A noise came from outside his doorway, and the curtain was pulled aside. Framed against the night sky Quivil saw a darker shape. He muttered to himself, pulled his blanket tighter and rolled away. This room was home to another besides himself, and he assumed this must be his roommate. He had no desire for company, he wanted the peace of solitude.
But it wasn’t one man preparing to climb into bed. Quivil heard murmuring voices. They were hoarse from the disease they shared, but it wasn’t that which made his blood run chill. It was the cruel delight in them.
“What are you doing? What do you want?” he demanded, turning to face them.
“We want you.”
All at once he was grabbed by four pairs of hands, and hauled from his mattress. He could do nothing: his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and all he could utter was a whimper of dread.
They dragged him from the hut and out into the black night. The cold penetrated his robe, sending a fresh trickle of ice-cold terror washing down his spine. His mind, which had been in a state of sheer panic for days already, was frozen with horror. He had lost all will. In his blue funk he was certain he was about to die, but after the loss of all his self-respect and the destruction of his life, he had no strength to resist.
He could see them in the miserable light, and to his strained senses they looked like demons: small, misshapen, deformed, swollen with the putrescence of leprosy. Their appearance was that of gibbering fiends, their stench was the reek of the charnel-house. He was transfixed with horror.
They stopped, and he heard one of them give a chuckle. It sounded like the devil himself. Quivil felt his knees weaken, and would have fallen, but felt himself propelled forward, and then he found he was falling. The ground opened into a gaping hole before him, and he screamed, a high, keening noise, as he saw the earth rise up on either side.
Rodde had seen the petrified Quivil being dragged to the chapel’s yard as he reentered the grounds. He had slipped into the protection of the building’s wall as the group passed by, then followed after. At the sight of the young man being shoved into the newly dug grave, he felt rage choke him. It took but a moment to cover the few yards to the men, and he swung his staff. It caught a leper on the shoulder, then he whirled to stab and thrust at the others. “Leave him, you bastards!” he spat, his staff held high over his chest.
“Leave us alone, stranger. It’s nothing-we do it to all the new ones,” one man whined.
Rodde knew it was true. He had been forced to undergo a similar initiation ceremony when he had first been driven into a camp; the other lepers had thrown him into a grave, then scattered soil on him in obscene imitation of burial; sometimes he had seen other victims squirming while their tormenters urinated over them.
“It stops now.” Rodde couldn’t prevent his voice from shaking with disgust. He caught sight of a figure hobbling near him, and the stick shot out, catching the man in the chest. “I said it stops! Now, leave us.”
He stood protectively while the lepers, muttering to themselves, backed away from him and made off toward their huts, and only when they had disappeared did he glance down into the hole. At the bottom, Quivil was kneeling, sobbing, gathering up handfuls of soil and wiping them over his face, smearing blood and tears together into a mask of utter despair.
Quivil’s distress was the misery of mankind. Rodde stood quietly by the side of the grave, his staff still held to protect the younger man until Quivil subsided into weeping. Then he cast his prop aside and climbed down to help Edmund out.
A fortnight later the weather had turned. Now each morning the land was frozen, the grass rimed with frost. The ponds and ditches were filled with ice, on top of which the ducks and geese waddled, protesting loudly and with some confusion at the sudden loss of their favorite element. Sir Baldwin Furnshill still found the English weather difficult to cope with, even after so many years back at his estate. His blood had been thinned by his sojourn in the Mediterranean and subsequent soft living in Paris.
He pulled up at his stableyard as twilight fell, shouting for his groom and dropping from his horse. Usually he rode a dainty Arab, but today he had left early, and had chosen his rounsey, a solid beast who jerked his head and pranced skittishly, his breath steaming in the bitter evening air. The knight patted his neck while he waited for his men. “I know, I know-you haven’t had enough exercise today. I’ll see you’re taken out for longer tomorrow. Calm yourself!”
Cold it might be, but Baldwin loved his land. The small estate stood some five or six miles north and east of Crediton, near to Cadbury. It had been his older brother’s, but when poor Reynald had fallen from his horse while hunting and broken his neck, the land had come to Baldwin. After wandering for so long with little money and few comforts, the knight was delighted to own so prosperous and fertile a region of Devon-especially with the comfortable house; especially with his recent improvements. He was determined to impress his guests. One of them, anyway, he amended with a small smile.
The sun was already gone and twilight was giving way to nighttime. In the distance he could see a wraithlike streamer of smoke rising over a wood. There, he knew, a tenant of his was settling down with a pint or two of ale, tired after a day of hedging. Baldwin had passed him on the way. Above, the stars were breaking out as the sky dulled and darkened. It was strangely relaxing, as if no harm could come to anyone who appreciated its beauty, and the knight felt some of his earlier trepidation and gloom fade away.
Passing the reins to the groom, Baldwin walked from the yard and strode to his front door. Before he opened it, he looked back over his shoulder. In the time it had taken to reach the threshold, night had fallen. He could make out the faint outlines of the hillsides shining like old pewter in the moonlight. Above him the sky was a deep blue-black, across which silver-rimmed clouds drifted idly.
He opened the door. Instantly there was a scrabbling, and he caught a glimpse of the massive shape.
“Oh, no-God, no!”
It launched at him. His eyes widened in shock, then it was on him, and the knight staggered back under the assault. His heel snagged on a step, and he was falling. Even as his shoulder struck the packed earth of the path, he saw the jaws open at his throat, smelled the foul breath, and he shut his eyes against the inevitable.
“Good evening, sir.”
Baldwin dared raise one lid, fending off the attack as best he could. A thick gobbet of saliva landed quivering on his cheek and he shuddered. “Edgar, get the brute off me!”
“It wasn’t my idea to get the monster,” Edgar said pointedly. “In fact I remember saying it would be stupid to replace the bitch.”
Baldwin felt the weight leave his chest as his servant hauled on the thick leather collar, and rolled stiffly to his side before levering himself up. The mastiff was sitting at Edgar’s side now, his hindquarters wriggling as he tried to wag his tail. Slobber dribbled from his huge black jowls, and he was whining excitedly, desperate to greet his master with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. And that, Baldwin knew, was a lot of enthusiasm.
Edgar was right, he reflected, but that hardly eased matters. It had seemed such a good idea at the time, replacing his old mastiff with a new one. Lionors had been his brother’s bitch originally, and when the knight arrived after Reynald’s death, Lionors had transferred all her affection to him unreservedly. At first it had been stifling, for Baldwin had been used to a hard life of constant travel, and having a creature so dependent upon him was irksome, especially when she took to grabbing whatever she could and chewing it in a demonstration of fervent adoration.
But he had been surprised by his sense of loss when she died. It had happened quite quietly. She had not come to him in the morning when he arose, but had remained lying by the fire. Ben, the brown and black farm dog Baldwin had adopted in days gone by, had stayed at her side, sitting quietly, and gazing at Baldwin with an expression of anxious confusion. When the knight touched her old body, it was still warm, but there was no breath whistlin
g and snorting through her short, age-whitened muzzle, and he suddenly found his eyes brimming at the realization that she would no longer chew his sticks, or dribble on his lap while he ate, or leave a noxious reminder of her presence in the corner of the hall. He found he missed her.
So he had decided to take one of her great-grandchildren to replace her. He had overruled Edgar and gone to the kennels behind the stables, and as soon as he had seen the tawny mass of blubber and fur, he had pointed, and said, “That is the one.” And so “Uther” was chosen as the house’s guard.
Except Baldwin’s servant refused to dignify the animal with such a name. He felt that the monster should be identified by something that reflected the reality. Consequently, due to Edgar’s constant repetition, the eight-month-old now answered to “Chops.”
“This dog should return to the kennels, sir,” Edgar said.
“Uther stays.”
“He attacked Cottey this morning.”
“Uther st-” Baldwin gave his servant a suspicious look. What do you mean, “attacked Cottey”?“
“Cottey came to speak to you and the dog scared him almost stupid.”
“You mean Uther made him brighter than normal!” he growled.
“It was nothing to laugh about. When I got there, Uther had him up against the table and-”
“The table?” A light glimmered in Baldwin’s eye. He asked suavely, “So this was in the hall, was it?”
Edgar waved a hand. “It’s irrelevant, the point is the dog terrified the poor-”
“Uther is a guard. Cottey should have known that. If he walked straight into the hall, it’s no surprise Uther tried to defend the place. The dog was doing his duty against a draw-latch.”
Seeing that he had lost that sally, Edgar ventured a fresh attack. “And what about other guests? What if this mutt should take it into his so-called brain to defend the house against someone staying with you?”
Baldwin’s attitude altered subtly. Now there was a degree of shiftiness in his manner as he avoided his servant’s gaze. “He just needs a little training. Anyway, he’s fine with people he’s been introduced to.”
“Yesterday Chops was with me all morning. I left the room for a few minutes, and when I came back in he barked at me! I had been gone long enough to draw one quart of ale from the buttery; in that time the mutt had forgotten me, and you seriously suggest he’s going to be fine with strangers?”
Baldwin ruffled the dog’s ears. At his touch Uther sprang up, and the knight had to avert his face as another gobbet of slobber flew upward. “He’s just affectionate,” he said gruffly, forcing the dog down again. On his chest two massive, damp paw prints reflected the light from the open doorway.
Edgar stared at them pointedly. “And what about the lady Jeanne?”
The knight hesitated. He had to admit that Edgar had a point there, as he looked at the fresh mud that spattered his tunic. The widow from Liddinstone was due to visit any day, in the company of Simon Puttock and his wife.
It would be good to see them all. Simon was the bailiff of Lydford Castle, a man with the unenviable task of keeping the tinminers and local landlords apart to prevent bloodshed. He and Baldwin had joined forces several times now to solve unexplained local murders. Simon’s wife Margaret had exerted herself on Baldwin’s behalf, introducing him to all her more marriageable friends; she had seen his loneliness and had tried to tempt him with women she knew to be available and of the right level in society, yet none had attracted him. None until he met Jeanne, anyway. The slim, grave woman with the red-gold hair. Perhaps…
Perhaps it would be better if Uther was elsewhere when Jeanne arrived. He would have to consider it. “Enough! Fetch me wine and water,” he commanded, walking into his hall.
As usual, the old black and brown farm dog lay before the hearth, and barely glanced up as the knight crossed to his chair, merely sweeping his tail from side to side and watching without moving his head. Uther forwent the pleasure of the fireside and sat with his back to Baldwin’s chair, turning his head to stare at the knight until he submitted to the dog’s clear desire and rested his hand on the animal’s flank, patting gently.
Edgar walked in with a jug and goblet, setting them by the fire to warm. “So how was the good Bishop?”
The knight shook his head. “He’s got too much on his plate.”
Testing the watered wine, Edgar poured. “What did he have to say?”
Baldwin had met Edgar in the hell-hole of Acre, when both were young. Once the city was clearly doomed, the two had been saved by the Knights Templar, who had allowed them space on a ship making for Cyprus. It was as a mark of their gratitude that both had taken the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience and joined the Order. Baldwin became a knight, and Edgar his man-at-arms. More recently, since the Templars had been destroyed by an avaricious French king, Edgar had become Baldwin’s servant and trusted seneschal. After so much time, Baldwin knew he could trust his man.
“War is close,” he said bluntly. “Stapledon doesn’t mince his words. Lancaster has shut himself up in his castle and refuses to meet the King. Stapledon is convinced it’s because he doesn’t trust the King’s new counsellors.”
“Stapledon said all this?”
Baldwin nodded gloomily. “Stapledon, from what I can gather, is now one of the few men whose judgment the King does trust. Edward knows the Bishop is honest and reliable, while others in the royal household are less committed to the King and more interested in what they can get for themselves. Stapledon thinks the Despenser family in particular have gained too much power recently. They are threatening the peace of the realm, and Lancaster will not tolerate the way their strength is increasing-not for much longer.”
His servant watched him with concern. It was rare for the knight to express his thoughts so explicitly, even with him. As Edgar refilled his master’s goblet, he considered the implications. War would mean that Baldwin must be called upon to support his lord in battle, and likewise Edgar must go with his master to fight with him. The thought of riding to battle again kindled a spark of excitement in his breast.
But it felt wrong to go to war over such foolishness, and that fact tempered his delight. King Edward II was too fond of his favorites. Even people here in Crediton had heard the rumors about the King’s attraction to other men in preference to his wife, and now that Gaveston had been killed, beheaded by other lords, the Despensers were enthusiastically taking over his place at court. Especially the son, who, from what Edgar had heard, appeared to have designs on the whole of Wales, the way he was acquiring land-and often by illegal means too, if the rumors were true. To support the Despensers and fight Lancaster seemed absurd, yet it was all too likely.
He was about to speak when Uther stiffened and then began to growl, low and insistent. A few moments later the men heard the drumming of hooves, and they stared at each other. It was late for someone to visit, with darkness having fallen, especially since the roads were so icy.
Edgar hurried out, Uther lumbering behind him as far as the doorway. The dog stood there, hackles up, waiting and guarding his domain. Baldwin could hear voices, a tone of surprise in Edgar’s, then the speeding steps as his servant returned to the hall.
“Master, you must go back to Crediton. There’s been a murder!” 5
I t took little time to get the horses ready, and soon Edgar and Baldwin were riding off with the messenger. Baldwin knew that his Arab wanted exercise, but in preference took the rounsey again. The Arab had too much of a mercurial nature, and was dangerous to take out in the dark when it was as chilly and icy as this. Baldwin had made sure that Uther was shut indoors. The dog would want to follow his master if he could.
“Who is dead?” Baldwin demanded when they moved off.
The messenger, a lad barely in his twenties, threw him an anxious look over his shoulder. Baldwin had to give him a reassuring smile. He recognized the symptoms: it was fearsome for a peasant boy or young apprentice to be questioned by the Ki
ng’s highest local official. The lad gave a nervous nod of his head. “Sir, it was the old gold merchant, sir.”
“Gold merchant?”
Seeing his bafflement, Edgar interrupted. “I think he means Godfrey of London, sir. He’s the only one I can think of.”
“Yes, of course.”
Baldwin pursed his lips. He had met Godfrey a few times-the Londoner was rich enough to be familiar to someone of Baldwin’s status. As he cantered along, mentally cursing the slight breeze that somehow contrived to penetrate his thick tunic and jerkin, Baldwin reviewed what he had heard about the man.
There wasn’t much. He had arrived in Crediton some years before Baldwin himself had come home, about seven years ago now. It was hard for a newcomer to find a good plot of land in the town itself, but Godfrey was a foreigner with money, and soon he had the parcel of land he wanted, not too close to the center, so he had his own pasturage for cattle and his pigs. He had a small household, a daughter living with him, bottler, grooms and other servants, as well as various outside workers.
He sighed; there was no point trusting to his memory. It would be better to form his opinion of the matter when he saw the body. There were so many questions at this stage that he might as well wait until they arrived in the town. Besides, with the wind blowing in his face, he was rapidly losing all feeling in his cheeks and mouth. He pulled a grimace and tugged his collar up, trying to sink his head down to protect his neck.
They covered the distance quickly, riding steadily rather than too fast, and luckily none of them encountered ice, but Baldwin was glad when he smelled the smoke from the town. Soon they were riding up the lane that led behind the church, then along the front of it to the main street. It was here that they saw the group.
Baldwin felt a shiver rack his frame. There was a sense of excitement in the huddle of townspeople. He could see the folk whispering in each other’s ears, one or two pointing as he and his little entourage clattered up the street.
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