But now, almost home again, he was aware of a sudden increased anxiety. It was almost as though the realisation had hit him that this house was no more safe from Despenser than his last one. Could Despenser have taken over here and installed a chimney for his own comfort, leaving Simon nowhere to go?
It was terrifying to feel this panic at the mere sight of his old home. Coming here again should have been a delight. He had spent so many years here – happy years. It was where he had brought his wife when they were married; it was where his daughter had been born, and where he had been told that he was to be made a bailiff on Dartmoor to protect the Stannaries, the ancient tin mines where the king controlled all production. But as soon as he had been given that post, he had been forced to move from this happy hillside and go to Lydford, so that he could be closer to the moors where he was to earn his living.
‘You all right there, Bailiff?’
Simon felt the coroner’s shrewd eyes on him. He tried to clear his mind, to explain a little of his trepidation. ‘She truly enjoyed living at Lydford at first, you know,’ he said, his body rocking with the motion of the horse as it walked cautiously down the steep incline. His house was set on the northern side of a natural bowl, and they must ride down this, the southern side, and then up to the house on the opposite slope. ‘It was only when I was moved that life grew more difficult.’
‘Eh?’
‘The Abbot of Tavistock wanted to elevate me, because I had done so well for him. So he gave me a new post – that of his officer in Dartmouth. But to go there would have meant uprooting the whole family. Edith was not happy to be taken away from her friends, and Meg herself was unhappy at the thought of moving so far from all that she knew – and didn’t want our son to grow up surrounded by sailors. They aren’t the best of companions to a well-bred lad.’
‘I can imagine that. I still remember my first exposure to the folk of Dartmouth,’ Sir Richard reminisced with a smile of contentment.
He had already told Simon about his affection for women of loose morals, and Simon suspected that the reason for the grin on his face was not one that should be discussed with his wife. ‘Yes, well, that was why I had to move there all alone,’ he said. ‘Meg had to stay back at Lydford. And then we had the house taken away from us.’
‘Well, Bailiff, perhaps it is all for the good. At least now you and I are free of political troubles. Hopefully Baldwin too. Wonder how he’s getting on.’
‘He should be home by now as well,’ Simon said. ‘Furnshill is about the same distance from Exeter as Sandford is.’
They had reached the bottom of the hill now, and clattered through the small stream that ran along the bottom.
‘You know, it’s been such a miserable year or two, and I hardly feel I know my wife any more,’ Simon said.
‘You know her well enough, man,’ Sir Richard declared. ‘It’ll be easier to remember her when you’re near her, though. Come on!’
He spurred his beast on, and the great horse sprang up the hill like a pony with a child on its back, rather than the prodigious weight of Sir Richard.
Simon grinned to himself. It was good to be travelling with the Coroner of Lifton. The man was loud, rumbustious, a perfect danger to a man when it came to drinking, but for all that, he was a fellow who inspired loyalty in a man. He was generous and kindly, and provided he did not feel as though he was being insulted, he was as affable as Wolf.
Simon clapped his heels to his own beast’s flanks, and felt the surge of power as he was thrown forward by the first explosive movement, but already he had his balance and could lean down over his mount’s neck, and he grinned as he felt the cool air wash over his face.
Road outside Bow, Devon
As he jogged along the trail, Stephen of Shoreditch looked about him with ever-increasing anxiety.
It was a standing rule that all roads should have their verges cleared for a hundred feet on either side, and it was one of the duties of the Keeper of the King’s Peace in all jurisdictions to see that rule enforced, so that no one could make an ambush against another on the king’s highways, but this was not one of those fast, well-maintained roadways. Here in the middle of Devon, the roads tended to be thin, winding paths with hedges that stood so high on either side that on occasion a man couldn’t see over them. To Stephen, the whole idea of a track like this was anathema. He would prefer to walk by a footpath in the open, across fields and moors, than pass along a dangerous route like this, where a felon could drop a stone on his head at any moment.
Devon was one of those shires he had always tried to avoid. Down here in the wild western lands, everyone was truculent, suspicious and acquisitive, he had heard tell. It was said that civilisation ended at Exeter, and beyond that was a wilderness in which feral men squabbled and fought. Dear Christ in heaven, from all he had seen so far, it was easy to believe. This land looked about as cultivated as the Scottish marches, and the people as cultured as the poor churls living up there. Mean, ill favoured, the lot of them.
At least they appeared to be dressed. One messenger had told him that the folk about here were all so backward that they had no concept of clothing. But that was one of the hazards of asking another messenger about an area: it was impossible to tell whether the stories were true or not. Often a man would take pleasure in giving tales of strange, abnormal folk, so that all the advice must be taken with a large pinch of salt. The idea of a messenger needing to have accurate information about the places he must pass through, as well as his destination, was not new, but in the court, men had grown more and more frivolous over the years.
Not that all were persuaded to humour now. Many were looking more to their own protection and safety. The intrigues at the king’s court were growing ever more hazardous to a man. There was always the risk that a joke played on another could have repercussions that couldn’t be spotted. One man, so Stephen had heard, had been told that a wood was a safe passage, only to be captured and hanged in quick succession. The man who had told him of that path had been taken there and hanged alongside his companion. That was a joke that had seriously backfired.
He was fairly sure that here he would be safe, though. He had escaped from Exeter, which was itself a relief. The sheriff was out of the city, but Stephen had been able to deliver his messages and beg a space on the floor for the night, after some prevarication. No strangers were welcomed any more. There were too many rumours of the king’s spies – or, rather, Despenser’s.
Stephen shivered. Sir Hugh le Despenser was growing ever more wild in his behaviour – more erratic. There was a strange look in his eyes that seemed to show that he was becoming more and more divorced from reality. He was less cautious, more extravagant in every way. Not too many people would see that side of him, perhaps, but little was ever hidden from the messengers. They had contact with the king and his advisers at all times. Stephen was a messenger for Sir Hugh as often as for the king. And he was sure that Despenser was losing control.
The road was winding gently now, the hedges less tall. They appeared stunted. Stephen had seen bushes and trees like this before, especially up north, when he had travelled up to the colder lands near the Scottish. Yes, this was much like those damned, accursed marches. Just like there, the wind here seemed to scour the vegetation, often blighting one side or another, and forcing trees to bend away from the cold blast, turning them into tortured shapes. Now, looking to the south, Stephen could see over the hedges all the way to rounded hills in the distance, hills without any apparent trees. They were only moor and waste, and he thought that they must be the king’s forest of Dartmoor. He hadn’t expected them to be so vast, nor so deserted. Nor so repellent.
‘Hold, rider!’
Swearing aloud, at the man and at himself, Stephen struggled to control his rounsey, which had reared up at the voice.
‘I am a king’s messenger,’ he shouted, pulling at the reins and trying to stop the plunging motion. ‘Sweet Mother of Christ, couldn’t you warn a man befor
e shouting?’
‘Ah, but if we did that, you might not wait to talk to us, might you?’
Stephen brought the beast under control, and could at last pay attention to the men. ‘Who are you?’
Before him stood a man with a badly scarred face. His hair was grizzled, his beard more salt than pepper, and his left eye bright with intelligence. He looked as though he had been hit in the face with a sword: his nose was slashed, the line of the blade passing through an eye that was now gone, and cutting a notch in his right eye socket. He stood in front of Stephen’s horse, a sword in his own fist, smiling with a calm, easy malevolence. ‘Get off the horse.’
‘Be damned to you! Didn’t you hear me? I’m a king’s messenger!’ Stephen blustered.
‘A pox on you! I didn’t ask what you were, I told you to get down!’ the man bellowed, and spat into the road. ‘Let’s see if you have any money on you, king’s messenger.’
Turning, Stephen saw to his dismay that there was another pair of men behind him. Glancing about, he saw two on his left and another on his right as well. Six of them. There was little chance of escaping these outlaws, because that was clearly what they were. ‘You had best not assault me,’ he tried. ‘I have urgent messages from Sir Hugh le Despenser for Sir Robert of Traci.’
With that the man in the road gave a short bow. ‘Oh, in that case, I must be more careful! Come, let us take you to him, master. Sir Robert de Traci is our lord.’
Chapter Eight
Furnshill, near Cadbury
Baldwin whistled to his dog as he reached the turn-off in the road towards his house. Wolf had been sniffing at a badger’s sett, but as soon as he heard his master, he relinquished the scent and hurried to catch up.
Looking about him, Baldwin was satisfied. It was good to see that the estates had not been allowed to sink into disrepair while he had been away. But it was more than that. He had to sit on his horse and study the landscape, drinking in the picture, as though by doing so he could fix it in his mind and his life for all time.
He loved this place. It was many years ago that he had been born here, and in those days he never thought he would own it for himself. His older brother would naturally inherit. That was why he had chosen to leave the country and travel to the Holy Land to try to protect it against the onslaught of the massive armies that opposed it. He arrived in Acre just in time to be injured in the last, tragic days of the city. Also hurt was Edgar, the man who later, with Baldwin, joined the Knights Templar in order to try to repay the debt both felt for having their lives saved. Both had remained in the order until the very end. When the arrests had taken place, both happened to be out of their preceptory, and evaded capture. Later, they had made their way back to England, and Baldwin learned that only a short time earlier, his brother had died in a riding accident, and so he could return as the owner of Furnshill rather than a mere supplicant begging alms from his brother.
‘Come on, fellow,’ he called quietly, and trotted over the front pasture to his house.
There was a man over at the western edge of the house when Baldwin arrived. He looked at Baldwin, blinked, and then scurried off in a hurry.
Baldwin smiled to himself and dropped from his horse, relieved to think that he would not have to set his backside on a saddle for a long journey any time soon. So many days he had spent sitting on a horse in the last year, he felt as though his arse had been remoulded to fit the leatherwork.
He was just tying the horse’s reins to a ring in the wall when he heard her running.
‘Jeanne,’ he said, and she stopped on the threshold, leaning against the door frame.
‘My love,’ she said, and began to weep for joy.
Sandford
The expression on Meg’s face removed any doubts in Simon’s mind as to her enthusiasm to see him. She pelted past Sir Richard in a most indecorous display, and threw herself bodily at her husband, arms about his neck and kissing him. ‘Simon, Simon,’ she murmured as she drew away, but then she was kissing him again.
Sir Richard looked at the sky. He pursed his lips and thought to whistle, but then he decided that it might be a little distracting for Simon, so he turned his back on the couple and stared out at the landscape.
There was no little vill about here, with strip fields where the peasants all laboured. Instead this was a working farm that depended upon pasturage, he saw. There was a field ahead of him, long grasses rippling in the wind. Over on the right there was a stand of trees – a mixture of all kinds of wood, with some coppiced nearer the house. In front of that there was a good-sized orchard, and a set of small pens, empty at the moment. It was a pleasant little farmstead, he felt.
‘Meg, this is Sir Richard de Welles, the Coroner of Lifton,’ he heard, and turned to find himself being studied with some interest by a tall woman, very fair, with browned skin and bright blue eyes. She was slim, and although she had now lost the first flush of youth, to Sir Richard she was astonishingly lovely.
‘Sir Richard, God keep you,’ she said with a broad smile, and ducked her head as she gave him a brief curtsy.
‘My dear lady, God will keep you, I know,’ he said, bowing low.
‘I am honoured. Now, husband, will you come inside and I will have food and drink fetched for your guest.’
She glanced at him, her expression as serene as Simon remembered from all those years ago when he first saw her. All those years before their first son had died, before the years of anguish during the famine, the years before the misplaced kindness of the Abbot of Tavistock forced them to become separated. Before William atte Wattere had arrived and helped to steal their house from them. And then her serenity was shattered as she laughed aloud, took his hand and brought him inside.
‘Sir Richard?’ Simon called.
The knight was still standing outside, an expression of wonder on his face. ‘Yes? Oh, yes. Of course.’
He followed Simon and Meg indoors and joined Simon in the little hall.
‘You are very welcome to remain here with us for as long as you wish, Sir Richard,’ Simon said. ‘We have wine and cider aplenty, and some ale, which, if I say so myself, is the equal of the king’s. You have travelled far in the last weeks. Will you not stay here with us a little?’
‘I would dearly like to,’ Sir Richard said. He shook his head as some servants entered and set out a large trestle table near the fireplace. ‘But I have a need to return to my duties. A coroner has work to keep him busy no matter where he lives nor what the time of the year.’
‘Yes. Well, work is something I will have to find for myself now,’ Simon muttered.
‘Bailiff, I am sorry. It is hard to believe that you could be without employment.’
‘Oh, I have employment – I have my farm, after all,’ Simon said lightly. But his face showed his continued concern.
It would be hard, he knew. The post at Lydford had been so effective for him. He was happy there, especially since it gave him the right to wander where he might over the moors he loved. Still, he told himself. This was good land, this rich red soil of Sandford. It was a good place to finish a life. And now his daughter had already left home and he had only his son to worry about. Perhaps it was better that he was here again.
‘You look thoughtful, husband,’ he heard his wife call from the doorway.
‘I was thinking about the quiet of living here in the country again. We stayed last night in Exeter.’
‘You saw Edith?’ Meg asked, the eagerness making her almost drop the trenchers she was carrying.
‘Yes. She and her husband seem very happy.’
‘I am glad,’ Meg breathed. It was hard to say God speed to a child and send her into the world. A man could be a good husband or a bad, but a daughter would always run the risk when she left her home. ‘But there was never a reason to suspect that he wouldn’t be a good man for her.’
‘No. Not even though he’s so young. God’s ballocks, so is she.’
‘And so are most when they marry,
Simon,’ Meg said a little tartly.
‘Yes, I know, I am an overprotective monster. I’d prefer to have her husband dangling by his wrists for the nerve of asking for my daughter.’ Simon laughed. ‘But since he was so gracious last night, and poured us a goodly quantity of wine, I think I can forgive him just now, eh, Sir Richard?’
‘Hmm? Yes, I think so,’ Sir Richard said. He was a little confused, and he appeared embarrassed, or perhaps upset.
Simon looked over at Meg, but she had little idea what sort of a man Sir Richard was, and she merely looked back at him with confusion.
‘Meg, do you think you could bring our friend some wine?’ he asked, and even as he spoke, all three heard the rattle of hoofs on the stones in front of the house. Simon stood abruptly, staring at the window. There was no sign of the rider from here, for the window was high in the wall, but they could all hear the voice.
‘A message for Bailiff Puttock. Is your master here? I have an urgent message from Cardinal de Fargis.’
‘In Christ’s name, what now?’ Simon muttered as he spun on his heel and left the room.
‘It will be nothing, my lady,’ Sir Richard said.
Meg was standing at the table, listening intently. There was a slight puckering at her forehead that he recognised so distinctly. The frown of anxiety. He couldn’t keep his eyes on her, he found. She was so like his own, dear, dead wife, it hurt to look at her.
Road between Nymet Cross and Sandford Cross
Sir Peregrine was not overly bothered by the sight of dead bodies. He never had been. Why should he be? He was a knight and the son of a knight, and for all his pride in being able to converse with the meanest villein on his lands, he was prouder still of his martial experience and skills.
A man like him who was used to the sights and sounds of battle wouldn’t be concerned by the sight of wounds. He had seen friends die near him in the petty wars that plagued this disputatious land, and on occasion he had travelled as far as Guyenne in support of the king, protecting Edward’s territories from the depredations of the French. But there was somehow a difference between seeing men-at-arms fighting and dying in a battle, and this.
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 11
