“Welcome!”
A slow smile lightened Simon’s features. It was impossible not to be cheerful with a host who was so obviously delighted to see them, and when the bailiff finally dropped from his horse he found his hand being grasped firmly before he could even go to his wife and help her down.
“Welcome, Simon. Welcome, Mrs. Puttock,” said Baldwin, smiling broadly and showing his small, square teeth. But the lines of worry on Simon’s face did not escape his notice, and the bailiff saw the small beginnings of the frown, swiftly followed by a sharp nod, as if to acknowledge to himself that he had noted the change in the bailiff correctly and filed the knowledge for reference, before the knight turned to his wife.
“My lady, your servant.” He bowed low, suiting action to words. Margaret smiled as Simon helped her down and nodded at the knight with a coquettish, mocking expression as she had her first sight of her husband’s new friend.
It was plain that this was not a man who had spent his life locally. The erect, proud mien and the clear, glinting dark eyes showed that, and the dark skin pointed to a life spent in regions farther south, where she had been told the sun was more hot. With his square, serious face and curiously powerful gaze, she found him oddly intriguing, and realised why her husband seemed so fascinated with him. There was a niggling thought at the back of her mind, though: he seemed to remind her of someone. It was only after he had appeared to subject her to a careful scrutiny that she realised who.
When she was young there had been a regular annual procession of pilgrims to the church at Crediton to visit the shrine of Saint Boniface, the famous missionary who had brought Christianity to the German peoples. Among them she had once seen a man similar to Baldwin.
He had been a monk, a tall, strong-looking and holy man in a white robe. That he spoke with a strong accent she had first noticed when she had heard him singing. Walking at the head of the column, he had immediately drawn her eyes to him. Interested, and wanting to see what his face looked like, she had followed the line of dirty and threadbare pilgrims for a distance, listening to their songs and chants, until, at last, fascinated by this stranger, she had run ahead to the front of the group so that she could see him more clearly.
At the time, she had felt that this was how Jesus must have looked. The monk was not like the slender, bookish men she sometimes saw at the church and chapel; he looked like a warrior. He had a massive sword hanging from his waist by his heavy leather belt, and his arms were plainly visible as they held the wooden cross high, the material from the short-sleeved tunic falling back and showing the huge biceps. Those arms were not made so strong by hewing wood or tilling soil; they were created to serve God in war, fighting heretics and non-believers. This all came to her as she stared at him walking towards her, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, walking trance-like, seeming to be almost other-worldly, as if he was dropped from Heaven to raise the masses but would be taken back soon.
Then, as a vague fear of him started to make itself felt, as she began to think about going and leaving the procession to carry on its way, he glanced at her and winked. It was so unexpected that she felt her mouth fall open, and she gaped at him, so obviously astounded that he almost bellowed with laughter, appearing to stop himself with an effort, but then, as he continued on his way, he winked again and the grin stayed on his face, she was sure, until he had quite passed out of sight.
This stern but gentle knight struck her in the same way. His was a similar dark and almost forbidding visage, but today, in his welcome, there was the same preparedness to give himself over to humour and enjoyment that she had noticed about the leader of the pilgrims so many years before. She could see the lines of pain that Simon had described, but they seemed not so pronounced as she had expected from what her husband had said.
She smiled again, graciously accepting the knight’s look of frank approval and Simon was pleased to see that his wife was obviously as taken with Baldwin as he was.
“My lady, your husband does you no credit when he describes you. Let’s leave him here and go in ourselves.” And so saying he took her by the arm and led the way into the house, roaring for his servants to come and take care of their horses.
They all went in, Hugh following with an expression of frowning distrust, to the main hall, where they found the table almost hidden by plates of food. The mastiff wandered over to lie hopefully in front of the fire. It was not quite dark yet, and the room was lit by the sun streaming in through the westernmost windows and the fire, which was surrounded by a wide range of pots. A small lamb was roasting in front on a spit, tended by his sullen and watchful servant Edgar. Before they sat, Baldwin poured them all mugs of mulled ale and insisted on drinking a toast to their new life in Lydford. Even Hugh slowly began to unbend a little in the face of the enthusiastic hospitality of their host.
“It would seem that you are settling in well in your new home, Baldwin,” said Simon at last when they were all seated.
Baldwin waved at the food, then patted his dog on the head as she sat beside him, smiling at her briefly. “Yes, it’s marvellous to be back, and it does already feel like home.”
“Even after travelling so much?”
“Oh, I’ve seen many other countries and I’ve stayed in a number, but there’s nowhere like the place you were born in, and for me the best country to live in is this.”
“So where have you been, sir?” asked Margaret, “and what have you done?”
“I have been all over the known world, lady. I have been through France, Spain, and even to Rome. But you must remember, I have been travelling for many years. I left my home here over twenty-five years ago, and I have been travelling ever since.”
“You must have seen many strange sights.”
“Oh yes, but nothing as strange as some of the sights you see here in Devonshire. There is little quite as unique as the moors - all through my travels I have been surprised by that. Dartmoor really is astonishing. It has so many different parts - the moors themselves, the forests, the farm land, the quicksands. I went for a ride yesterday and went down through to Moretonhampstead. I had forgotten how beautiful the land is down there.”
Simon leaned forward slightly. “But surely in some of the countries you have visited there were more magnificent sights?” he asked innocently, trying to get the knight to speak more about his journeying.
“Oh, I suppose to many there were, but, for me, to be able to stand on the hills above Drewsteignton and look out over the moors with the wind in my hair is worth any number of foreign sights. Margaret, would you like a little more lamb? Or perhaps some rabbit?”
The bailiff sighed inwardly. It was clear that the knight was still keen to avoid any further discussion of his travels, and that he would be happier if he could change the subject.
“So have you heard about the murder, Baldwin?” Margaret said when she had taken more food. Simon looked up quickly.
“Yes, of course. I was there at Blackway with Simon to—‘
“But what of the killing of the abbot.”
“Abbot?” asked the knight, looking at Simon questioningly. “Oh, that was why you weren’t around, of course, you sent me a message.”
“Simon is in charge of the hunt for the men. They took an abbot hostage from the road, he was travelling down to Buckland Abbey with some monks, and they burned him at the stake only a few miles from Copplestone.”
“Really? Well, no doubt Simon will catch the men responsible,” said Baldwin, turning an expressionless face to the bailiff. Simon was sure he could see a glitter in his eyes for a moment, but then it passed and the knight seemed uninterested. In an obvious attempt at changing the subject he passed a roasted rabbit to the bailiff and said, “So have you any more about the death of Brewer?”
“Yes, I went and spoke to the warrener.” Simon sighed; he did not really want to get involved in discussions about the deaths tonight - just for the evening it would be pleasant to be able to relax. “He reckons he saw som
eone on the night that Brewer died, in the woods over on the other side of the road from his house, but he couldn’t say who it was or when he saw him. Oh, and I went to see Ulton’s woman. She says he left her early that night, so it seems he could have been back at Brewer’s in time.”
Baldwin fidgeted, his mouth a thin line, his brows puckered tight as he thought. “Why would Ulton have used her as an excuse for not being there if he knew she would not support him? Does that mean he thought she would lie to protect him?”
“Surely,” said Margaret, elegantly dismembering a chicken and sucking her fingers, “surely he would have made sure of her support?” She glanced at the knight.
“Yes. He would, if he had realised that he was going to kill Brewer that night. If he was going to kill the man, he would have made sure his woman would agree to protect him, wouldn’t he. What did you think about this Cenred, Simon?”
Swallowing a hunk of meat, the bailiff wiped the grease from his mouth, his knife in his hand. “I thought he seemed honest. He didn’t seem to have any secrets, he even admitted that he saw a figure - but did nothing because he was scared.”
“Scared?”
“You know, the stories. Old Crockern.”
“Oh. Yes, I see. So we’re left with this Ulton, anyway. I’ll have to think about that. Why do you think he—‘
“Baldwin,” said Simon patiently, “I’m going to have my work cut out dealing with the death of the abbot. I don’t have time to worry about a fanner like Brewer.”
“But if he was murdered, his killer should be sought,” said Baldwin with a small frown. “He may not have been high born, but he still deserves to be avenged.”
“Yes, but I am an officer. I must find the killers of the abbot before anything else. The abbot’s murderers must take priority.”
“I see. Yes, of course,” said Baldwin, then airily waved his knife. “Anyway, for now let’s forget all about death and murder. Margaret, may I interest you in some lamb?”
Simon felt vaguely pleased; he did not want to have the evening spoiled by talking about the murder. He had no desire to discuss the hunt for the killer, he wanted to enjoy himself, not bring the miserable death of the abbot into the room, and he was relieved that the knight expressed no more interest in the murder.
The knight was obviously in his element while entertaining, and was remarkably well informed about a variety of subjects about which Simon was, at best, only vaguely aware, talking about matters with a depth of knowledge that could only have come from personal experience. He spoke about trade, about ships that carried goods from Venice and Rome as far as Palestine. The cargoes obviously fascinated him, the cloths from Gaza and sweets from the old cities on the coast. It was clear that he knew a great deal about transport and shipping, and he told them about the merchant warships of the Italian cities and how they traded. He told of the great wealth amassed by them, but as quickly as he had begun, he suddenly stopped, a faint, wry smile on his face, as if it was getting too close to his own past, and started to talk about the troubles with the Scots in the north.
Simon was surprised to find that the knight seemed to know a great deal about the troubles with the Scots. Since Robert Bruce’s brother, Edward, had crowned himself king of Ireland earlier in the year, the British armies had been subjected to a number of trials, leading finally to the siege of Carrickfergus. At the same time, the Scots had other men harassing the Border counties, even raiding down as far as Yorkshire, killing and looting all the way. Baldwin’s deep voice took on a solemn tone as he described the events in the north and his eyes took on a glazed look, as if he could see the hordes running south in his mind’s eye as he spoke.
One thing did seem odd to the bailiff during the meal -Simon noticed that Baldwin drank only very sparingly. It made him wrinkle his brow in wonder. The knight’s servant often refilled the other mugs on the table, but even as the light faded and the servant tugged a tapestry over the window, Baldwin seemed to drink little but some water and an occasional sip of wine. Simon mentally noted the point. It seemed strange, for everyone drank beer or wine, and moderation was a rare or curious trait, but soon, as he drank more himself, he forgot, and devoted himself to taking advantage of his host’s generosity.
When they had all eaten their fill, Baldwin led them over to the fire while his man cleared the remains of their meal from the table.
Being a newer house, the manor had a fireplace by a wall with a chimney, and Margaret found herself looking at it speculatively. It certainly did not seem to smoke as much as hers, where the smoke simply rose to louvres in the roof to escape. Perhaps a chimney would be a good idea for their own house? What did Lydford castle have?
Simon and Hugh carried their bench over to the fireplace and the bailiff sat on it, back to the wall, with his wife beside him. Meanwhile Hugh wandered over to a bench by the wall, stretched out, and was soon snoring, looking like a dog lying out of a draught while sleeping off a meal. After supervising the tidying, Baldwin brought his own low chair over to the hearth and sat nearby, his eyes glittering as he stared at the flames, occasionally glancing up as his man took the dishes away.
He looked strangely noble, Margaret thought dreamily as she watched Baldwin take a sip of his wine. Noble and proud, like a king, lounging with one elbow resting on the arm of the chair as he watched the logs, the other resting in his lap with his wine. She was happy to see that the air of brooding pain that Simon had mentioned after their first meeting at Bickleigh, seemed to have gone, to be replaced by an inner calmness. Instinctively she felt sure that it must, in part at least, be due to being home again, to being back in the land that he so obviously loved, in the shire he had been born in, and in the house he knew so well. But she could not help wondering why the man had such an aversion to talking about his time abroad.
She listened and watched the two men while they spoke in low voices, feeling the warmth of the fire seeping into her bones as she considered them both. Simon had the quiet, calm expression she knew so well, the look he wore when he was relaxed and at his ease. He sat with his head a little forward, almost as if he was about to doze, one hand at her head, the other in the air to occasionally emphasise a point.
Their host, too, was obviously at peace. His dark face was still and restful as he stared at the flames with a small smile, nodding now and again to a remark from Simon. But even while sitting quietly, he managed to remind Margaret of a cat. He had the same feline grace, the same apparent readiness, if necessary, to explode into action.
The two men chatted inconsequentially, their faces lit by the fire and the candles. The knight was a good listener and Simon found that he was talking more and more under the gentle prompting of his host, telling of his pride in his new position, of his wish for more children, especially sons, and of his hopes and dreams for the future. Margaret soon started to feel herself nodding gently under the hypnotic effect of the warmth and the two rumbling voices, until at last she felt the weight of her head to be insupportable. Leaning against Simon’s shoulder, her breathing grew slower and deeper as she gave in to her exhaustion and began to doze. Simon put an arm round her shoulders, holding her close as he spoke, gazing into the fire. The clearing finished, Baldwin’s servant came back in and stood by the door, seemingly relaxed, but to Simon as he glanced at him, he also seemed ready, like a guard on duty. The bailiff shrugged to himself.
“So what will you do now that you are here, Baldwin? Are you going to start looking for a wife immediately?”
The knight nodded gravely, not taking his eyes from the flames. “Yes, if I can I’d like to marry soon. I’m like you, Simon. I want to be able to leave my house and wealth to a son. I have done enough travelling; all it has given me is a desire for rest. I want to finish my days in peace, looking after the people who live on my lands and never having to travel far away again.”
“You sound as though your travelling was a bad experience.”
“Do I?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “It wasn�
��t really. I certainly don’t regret it. No, I had to do something when my brother inherited our father’s lands, and it seemed best to leave the area. It was enjoyable, too, at first. Very enjoyable.” He smiled reminiscently, but then his cheerfulness faded and his face changed, becoming morose and reflective. “But these things change. When you are a knight without a lord, you are nothing, just a sword arm - and oftentimes you can’t even afford to keep your sword.” He sounded bitter.
“Your lord died?”
Baldwin shot a quick, suspicious glance at him, but then grinned as if mocking himself for his distrust. “Yes. Yes, he died. We have fought our last war together. But enough of this misery!” He stood, straightening slowly as if his bones were of iron and long rusted from disuse. “I will go to my bed now. I’ll see you in the morning, Simon. I hope you sleep well.” He crossed the hall and went through to his solar, his man silently watching him go before walking out to his own quarters at the other end of the hall.
The bailiff’s eyes followed the tall figure of the knight as he went, then stood and gently eased his wife down to lie on her bench; in case of rats it was better to stay above the rushes covering the floor. Bringing another bench from the table, he set it near her and lay on it, settling comfortably and staring at the fire, waiting for sleep to take him. But as he watched the flames, he could not get rid of a nagging question. Why was Baldwin so anxious to avoid any talk about his past life?
The Last Templar Page 20