Edgar waved a hand. “It’s irrelevant, the point is the dog terrified the poor—”
“Uther is a guard. Cottey should have known that. If he walked straight into the hall, it’s no surprise Uther tried to defend the place. The dog was doing his duty against a draw-latch.”
Seeing that he had lost that sally, Edgar ventured a fresh attack. “And what about other guests? What if this mutt should take it into his so-called brain to defend the house against someone staying with you?”
Baldwin’s attitude altered subtly. Now there was a degree of shiftiness in his manner as he avoided his servant’s gaze. “He just needs a little training. Anyway, he’s fine with people he’s been introduced to.”
“Yesterday Chops was with me all morning. I left the room for a few minutes, and when I came back in he barked at me! I had been gone long enough to draw one quart of ale from the buttery; in that time the mutt had forgotten me, and you seriously suggest he’s going to be fine with strangers?”
Baldwin ruffled the dog’s ears. At his touch Uther sprang up, and the knight had to avert his face as another gobbet of slobber flew upward. “He’s just affectionate,” he said gruffly, forcing the dog down again. On his chest two massive, damp paw prints reflected the light from the open doorway.
Edgar stared at them pointedly. “And what about the lady Jeanne?”
The knight hesitated. He had to admit that Edgar had a point there, as he looked at the fresh mud that spattered his tunic. The widow from Liddinstone was due to visit any day, in the company of Simon Puttock and his wife.
It would be good to see them all. Simon was the bailiff of Lydford Castle, a man with the unenviable task of keeping the tinminers and local landlords apart to prevent bloodshed. He and Baldwin had joined forces several times now to solve unexplained local murders. Simon’s wife Margaret had exerted herself on Baldwin’s behalf, introducing him to all her more marriageable friends; she had seen his loneliness and had tried to tempt him with women she knew to be available and of the right level in society, yet none had attracted him. None until he met Jeanne, anyway. The slim, grave woman with the red-gold hair. Perhaps…
Perhaps it would be better if Uther was elsewhere when Jeanne arrived. He would have to consider it. “Enough! Fetch me wine and water,” he commanded, walking into his hall.
As usual, the old black and brown farm dog lay before the hearth, and barely glanced up as the knight crossed to his chair, merely sweeping his tail from side to side and watching without moving his head. Uther forwent the pleasure of the fireside and sat with his back to Baldwin’s chair, turning his head to stare at the knight until he submitted to the dog’s clear desire and rested his hand on the animal’s flank, patting gently.
Edgar walked in with a jug and goblet, setting them by the fire to warm. “So how was the good Bishop?”
The knight shook his head. “He’s got too much on his plate.”
Testing the watered wine, Edgar poured. “What did he have to say?”
Baldwin had met Edgar in the hell-hole of Acre, when both were young. Once the city was clearly doomed, the two had been saved by the Knights Templar, who had allowed them space on a ship making for Cyprus. It was as a mark of their gratitude that both had taken the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience and joined the Order. Baldwin became a knight, and Edgar his man-at-arms. More recently, since the Templars had been destroyed by an avaricious French king, Edgar had become Baldwin’s servant and trusted seneschal. After so much time, Baldwin knew he could trust his man.
“War is close,” he said bluntly. “Stapledon doesn’t mince his words. Lancaster has shut himself up in his castle and refuses to meet the King. Stapledon is convinced it’s because he doesn’t trust the King’s new counsellors.”
“Stapledon said all this?”
Baldwin nodded gloomily. “Stapledon, from what I can gather, is now one of the few men whose judgment the King does trust. Edward knows the Bishop is honest and reliable, while others in the royal household are less committed to the King and more interested in what they can get for themselves. Stapledon thinks the Despenser family in particular have gained too much power recently. They are threatening the peace of the realm, and Lancaster will not tolerate the way their strength is increasing—not for much longer.”
His servant watched him with concern. It was rare for the knight to express his thoughts so explicitly, even with him. As Edgar refilled his master’s goblet, he considered the implications. War would mean that Baldwin must be called upon to support his lord in battle, and likewise Edgar must go with his master to fight with him. The thought of riding to battle again kindled a spark of excitement in his breast.
But it felt wrong to go to war over such foolishness, and that fact tempered his delight. King Edward II was too fond of his favorites. Even people here in Crediton had heard the rumors about the King’s attraction to other men in preference to his wife, and now that Gaveston had been killed, beheaded by other lords, the Despensers were enthusiastically taking over his place at court. Especially the son, who, from what Edgar had heard, appeared to have designs on the whole of Wales, the way he was acquiring land—and often by illegal means too, if the rumors were true. To support the Despensers and fight Lancaster seemed absurd, yet it was all too likely.
He was about to speak when Uther stiffened and then began to growl, low and insistent. A few moments later the men heard the drumming of hooves, and they stared at each other. It was late for someone to visit, with darkness having fallen, especially since the roads were so icy.
Edgar hurried out, Uther lumbering behind him as far as the doorway. The dog stood there, hackles up, waiting and guarding his domain. Baldwin could hear voices, a tone of surprise in Edgar’s, then the speeding steps as his servant returned to the hall.
“Master, you must go back to Crediton. There’s been a murder!”
5
It took little time to get the horses ready, and soon Edgar and Baldwin were riding off with the messenger. Baldwin knew that his Arab wanted exercise, but in preference took the rounsey again. The Arab had too much of a mercurial nature, and was dangerous to take out in the dark when it was as chilly and icy as this. Baldwin had made sure that Uther was shut indoors. The dog would want to follow his master if he could.
“Who is dead?” Baldwin demanded when they moved off.
The messenger, a lad barely in his twenties, threw him an anxious look over his shoulder. Baldwin had to give him a reassuring smile. He recognized the symptoms: it was fearsome for a peasant boy or young apprentice to be questioned by the King’s highest local official. The lad gave a nervous nod of his head. “Sir, it was the old gold merchant, sir.”
“Gold merchant?”
Seeing his bafflement, Edgar interrupted. “I think he means Godfrey of London, sir. He’s the only one I can think of.”
“Yes, of course.”
Baldwin pursed his lips. He had met Godfrey a few times—the Londoner was rich enough to be familiar to someone of Baldwin’s status. As he cantered along, mentally cursing the slight breeze that somehow contrived to penetrate his thick tunic and jerkin, Baldwin reviewed what he had heard about the man.
There wasn’t much. He had arrived in Crediton some years before Baldwin himself had come home, about seven years ago now. It was hard for a newcomer to find a good plot of land in the town itself, but Godfrey was a foreigner with money, and soon he had the parcel of land he wanted, not too close to the center, so he had his own pasturage for cattle and his pigs. He had a small household, a daughter living with him, bottler, grooms and other servants, as well as various outside workers.
He sighed; there was no point trusting to his memory. It would be better to form his opinion of the matter when he saw the body. There were so many questions at this stage that he might as well wait until they arrived in the town. Besides, with the wind blowing in his face, he was rapidly losing all feeling in his cheeks and mouth. He pulled a grimace and tugged his collar up, trying t
o sink his head down to protect his neck.
They covered the distance quickly, riding steadily rather than too fast, and luckily none of them encountered ice, but Baldwin was glad when he smelled the smoke from the town. Soon they were riding up the lane that led behind the church, then along the front of it to the main street. It was here that they saw the group.
Baldwin felt a shiver rack his frame. There was a sense of excitement in the huddle of townspeople. He could see the folk whispering in each other’s ears, one or two pointing as he and his little entourage clattered up the street.
It was always the same, he knew, but he didn’t have to like it. In a small place like Crediton, murders were a rare occurrence. It was no surprise that when something sensational happened the people wanted to be there to witness it, but these folks weren’t here to help in an investigation, they were driven by a ghoulish desire to see the body. He could hear the gleeful, sibilant whispering as he approached and knew that there would be men offering bets as to how the victim died, others speculating on the likely identity of the murderer, many offering their own views as to what the motive could have been. And all would want to witness the arrest of the suspect and the subsequent hanging. In the flickering glare thrown by three torches, he could see the faces, all pale and excited in the presence of violent death—like so many demons. He felt his mouth twist in disgust.
Ignoring them, he rode on, and they parted in deference to his office, leaving a clear path to the gate. Here, preventing them from entering, was the constable.
“Hello, Tanner,” Baldwin said, pulling up.
The constable nodded grimly, jerking his head toward the house. “He’s in his hall, Sir Baldwin.”
“Who found him?”
“His neighbor, Matthew Coffyn.”
Baldwin nodded. “Have you sent men to seek the killer?”
“As soon as I heard, I had men chase the main roads, but it’s unlikely they’ll see anyone this late at night.”
“Was there any report of a man riding or running away?”
“No, sir, nothing. As far as I know, no one heard anything.”
That was the hardest part of searching for a murderer, the knight knew. It was largely a pointless exercise sending men after a killer when there was no hint as to who could be responsible. Yet if no one was sent, the Coroner would look askance at the constable. And at least the posse would be able to spread the news of the killing, putting remote farmers on their guard against another attack. “Well, perhaps they will be fortunate this time,” he murmured. And maybe they won’t, he added to himself. Maybe this was a murder committed by someone in the town, someone who bore the goldsmith a grudge and wanted to take his revenge. Who, Baldwin wondered, could have enough of a hatred for the man to want to kill him?
Leaving the messenger holding their horses for them, he and his servant marched on to the hall.
The great studded door stood open, and they entered the black maw of the screens passage. Baldwin hesitated at the door to the hall, through which a little light glimmered, but after a moment strode to the door at the far end of the corridor. He found himself looking out at a large courtyard. Stabling for at least thirty horses was over to the left of the cobbled space, while the kitchen lay on the right, at some short distance from the house itself. Between the hall and the kitchen Baldwin could make out the dividing wall between this place and the next, which meant that this yard was almost completely walled in. Opposite him was a gatehouse set between two large buildings, one of which looked like a barn and storeshed for wagons and equipment, while the other, judging by the gentle lowing emanating from it, was serving as a cattle shed. At this time of day, all was still, and at some windows he could see yellow lights shining.
“Do you want to see the body?” Edgar asked quietly. He wondered why his master was peering out so intently. It wasn’t like him to bypass a murder victim like this. To his relief, Baldwin nodded pensively. Edgar led the way back to the hall.
The knight found himself in a room only a shade larger than his own, but with the rich drapery lighted by many candles, it was infinitely more imposing. It was a new house, and no expense had been spared in its construction. The walls were of solid moorstone, and a good fire burned at the hearth in the middle of the floor. Chairs and benches lined the walls; thick tapestries covered the windows; at the far end a raised dais held the lord’s table, at the back of which was a curtain which Baldwin knew would conceal another door, one which would lead to the private rooms of the solar block. A building this modern would be sure to have separate sleeping quarters for the master so he could enjoy a little privacy from his servants in the hall. A sideboard with a skewed cloth stood against the wall to the side of the dais, and Baldwin’s gaze rested on it for a moment before his attention was drawn to the figure on the floor.
Baldwin had seen many dead men in his life. He had seen corpses by the hundred in Acre when the Egyptians attacked; he’d witnessed his comrades dying in agony on the pyres because they had dared attest to the honor of their Order; and he had seen many victims of murder since becoming Keeper. Like everyone else, he was used to the sight of those who had expired of old age or disease. There were many ways to die.
At least, he thought to himself, this one is straightforward. There could be no doubt as to the reason for Godfrey of London’s death. The blood seeping from his crushed skull left little to the imagination.
Baldwin didn’t move his eyes from the corpse. “Any weapon?”
There was a thin, dark man with a fearful round face standing by the doorway gripping an oak cudgel. Edgar recognized him as an ostler from the inn. He must have been co-opted to guard the corpse.
“I don’t know, sir. Tanner just told me to stay here and make sure no one came in until you arrived.”
“Has anyone been in?”
“No, sir.”
“Were you here when this man was found?”
“No, sir. Tanner called me here as soon as he arrived, so as to guard the room and see the girl safe.”
Baldwin raised an eyebrow. “Girl?”
“Yes, sir. She had been found here unconscious. With the man.”
“Man? What man?”
“Putthe, the bottler. He was here too.”
Baldwin closed his eyes a moment, then spoke slowly and deliberately. “Go out to the front gate and tell Tanner to get up here now. You stay there and keep people out. You understand?”
Once the ostler had scurried from the room, Baldwin walked to a large candle standing high on a wall sconce. Taking it, he raised it high over his head to light the room more clearly, peering all about him with care.
There was little to see now, but he could discern areas where the rushes had been scuffed and moved. Before going to them, he bent at the side of the dead man.
He was some seven paces from the door, his head pointing toward the nearest window, one which gave out to the yard at the back of the house, near to the kitchen. The figure lay oddly to Baldwin’s eyes, but the knight knew that dead men often assumed strange or even bizarre postures. Godfrey’s right arm was at his side, while his left was held out, bent at the elbow with the hand up. If he was standing, Baldwin thought, it would look as if he was holding up his hand to tell someone to halt. The strangeness of the pose lay in its very naturalness. If it wasn’t for the hideous wound, Baldwin would have thought the man was merely resting.
The knight squatted, the candle held high once more as he surveyed the body and the surrounding floor. He could see no object lying nearby which could have inflicted such a vicious wound. This was no sudden, mad attack, the man clubbed as he walked across the floor, the weapon then dropped as the killer realized with horror what he had done. And yet, the knight reminded himself, there were plenty of cases where a murderer had slain in hot blood and then rushed off still clutching the implement of death.
While Edgar looked on imperturbably, Baldwin set the candle down and performed a quick investigation. He felt the man’s skin a
t the top of his torso. It was still warm. Then the knight sniffed at Godfrey’s mouth. There was no sweet, sickly odor of alcohol that he could discern. He probed gently at the quickly clotting wound. Beneath his fingers he could feel the smashed bones moving, and he nodded to himself. He had seen head wounds often enough. This one was certainly adequate to have caused death.
Heaving, he rolled the body over to seek additional wounds, and opened the man’s tunic to check there were no stab wounds. It was all too common for a man to inflict an apparently obvious wound on a corpse after committing a murder in an attempt to throw suspicion onto someone else. But there was nothing to be seen.
He had just hauled the body back into its original position when Tanner entered. Baldwin ignored him. Slowly easing himself up from his knees, which cracked as he came upright, he took hold of the candle and walked to the nearest mark in the rushes.
The constable was a steady man, Baldwin knew. As strongly built as a smith, he had the worn, cragged features of a moorman, with black hair that was becoming grizzled. He moved with a deceptive slowness, as though he had to concentrate to achieve the simplest task, but Baldwin had seen him roused, and knew that Tanner had a ponderous strength and, when he needed it, the speed of a striking adder. The constable waited patiently while the knight crouched at the disturbed flooring.
It was close to the door, but although the knight studied the depression with care, he could see no clues; it was merely a scraped mess at the edges of which the straws had been heaped slightly. There was nothing to be learned here. He rose and went to the other disturbed patch of rushes.
Here he paused. This part was nearer an open window. As Baldwin stood looking down, he gauged the distances. It was close to Godfrey’s body, and pointed toward the window itself, which made the knight frown. Why should someone have opened the window? He walked over to it and stared out at the dark kitchen block. That at least confirmed one thought: the culprit had presumably escaped from here; rather than fleeing from the front door and risking capture in the street, the killer had made off through the back. In the dark, Crediton’s main street wasn’t terribly busy, but there were enough people to notice a man running. It would have been safer for the murderer to nip out through the garden unseen.
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