Hugh, a taciturn, narrow-featured man with the slim build of a moorman, took them and filled both, holding one to Baldwin’s man. ‘To your master.’
‘To Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and his lady, Jeanne,’ Edgar nodded, and they drained their pots.
‘What now, then?’ Hugh asked after their second drink.
Edgar shrugged while Hugh bent to fill them again. There had been a time when he hadn’t wished to talk to Hugh, when he had thought the bailiff’s servant was too common for a man like him, who had, while a sergeant in the Order of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon - the Knights Templar - dined with princes and lords. More recently, having been thrown together with Hugh over the last four years whenever their masters had met, he had grown to enjoy the moorman’s company.
‘Everyone is to go to Furnshill for the banquet. You know the way of these things. It’s lucky the kitchen was designed on generous proportions,’ Edgar said, eyeing the waiting horses and carts. ‘There’ll be no work finished today on Sir Baldwin’s estate.’
It was a subject he felt strongly about. He was the knight’s steward, and was responsible for the profits from the lands around Cadbury. To be steward was an honour, but it was a heavy responsibility as well. All looked to him when anything went wrong: if there wasn’t sufficient grain stored through the winter to sow in the fields, if there wasn’t enough food for guests at a feast, if the harvest failed and provisions must be acquired, it was the steward who was to blame.
As steward, he was always on the lookout for the next potential problem, and today he found it while Hugh was passing up his fourth large cup of ale. Edgar took it, but his eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that noise?’
Hugh listened, an expression of vague perplexity on his face. Sure enough, there was a quiet buzzing sound. He cocked his head, staring all around at the churchyard, but could see nothing. Then Edgar gave a muttered, ‘Oh, Hell’s teeth!’ and sprang down from the wagon. He peered beneath the cart parked alongside and groaned: ‘God’s blood, but you can’t keep him off it’
Underneath was young Wat, the Furnshill cattleman’s son, all of thirteen years old, and as drunk as a blacksmith on St Clem’s Day. He didn’t waken when they grabbed his booted feet and hauled him out onto the grass, nor when they called to him, or pinched him; he only grunted and rolled over. Hugh experimentally tipped half a cup of ale over his head, but the lad merely smiled happily and licked his lips in his sleep.
‘Come on, Hugh,’ Edgar said resignedly. ‘We can’t leave him here.’
The two servants each took an arm and hoisted the youngster to his feet. His legs wouldn’t support him, unfortunately, and it was hard work to keep him upright. In the end, Edgar clambered onto the wagon, and was just taking hold of Wat’s arms to lift him into it when he realised that the guests had begun to leave the church. He swiftly dropped to the ground again as Baldwin appeared in the church’s doorway.
‘Quick, prop him,’ Hugh hissed, and the two supported the slumping figure between them as the knight and his lady walked out.
Baldwin felt curiously lightheaded as he paused in the porch. His whole life had undergone a transformation, he knew, and yet he himself hadn’t changed. The sky looked wonderful, with a few tiny, fluffy clouds hanging motionless in the azure blue, and from here he could see the verdant countryside stretching away for miles. The scent of flowers came to him, and their strong, sweet odour made him feel quite drunk.
It was a day he had anticipated with keen delight for five months, ever since he and Jeanne had become handfast, shaking hands on their engagement in the presence of Simon and his wife. Now he had almost completed the Church’s rituals. There was only the blessing of the bridal chamber to come. Then he and his wife could dispense with any further nonsense and get on with their lives together.
As he thought this, he caught sight of Jeanne’s face. She was just leaving the shade of the building, and as the spring sun caught her features she was suffused in a golden glow. He felt his heart lurch. He had been a soldier, a Templar, then a wandering outcast, almost an outlaw, before returning home to his lonely bachelor existence, and to know that this wonderful, attractive and intelligent woman had accepted him as her husband gave him an intense pang, almost of pain.
With that thought he stepped into the sun, and felt a thrill of pure pleasure as he saw her gasp with delight. This was a touch of his own. That morning he had made sure that Edgar sent the children to his garden. Now there was a soft rain of rose petals thrown by four of his workers’ cleaner children. Seeing his wife’s expression, Baldwin knew his efforts had been well-spent. He fumbled for coins and tossed them as the shower began to falter.
‘My Lady?’
Jeanne accepted his hand and they made their stately way down the church’s yard. At the cart, Baldwin saw his servant. He gave Edgar a smile, and nodded towards the gate. To his surprise, Edgar appeared to ignore him. Baldwin assumed the man had missed his instruction. ‘Edgar, open the gate for Lady Jeanne.’
‘Sir.’
Edgar sprang quickly from the cart, marching before Baldwin and his wife. The knight followed, he and Jeanne walking more sedately, but when they were almost at the gate there was a sudden uproar as people began to guffaw, and Baldwin spun round glaring, thinking they were laughing at him or his wife.
Instead he found himself confronted with the sight of Hugh trying to support Wat. The servant gave a weak smile, hitching Wat’s arm over the wagon’s wheel and leaning back nonchalantly, but even as he looked away casually, as if unaware that anything was amiss, his arm had to shoot out to catch the sliding Wat, hauling him back upright by the scruff of his neck.
Baldwin pursed his lips. The boy’s drunkenness was an insult to his wife. He opened his mouth to bellow, but before he could, he felt Jeanne’s hand on his arm.
‘Edgar,’ she said sweetly, ‘perhaps you could help the cattleman’s boy? He seems to have some form of food poisoning.’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘And ensure that he is given a good wash at the church trough while everyone is still here, would you? I’d not like to think he might be dirty when he joined our celebration. See to his washing yourself, would you?’
Edgar clenched his jaw. Her meaning was all too clear: he was the steward, so he was responsible for the cattleman’s lad and he must join in the indignity of publicly washing the brat. He rejoined Hugh and the two half-dragged, half-carried Wat to the trough, while guests and villeins bellowed their delight.
Baldwin took his wife’s arm and they walked through the gate. Here his present stood waiting. For a second Jeanne didn’t notice, but then she gasped.
The pure white Arab mare stood quietly under the tree, the new saddle and harness gleaming. Her coat shone like snow under bright sunlight, and the gold chasing on the leatherwork was almost painful to look at, it was so bright. As she moved, bells fixed to stirrups and bridle tinkled musically.
‘Baldwin, your mare…’
‘Not mine any longer, my love. It is customary to give one’s leman a gift on the day of marriage. I give you this horse. I hope you will find her as much of a pleasure to ride as I have myself.’
Jeanne smiled, her hand already on the bridle. For a moment her eyes filled with tears, she was so happy, and she had to blink them away. Then she touched her husband’s cheek and kissed him again while the guests roared and cheered behind them. She accepted his aid to mount the mare, and sat proudly in the saddle, her tunic awry, her skirts rucked up, while Baldwin took the reins and walked his bride back to his manor.
It was quite alarming how Petronilla had altered since the squire’s death, Daniel thought.
He was standing in the screens, leaving his poor mistress in the hands of Anney, much though it grieved him to quit her side in her present state. When the poor woman was so desolate, Daniel felt he should be with her.
Petronilla kept on weeping when she was alone. The silly chit appeared to have been dreadfully affected b
y the way that the squire had so suddenly been taken from them, and quite often when Daniel saw her in the dairy or buttery, he noted her raw, red eyes. Of course it was only right and proper that a serf should miss her master and that she should mourn his loss, but Daniel found himself wondering; Petronilla had looked so bonny just before the squire’s death, with her glowing cheeks and fresh complexion.
He sighed and walked to the door, standing on the threshold. Outside in the yard he saw Petronilla herself, talking to the priest. Even as Daniel appeared in the doorway, she bent and kissed Stephen’s ringed finger while he made the sign of the cross over her head.
That was another thing. The girl had taken to speaking to Stephen regularly since the master had gone. She always appeared to be near him, confessing sins or some such - surely she didn’t have that many guilty secrets?
But Daniel had other matters to concern him. It had occurred to him that the bailiff couldn’t have known about Edmund’s imminent eviction or his return to servile status.
Daniel realised perfectly well how the bailiff would have viewed the whole affair: a man falling from his horse and his son dying shortly afterwards. The first was all too common with men of the squire’s age; the second was surely only a sad accident. But Daniel knew something that the bailiff didn’t: he knew about Edmund.
Chapter Nine
Sir Baldwin eyed the plates on the table before him with mistrust. He had long ago given up eating rich foods, preferring simpler fare, but now, at his wedding feast, he had been presented with as complex a mix of pounded, mashed, coloured and spiced dishes as could be found in any palace to satisfy the jaded palate of a royal courtier.
Before him, bowls brimmed with concoctions of the wildest colours: purples, reds, oranges, greens, and some with different mixtures, like the odd-looking dish near his left hand that was quartered white, yellow, green and black. The sight made Baldwin swallow nervously, aware that he would probably have a troubled stomach the next morning.
It was a relief to be able to recognise common foods. To the side of his salt was a dish of roasted thrushes, and beside that, some ‘mawmenny’ - ground mutton in a wine-based gravy, thickened with the minced meat of a fowl and almonds, flavoured with cloves and sugar, and coloured with red dye. There was a plate of blancmange, too: an appetising mixture of veal, pounded and minced, boiled with sweetened almond milk and seasoned with sugar, salt and pepper.
The custard pies were more complex. He had seen them being made: tiny shreds of veal boiled in wine, with sage, savory, hyssop, pepper, cinnamon, cloves, mace, and other strong spices and herbs, the whole thickened with eggs before having dates, ginger and verjuice added. The final operation involved pouring the mixture into the small pastry cases, somewhat inelegantly called ‘coffins’, and cooking it.
It sometimes seemed to the knight that the whole basis of the art of cooking for a feast was to disguise even the simplest of foods by adulterating it with so many herbs or spices that the taste buds rebelled. He watched the stuffed capons being marched to his table with a sense of relief. At least there was little the greasy, rotund tyrant of the kitchen could do to a good, plain fowl, he thought.
The cook had been Edgar’s idea. Sir Baldwin would have been happy to have used his own man, who was perfectly capable of turning a spit or filling a pastry case, but his servant wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Not on your wedding day, Sir Baldwin! You can’t let Jack cook for you on your wedding day.’
‘Why not, in God’s name?’ the astonished knight had demanded.
‘You must aim to impress everyone,’ Edgar had protested before seeing the blankness creeping into his master’s eye. If there were any arguments guaranteed to fail with the knight, they were those of the responsibilities of modern fashion. Edgar quickly changed tack. ‘And how would your cook feel, being the only senior member of your household who wouldn’t be able to eat with you in your hall on the day of your marriage?’
Baldwin’s refusal had frozen on his lips. He wanted to enjoy his nuptials, but he also wanted all his people to celebrate with him. It was an ancient tradition, no doubt, yet he agreed with many of the old customs, especially that which demanded that a lord should hold festivities in his own hall with all his retainers about him. The same custom would have dictated that the cook should have performed his duties in the kitchen, of course, but Baldwin was secretly swayed by the logic of allowing his own man a few hours’ relief. If Baldwin was truly honest with himself, he was also of the same mind as Edgar: Jack was undoubtedly competent at manufacturing large numbers of simple pies or roasting whole beasts over the kitchen fire, but when it came to making his new wife feel at home, Baldwin wasn’t so confident.
His eye drifted over towards his temporarily unemployed cook, who sat at the bottom of one of the tables, a fixed glower on his face. Jack hadn’t wanted to be relieved of his duties. When Edgar had informed him that he was to be saved the responsibility of feeding so many people, he had shoved the seneschal out of his way and marched straight to his master. It had taken all of Baldwin’s powers of persuasion to ensure that the new cook didn’t end up stuffed on the table with all the other roasted meats.
Now Jack fixed him with an eye so accusing that Sir Baldwin shifted guiltily in his seat. He smiled at his wife.
‘My Lady, would you like some blancmange?’
She shook her head ruefully. ‘Not now, sir. I’ve already eaten more than I usually do in a whole week!’
Baldwin felt the same. King Edward II had proclaimed in the ninth year of his reign that his subjects should have only two courses of meat, and Baldwin surreptitiously felt his tightening belt and restrained a groan and a belch. This was already the third course, and he was aware of an unpleasant rumbling deep in his bowels. Too many sweetly flavoured foods; too many rich, spiced meats; too much good wine.
Sitting further along the table, Simon Puttock cocked an eyebrow at his wife and jerked his head at Baldwin. I think our abstemious friend is suffering!‘
Margaret Puttock smiled at her husband. Simon and Baldwin had been friends for so long now that she could hardly recall the time before Baldwin had arrived in the area, when she and her husband still lived in the small village of Sandford, before Simon was given the awesome responsibility of becoming the Warden’s Bailiff at Lydford.
Glancing up at the knight, she saw him studying a stuffed fowl with an expression that bordered on alarm. He had sliced off a piece of golden, slightly dry meat from the breast, and beneath it had found a thick layer of stuffing, which glowed bright orange in the candlelight. He had the look of a man who, rich beyond all dreams, has only gold in his house, yet who has found that proximity leads to aversion and now seeks to find something – anything! - made of a different material.
Margaret looked away before she burst out laughing, and took another spoonful of the paste on her trencher. It was good to see Baldwin married at last. She had tried to help, introducing the knight to all the most eligible widows and young women in the area, but had failed to find one who fired him with enthusiasm. It was only when he met the tall, red-haired woman from Liddinstone that he had at last succumbed. Margaret did not grudge him her wasted effort; she held only an abiding gratitude that he had finally selected a woman whom she could be pleased to call a friend. It would have been very difficult if Baldwin had chosen someone Margaret had loathed.
‘I only hope he doesn’t fill himself too full of this wine,’ Simon said, taking a long pull from his drink and gesturing to Edgar for more.
‘I imagine his wife will be hoping the same, Simon,’ she said meaningfully, giving his drinking horn a hard stare as Baldwin’s servant refilled it.
Simon laughed and took another good draught. He laughed again as he caught sight of the pale features of the cattleman’s son Wat, who was staring at the food on the table with an expression akin to horror.
The bailiff was in excellent spirits, delighted for his friend, who was happier than at any time since they had met, and filled wit
h the hope that soon his own wife might become pregnant again. He winked at Margaret and set the horn aside for a moment while he concentrated on his food. Simon didn’t suffer from Baldwin’s scruples about food. The bailiff had been brought up on simple fare, and when he was offered special dishes he tended to try everything. Although he could feel his belly beginning to rebel slightly, there were several bowls he had not yet investigated and he was determined to remedy that deficiency. When his friend caught his eye, Simon waved happily, still chewing, and saw Baldwin raise an eyebrow in sardonic amusement.
Baldwin shook his head, and turned back to his plate, but after a while he stopped chewing and frowned slightly.
Jeanne noticed his altered mood. ‘What is it, my love? Is the food not to your taste?’
‘The food is wonderful,’ he lied smilingly. ‘It is only my appetite. I am replete.’
In truth, Baldwin had recalled the face of Lady Katharine of Throwleigh, and it was the vision of the weeping woman which had destroyed his appetite. And yet, as he reminded himself, there were no suspicious circumstances. The father had died naturally, the son had been run down. And that was that.
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