He had to repeat the signal three times before he heard Cecily call out, “Go and prepare my chamber. And see to it that my bed is properly warmed. I feel frozen to my very marrow.”
For a few moments there was nothing, but then the corner of the tapestry was lifted, and he could see her sweet face. “Thomas, are you there?”
11
T
he guard almost jumped out of his skin when William dropped lightly from the wall in front of him. He grabbed for his sword and would have swept it out, if William hadn’t snarled quietly, “Leave that block of metal in its seat if you don’t want me to use it to beat some sense into your thick skull.”
Leaving the astonished guard, William walked pensively back to the hall. He had learned much tonight, and some of it might well be useful in the future, but he wasn’t sure that it was any business of his master, and William had a firm belief in information: when it was useful, it held value. Coffyn had hired William to be the officer of his men and to guard the house, not to be his informer, but he might still be prepared to cough up for something as juicy as this.
William went through to the private solar and knocked. Coffyn was awake still, his angry, unblinking eyes pouchy and red-rimmed from lack of sleep. As usual, his wife was nowhere to be seen. If William hadn’t heard her weeping earlier, he might have wondered whether she was still alive—but he didn’t believe in speculating on matters like that, not where they affected his master.
“Well?”
“Someone’s been trespassing over your land.”
“What? Who?” Coffyn leaned forward, peering closely, his swollen and bleary eyes screwing up with concentration. He chewed his nails, and William looked away.
It was ever the way, the guard thought, that men would be fooled by their women into trusting them too much, only to find that they had been deceived. He could only feel sympathy for his master.
“Tell me! It was the Irishman, wasn’t it?”
His words were spat out with as much virulence as if they had been a noxious draft, and it gave William a certain perverse pleasure to be able to shake his head. “Oh no, sir. It wasn’t him. It was a leper.”
“A leper!” Coffyn sank back in his seat, horrified. “A leper,” he breathed.
Fifteen minutes later William left the solar and made his way to the buttery to fetch a quart of ale. All in all it was shaping up to be a profitable night for him, and he smiled as he poured his drink.
Baldwin left his hall not long after Jeanne had departed to change from her travelling clothes. For the duration of her visit, Baldwin had given up his own bedchamber. It was the newest room in the place, and seemed to remain the warmest. The other upstairs room, the one at the opposite end of the hall above the buttery, he had allocated to Simon and Margaret. That left the undercroft beneath his bedchamber. It was to this little room that he now repaired, and as he entered, he found his servant sitting on his chest and watching Uther, who, on hearing his master, instantly left his bowl of food to leap at him.
“Down, you brute! Edgar, how could you—”
“Yes, Sir Baldwin, I’d think so,” Edgar said quickly, and strode from the room.
“I…Edgar?” Baldwin felt his mouth fall open at his servant’s behavior, and hared after him. He found Edgar outside in the little plot that Baldwin had optimistically termed his orchard. “Edgar, what in God’s name are you doing, walking away from me when I—”
In answer, Edgar glanced back at the building. “I could hear almost everything that Lady Jeanne said to her maid in the room above.”
“But I…” The knight fell silent. Two possibilities were suddenly opened before him: one was that his servant had just saved him from shaming himself by insulting Jeanne’s maid in full hearing of both women, something which, no matter what Jeanne’s private thoughts about Emma, must surely offend her to some extent; the second was that Edgar had, no doubt unintentionally, become privy to Jeanne’s views on her maid as well as, possibly, Baldwin himself.
“I hope you didn’t try to listen to their conversation. That would be quite shameful,” he said cautiously as Uther appeared at the door and sat down for a scratch.
“No, sir, I was careful not to listen,” Edgar said.
His response irrationally irritated Baldwin. He was of a mind to be insulted—not for any failing on Edgar’s part but because of Emma’s interruption of what Baldwin was already thinking of as his first attempt at romance. The fact that Emma had necessarily made it an abortive attempt made the knight want to share out his bitterness. “I should hope so too!” Uther shook himself, sending a small gobbet of drool flying against the wall. “And Uther—how could you have let Emma get to the door first like that? You know Uther is a guard.”
“I’d have expected Wat to leave Chopsie tied up. I wasn’t to know the dog would be free. Anyway, since then I’ve had the hound locked up in your room.”
Some women liked dogs, and Baldwin had no reason to think that Jeanne herself didn’t but there was a great difference between a little lapdog and Uther. There was a brash, confident slobbering enthusiasm about him that was entirely lacking in a gentlewoman’s small pet. Some dogs could subtly work their way into a household without being noticed. One moment there was a space in front of the fire, and the next a small mongrel had filled it. It was that way with old Ben, Baldwin’s farm dog. One day there had been space before the fire, the next the little mutt had inveigled his way in, and it was as if he had always been there.
Uther, on the other hand, was incapable of insinuating himself into a small gap. If there was a small gap, it soon became Uther-sized as he shoved his way through. When Uther was present, it was impossible to miss him. It wasn’t only the fact that a creature weighing over six stones was hard to ignore, nor the smell of three-week-old damp rags that he invariably carried with him wherever he went. No, it lay more in the fact that Uther had about him a variety of canine devotion that was touching to someone who liked dogs, and intensely repulsive to someone who didn’t.
But Baldwin wasn’t going to admit that in front of his servant. “This is nonsense!” he snapped. “Uther is my dog, and he always stays in the hall. How else can he protect the place? You’ll give him the run of the hall again immediately.”
Edgar raised an eyebrow, and opened his mouth as if to argue, but Baldwin held up his hand. “That is my decision. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir Baldwin,” Edgar said again with that irritating servility that felt like condescension. “If that is what you wish, I will see to it.”
“Good.”
“But…”
Baldwin glared. “What?”
“I was thinking, sir, that it might be best if we kept Uther from the hall while you’re eating. He might unsettle Emma—or Lady Jeanne.”
It was a sensible suggestion. Baldwin nodded, absently patted the dog on the head, and began to walk back to his new room. “And now fetch me water and a bowl. I need to wash.”
The meal was not an unqualified success. Edgar remained on his best behavior, which meant he cultivated an air of suave competence, responding to any orders with a distant politeness. His demeanor left Baldwin disgruntled; he would have enjoyed being able to order his man about, to demonstrate he knew how to keep his servant on his toes.
Jeanne could see that Simon and his wife were more interested in her and their host than their food, and that was enough to make her maintain a calm reserve. It was easier than trying to make polite conversation in which every subject was analyzed for a possible second meaning.
Yet she was struck with the knight’s property. The house was a great old cob and thatch longhouse, generously proportioned, but Baldwin had made several improvements, according to Simon and his wife. When they had first visited him here, it had been merely a single-storied hall with a small dairy at the back, a buttery and pantry to one side. Now each end contained upper rooms, areas of privacy from the servants and bondsmen who messed and slept in the hall. That was not all, for the new red sandstone block attached to the rear of the house was Baldwin’s new buttery, where all his brewing equipment was stored. It meant that he now regularly had too much ale for his own people and could sell off his excess. The old buttery was still in use, but like the undercroft was used more as a storeroom than a working area.
“That stew was excellent,” she commented as Edgar placed a fresh bread trencher before her.
“I am glad you enjoyed it,” Baldwin said. “It wasn’t so easy before with the old kitchen.”
“When did you have the new one built?” asked Margaret.
“During the summer. The old one caught fire. I must admit, I’d been thinking about doing something about it for some time already, though. It was too small for my purposes. I used the quarry over at Cadbury for the stone, and now I have a kitchen large enough to feed an earl, should it be necessary!”
“Do you look for advancement, then?” Margaret asked.
“Christ’s Blood, no!” said Baldwin, sincerely shocked. “What benefit would I gain from banneret’s rank or higher? All it would mean would be that I would have to fund more men to no advantage.”
“Come on, Baldwin,” Simon said reasonably. “Largesse is a key attribute for a knight; you should be happy to have more men so you can show your generosity.”
“That may be a good principle for a wealthy duke or prince, but it’s cold comfort to a poor local knight who each year spends all his income feeding the mouths he already has living on his estates.”
“You tell us that you are impecunious, Sir Baldwin? With your new kitchen, solars and brewery?” asked Jeanne teasingly.
“Perhaps not impecunious, but not rich. The brewery is for my workers, for they need the sustenance. My kitchen had to be rebuilt anyway, and it made more sense to have something worthwhile, rather than a cookhouse that was too small for my retinue. But if I was to seek higher rank I would immediately have to find men to flock to my banner in time of war, and they would be extra mouths to feed.”
“Some knights would think that a small price to pay for their elevation,” grunted Emma through a mouthful of stew.
“Some no doubt would,” Baldwin agreed, eyeing her with distaste. “But I consider my first duty to be to protect the poor on my lands, and those who cannot feed themselves. Worldly positions matter little compared with that.”
“I think so too,” said Jeanne, and Baldwin was pleased to see that she gave her maid a look of cold disapproval.
After they had finished their meal, and while Edgar chivvied servants to clear away the mess, Baldwin and his guests moved nearer the fire. While it was not yet deep winter, the nights were cold enough, and the flames offered some defense. The doors had large gaps which let in the drafts, and the tapestries which covered the shuttered but unglazed windows were only partially effective, but for all that, Jeanne felt as comfortable here as if she had spent her childhood in the house. It had a warmth and serenity that was missing in her own.
It was perhaps because she had been orphaned while very young. Her parents had been the victims of a gang of trail bastons, a group of murderous thugs who robbed, murdered and looted wherever they could. Her father had been murdered, and her mother raped and killed. Jeanne herself, although only a child, had been struck with an axe, but the killer had been drunk and had missed his mark.
Jeanne had been saved and taken to Bordeaux, where relations protected her until she met Ralph de Liddinstone and agreed to marry him. But she had found life with him to be a nightmare. He had abused her, beaten her, insulted her before his friends, and finally taken to whipping her. It was a relief when he contracted a fever and died.
It was already well over a year since his death—he died in the summer before she had met Baldwin—and in that time, although the estate had suffered from near-catastrophic disasters, she was happier now than she had been for many years. The only event which had shaken her initial resolve to remain free and uncontracted to any man had been her meeting Sir Baldwin de Furnshill.
Glancing over at him, she felt her face soften at the sight. The knight sat, clearly at his ease, his eyelids drooping with the somnolence induced by a heavy meal, his drink tilting at a dangerous angle in his hand as he tried to fight sleep. Simon had already given up the battle, and was snoring gently, arms folded, head resting against the fireplace, Margaret nodding at his side. They looked comfortable together, and Jeanne felt a quick jealousy. She had never known such companionship with a man, and it seemed unfair that Margaret should have found happiness with the first man she had married.
Baldwin appeared kind, she thought. He had eyes that were keen to smile, rather than scold; his temperament was geared to protecting others rather than taking for himself. The talk about self-advancement they had held over the table had confirmed that, and she could recall conversations with him in Tavistock when he had evinced compassion for the innocent when accused, and for those who were unable to defend themselves. It made her certain that he would make a good husband.
He had asked her to marry him then, but she had temporized. It was not solely because she felt it was too soon after her husband’s death to be seemly, for the Abbot would have married them, and no one would have dared gainsay him; it was more due to her own doubts. After suffering unhappily in one marriage she had no desire to repeat the experience.
And that was her sole remaining source of uncertainty. Was Baldwin pleasant only to her face, and a brute in private? That was how her husband had been: he had been civility and generosity itself while courting her, and it was only when she wed him that she realized his true colors. But there was no denying the fact that she was lonely.
While she contemplated his dozing figure, she heard a soft pattering of paws, which suddenly increased their speed.
Uther had been shut away in the undercroft for the previous two hours while his master ate, not that Uther knew that was the reason. To his simple mind, all that mattered was that he had been away from Baldwin’s side for a long time, and that, he knew, only happened when he had misbehaved. Now he was released, he knew he must make his apologies to his master for whatever he might have done. On entering the hall at a gentle trot, he saw the familiar shape in the chair at the fireside, and launched himself forward.