith, and He will send more children to lighten your life.”
Margaret sat still and made no comment, holding Baldwin’s gaze. To him she looked like a tragic figure from a Greek play. Usually tall and willowy, with the pale complexion and long fair hair that Baldwin associated with the women of the Holy Roman Empire, now she seemed shrivelled and wasted. Her skin, once soft as a fresh peach, looked dry and brittle, her hair, which he had only ever seen carefully braided and held in its net, straggled carelessly, making her seem much older.
“He was our first son,” she murmured. “After seven years, we had managed to have a brother for our daughter. And now he has been snatched away from us.”
Baldwin wanted to console her, but could think of nothing to say. He got up, staring down at her, while she, as if unaware of his presence, gazed at the floor. Across the room, Simon stood, wretched. The bailiff was transfixed by his wife’s heartbreak, but trapped by his own feelings of loss, he had no idea how to soothe her.
The knight quietly stepped away from Margaret. Now he was glad he had come, if only to protect Margaret and her husband from any comments made by the Bishop. As he moved away he saw her hand grip her daughter’s convulsively. It looked like a desperate attempt to hold on to her, as if by doing so she could protect Edith’s precious life and save her from being stolen away as well.
Walter Stapledon arrived an hour after Baldwin, but the atmosphere had not improved. Peter Clifford was out of the room when Baldwin heard the blowing and stamping of horses in the yard, and he noticed a nervous young canon leaping to his feet in alarm at the realization that Peter was not there to welcome his guests. Motioning to him, Baldwin said, “Fetch your master. I will entertain Bishop Stapledon.” The lad immediately ran from the room, and Baldwin, sighing, left the Puttocks and their servant alone for a moment. His own servant, Edgar, followed along behind him.
The Crediton Killings Page 4
