Baldwin wanted Jeanne, but he most categorically did not want Emma into the bargain.
Edgar had done well, he saw. The best available meats and fowls were laid out and steadily consumed. And yet Baldwin found he didn’t have an appetite.
In the town, William arrived at the hall wearing a pensive frown. He had done the best he could, and he was reasonably satisfied. It hadn’t taken much to wind up the smith into a vindictive rage against lepers in general, and as William had walked home, he had seen two of them limping and shuffling back toward their lazar house. He had felt agreeably confident that they would meet Jack and his friend and had halted, listening. Sure enough, soon he heard the sneers and taunts, then the cries as stones were hurled.
Now, leaning at the door and staring back the way he had come, he could see that there were few fires or candles burning. It was late enough, and most people were already in their beds, but here and there a stray beam lightened the gloom. His own master was not yet abed, or if he was, wasn’t asleep, for the shutters of the bedchamber in the private block were showing clearly, outlined by the yellow glow, and William could hear voices: his a low rumble; hers a malevolent whisper. A door slammed, and William heard Coffyn stride through the hall. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw his master at the screens. Matthew ignored his guard and walked out to the garden.
William shook his head. It was not good to see a couple so bitter toward each other. God knew it happened often enough, but that didn’t make it any better. His master couldn’t control his wife, and that was wrong.
Turning, he walked through the screens to the hall and peered inside. Two of his men were drinking and playing dice, while another was rolled in a heavy cloak and lay asleep on a bench. Glancing at the dice players, William guessed they must be playing Raffle. It was the only game the heavily bearded Welshman, who was even now groaning as he counted his score, knew the rules for.
Grinning at the curses hurled at the dice, William walked on along the passage and out into the yard after his master. Something, he didn’t know what, was setting his nerves on edge. Standing on the threshold, he leaned against the doorpost.
There was another light, this one from the house next door. It was broad, like a partly opened window, and as he watched, he saw it darken and become smothered, then blaze again. It looked as if someone was standing before an open shutter—or climbing through the window, hiding for a moment the bright candlelight inside. Intrigued, he stepped quietly along the path until he came to the stone wall that separated the two properties.
Godfrey had built his wall highest at the road. Here, at the boundary of his own and Matthew’s properties, it was only some five feet high, and William could just peep over. At first he could see nothing, but William was experienced in warfare, and a man who has mounted guard over encampments learns how to watch and listen. He stood, his mouth slightly open, staring at nothing, but waiting for a sound or movement to catch his attention. Soon he heard it.
It was a faint rustle, then the snap of a twig. A man was stealthily making his way round from Godfrey’s hall toward the kitchen. As William concentrated, he could just make out the muffled and cloaked shape of someone crouched low, someone stepping cautiously along near the hall’s wall. As soon as he was away from the yard area, which, although it was dark and unlighted, must have felt threatening by virtue of its being a large, open space, the figure came upright, apparently staring back the way he had come. As William watched, he saw the man—for he was sure it was a man—raise one hand and hold it to his face for a moment before letting it fall.
That was when William decided to make his presence known, and he pursed his lips to give a piercing whistle.
The man dropped his hand, gave a short bleat as if of terror and bolted away, behind the kitchen, up over the enclosing yard wall, and off.
William was still laughing as he shut the door behind him and returned to the hall.
The food all done, Baldwin washed his hands again in the bowl of warm, scented water, and dried them.
Jeanne watched him with renewed interest. She had begun her meal feeling irritable with her maid, but once Emma had been removed, and the food began to arrive, she had lost her annoyance, and with the knight beside her trying so hard to make sure she was at ease, she had found herself succumbing to that warm, pleasurable sensation of being desired and pampered.
There were conventions, of course, and Baldwin was scrupulously polite and charming, although at certain moments she caught a gleam in his eye, as if he was maintaining the outward aspect of gentility with difficulty, and would prefer to take her outside, away from all these eager eyes, to a place where they might talk and laugh together without restraint.
It was like that first meal they had eaten, a year ago in Tavistock: on that occasion they had been placed together, and then observed closely by the Abbot as well as Simon’s wife, Jeanne recalled. The whole time she had felt Margaret’s gaze on her, as if watching for the slightest indication that Baldwin and she might be prepared to pledge their vows. It had been aggravating, and had caused the same reaction in both, that neither wanted to speak to the other. It was only later, as they were leaving the room, that Baldwin had tentatively asked her to join him in a quiet walk, away from the view of people whose sole desire was to see them engaged, and whose enthusiasm for the alliance was so overwhelming that it threatened to prevent it.
Servants and bondsmen were rising from the tables and standing talking, but she saw that their attention was focused on her and their master. There was a measuring quality in their looks, as if they were assessing what sort of a mistress she might be to them: whether she would be harsh and might order them whipped for being late with her food or logs for her fire; or whether she would be kindly, a gentle lady who would show them compassion, who would tend to their wants, who would see to it that those who were in need would get help.
They could not know that Jeanne herself had not had an easy life. Her first husband was dead, God be praised! When he died of that sudden fever which had struck him down, she had sworn that she would be careful in her selection of a new husband if she was ever to remarry, and she had vowed never to show a servant needless cruelty.
There was nothing she could do that would convince any of these people as to the quality of her temperament; she would only win them over once she was mistress here—if she ever was, she added to herself.
“Jeanne…”
She turned to face him, and was surprised to see that his expression was quite blank, as if he was keeping his own feelings hidden behind an emotionless mask. “Yes, Sir Baldwin?”
“Some people can be fearful about dogs, I know. In fact, I know some ladies hate them.”
“I cannot understand why.”
“But some hounds…like my mastiff, for example…can be rather fierce-looking. And some ladies, even those who are well-bred and noble, can feel revolted by such ugly brutes.”
“Sir Baldwin,” she said softly, trying to suppress a smile, “if you are asking whether I am scared of your dog, I am not; if you feel that I think him ugly, I do not; if you fear that I would not have such a hound in my house, all I can say is, I would feel safer with a dog such as he in my house than with ten men-at-arms, because Uther is loyal by nature, not by purchase.”
The knight gave a heartfelt smile of relief and gratitude. They had all eaten their fill, and the last of the wine and ale had been consumed. At length he stood, and all those remaining at the tables rose to their feet. Baldwin was about to leave the room when he realized that Jeanne hadn’t moved. She was watching him with a raised eyebrow, and on catching her glance, he gave an apologetic smile and held out his hand to help her up. “Would you like me to have the fire remade, Lady? I would be happy to sit with you. There is much I would like to talk to you about.”
Jeanne seemed pensive. “You remember that walk we took last year?”
“Of course! That was where we saw the monk running from the girl.”
“I was thinking,” she said caustically, “of the pleasantness of walking with you. Not of the fact that it led you to finding a murderer.”
“I know,” he chuckled. “In fact, so was I. Would you like to walk around my grounds tonight?”
“Why, Sir Baldwin, I fear I would feel the cold.”
It was with those same words that she had refused him at first a year ago. Then he had been devastated, thinking that she was refusing him any opportunity of speaking with her in private. Now he bowed, mock-seriously, and inclined his head toward the door. “But if you were to have your cloak brought down, you would be fine, wouldn’t you?”
Her face was transformed. To Baldwin it looked as wonderful as watching the sunlight flooding over the land on a clear summer’s morning. The reserved, almost cold expression she had worn through the meal became a bright, delighted smile. She jerked her head to Emma, and the maid, glowering, slammed through the door to the solar. Within a few minutes she was back, a heavy woollen cloak trimmed with fur over her arm. And a thick jacket on her back. Out of the corner of his eye, Baldwin noticed Hugh quietly leave the room.
Jeanne took the cloak and clasped it at her throat, nodding at the coat. “There’s no need for you to come as well, Emma.”
“Oh yes there is, Mistress. I cannot let you go out on your own,” said the maid with a distrustful stare at Baldwin, who stood nearby, appalled at the thought that his attempts at subtle wooing could be conducted under the baleful gaze of the maid whom he now thought of as the “Harpy from Hell.”
“I think not. You will stay here.”
“I would prefer to go with you, Lady,” Emma stated resolutely.
Baldwin was brimming with frustration. He loathed the sight of Emma, yet he couldn’t be rude to her. She wasn’t his servant, and he had no idea how much regard Jeanne had for her. Until he knew Jeanne’s thoughts, he dared not risk upsetting her by insulting her maid.
At that moment Hugh reappeared and marched up to him. “Sir Baldwin? I thought I saw someone walking out near the road, so I let Uther out. If there’s a trespasser, he will soon find them.”
“You let him out?” Baldwin repeated. “You shouldn’t have, you know he—”
“That beast? My lady, you mustn’t go out, not while that mad dog is free. You’ve seen how it attacked me when we first got here! You cannot go out.”
“Oh, I don’t fear Uther. And Baldwin will wear his sword, won’t you?”
“Eh?” Baldwin had the impression that the look that passed between Hugh and Jeanne contained more than a simple exchange of greetings. “Oh yes, of course. Well, a dagger, anyway.”
Hugh said, “Edgar told me to be careful, after the way Uther attacked that man recently. Cottey, wasn’t it?”
“You see, Mistress? That creature will eat us alive! I said it should be destroyed! It’s worse than a ravening wolf.”
“Emma, silence! I am going out, and you are staying in.” Jeanne swept around, her cloak whipping out regally, and strode to the door. Baldwin had to break into a trot to catch up with her. In the screens were several of Baldwin’s workers, and Jeanne and he had to slow down in their rush while the men all moved out of the way.
It was noticeable that none of the men seemed scared of their master. Jeanne, who had been married to a knight who had struck terror into the hearts of his peasants, was forced to take stock.
There was something awesome in a man who could instill such loyalty in his servants. Her husband had whipped and beaten his people into submission. That was the only way to make them behave, he had always asserted. Otherwise they would lapse into indolence and laziness.
Yet this strange country knight had managed a productive manor efficiently, without driving his peasants into utter submission. As Baldwin walked past, they nodded or grinned; not cowering, but meeting his look almost as equals. And Baldwin had a word for most of them, recalling all their names, asking after wives, children, or sweethearts. One man he made a detour to speak to, a ragged, worn-looking older man, with a drawn and wan face. Jeanne couldn’t hear his words, but she saw Baldwin pull some coins from his purse and press them into the other man’s hand.
She also saw the way that the people glanced at her, and was again aware of their cautious assessment, but now she was as certain as she could be that the man with whom she walked was as unlike her first husband as was possible. As they approached the door, she found herself being forced nearer to him, for the press of people was thicker here, and as they walked out into the clear evening air, she was close at his side.
“Who was that old man you were talking to?”
“The farmer? Quivil. He and his wife live out toward Crediton.”
“You spoke to him for some little while.”
“His son has developed leprosy,” Baldwin explained. “I wanted to make sure he was all right, and to offer any help I could.”
“It must be awful to lose a son like that.”
“Indeed. To see your child condemned to years of disease is somehow worse than a simple death, after a short illness.”
“Yes, for how could you look your child in the face, knowing that you live and prosper while the child dies so slowly and horribly?”
“Ah, but it’s not just that, is it? It’s not only the guilt of failing to help one’s child to grow healthily,” Baldwin said, pausing.
The scene was all silver and gray, under an almost full moon. By its clear light Jeanne could see the view rolling away into the distance between the trees. Something in Baldwin’s voice made her look at his face, and under the benevolent, if cold, glimmer, she could see he was worried.
“It’s not only the fact that the parent can see the son or daughter slip further and further from life,” he went on slowly, “it’s also seeing the jealousy and rage in the child, knowing their confusion, wanting to give them comfort and not being able to. I wonder how poor Edmund feels now.”
“He is Quivil’s son?”
“Yes. And a happier, lustier, more comely fellow you couldn’t hope to see plowing a field or reaping the corn. Poor Edmund! He was about to wed.”
“Perhaps it is fortunate that he was found out before he could marry.”
“Yes. But it seems so unfair, so unjust, that a man should be taken away into confinement just as he was about to enjoy the companionship of his woman. Even as he was preparing to enter into marriage, with the knowledge that he would henceforth have the comfort of a partner in life, that succor is stolen from him.”
“You sound as though you have considered this at length, Sir Baldwin.”
He gave a dry smile. “I have. I have sometimes seen myself as a kind of social leper.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“As a Keeper, and a knight, it’s difficult. I am often cut off from other people because of my position.”
“You are denied companionship?”
“I sometimes feel I’m denied the companionship of a woman who understands me.”
“Perhaps you might discover such a woman after all.”
“My lady, I have.”
She walked on a short way, gripping the cloak tightly around her body, her hands crossed over her breast. The knight remained where he was, and she had to turn to face him. His expression was one of mistrust—almost of suspicion. But there was a gentleness too. Jeanne knew that he had been badly hurt when she had refused his offer of marriage before, and knew that he wanted to ask again whether she would accept his hand, yet was fearful that she might reject him; he was unsure whether he could rely on her giving him the answer he craved.
“Jeanne, you know me. You have seen my land, my home, my life. Is there anything you could not grow to be comfortable with?”
She felt her breath catch. For some reason, this offer, which she had anticipated for over a year, which she had expected and mused over since she had first arrived, was now a surprise. She hadn’t thought that he could spring it on her so suddenly. “I…I don’t know!”
&nbs
p; “Is it your last husband, Lady? Is that what makes you hesitate?”
“How can I be sure what you are like? He seemed so kind and generous before we married. How can I be sure you will not change when I marry you?”
“Me? Change? This, this is me!” he cried, and held both arms out, embracing the country before, behind, to either side, the sky above, the silver clouds chasing across it, the moon and the stars. He smiled up, his eyes fixed on the unfathomable distances, and slowly let his arms fall, and let his face drop to hers. “You know all about me. I know what I need to know about you. I am no courtly knight, and God willing, I never will be. I am the King’s officer here, and that is enough for me. Could I be enough for you?”
“I don’t know, Baldwin. I don’t know.”
Simon left his wife in their room, and walked downstairs. In the buttery he found Hugh, who was morosely filling a jug from a large barrel. As his master entered, Hugh nodded. “Ale, sir?”
“Yes, a pint would round off the evening.”
Taking another mug from the shelf, Hugh took the jug and wandered out through the screens to the hall. Following, and burping softly, Simon was surprised to find Edgar waiting with the boy, Wat. The lad looked at the bailiff with an unfocused stare, grinning foolishly, but Edgar motioned toward the door.
“Sir, please shut it.”
Surprised, Simon did as he was bid. Only then did Edgar rise and open the door to the solar. Instantly Uther bounded out and looked about, seeking his master.
“What’s he doing here? I thought he was out seeing to trespassers!”
“Ah, he must have decided to come back,” said Hugh distantly.
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