Текст книги "The Crediton Killings"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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4

It was two days later that the knight of Furnshill, Baldwin, strode out into the sunshine with a feeling of impending doom. The morning was clear and bright, small clouds like freshly cleaned balls of fleece hung suspended in a deep blue sky, and the sound of larks singing high overhead, the chirruping of the tits in the bushes, and the raucous, chuckling sqawks of blackbirds scurrying off, flying inches from the ground in urgent panic at his appearance, gave him a momentary respite from his black mood.

Tall, with brown hair shot through with silver and a neat black beard which just followed the line of his jaw, Baldwin was an anachronistic figure for a modern knight. Most men went cleanshaven these days, like his friend Simon Puttock, the bailiff of Lydford; few sported even a moustache. Nor did his dress follow the latest fashion for ostentatious display, for he preferred to appear in a stained old tunic which hung loosely until nipped in at his belt. Other knights would have commented on his shabby old boots, which hardly had any toe at all, and did not match the modern courtly trend for elongated points curling back toward the ankle. A long scar marked Sir Baldwin’s cheek, stretching from temple to jaw; the sole remaining evidence of a lively past.

As his attire showed, Sir Baldwin Furnshill was not like other men in this increasingly secular world. He had been a warrior monk, one of the Knights Templar, until the Order had been disbanded; with its destruction his own faith in the church had been shattered. Now forty-six, he was well into his middle age and content to spend the remainder of his life as a rural knight, leading a quiet existence, avoiding the pomp of tournaments and other royal festivals. The supposed excitements of life at the center of politics bored him, not because he disliked power, but because he saw those that sought it to be manipulative and unprincipled. His own experience had led him to doubt the honor of those at the very pinnacle of political and religious authority, and the thought of circulating among men who were, to his mind, corrupt and dishonest was unattractive to him.

At a time when King Edward II was so ineffectual, this was not a common point of view. Many wished to get close to the monarch, hoping that by proximity they would be able to snatch the control which constantly eluded Edward himself. Baldwin Furnshill was happier leaving such machinations and knavery to others. For himself, he was content to stay in Devon and find satisfaction in his work, leaving the administration of the nation to those who felt they had an aptitude for it.

But there were times when he could not help becoming involved, and this was one of them. As he thought of his meeting, his face took on a glowering aspect, and the beauty of the countryside ahead could not relieve his sudden ill-humor.

This was usually his favorite position, before his old long house, looking down to the south. The building itself was on rising land, and in front the ground fell away for a short distance. Apart from a small hillock, there was nothing to obscure the view, and Baldwin often came out here to sit on the old tree-trunk to consider any problems he had, letting his mind range over issues and solutions while he gazed into the distance.

Today he knew he would not find peace. He seated himself, resting his arms on his thighs and staring, but could not see a way out of it.

The problem had its roots in his acceptance two years before of the position of Keeper of the King’s Peace. At the time he had been wary of taking on the responsibility, knowing that it must inevitably embroil him in any arguments or disputes which exercised the local population, but holding magisterial powers meant that he could at least display a little restraint with some of the more paltry of crimes, and he had managed to help in two serious investigations over the last two or three years, bringing two murderers to justice. That was the positive side; the negative side lay in the inevitable calls to meet others who felt he was important enough to be courted.

And now he had been asked to go to Peter Clifford’s to meet Walter Stapledon.

He sighed, forcing himself to sit upright and scowling at a house so far off near the horizon it appeared as a mere splash of white among the green of the trees which surrounded it. If there was a way to avoid the meeting, he failed to see it.

It was not that he disliked Stapledon – he had never met the man – but the Bishop of Exeter was an astute politician, not a mere priest. In late 1316 Walter Stapledon had helped create a new movement which strove to break the deadlock between the King and his cousin, Thomas of Lancaster. Acrimonious disputes between Edward II and his Steward of England had led to the brink of civil war, and Walter and his friends had managed to avert it only through skilled negotiation.

And now Baldwin was invited to meet him… The knight set his jaw: there was only one reason why the Bishop would want to meet him, and that was to force him to declare his allegiances. Baldwin had few loyalties: in the main he recognized a commitment to his villeins, but that was as far as his convictions took him. From his bitter experience, prelates and kings were equally capable of squashing people with as little compunction as they would a flea if there was a profit in it, and he saw no need to ally himself to any of them. He was reluctant to meet the imposing Bishop and be questioned, but there was no way to evade the invitation; he would have to go.

There was one silver lining to this storm cloud: his old friend Simon Puttock would also be there. Peter Clifford’s messenger had taken special care to mention that the bailiff to Lydford and his wife would be visiting Peter at the same time. This carefully appended comment showed how alive Peter was to the knight’s antipathy to politicians, and Baldwin had nearly laughed when the youth had recited his message, frowning with concentration: “And my master said to be sure to tell you that Simon Puttock, bailiff of Lydford, will also be there, and his family. He knows you will want to see them. They will be joining my master for supper.”

Baldwin snorted.

Yes, he would have to go and meet this Bishop – but he must be alive to the risks and take care not to become embroiled in any political matters.

As it happened, the meeting with Stapledon was the least of his difficulties that night.

Peter Clifford’s house was a pleasant, airy building near the new church, which was still some way from being completed. Piles of rubble and masonry waiting to be dressed lay all round in untidy heaps as if a siege had been in progress with heavy artillery. When Baldwin arrived at a little after noon, his servant by his side, he gazed about the place with interest.

The walls of the new church looked to him like the wharves of a busy port: the scaffolding rose on all sides like the thrusting masts and flag-poles of a fleet in harbor. He paused at the sight, studying the grotesque structure of the scaffolding, all bound together with hemp and with walkways of flimsy timber, with a wince. Baldwin feared no man alive – he had witnessed the worst sufferings that men could inflict – but he had a dislike verging on loathing when it came to heights. He could not understand how men could scramble along such insubstantial planks like monkeys, putting their faith in the strength of knots tied by others. Too many regularly died, proving that such faith was misplaced.

“So, Baldwin. You’ve not lost your distrust of English workers then, to judge from the disgust on your face?”

Just by his stirrup was a tall, dark-haired man with a square face burned brown from sun and wind and, as Baldwin turned, he gave a slow smile.

“Simon!” The knight passed his reins to Edgar, his waiting servant, and dropped from his horse. In a moment he was shaking hands and grinning, but the expression on his friend’s face made him hesitate. There was a pinched tiredness in Simon’s grin which he had not seen before. It looked as if the bailiff was concealing a secret pain.

“Baldwin, it’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

Pulling away, Simon said thinly, attempting humor, “Oh yes – just so you have someone to talk to while the good Bishop is spouting forth about affairs of state, you mean?”

Baldwin grimaced shamefacedly. “Well, not entirely, old friend, but your company would help to – perhaps – divert the conversation from some of the more serious affairs of state.”

“I hope so,” Simon laughed. “If not, Margaret will slit my throat.”

“Margaret is here?”

“Where else should my wife be, but at my side? Yes, she’s here.”

While Edgar led the horses away to the stables, they walked to Peter’s house, but before they arrived at the door Baldwin took his friend by the arm and halted, studying him. Simon had lost weight; his face was thinner than Baldwin recalled, and lines of strain were etched deep into his forehead and at either side of his mouth. His dark hair had begun to recede, giving him a distinguished appearance, but his gray eyes, once sparkling with intelligence, were now dim and vapid. “Simon, tell me if I am prying where I’m not wanted, but is there something wrong?” Baldwin said gently.

“You’re my closest friend,” Simon said, and the other man was shocked to see his eyes glisten. “I… You can’t intrude, Baldwin, I have no secrets from you.” He looked away and said in a broken voice: “It’s Peterkin, my boy.”

The knight frowned in quick concern. Peterkin was Simon and Margaret’s son, a lad of just over a year and a half. “What is it, Simon?”

“He’s dead.”

“Simon… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’m almost over it. It has been hard, though. You know how much we both wanted a son, and to have lost him like this is very cruel.”

“When? I mean, how did he die?”

Simon made a futile little gesture. “Three weeks ago. He had been fractious for some time, crying and whining, but we didn’t know why. For a day and a night he had a fever, and wouldn’t eat, diarrhea all the time, and then… And then he was dead.”

“My friend, I…” Baldwin murmured, but Simon shook his head.

“It’s all right, Baldwin.”

“And Margaret?”

“She has taken it cruelly. It’s not surprising.” His voice was taut.

“Let us go inside,” said Baldwin. Simon’s anguish, though he tried to keep it under control, was painful to witness. The knight could feel his misery.

They walked into the house. Inside, Baldwin saw Simon’s wife sitting by the fire, her daughter Edith at her side. Behind them was Hugh, Simon’s servant, and a short way away Peter Clifford sat on his chair. Baldwin was glad that the Bishop had not yet arrived – a stranger’s presence would have inhibited Margaret. As it was, she had little desire to talk. The knight nodded to Peter, who gave him a twisted grin. He had been a close friend of Simon’s since before Baldwin had met the bailiff, yet he found it difficult to know what to say to them. Peter had never married, and consoling those who had lost their children was, he felt, beyond his powers. It was a relief for him to see another friend arrive.

Rather than greet the priest, Baldwin walked over to Margaret and knelt before her, his sword scabbard clattering on the flagged floor as he took her hands in his. “Margaret, I have just heard about Peterkin. I am terribly sorry. There’s nothing I can do or say which will ease your loss, but you know you have my deepest sympathy.”

“Baldwin, thank you.” She gave him a fragile smile. “Of course we miss him awfully. We can only hope that God grants us another son to take his place.”

Peter Clifford leaned forward and patted her hand. “He will, my dear. He will. Keep your faith, and He will send more children to lighten your life.”

Margaret sat still and made no comment, holding Baldwin’s gaze. To him she looked like a tragic figure from a Greek play. Usually tall and willowy, with the pale complexion and long fair hair that Baldwin associated with the women of the Holy Roman Empire, now she seemed shrivelled and wasted. Her skin, once soft as a fresh peach, looked dry and brittle, her hair, which he had only ever seen carefully braided and held in its net, straggled carelessly, making her seem much older.

“He was our first son,” she murmured. “After seven years, we had managed to have a brother for our daughter. And now he has been snatched away from us.”

Baldwin wanted to console her, but could think of nothing to say. He got up, staring down at her, while she, as if unaware of his presence, gazed at the floor. Across the room, Simon stood, wretched. The bailiff was transfixed by his wife’s heartbreak, but trapped by his own feelings of loss, he had no idea how to soothe her.

The knight quietly stepped away from Margaret. Now he was glad he had come, if only to protect Margaret and her husband from any comments made by the Bishop. As he moved away he saw her hand grip her daughter’s convulsively. It looked like a desperate attempt to hold on to her, as if by doing so she could protect Edith’s precious life and save her from being stolen away as well.

Walter Stapledon arrived an hour after Baldwin, but the atmosphere had not improved. Peter Clifford was out of the room when Baldwin heard the blowing and stamping of horses in the yard, and he noticed a nervous young canon leaping to his feet in alarm at the realization that Peter was not there to welcome his guests. Motioning to him, Baldwin said, “Fetch your master. I will entertain Bishop Stapledon.” The lad immediately ran from the room, and Baldwin, sighing, left the Puttocks and their servant alone for a moment. His own servant, Edgar, followed along behind him.

Outside, he found a fair retinue of six men dismounting from their horses, grumbling and muttering as they rubbed sore backs and stretched stiff joints. There was one clerical type he could see, a man in a plain robe, climbing down from a wagon, and Baldwin made his way to him. “Bishop?”

“Not him. I am Bishop Stapledon.”

Baldwin spun round. Behind him was a man in his sixties, wearing a plain cloak and tunic, both of good quality and cut. At his belt was a short sword, the grip worn from regular use. Graying hair cut fashionably sat atop what looked like a warrior’s head, and Baldwin was reminded of the leaders of the Templars. He had the same aristocratic haughtiness, bred of a long family history and awareness of his power. When Baldwin glanced down he was not surprised to see that the Bishop’s boots were light and fashionable, the point rising elegantly, as befitted a courtier. It made him sigh.

“My Lord Bishop, Godspeed.” Not knowing the man, Baldwin preferred to bow a little and give him the customary formal greeting.

“Godspeed.” The Bishop had keen green-brown eyes which were perpetually on the brink of smiling, as if he was genuinely happy with his lot and saw no reason to be otherwise; Baldwin found himself liking the look of him. While the knight introduced himself and explained that Peter was supervising food in the kitchen, Stapledon nodded absently and issued a string of commands to his men. In minutes two servants were leading horses to the stables, while others lifted chests and bags from the wagon and carried them inside.

It was just as he was about to walk in that Baldwin asked him for a word in confidence.

“Of course, Sir Baldwin. What is it?”

The green eyes held his while he explained. “My friend Simon Puttock, the bailiff of Lydford Castle, has just lost his son, my lord. I fear it is not a cheerful gathering you have come to.”

“How old was the boy?”

“Eighteen or twenty months.”

“Good God! Ah well, we must see what we can do to divert them in their sadness, mustn’t we, Roger?”

This was addressed to a young man, clad in simple clerical gear of cassock, gown and hood. He was introduced to Baldwin as Roger de Grosse, the son of Sir Arnold in Exeter. Baldwin had heard of Sir Arnold de Grosse; he was a patron of a number of churches in Devon and Cornwall. Now, it appeared, he had decided his son should become a rector.

“Do you have a church selected for you?” Baldwin asked.

“Er… yes, sir. Callington. We have just been visiting it in Cornwall. I hope to be confirmed in my position soon,” he said nervously, casting a sidelong glance at the Bishop.

Baldwin indicated the entrance and they made their way inside. Trailing along behind the great politician and man of God, Baldwin had a twinge of doubt as to whether he had done the right thing in warning him about Simon and his wife, but the fear was dispelled as soon as they went into the hall.

Peter had returned, and stood, flustered, as the Bishop walked in. They exchanged greetings, but then Walter went over to Margaret. “My lady, I am so sad to hear of your loss. I promise you, I will remember him, and you, in my prayers. You are an intelligent woman; you know that nothing I can do or say will reduce your grief, but think on this: although God has seen fit to take your boy from you, and that is for some reason we cannot yet comprehend, He did at least give you the gift of the boy in the first place. He might never have done that. That He did so means He may intend giving you another, and this one you may keep.” As he stopped, her eyes filled with tears, and at first Baldwin was worried that he had upset her more, but then he saw her attempt a smile, and breathed a sigh of relief.

As midday crept into the afternoon, Paul sat in the inn’s buttery, carefully totting up his profits. Though he could neither read nor write, he had no difficulty in calculating bills, and could keep a tally of six simultaneously when he needed to. With all his space being taken up by the captain’s men-at-arms, he anticipated a cheerful reckoning at the end of their stay.

He was absolutely exhausted. The girls had run themselves off their feet, all but Sarra. He had quite failed to get the lass to bestir herself. The stupid girl had insisted that she was too tired to get up and work, when he went to her room – and when he roared that it was her fault for escorting the captain to his bedchamber, she had screeched at him to leave her alone or she would speak to Sir Hector about him. The threat was enough. His sole Parthian shot had been to point out that the captain and his men would soon be gone, and if she wanted to make sure she still had a job afterward, she should get out of bed and roll up her sleeves. It had not worked. He had not truly expected it to, for he knew how pig-headed she could be.

Soon he would have to go to the cookshop and collect the evening food. The captain and his men demolished stews, pottages and hams as if they had starved for months, and it was hard keeping up with them. What was even more difficult for the stressed innkeeper was trying to adjust to their hours. He, like most others in the town, relied on religious schedules for his meals. Up at dawn, he would have a short breakfast, ready for his main meal at nine and a supper in the afternoon. Rural lords would eat later, but they did not have to worry about fitting the regular round of jobs into their day and could afford to have others work to prepare their food. The captain and his men seemed happier rising late, the knight at nine, while some of his men were still abed at ten; they preferred their last meal to be both more substantial than the others and served later – much later. If the previous night was anything to go by, any time up to the middle of the night was fine.

Hearing a step, he glanced out into the screens and gave a wry smile. “Hello, Sarra.”

The girl had not seen him, and he was surprised at the way she jumped when he called out. He was hidden slightly in the darkness of the buttery, while she was walking along the lighted screens: he must have surprised her.

“Did you have to do that?” she demanded, and to his amazement she was shaking with anger, white-faced and wide-eyed.

“I’m sorry, Sarra, I had no idea you’d be scared. I was only saying hello.”

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No. Well, I’m sorry.”

She flounced away, out through the door and into the bright sunlight of the yard behind the inn. Crossing it, ignoring the catcalls of two mercenaries at a table, she made her way to her room, and only when she had shut and bolted the door and could stand with her back to it, safe and secure once more in her old room, did she let her breath escape in a long hissing sigh of relief.

The fool had almost made her leap from her skin, the way he had called out to her. He wouldn’t dare do that to anyone else, it was just because he thought of her as a silly wench, good only for serving and flattering the customers. It wasn’t as if he had ever given her any responsibility, even.

Gradually she felt her heartbeat slow and could move from the door to the mattress, where she dropped down, and huddled miserably.

That first evening had been a long, slow anticipation of a delightful, sensual experience. In her dreams she had elevated her meeting with a suitable man to the level of a courtly love affair. There were many songs of how knights would vie for a lady’s love at tournaments, trying to win renown to honor her… and during that evening she had invented dire situations from which Sir Hector would save her, his lady, while in reality she stood beside him refilling his tankard. Her old fantasies had been reinvigorated by his presence, and she had saved him from miserable circumstances time after time while she stood, head bowed, the jug held firmly in her hands waiting for him to hold out his mug again. But instead of finding love, she had been taken like a prize of battle.

She had thought she would be happy with Sir Hector. He had been quiet in the hall, reserved and undemonstrative, not pawing at her like others she had known. At one stage she had wondered whether he was going to show any interest in her after all. But that had changed once they entered his chamber. She had expected compliments, some well-chosen phrases of flattery such as a well-educated knight might use to his chosen lady, but no. Sir Hector had battered at her as if she was a city to be conquered. He had no finesse, no interest in her whatsoever: she was there to satisfy him, and that was all. When once she tried to refuse him, he struck her. Not hard, but painfully. She could still feel the lump on her ribcage where his fist had landed with that short blow.

In the morning she had been roused and evicted. Always before, she had been woken tenderly by her lovers, gentled and teased into wakefulness. Sir Hector had risen and dressed while she was still asleep, then kicked her foot to wake her, laughing at her tousled appearance. She felt used and angry at such treatment, and almost decided not to show him any favors again, but then she began to have second thoughts. A quiet, calm voice at the back of her mind told her that she should not give up immediately, for he could still fall in love with her. Was it not often said that women were the cleverer sex? That, although men might have the brawn and muscle, women controlled them through their brains? If a woman knew what she wanted, she could surely achieve her aims and ambitions.

Sir Hector would be no easy conquest, that was plain. In the afternoon she had prepared for him, dressing carefully and smiling alluringly, and gone to him. To her amazement, he had at first ignored her, then waved her away with every expression of revulsion. This sudden rejection had confused her. There seemed no reason for him to have turned against her, and yet he had refused even to speak to her, choosing instead to go out for the evening. At first she had wondered whether the man who had tried to rape her, Henry, might have poisoned his mind against her, but her man had been out of the inn most of the day, while Henry and his friend, when she asked Cristine, had been in the hall or the stables: they had been nowhere near Sir Hector. They could have had nothing to do with his change of heart. It must be something else.

Her eyes narrowed. She must have a rival – he had said as much, though it was hard to accept. Another girl had managed to win him and would make him her husband. Was it Cristine? The thought was a dagger-thrust in her brain, and she caught at her temples with the sharp pain. Shame was not something she was used to, but being spurned for a woman ten years older, made her feel close to sickness.

She must win him back! Tonight she would dress in her finest and make herself so tempting that he could not look at another.

Sarra was in many ways a simple girl, and she was used to being the woman in town whom men leered after. It was a position she enjoyed, knowing that she could make a man’s head turn even when his wife was with him, and the idea that a man who had enjoyed her company could go on to desire another was intolerable.

Then a new thought struck her. She had dreamed of saving him, of performing a service for him which snatched him from a vile end, and surely if she was to do so he could only feel a new passion for her. If he knew he was in her debt, he must look on her in a different light.

She wrapped her arms round her legs as she considered, chin on her knees, in what possible way she might be able to win him back. One thing she did know was that Henry and his friend were evil, and must surely be bad for him. Her face lightened as she recalled overhearing a whispered conversation. All at once her ever-inventive mind began to sparkle with plans.