‘I am very glad to meet you at last, Master Puttock.’
‘It is my pleasure, Cardinal.’
‘And yet I understand that this house is a sad … um … the word is memory?’
‘Yes, it is sad that I have lost it, but that is nothing to do with you, Cardinal. For my part, I have only good memories of this house. I was very happy here.’
‘And I believe you used to be a stannary bailiff? Yes?’
‘Well, yes. I was a bailiff on the moors,’ he admitted. He would have liked to glance at Sir Richard, but that could have been considered rude. Any lord would expect an inferior to keep his eyes fixed on him.
‘I think I have need of your assistance,’ the cardinal said. He eyed Simon over the brim of his goblet, and gradually a smile warmed his face. ‘There are some very sad events at the abbey.’
‘I don’t know that I can help with that,’ Simon said. ‘Both men are rather displeased with me.’
‘So I have heard. You would seem to be most even handed with your enemies,’ the cardinal said.
The problems at Tavistock Abbey had begun with the death of Robert Champeaux, the last abbot. The brotherhood of monks had held an election to choose their new abbot. There were two contenders. Robert Busse was chosen by the majority, but John de Courtenay, one of the baronial family of Devon, deprecated the result, and made a series of wild allegations against Robert. Simon had been involved with Robert Busse shortly after John had begun his attacks, and had been horrified to learn that Robert had made use of a necromancer in Exeter to try to influence matters to his own benefit. Not only that; there were also allegations that plate and money had been taken from the abbey. And so, to settle the dispute, the pope had finally decided to send a negotiator to listen to the evidence of both sides and attempt to make peace between the brothers. And if that failed, to knock their heads together.
‘I have much still to do,’ the cardinal continued. ‘And yet there is more. There are troubles on the moors and about the area. Men are taking advantage of the abbey’s weakness in this period of interregnum. I need more men to control the moors.’
‘I would be happy to do that,’ Simon said, ‘but I fear it is impossible for me now.’
‘How impossible?’
‘I have no house here. This was mine, but now, as soon as you leave, it will revert to Sir Hugh le Despenser, and he will take it over. He is no friend to me.’
‘The abbey can provide you with a home.’
‘I have a wife and children. It is better for me that I remain in my own house, where I can be with them,’ Simon said firmly.
The cardinal made some more attempts to persuade him, but after their third cup of wine, he admitted defeat. ‘It is a great pity, though. The land is growing ever more restless.’
‘I know. Only five years ago it was quieter, even though there had been the famine and the little wars up and down the country. I have never seen the sort of outbreaks of violence that there have been recently.’
‘Yes? And what have you seen, Bailiff?’
Simon noticed that he used his old title again, but chose to ignore it. ‘Only on the way here we found one poor man who had been slain at the roadside. And the coroner, Sir Peregrine, told us of another, a reeve – which is all the worse because he was investigating an attack and murders on the road near Jacobstowe.’
‘Attack and murders, you say?’ the cardinal asked. ‘How many died?’
‘He said nineteen. There was one man who may have been in Holy Orders, and a number of others. They had been robbed of a series of carts and horses, and their bodies cast to the ground and left.’
The cardinal was frowning. ‘Did he say how long ago this was?’
‘I think he said it was two weeks ago or so. Why, do you think you may know them? I know the coroner would be glad to hear from any man who might know who these fellows were. There was nothing on their bodies or nearby to say who they could have been.’
‘It was two weeks ago that a man of mine was sent to London with a chest of money. It was the payment to the king for the period while the abbey was in a state of voidance. Abbot Champeaux was very foresighted, you understand, and purchased the right of the abbey to manage its own affairs when he died.’
‘So what was the money for?’
‘Your king is a skilful negotiator himself,’ the cardinal said musingly. ‘He sold the management during voidance for a hundred marks. That was ten years ago, on the thirtieth anniversary of Abbot Champeaux’s appointment. But within the contract it was agreed that for every vacancy of forty days or fewer, the abbey must pay forty pounds to the king. And if longer, it must pay a proportionate amount, up to one hundred pounds in every year.’
Sir Richard whistled. ‘A hundred pounds a year?’
‘This was the first hundred pounds.’ Cardinal de Fargis nodded. He looked at Simon. ‘That was what my servant Pietro de Torrino was transporting. With him was Brother Anselm from Tavistock, and eight archers with two mounted men-at-arms. So you see, I would like to know if the dead man was he.’
Fourth Sunday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
Furnshill
Sir Baldwin and his wife had enjoyed a pleasant ride to and from the little chapel where they prayed, which was more than Baldwin could say for the sermon preached by the priest.
He was a new incumbent, this young vicar. Apparently he was the son of a moderately wealthy squire somewhere up in Somerset, and had been sent here to work for a fee when the previous man had been given some other churches and could afford to leave this little parish. It was a shame, because Baldwin had rather liked him. This fellow was an insipid little man, pale and unwholesome-looking. He had a great hooked nose set in a narrow face, which made him look rather like a hawk. But not so powerful. Rather, Baldwin thought his nostrils would be constantly dripping.
‘He was only speaking as he thought right,’ Jeanne said defensively.
‘He was speaking as a fool,’ Baldwin said. ‘How could any man stand there and say that the Templars were evil and proof of God’s enemies on earth?’
‘He knew no better.’
‘I could teach the fool.’
Baldwin, once a Templar, and devoted to his order, was insulted when others spoke of it in a derogatory manner, but the priest this morning had gone much further. He had said that the Templars were all so evil that they should have been destroyed utterly. The thrust of his comments was that the whole of Christendom was in turmoil because of a small number of cruel and dishonourable men, such as the Templars. If all the good men in a Christian community were to do nothing and leave the evil-doers to work unhindered, such behaviour would lead to robbery, murder and war. And then God would grow despondent and seek to punish the world. So unless people became more careful of their responsibilities, and tried to serve God, He might decide to send another famine, or a plague, or a flood.
‘All because of the Templars, he said! The cretin!’
Jeanne knew that Baldwin’s mood would soon pass. He was not a man who could dwell on the incompetence or stupidity of others for long. He knew how foolish men could be, and preferred to look beyond them to other men, of intelligence.
They had a short ride to their house, and on this day of rest Baldwin was looking forward to a good meal and an afternoon of utter peace. After the year he had experienced, the thought of such a day was enormously attractive. And for once there was no rain. It was not a bright sunny day, but nor was it cold or wet.
Still, he was still worried by all he had heard from his wife. The thought of the new sheriff was unpleasant, but there was nothing new about corruption in a sheriff. Baldwin was more concerned about the stories of violence in the shire generally. There were all too many outlaws now, since so many families had been dispossessed after Boroughbridge, and if their acts of violence were compounded by men who knew that they could rob or kill with impunity because of Despenser’s support, it would make life intolerable. ‘I wonder how Simon is fari
ng,’ he muttered.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Jeanne said comfortingly. She slipped her hand through his arm and held on to him tightly, watching Richalda, their daughter, trotting uncertainly on ahead, stopping every so often to stare at an insect or into a puddle. Young Baldwin was being carried by Edgar’s wife, Petronilla, while Edgar was immediately behind Baldwin, his smiling face moving constantly, watching hedges and fences, always alert for possible danger. He had been Baldwin’s sergeant in the Knights Templar, and Baldwin knew that he could depend utterly on him.
It was a matter of pride to Baldwin that the household had grown so much now. Behind Petronilla came her own child, and then the various men and women who worked in the house or for Baldwin in the fields. It was a significant procession, he thought. Even Wat, who had been the bane of Baldwin’s life four or five years ago, when he had been merely the cattleman’s son and who had got himself beastly drunk at Baldwin’s wedding, had grown into a tall, good-looking soul of seventeen summers or so.
Baldwin had successfully managed to build a new life here after the horrors of the Templar persecutions. Perhaps he was extraordinarily fortunate to have been given this second chance – he only hoped and prayed that God had not given him this stability only to snatch it away again. Despenser knew that he had once been a Knight Templar, and that man was a bad enemy. It could all be taken away in an instant, Baldwin knew.
It was as they came in sight of the house that Edgar stepped forward.
‘Sir Baldwin,’ he said, ‘do you see the horse?’
Baldwin glanced at him, and saw that Edgar was looking ahead, a slight frown on his face. Following his pointing finger, Baldwin saw that in the roadway ahead, in front of his house, there was a horse thundering over the road. Even as he watched, it turned off and pelted along his pasture, heading to his door.
‘Edgar, you stay with the children and Jeanne,’ he said, and set off at a trot.
Jacobstowe
Agnes knew before the knock. She knew before the face in the doorway. She knew before he began to speak, and she could do nothing.
She had been distracting herself, sometimes even – God forgive her! – swearing at poor Bill. She was trying to see to the vegetables while at the same time looking after Ant and tending all the animals on her own.
There were others there who’d be happy to help her. She knew that. But the trouble was, she had her own way of doing things, and if they were to come and try to help, she knew that it’d take her ages to get things back to the order she was used to.
Except it wasn’t really that. The truth was, if she was to have another man come here to help her, she would feel as though it was admitting the fear she felt deep in the pit of her stomach: that he was dead.
He had never been away from home so long before. If he had gone to do any kind of work and been held up, he would always ensure that a message was sent to her, and if there was any doubt, he would have returned in person.
When he had gone, he said he would be no more than three days, maybe. To her that meant two days only. After that she had known something was wrong. And it wasn’t only the length of time, it was the sensation in her belly. There was an unnatural queasiness there that was unsettling. She knew, she knew, that it meant something was wrong. But there was no one for her to tell.
The knock on her door was only the confirmation.
Furnshill
Edith almost fell from the horse at Baldwin’s door as she ran to it and pounded on the timbers. ‘Sir Baldwin! Sir Baldwin, help me!’
‘My dear Edith, whatever is the matter?’
She turned to find Baldwin behind her, Jeanne and his household approaching up the lane. ‘My husband, Sir Baldwin, he’s been taken by the sheriff, and I don’t know what to do!’
The door was opened, and she allowed herself to be brought inside, but she felt like one stupefied. Her hearing was less acute, her legs were unsteady, and she was all the while aware of a strange whooshing sound in her ears, which made her want to sit.
Sir Baldwin helped her to his own chair before the fire, and his wife began to issue commands. She told Edgar to fetch wine, Petronilla was ordered to bring cloths and a bowl of cool water, a maidservant was told to find some sweetmeats from the box in the pantry, and then all the other household members were ordered to leave.
‘I feel sick,’ Edith said. The nausea began in her belly, it was true, but it wasn’t only that. There was the foul noise in her ears again, too, and now she was aware of flashing lights before her eyes. It was enough to make her heave. She had to close them just to stop the lights, to stop the urge to vomit.
‘Let me!’ Jeanne said to her husband, who had never been good when the children were sick, and she bellowed at the top of her voice for Petronilla again, to bring a bowl. The noise of her shouting was almost enough to make Edith throw up on the spot, but then the pandemonium eased and she was aware of a cool, damp cloth at the back of her neck, another on her brow, and even as she retched, her chest and belly tensing badly, she was aware of the effect of them. She was beginning to improve.
‘Tell me what has happened,’ Baldwin said.
His voice seemed to come from a great distance, as though the result of closing her eyes had made her a little deaf. It was too difficult to concentrate, too disorientating, and she forced her eyes open again. ‘It’s Peter! He’s been arrested for treason against the king!’
Chapter Thirteen
Lydford
Simon woke with the blessed feeling that all was well with the world. He stretched languidly, aware that there were birds singing loudly outside, and smelled fresh bread baking. His head felt fine, his arms were unstrained, his shoulders worked easily, and his eyes, when he opened them, focused.
This was the best morning’s wakening he had known while staying with Coroner Richard. It was almost as though the coroner had not been with him yesterday.
Simon was soon in his old hall, which felt odd. Last night it had been different. Perhaps it was because he had arrived here as a stranger, and was invited in. This morning, though, it was more peculiar. He had woken in his house, but not in his bed, and walked down to the hall which was his, and yet was filled with different people, servants and clerks who were entirely unknown to him. It made his breakfast feel rather unsettling.
‘Ha! Simon, glad to see you surfaced! Can’t keep a trout from snapping at the bait, eh? I said you’d be here as soon as you smelled the food. Don’t suppose you slept too well, though, eh? Not enough wine,’ added Sir Richard in an undertone. ‘Pox on the clergy for keeping their booze to themselves.’
‘So, Bailiff, I hope I see you well?’ the cardinal said.
Simon nodded, bowing low. ‘Very well, my lord.’
‘And have you considered whether or not you would like to take on the duty I asked?’
‘I would be very happy to see what I can learn about the death of your man, if it was him.’
‘There is an easy way to find out. Inspect the body, and if it is poor Pietro, you will find a ragged scar as long as my hand’s breadth on his right thigh. Just here,’ he said, resting his hand on his upper thigh. ‘He was kicked by a mule once, and the brute had a worn shoe that was as sharp as a razor. It made a most impressive scar.’
The steward hurried to his side, and the cardinal nodded as he whispered in his ear. ‘Most interesting. There is a messenger from the king.’
Simon nodded, and he and Sir Richard stepped back as the dishevelled messenger appeared. He had clearly set off on his journey very early to have arrived here already.
‘Where did you come from, messenger?’
‘I was at Bow last night, my lord, and left there as early as I could to bring messages for you and for the abbey at Tavistock.’
‘Please refresh yourself while you are here, then. I am sure a little wine and bread would be good? You should not be travelling today, though. Today should be a day of rest.’
Stephen of Shoreditch nodded, but he could not sa
y that he was travelling because he was far from keen to remain in the castle at Bow. He was sure that he was not safe there. ‘I shall take my rest when I reach Tavistock.’
‘Good. Good,’ the cardinal said. ‘In the meantime, you can join us as we go to the church, yes?’
‘I would be delighted to,’ Stephen said.
Simon thought he looked worn out, but so often, he guessed, most messengers must look like that. They had to travel at least five-and-thirty miles each day, and still be bright enough to relay verbal messages or instructions, as well as being prepared to collect a reply. It wasn’t the best job in the world.
There were worse, of course. And just now Simon didn’t envy the cardinal. He was clearly a man who was putting on a good face as he strode along the road with his clerks behind him, their gowns flying in the wind like so many bats, while the servants struggled behind. The breeze was gusting viciously every so often, and the women were forced to hold on to their wimples, the men their hoods and hats, as they walked down the road, past the great blockhouse of Lydford Castle, the stannary prison and courthouse, to the church just beyond.
Simon had always loved this church. Once Lydford had been a great focus for the rebels against King William, so he had heard, because the townsfolk refused to accept that they must lose all their privileges and customs to the upstart king. This town, which had stood for a hundred years or more, and which was so highly regarded by the ancient kings of Wessex that they had granted the place the right to mint coins, would not listen to this new king from Normandy.
They were crushed, of course, as all the rebellious towns and cities were; as all were still. The use of force, that was the most effective power a king possessed. That was why, when Bristol refused to pay the king’s tallage in 1312, King Edward II had sent the posse of the county against the city, and forced it to submit after a lengthy siege. And then his punishment of the city folk was exemplary.
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 16
