Outside, he found a fair retinue of six men dismounting from their horses, grumbling and muttering as they rubbed sore backs and stretched stiff joints. There was one clerical type he could see, a man in a plain robe, climbing down from a wagon, and Baldwin made his way to him. “Bishop?”
“Not him. I am Bishop Stapledon.”
Baldwin spun round. Behind him was a man in his sixties, wearing a plain cloak and tunic, both of good quality and cut. At his belt was a short sword, the grip worn from regular use. Graying hair cut fashionably sat atop what looked like a warrior’s head, and Baldwin was reminded of the leaders of the Templars. He had the same aristocratic haughtiness, bred of a long family history and awareness of his power. When Baldwin glanced down he was not surprised to see that the Bishop’s boots were light and fashionable, the point rising elegantly, as befitted a courtier. It made him sigh.
“My Lord Bishop, Godspeed.” Not knowing the man, Baldwin preferred to bow a little and give him the customary formal greeting.
“Godspeed.” The Bishop had keen green-brown eyes which were perpetually on the brink of smiling, as if he was genuinely happy with his lot and saw no reason to be otherwise; Baldwin found himself liking the look of him. While the knight introduced himself and explained that Peter was supervising food in the kitchen, Stapledon nodded absently and issued a string of commands to his men. In minutes two servants were leading horses to the stables, while others lifted chests and bags from the wagon and carried them inside.
It was just as he was about to walk in that Baldwin asked him for a word in confidence.
“Of course, Sir Baldwin. What is it?”
The green eyes held his while he explained. “My friend Simon Puttock, the bailiff of Lydford Castle, has just lost his son, my lord. I fear it is not a cheerful gathering you have come to.”
“How old was the boy?”
“Eighteen or twenty months.”
“Good God! Ah well, we must see what we can do to divert them in their sadness, mustn’t we, Roger?”
This was addressed to a young man, clad in simple clerical gear of cassock, gown and hood. He was introduced to Baldwin as Roger de Grosse, the son of Sir Arnold in Exeter. Baldwin had heard of Sir Arnold de Grosse; he was a patron of a number of churches in Devon and Cornwall. Now, it appeared, he had decided his son should become a rector.
“Do you have a church selected for you?” Baldwin asked.
“Er…yes, sir. Callington. We have just been visiting it in Cornwall. I hope to be confirmed in my position soon,” he said nervously, casting a sidelong glance at the Bishop.
Baldwin indicated the entrance and they made their way inside. Trailing along behind the great politician and man of God, Baldwin had a twinge of doubt as to whether he had done the right thing in warning him about Simon and his wife, but the fear was dispelled as soon as they went into the hall.
Peter had returned, and stood, flustered, as the Bishop walked in. They exchanged greetings, but then Walter went over to Margaret. “My lady, I am so sad to hear of your loss. I promise you, I will remember him, and you, in my prayers. You are an intelligent woman; you know that nothing I can do or say will reduce your grief, but think on this: although God has seen fit to take your boy from you, and that is for some reason we cannot yet comprehend, He did at least give you the gift of the boy in the first place. He might never have done that. That He did so means He may intend giving you another, and this one you may keep.” As he stopped, her eyes filled with tears, and at first Baldwin was worried that he had upset her more, but then he saw her attempt a smile, and breathed a sigh of relief.
As midday crept into the afternoon, Paul sat in the inn’s buttery, carefully totting up his profits. Though he could neither read nor write, he had no difficulty in calculating bills, and could keep a tally of six simultaneously when he needed to. With all his space being taken up by the captain’s men-at-arms, he anticipated a cheerful reckoning at the end of their stay.
He was absolutely exhausted. The girls had run themselves off their feet, all but Sarra. He had quite failed to get the lass to bestir herself. The stupid girl had insisted that she was too tired to get up and work, when he went to her room—and when he roared that it was her fault for escorting the captain to his bedchamber, she had screeched at him to leave her alone or she would speak to Sir Hector about him. The threat was enough. His sole Parthian shot had been to point out that the captain and his men would soon be gone, and if she wanted to make sure she still had a job afterward, she should get out of bed and roll up her sleeves. It had not worked. He had not truly expected it to, for he knew how pig-headed she could be.
Soon he would have to go to the cookshop and collect the evening food. The captain and his men demolished stews, pottages and hams as if they had starved for months, and it was hard keeping up with them. What was even more difficult for the stressed innkeeper was trying to adjust to their hours. He, like most others in the town, relied on religious schedules for his meals. Up at dawn, he would have a short breakfast, ready for his main meal at nine and a supper in the afternoon. Rural lords would eat later, but they did not have to worry about fitting the regular round of jobs into their day and could afford to have others work to prepare their food. The captain and his men seemed happier rising late, the knight at nine, while some of his men were still abed at ten; they preferred their last meal to be both more substantial than the others and served later—much later. If the previous night was anything to go by, any time up to the middle of the night was fine.
Hearing a step, he glanced out into the screens and gave a wry smile. “Hello, Sarra.”
The girl had not seen him, and he was surprised at the way she jumped when he called out. He was hidden slightly in the darkness of the buttery, while she was walking along the lighted screens: he must have surprised her.
“Did you have to do that?” she demanded, and to his amazement she was shaking with anger, white-faced and wide-eyed.
“I’m sorry, Sarra, I had no idea you’d be scared. I was only saying hello.”
“I wasn’t expecting you.”
“No. Well, I’m sorry.”
She flounced away, out through the door and into the bright sunlight of the yard behind the inn. Crossing it, ignoring the catcalls of two mercenaries at a table, she made her way to her room, and only when she had shut and bolted the door and could stand with her back to it, safe and secure once more in her old room, did she let her breath escape in a long hissing sigh of relief.
The fool had almost made her leap from her skin, the way he had called out to her. He wouldn’t dare do that to anyone else, it was just because he thought of her as a silly wench, good only for serving and flattering the customers. It wasn’t as if he had ever given her any responsibility, even.
Gradually she felt her heartbeat slow and could move from the door to the mattress, where she dropped down, and huddled miserably.
That first evening had been a long, slow anticipation of a delightful, sensual experience. In her dreams she had elevated her meeting with a suitable man to the level of a courtly love affair. There were many songs of how knights would vie for a lady’s love at tournaments, trying to win renown to honor her…and during that evening she had invented dire situations from which Sir Hector would save her, his lady, while in reality she stood beside him refilling his tankard. Her old fantasies had been reinvigorated by his presence, and she had saved him from miserable circumstances time after time while she stood, head bowed, the jug held firmly in her hands waiting for him to hold out his mug again. But instead of finding love, she had been taken like a prize of battle.
She had thought she would be happy with Sir Hector. He had been quiet in the hall, reserved and undemonstrative, not pawing at her like others she had known. At one stage she had wondered whether he was going to show any interest in her after all. But that had changed once they entered his chamber. She had expected compliments, some well-chosen phrases of flattery such as a well-educated knight
might use to his chosen lady, but no. Sir Hector had battered at her as if she was a city to be conquered. He had no finesse, no interest in her whatsoever: she was there to satisfy him, and that was all. When once she tried to refuse him, he struck her. Not hard, but painfully. She could still feel the lump on her ribcage where his fist had landed with that short blow.
In the morning she had been roused and evicted. Always before, she had been woken tenderly by her lovers, gentled and teased into wakefulness. Sir Hector had risen and dressed while she was still asleep, then kicked her foot to wake her, laughing at her tousled appearance. She felt used and angry at such treatment, and almost decided not to show him any favors again, but then she began to have second thoughts. A quiet, calm voice at the back of her mind told her that she should not give up immediately, for he could still fall in love with her. Was it not often said that women were the cleverer sex? That, although men might have the brawn and muscle, women controlled them through their brains? If a woman knew what she wanted, she could surely achieve her aims and ambitions.
Sir Hector would be no easy conquest, that was plain. In the afternoon she had prepared for him, dressing carefully and smiling alluringly, and gone to him. To her amazement, he had at first ignored her, then waved her away with every expression of revulsion. This sudden rejection had confused her. There seemed no reason for him to have turned against her, and yet he had refused even to speak to her, choosing instead to go out for the evening. At first she had wondered whether the man who had tried to rape her, Henry, might have poisoned his mind against her, but her man had been out of the inn most of the day, while Henry and his friend, when she asked Cristine, had been in the hall or the stables: they had been nowhere near Sir Hector. They could have had nothing to do with his change of heart. It must be something else.
Her eyes narrowed. She must have a rival—he had said as much, though it was hard to accept. Another girl had managed to win him and would make him her husband. Was it Cristine? The thought was a dagger-thrust in her brain, and she caught at her temples with the sharp pain. Shame was not something she was used to, but being spurned for a woman ten years older, made her feel close to sickness.
She must win him back! Tonight she would dress in her finest and make herself so tempting that he could not look at another.
Sarra was in many ways a simple girl, and she was used to being the woman in town whom men leered after. It was a position she enjoyed, knowing that she could make a man’s head turn even when his wife was with him, and the idea that a man who had enjoyed her company could go on to desire another was intolerable.
Then a new thought struck her. She had dreamed of saving him, of performing a service for him which snatched him from a vile end, and surely if she was to do so he could only feel a new passion for her. If he knew he was in her debt, he must look on her in a different light.
She wrapped her arms round her legs as she considered, chin on her knees, in what possible way she might be able to win him back. One thing she did know was that Henry and his friend were evil, and must surely be bad for him. Her face lightened as she as she recalled overhearing a whispered conversation. All at once her ever-inventive mind began to sparkle with plans.
5
It was hard, especially when it was so late in the evening that the shutters had been slammed and locked hours before, but Margaret tried, for the sake of the others, to do justice to the meal. Peter had taken great care over it, and she did not want to hurt his feelings. She had dressed in her favorite green tunic with her hair carefully braided and decorously tied under her net. Simon was similarly attempting a brave face, but he avoided her eye, and she soon looked away.
He had been quiet ever since their son’s death. Whereas she wanted to talk to him and try to make some sort of sense of their loss, he had taken his despair and shackled it deep inside himself. It made her feel as though she had not only lost her son, but her best friend as well. His face, she could see, still had the drawn-out look which reminded her of badly cured leather stretched too tightly over a frame. In the past his gray eyes had always shone with love for her, but now their light had been blown out like a candle-flame in the wind. Sometimes she thought it would never return. Losing his heir had hit him very hard.
Her gloomy thoughts were not helped by this meal; it was such a large affair. They were seated at the head table on the dais, and below them, on her right, were all the men, Stapledon’s as well as Peter’s. Hugh and Edgar sat at a table not far away, Edith with them. She had wanted to sit with Hugh rather than on the dais, under the gaze of all the servants, and Margaret had readily agreed. To be seated at the head table was to be on display, and she did not want to put her daughter through that. It was hard enough for Margaret herself to keep calm.
The noise of the servants and guests made listening to the Bishop’s comments difficult. Though the men were not rowdy, over forty people eating made quite enough din to smother the conversation of those at the head of the table. Their talk and the clatter of knives against trenchers and spoons on table-tops echoed into the rafters high overhead. The tapestries which lined the walls, darkened by years of smoke and dust, deadened the row a little, but Margaret could feel a headache beginning, and knew she would sleep badly, if at all, after eating so late.
In honor of his guests, Peter had allocated one mess between two at the top table, but Margaret could see that the servants were all seated four to a serving dish. Courtesies were observed, and the men carefully spooned the correct portion on to their trenchers without fighting, though she observed Hugh surreptitiously seeking out the tastiest morsels from the bowl. She stiffened, thinking he might embarrass Simon if it were noticed, but then relaxed when he doled the portion into Edith’s bowl.
The panter arrived again, removing her bread trencher, which had become soaked in juices and sauces from the meat, and replaced it with one freshly sliced from the loaf. At the same time the bottler refilled her goblet. She had hardly tasted the wine, but the staff had all been exhorted to show the best manners possible while the Bishop was staying with Peter, and it would be an appalling faux pas to allow any guest’s goblet to become empty. From the set smile on the bottler’s face, Margaret could see that the injunction was proving difficult to obey. She could feel some sympathy for him, used as he was to a quieter life normally, but his difficulties were at least transitory, she reminded herself.
“Margaret, how has Edith been?”
Baldwin’s soft voice at her side was a welcome interruption to her thoughts. “She is well—she’s too young to really understand. She misses Peterkin in the way she would miss a favorite pet. Perhaps she never got to know him.”
“You will get over it, Margaret.”
“Yes—but how long will it take?” Her brimming eyes slid back to her husband.
“Not long. He needs something to occupy him,” said Baldwin, noticing her look and understanding. “He will be the same Simon you remember.”
“I hope so.”
The knight looked at her anxiously. In the three years he had known Simon and Margaret, he had thought them to be the perfect example of a well-matched couple. Simon had even reduced the number of trips he was supposed to make away from Lydford, so as not to be separated from his young family too much. That this death would have upset them both he could understand, but that it could have broken them to such an extent was grievous.
“So, Sir Baldwin, what do you think?”
The Bishop’s words made him look up. “My apologies, my lord, I was speaking to Margaret and missed your words.”
Stapledon’s eyes flitted to her and back to Baldwin, and the knight could see that he felt a quick pang at interrupting. He cleared his throat. “I was talking about the state of the country. Now that the Ordinances are confirmed, do you think the people will be calm again?”
Baldwin pulled at a hunk of bread on his plate. This was just the kind of discussion he wanted to avoid. “I think that while the leaders of England want to discus
s issues and avoid bloodshed, the country will be calm.”
“Ah! You pick your words carefully Sir Baldwin. Enough caution, we’re among friends here. What do you really think?”
“My lord, I am only a poor rural knight. I have no interest in matters of state. The state, happily, leaves us alone here to carry on with our lives as we see fit, and that is how I like it.”
“I see.” Stapledon nodded sympathetically. “And comprehend. It would be better for all if matters could be directed so that the King could leave the people in peace, as you say. Yet I fear it will not be so.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Peter Clifford, finishing his goblet of wine and holding it out for more.
“Thomas of Lancaster wants power. Last year, the King and he exchanged the kiss of peace after they agreed their treaty at Leake, but he only truly won a pardon for himself and his friends. Nothing more. When he went to the Parliament at York last October, he demanded the right to nominate those he considered suitable to the offices he felt to be the most important in the land, initially the Steward of the Household. Well, he was put off then, but he returned to his demands this year when the Parliament met again at York. He wanted the King to grant him Stewardship of the King’s Household.”
“Isn’t that sensible? He is the Steward of England, and it might make sense for both posts to be merged,” said Simon.
Stapledon smiled gently. “It might seem so, but no. If he was to win both, he would have complete control over the King. In effect, he would have authority over all the King’s advisers. That is too much power for one man.”
“In any case,” Baldwin said off-handedly, “it hardly seems very important now. The Bruce has taken Berwick and the King’s army is attacking. Petty politicking will not help anyone. There is a war to be fought, and the Scots need to be given a bloody nose.”
The Crediton Killings Page 5
