Sir Geoffrey considered him as he rode out of sight, and then he shook his head and touched his beast with the spur, and set off at a gentle trot. It was a shame he had to destroy Sir Odo. When his master declared that he wanted a new piece of land, it was best to obey him. Those who disobeyed the Despenser tended to have their lives shortened.
When the hammering came at the door, Simon heard the maid going to answer it, and idly ran his hand down his wife’s naked flank, then leaned forward and kissed the curve of her waist. ‘I could lie here all day just making love to you,’ he whispered.
‘You have done before now,’ she chuckled throatily. She reached out to him and pulled his face to hers, kissing his lips. ‘I miss you so much,’ she said seriously.
‘I miss you too. Hopefully it won’t be long. How is Edith?’
‘She is in love with him, Simon. She says she won’t leave Lydford unless it’s as his wife.’
Simon looked away. It was too painful to accept that his daughter was already a woman and ready for marriage. ‘She seems so young.’
‘I doubt not that I seemed too young to my parents when you wooed me.’
‘Perhaps,’ he sighed.
She smiled and rolled over on to her back, pulling him on top of her. ‘Do you remember how we used to make love all afternoon?’
‘Master?’
The shout up the stairs came just as he was preparing to demonstrate that he could indeed recall those not-so-far-off days, and he frowned at his wife as she attempted to suppress her giggling at his frustration. ‘Shall I go and send them away, Simon?’
He snapped over his shoulder, ‘What is it?’
‘A boy has come … a messenger, a man from Sir Baldwin, bailiff. It’s very important, he says. Urgent.’
Simon kissed Meg a last time, then grunted as he left her body. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
Dressed, he found the messenger warming his hands before his fire.
‘Wat?’
‘Sir … I am so sorry, sir,’ Wat burst out. ‘It’s Hugh. I am sorry, we’ve heard he’s dead, sir.’
‘No!’
‘Will you go to help Sir Baldwin at Hugh’s house?’
Simon did not bother to answer, but hurried up to tell his wife.
Robert Crokers was still weeping as the pups were born.
Someone had tried to kill his poor old bitch and she might never work again. The poor thing was ruined. She had a long cut along her flank, where someone had plainly slashed at her as she ran past, and she must have spent the last few days in terror, not daring to return to her home. God only knew what she had managed to eat, although from the look of her it wasn’t much.
As soon as he saw her he picked her up in his arms, buried his face in her neck, and carried her gently back to the house. He laid her by the fire and gave her a little of the meaty soup he had made for himself, watching anxiously as she wolfed it down. She was terribly weak, and her eyes were haunted like a child’s who had lost a parent. Whenever there was a noise she didn’t recognise, she started and stared fixedly at the door. When Walter walked in, she was petrified, growling low and rising painfully on her haunches at the sight of the stranger.
‘Easy, girl. Easy,’ Robert said, stroking her. At the first touch, she flashed her head round, and he saw that she was panting, as though she had run a great distance. Her teeth were ready, and her open mouth enclosed his hand. He didn’t move, but spoke to her softly, until at last her rolling eyes were calmed, and she released him. His skin wasn’t broken, and he gently scratched her under the chin, where she always liked it. She held his gaze for a long while, and then lay down again, too exhausted to maintain even her fear.
‘Poor girl,’ he said.
‘Found her, then?’ Walter said. He had collected more wood and threw it down near the fire. ‘Won’t last long, from the look of her.’
‘She’s strong inside,’ Robert said.
‘She’ll need to be!’ Walter chuckled, and walked out again.
Robert returned to his faggots later, and brought all the spare wood to the house. He stacked it with Walter’s pile over at the far side of the room, then dropped a bundle on to the glowing embers, blowing gently until he had fanned it into flames. He set his bowl over it to heat through, and settled back to wait while the flames warmed his face. As he squatted there, he heard the steps of Walter return, and soon the older man was inside again, throwing another few faggots to join the pile.
‘Keep us going for the night, anyway,’ he commented.
‘Why did you say that before you fetched them?’
‘What?’
‘I said she was strong inside, and you said she’d have to be.’
Walter looked at him, then stuck a small twig in his mouth and rubbed it over his teeth to clean them. ‘Look, I don’t know what Sir Odo said to you, but he reckons those bastards’ll be back. Won’t be immediate, but they’ll be back, and next time they’ll plan on making sure no one can live here. He’s set a boy to watch over us here, and if there’s any sign of horses coming that lad will run fast as he can to Sir Odo, day or night, and day or night Sir Odo will come with his men.’
‘Why, though? The land isn’t worth all that much.’
Walter chuckled aloud. ‘Not in terms of peasants or crops, no; but it’s good for a lord to tie up his lands, and Sir Geoffrey’s lords own most of the land this side of the river. They’ll be looking to add more, and that means he wants to clear you and all our men off this part so he can put his own in here.’
‘How long?’
Walter looked at him, shrugged and lay down on the ground. He grunted to himself, resting his head on a pillow of rolled-up scraps of cloth, pulled up a blanket, and finally set his old felt hat over his eyes. ‘I’d get that bitch well as soon as you can. Won’t be all that long. Sir Geoffrey isn’t a patient man.’
Soon he was snoring, but not Robert. He could see again the bitter, scornful faces as they trampled his lands, setting their mounts plunging all over his vegetables, tossing torches into his thatch, enjoying the bullying of a man weaker than they were.
It made him furious – and petrified to think that soon they might be back.
Chapter Eleven
On the way to Iddesleigh, Baldwin had to stop to ask for guidance several times. This was not a part of Devon with which he was particularly well acquainted, and although he was fairly sure of the direction, his concern for Hugh, as well as his fear for his wife on the journey, was getting in the way of his planning a decent route.
‘How much further is it, Sir Knight? My arse is worn thin with all this plodding along!’
There were many times when he felt he could – or indeed should – have taken a dagger to the foul wench’s throat, but he restrained himself with difficulty, and forced himself to speak with patient calmness. ‘Emma, I can do nothing to bring us there any more speedily.’
‘If you ask me, this is the worst sort of dullness. If the man’s dead, so be it. There are people up there to look into it if it truly was a murder,’ she said. ‘The messenger probably got the wrong idea about it all. He wasn’t the brightest coin in the purse.’
‘Wat is considerably more intelligent than …’ Baldwin stopped before the comparison was out. It could only lead to another argument and more embarrassment for Jeanne. In God’s name, he must make her see how disruptive Emma was. She had to go, somehow. ‘Than most,’ he finished bitterly.
‘So you say. And what of this Hugh himself? Wasn’t he the silent fool who used to glare at everyone and everything? A miserable churl if ever I saw one. And only a peasant, when all’s said and done. What on earth is the point of coming all this way just to see his body?’
Baldwin turned and said with poisonous sweetness, ‘Emma, he was a friend’s man, and I esteemed him. That, for me, is enough to spend a little time and some discomfort in seeking his murderer. You were not commanded to join us. If you wish, you may return at once to Liddinstone. I will not stop you.’
‘Me? Go back all alone? I could be set upon, and then where would I be?’
Baldwin sighed and faced the road ahead once more.
It had not been his idea to bring the foul bint. She had insisted on joining them as soon as she heard that Jeanne would be leaving with her husband. There was nothing that could give her greater pleasure, Baldwin felt, than ruining someone else’s day.
Well, she would not affect his. It was already ruined.
Wat had not been able to give him much in the way of details. All Baldwin knew was that there had been an attack on Hugh’s house, and he had been knocked down. From the sound of things, Wat thought that the homestead had been destroyed, and Hugh’s family killed, but that seemed unproven so far. They would have to wait until they reached the place before they found out any more.
Iddesleigh. When Hugh had told Simon that he was to live up there, Simon had been glad for his man. It seemed that Iddesleigh was known mainly for its excellent inn, and that the ales and accommodation there were superior to any others on this road. Baldwin felt sure that he had ridden through the place once: he had a vague memory that it lay between Hatherleigh and Winkleigh, that there was a long road that led from Monk Oakhampton, fairly flat and straight, through trees. For the rest, he was sure that the people there had been quite respectful and friendly. He hadn’t been there for a murder, he recalled; it was some other little affair farther up at Dolton, but he had stopped at Iddesleigh to rest on his way home. Better, always, to leave a vill where a man had been arrested and tried, and partake of hospitality elsewhere. Men who had seen their comrades, neighbours or brothers attached for the next court were sometimes liable to be poor companions for a meal. Better to seek the next vill, which would almost inevitably have a healthy disrespect for the folk who lived in the barbaric, heathen place all of two miles away.
Yes, he remembered Iddesleigh.
They had set off as soon as they could after Wat had left, but when a man had a wife and child to consider, travelling took longer. Jeanne had carried Richalda in a sling for much of the journey, but it had meant that they must go more slowly than Baldwin would have liked. He daren’t hurry with his daughter resting on the horse in front of Jeanne. For now she was snoozing, her pretty head nodding with the horse’s movement. Even as he glanced at her, he felt a wave of pride filtering away his anger at Emma. Richalda was so beautiful, so precious …
‘So how far is it, Sir Knight? My mistress is tired already. We should be seeking an inn for her to rest if it’s not nearby,’ Emma said.
‘Emma! I am perfectly all right. I can manage,’ Jeanne declared.
‘Certainly you are. It’s not an illness!’
‘Emma!’
Baldwin felt a sliver of ice penetrate his vitals. Still staring ahead, his eyes widened, and he almost turned and faced his wife, but restrained himself at the last possible moment when he considered the look of triumph that would inevitably appear on Emma’s face, were she to realise that he had not any idea that his wife was pregnant again. He swallowed, and spoke. ‘It is not far. In fact,’ he said, peering up ahead, ‘I think that this must be Monk Oakhampton.’
‘We aren’t going to Monk Oakhampton,’ Emma said with slow, poisonous serenity. ‘We are going to Iddesleigh, you said.’
‘And Iddesleigh is but a mile or two beyond this,’ Baldwin said shortly.
The road was as he had recalled it. A series of bends gave the impression of a great distance, but in reality it was a fairly straight path, so far as a Devon roadway could be. Soon the land opened out on their left, and fields appeared, their regular lines delineated by twigs thrust into the ground so that each peasant would know where his strip began and ended. The place looked well farmed, and the soil had been worked efficiently from what Baldwin could see. It was freshly turned, and, from the odour, manure had recently been spread. Hopefully there would be a good harvest again, he prayed.
The vill, when they clattered in, was a small huddle of houses. There was a group on the road itself, which curved left in front of them, and then right, northwards again. Encircling the houses was a second lane, which led up the hillside, and fronting this was a large longhouse, which was now used half as the farmer’s storeroom and byre, but also as an inn. Next to it, on the left as Baldwin looked at the place, was the church, which lay in the right-hand bend in the road. He wondered whether Hugh’s body was already in there.
Stopping at the inn, he tied his horse to the rail provided, then reached out his hand to his wife. She took it, and had the grace to look down when she saw the expression in his eyes. He was not cross – good God, how could he be angry with her for falling pregnant? – but he was annoyed that her maid was aware of this marvellous news while he remained ignorant.
‘I hope they have some food in there. I’m fairly starved!’ Emma said, rubbing her hands together as she sailed past them and in through the wide, low doorway.
‘When did you know?’ he asked as soon as they were alone, taking their daughter from her. Richalda mumbled sleepily, then set her head on his shoulder.
‘I don’t really, not yet. But I have a feeling, and I think my monthly time is late,’ she confessed. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything until I was more certain. Are you upset, husband?’
He smiled and gave her his arm. ‘My love, if you are right, I shall be the happiest man in Christendom!’
Adcock was settling down to sleep when he heard the muffled noises from outside.
This was a weird place. The men here were all more or less permanently armed, as though they expected a battle at any moment. Yet the land round about seemed ridiculously quiet.
He had mentioned that on the first day, when he had been sent about the manor with a man who the steward had described as a good source of local detail.
‘I’m Beorn, sir,’ he had said, bending his head respectfully, a large man whose face seemed composed mainly of beard.
‘Call me Adcock. I am no better than you,’ Adcock said, and he was speaking nothing more than the truth. As he knew full well, a sergeant was only the man set to farm the main activities on the estate. Unlettered, his skill must lie in his ability to persuade people to perform their duties willing or no, so that the manor showed a profit. Any failures or discrepancies were likely to be set to his account.
‘Adcock it is, then,’ Beorn had said without interest. ‘What do you want to see?’
‘Let’s go and walk the boundaries first. I’ll need to know where the holding finishes.’
Beorn had given a slightly twisted smile on hearing that, but he took Adcock all round the place, pointing out the boundary markers on the way, and explaining the small details which a new man wouldn’t understand immediately. ‘There’s the little bog, but see those green reeds farther on? Avoid that, sir. That’s the mire. We’ve been thinking of draining it for an age, but nothing ever comes of it. It’s dangerous. When we do clear it, I dare say there’ll be some dead oxen, horses and sheep in there, not to mention people.’
‘Really?’ Adcock asked, staring at the trembling ground with disgust. He’d seen mires often enough before, of course, and he rather thought the first thing to do with a small patch like this was to dig a trench to let the water run away, and fill the hole with good soil afterwards until the land was level, and then something could be made of the ground. He would take advice, and if no one had any objections to advance he would go ahead with the drainage.
Yes, Adcock was untrained in his spelling and reading, but he knew what his job was about. In his last manor he had been the assistant to the sergeant, and together he and his old master had taken the place by the cods and shaken it until every tiny patch of land was fruitful and of value to their lord. Here he would do the same, he decided. The land wasn’t different, not really: the soil was good and rich, from the look of the grass; and all the animals thrived, looking sleek and fat, so it was plain to see that there was nourishment in the ground.
‘This looks a fine manor, B
eorn.’
‘Aye, it is.’
‘But, tell me,’ Adcock said hesitantly. ‘The men at the hall all seem to go abroad fully armed the whole time. Is there some fear of attack?’
‘It’s not fear of someone being attacked!’ Beorn burst out with a guffaw, and then he silenced himself and gazed about him with a swift caution. ‘You must be careful talking about such things.’
‘Why? Tell me what you know.’
‘Not for me to say,’ Beorn said, and from that moment he was as communicative as any other Devon peasant talking to a stranger.
Pagan had seen to the meal, and afterwards Isabel nodded to him briefly to indicate he could leave the room. He did so, pulling the door closed behind him and breathing in the cool air of the early evening before making his way homewards. It was a goodly walk, up to the north-east of the old hall, and he peered at it jealously as was his wont.
In the past he would have slept in the house with the two women, but Lady Isabel preferred that he returned to his home at nights now. It was since Ailward’s death, he recalled, as though she didn’t trust him any more … or perhaps because she wondered whether he might learn something?
That was daft, though. What could she think he might …
Pagan stopped and slowly turned to look back towards the house where Isabel and Malkin lived. Isabel had grown rather short with the younger woman recently. If she suspected that Malkin could have killed her own husband, could Isabel think to protect her daughter-in-law and grandchild by keeping all knowledge of that petit treason from her own steward? She’d not want anyone to hear of it, certainly.
It was hard to imagine Malkin could have committed such an act, though. Even today she had been very weepy. It was growing to be her usual condition. One of the maids had told him that Malkin slept very poorly. There was the sound of weeping into the early hours every night.
‘It’ll drive me to despair, it will,’ the maid had said.
Pagan had little sympathy with such feelings. So far as he was concerned, the servants all owed their service to the family. It was wrong to speak of tears late into the night – and yet he daren’t speak harshly to the girl in case she stopped telling him how the women were. It mattered to him.
A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) Page 12