The Merchant's Partner

by Michael Jecks

  On the moors the weather was so cold and inclement that nothing could survive but the heather and ferns. Even the trees she had seen, types she knew well from around Crediton, grew stunted and shrivelled.

  Not like this lush view. Here, she felt, the land must be much as God had intended. This was how Eden must have looked: even now in the middle of winter it was green and healthy. It seemed impossible that the moors were a scant half-day’s journey away.

  “Come inside, both of you, out of the cold. I have food prepared. This is quite a week for entertaining!”

  Baldwin led the way, chatting about his visit from Peter Clifford on the previous Friday night and the Bourc’s arrival the night before, though most of what he said passed over their heads - at present they were interested only in his fire, and they hurried to the hearth.

  The room was just as Margaret recalled, long and broad, with a fireplace and chimney in the north wall, and benches set around the tables. Bread and cold meats lay on platters on the table, and a pot hung from its chain over the flames, giving off a strong gamey smell. When she walked over, tugging off her gloves, and held her hands towards the flames, she saw that a thick soup was bubbling inside, and her mouth watered at the scent that slowly rose to fill the room.

  As her hands gradually began to warm and struggle back to painful life, she turned to heat her back. Casting an eye over the hall, she let Simon and Baldwin’s conversation float over her unheeded. They were talking about the knight’s friend, the Bourc de Beaumont, and his journey to find his old nurse. She had no interest in tales of old battles, and stories of the kingdom of Jerusalem saddened her - it was depressing to think of the holy places being violated by heretics. Unfastening her cloak, she swept it off.

  Baldwin stood by the table and surveyed the food, arrayed on its platters as if for inspection. Glancing down and seeing his dog, he took his knife and cut a slab of ham, tossing it to her, before turning and smiling at his guests.

  To Margaret, he appeared to have changed a great deal in some ways; not at all in others. The lines on his face, the scars and weals of suffering, had almost all gone, to be replaced by a calm acceptance of life. It was as if a sheet of linen which had been wrinkled and creased had been ironed smooth again. Where the pain had sat, now there was only calm acceptance. But still he had the quick, assured manner that she recalled from last year when she had first met him.

  Simon too had noticed the signs of comfort and peace, and he was pleased, knowing that it was due to his own intervention that the knight was still free. Baldwin had admitted to having been a member of the Knights Templar when they had met the year before, and Simon was sure that his decision to keep the man’s secret was the right one.

  It had not been easy, especially after the murder of the Abbot of Buckland. It had been a dreadful year. There had been a band of marauding outlaws, murdering and burning from Oakhampton to Crediton, and then the abbot was taken and killed as well. For a newly appointed bailiff, the series of deaths was a problem of vast proportions, but he had managed to solve them. After hearing the knight’s tale, he had been forced to search his own soul, but in the end there had been little point in arresting him, and Simon had kept his secret hidden. Now he was pleased at how the knight had justified his decision.

  “Do you realise, Baldwin, how well you are considered in Exeter?” he asked as they sat.

  The knight raised an eyebrow and gave him a quizzical glance, as if expecting a trap of some sort. “Oh yes?” he said suspiciously.

  “Yes, even Walter Stapledon has heard good reports of you.”

  “Then I hope the good bishop keeps his reports to himself, my friend! I have no desire to be called away to clerk for the king or my lord de Courtenay. Edgar!” This last in a bellow. “Where’s the wine?”

  His servant soon arrived, bringing a pot and mugs for the sweet, heated drink, serving them all and setting the pot by the fire to keep warm as he sat with them, flashing a brief smile at Margaret and Hugh, Simon noticed, but not to him. Ah well, he thought resignedly. It was only last year I had him trussed like a chicken and called him a liar.

  “So how is Lydford, Simon?”

  “Lydford is cold, Baldwin.”

  “Cold?”

  Margaret broke in. “It’s freezing! It’s at one side of the gorge, and the wind howls up the valley like the Devil’s hounds on the scent of a lost soul.”

  “It sounds lovely the way you describe it,” said Baldwin gravely. “I look forward to visiting you both there.”

  “You’ll be very welcome, whenever you want to come, but the cold’s not all,” said Simon, grinning in apparent despair. “Since I arrived I’ve had visits from everyone. The landholders complaining about the tinners; the tinners complaining about the landholders. God! The king allows the tinners to take any land they want - well, it’s worth a fortune in taxes to the king’s wardrobe - and everyone is up in arms about them, and expect me to do something about it! What can I do? All I’ve been able to do so far is try to keep them all apart, but now they’re starting to come to blows.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to sort matters out. After all, things are never easy - you had your own troubles here last year, didn’t you? Margaret, try some squirrel - or rabbit, it’s fresh and young.”

  “Er, no, thanks,” she said, wincing and taking a chicken leg. The knight glanced at her in surprise, while Simon continued:

  “The trail bastons, you mean? Hah! Give me a group of outlaws any day; they’re easier to deal with than free men and landowners, all you need do is catch them and see them hang. I can’t even do that with the mob at Lydford.”

  “Anyway,” said Margaret, holding up her chicken thigh and studying it as she searched for the most succulent meat. “This must all be very tedious for you, Baldwin. What’s been happening here? Anything exciting?”

  Laughing, the knight shrugged shamefacedly and pulled a grimace of near embarrassment. Head on one side, he said, “Not a great deal, really. Tanner hasn’t cleared some of the tracks hereabouts, and my warhorse went lame some weeks ago. Apart from that…‘

  “I could learn to dislike you, you know,” said Simon with mock disgust.

  Baldwin laughed, but then his eyes narrowed a little. “What else is there, anyway, Simon? You must have heard more news from Exeter.”

  Belching softly, Simon upended his mug before rising and refilling it. When he spoke, the humour had passed, to be replaced by a sober reflection. “There’s lots of news, Baldwin, but none of it’s good. This must go no further, of course, but even Walter has lost all patience. He says although King Edward was irresponsible before, now his favourite, Piers Gaveston, has been killed, he’s worse!”

  “In what way?” asked Baldwin frowning.

  “He’s playing one lord off against another, ignoring the Ordinances, allowing insults to go unpunished… It seems that he just wants to be left alone to play about in his boats and other frivolities. He spends his time in sailing - and playing with his common friends! There are even rumours that he was not his father’s son,” said Simon quietly.

  Nodding slowly, Baldwin reflected on the tales he had heard: that this second Edward was a supposititious child, a replacement inserted into the household like a cuckoo chick in a nest. Wherever there were troubles, Baldwin thought, there are people prepared to imagine the worst. “I cannot believe that,” he said shortly. “But it’s true that the state is becoming unsettled. I have heard that tenants have revolted against their lords, even that some knights have resorted to brigandage once more. And there are more outlaws - more free companies and trail bastons -coming down from the north, displaced people who have lost their homes and villages to the Scots, who are trying to find new homes.”

  That’s what Walter said. He’s very worried. He feels that there has to be a compromise between the king and his barons, otherwise there must be a war, and God himself can hardly know what the outcome of that would be!“

  “No, and God would not wan
t that in a Christian country.”

  “Of course not! That is why Walter has allied himself with Aymer de Valence, the Earl of Pembroke, to try to enlist support for the Ordinances.”

  “Ah!” Baldwin thought for a moment. “Yes, that would make sense. The earl could count on support from many of the barons for that. What were the Ordinances but controls to ensure good government?”

  “Exactly. Walter thinks that if the king can be persuaded to agree, the troubles may be prevented from getting worse - maybe the risk of war can be averted.”

  “What do you think?”

  Simon glanced up and into the intense dark eyes of his friend, who sat frowning in his concentration. “I think we’ll be lucky to avoid war in some places,” he said simply. “The Earl of Pembroke is on one side, the Earl of Lancaster on the other. Both are rich and powerful. If they fight - and they will - many men will die.”

  “Yes, and many women too. In any war it’s always the villeins and ordinary folk who die first and last.”

  Shrugging, Simon nodded. “It’s the way of war.”

  “But what of the king? You mention Pembroke and Lancaster, what about the king?”

  “Does anyone worry about him? He will be with one or the other - he hasn’t got enough support to make his own force without them. And would his support make any difference? After his defeat against the Scots at Bannock-burn, who can trust his generalship?”

  Baldwin nodded again, as if he was confirming his own thoughts and not listening to the bailiffs words. Then, as if he suddenly noticed her, he turned to Margaret. “Sorry, this must be very boring for you.”

  She stared back, her face suddenly drawn and tight. “Boring? How can it be when you’re talking about the future of the land? Our future?” His eyes held hers for a moment, then dropped to her belly, and she could not prevent the smile when his gaze rose to meet hers once more with a question in their black depths.

  “My apologies, Margaret. I did not mean to insult you,” he said quietly, “I tend to think that matters of chivalry and warfare are only interesting to men. I forget that they affect women too.“ He sat still for a moment, his eyes seeming to gaze into the distance, Lionors beside him. The huge dog peered into his face, then rested her head on his lap, making him start, suddenly brought back to the world with a shock. ”Blasted hound!“ he muttered, but affectionately, and, taking a few slabs of meat, tossed them away from the table. As the dog softly padded to her food, he rose. ”Come, let’s sit by the fire.“

  While the knight sat in his chair, the two servants brought the benches, and soon all were sitting and gazing into the flames, the mastiff asleep, stretched long and lean before the hearth. Edgar walked out to fetch more wine while the friends chatted desultorily, Hugh sitting and nodding under the influence of the fire and alcohol.

  “What else is new, Simon?” asked the knight again, and when the bailiff shrugged, turned to Margaret with a raised eyebrow.

  She laughed, shaking her head. It sometimes seemed impossible to keep anything from the knight, he had a knack of noticing even the smallest signs, although how he had spotted this she could not guess: she had only begun to realise herself over the last week. Now she was sure even if Simon was not - she was too late this month. “Yes, I think I am pregnant again, but how did you…?”

  “It’s easy, Margaret. You look too well, and you seem to dislike food that you used to love - I had the rabbits brought especially for you.”

  “Well, we can hope,” Simon said. Then he leaned forward and gazed fixedly at the knight. “But what about you? You were looking for a wife, but I can’t see any sign of a woman’s hand in this house. How is your search progressing?”

  To the bailiffs delight, Baldwin gave a petulant shrug, like a child feigning disinterest. “Well, I… I… The thing is… Oh damn it!”

  Chapter Four

  Six miles to the south the Bourc was glancing up through the trees as he rode, retreating into his cloak in the bitter cold. On either side the trees rose stolidly impervious to the weather, but high above he could catch occasional glimpses of the stars, shining as tiny pin-pricks of light which flared and were hidden like sparks from a fire. They glittered briefly before being smothered by the ghostly clouds rushing by, clouds that made him frown with wary anxiety. They raced by as if fearful of the weather that he knew must chase hard on their heels.

  Hearing hooves, he stopped and stared ahead cautiously. It was late to be travelling. Soon he saw a man riding toward him. Showing his teeth in a short grin, he nodded. The other man, dressed warm and dark for hunting, nodded back and hurried on. The Bourc smiled ruefully to himself. He was muddy from splashing through puddles, and he knew he was hardly a sight to inspire confidence in a stranger. At a sudden thought he turned, and saw that the man was staring back with frank interest. The Bourc smiled ruefully as he kicked his horse and ambled off towards Wefford.

  He had travelled far enough tonight. At the first clearing that looked hopeful, he pulled off the road.

  Through the trees he could see a cabin, a simple affair of rough-hewn logs. Part of the roof was gone, and it was in a sorry state, but for all that it was a refuge from the worst of the wind. He led the horses inside and saw to them before starting a fire.

  Chewing at some dried meat, he considered his options. His business was finished now, so there was nothing to keep him here. The sooner he could get home the better. If he continued this way, heading to the west and retracing the route he had taken from the coast, he should arrive within a couple of days, but it would surely take a lot longer than necessary. The journey west to Oakhampton and then south was quite out of his way, working its way round the perimeter of the moors. It would be more direct and quicker to cut straight south, over the moors to the sea that way.

  It was still dark the next morning, Wednesday, when, over to the south of Furnshill, Samuel Cottey harnessed his old mule to the wagon and prepared for his journey, cursing in the deep blackness before dawn as his already numbed fingers struggled with the rough brass and leather fittings, pulling hard at the thick leather straps.

  -‘Sorry, my love,“ he muttered as he occasionally caught a flap of skin in the buckles, making the old animal snort and stamp. ”Not long, now. We’ll soon have you done.“

  All set, he stood back and surveyed his work, rubbing the bandage on his arm that covered the long gash. It was a week ago now that the branch had dropped from the tree be was felling and slashed the flesh of his arm like a sword, but, thanks to God, the old woman’s poultices seemed to be working and it was healing. Sighing, he stretched and then walked back to the cottage, stamping his feet to get the feeling to return to cold toes. Inside the smoky room, he washed himself by the fire in the clay hearth in the middle, smiling crookedly from the side of his mouth, the lips pale and thin in the square, ruddy face under the thatch of grey hair. Sarah, his daughter, smiled back into his light brown eyes as she handed his mug full of warmed beer to him and watched carefully as he drained it, smacking his lips and wiping his hand over his mouth, then burping appreciatively. Giving her a quick grin, he passed back the mug.

  “That’s good,” he said, then kissed her cheek briefly. “Be back soon as I can - I’ll try to be home before dark, anyway.”

  When she nodded, he left, stomping quickly to the wagon and clambering aboard, whistling for his dog. After a quick wave, he snapped the reins and began to make his way from Wefford to Crediton, the dog barking excitedly behind.

  As he left the light from the open doorway behind, his mind turned back to their problems. This last year had been the hardest he had known, especially since his brother had been killed by the trail bastons, down far to the south on the moors. Now the family relied on him alone to keep both farms going. His sister-in-law was right when she said that the two families could not live on either holding: both were too small to support them all, and neither could be expanded without a deal of work, hacking down the trees that fringed them. No, the only way to continu
e was by keeping both going.

  But how to do that? There was only him, his daughter Sarah, and his brother’s son Paul. There was too much work for them, now that they had to try to keep both properties working. Maybe they should do as Sarah suggested, and buy more pigs, at least they could often feed themselves.

  The sun was lighting the early sky as he rattled and squeaked his way down the track into the village, head down, chin on his chest and shoulders hunched in an effort to keep the bitter cold from his vulnerable neck. Samuel had been a farmer for many years, and he was used to the cruelty of the wind and the freezing snow that attacked the land every winter, but the weather got worse with each passing year. Glancing up, he saw the sky was lighted with a vivid angry red, and sighed. The sharpness of the air, the streamers of mist from his mouth, and the red sky could only mean one thing: snow was on its way at last.