‘Is it much farther now?’
Baldwin glanced across at his wife. She rode at his side on her white Arab, the gift he had given her on their wedding day. ‘I am sorry. If I could, I would have placed you in the wagon,
because it would be more comfortable.’
‘The wagon would not have made it,’ she said. ‘The tracks are too steep, slippery and badly rutted. I’m more comfortable on horseback. Look at that hill. No wagon could
climb that.’
He had to agree. The hill west of Sticklepath was a terrible climb. It was only a few weeks ago that Baldwin had travelled this route to the tournament at Oakhampton, but then he had not been
considering the view, he had been contemplating the immediate future and the risk of being included in a joust. Now he looked at the trail, he could remember having heard that this must be one of
the steepest sections of the road to Cornwall, and he could easily believe it was true.
The road curved away down the hill from Baldwin to become lost among trees and bushes. It reappeared on the far hill, but there it didn’t twist from side to side, but set off almost as
straight as an arrow’s path upwards, defined by the moorstone walls at either side, which stood out clearly compared with the green tree-lined slopes.
‘It is not far,’ he said. ‘The vill is down in the valley.’
‘What is the vill like?’ she asked as they began the descent.
‘I cannot say that I noticed much. An inn, a mill . . . the normal things. When we got here, we rode through as quickly as we could, in our hurry to get to Oakhampton Castle. Do you recall
anything, Edgar?’
‘Good pasture, plenty of wood for timber, and well-maintained field strips. And oh yes, it had been flooded. Apart from that, no, I didn’t see anything.’
Baldwin grinned. Edgar was a professional observer.
Their journey had not been as swift as he had hoped. They had set off the day before, but the clouds had opened and their journey from Crediton was hampered by thick mud on the roads. Twice
Baldwin had been tempted to turn back, but each time the rains had seemed to lessen, and Petronilla, Edgar’s wife and Richalda’s nurse, was careful to keep the baby warm and dry beneath
a thick woollen rug.
Although they now rode in bright sunshine, it was good to see that there were several fires roaring in the vill. That much was obvious from the smoke rising above the roofs. Baldwin felt clammy.
His clothes needed drying and he knew that his wife and servants were just as damp.
Where the road met the river there was a shallow ford, and the horses splashed their way through it, leaving a dirty, streaming stain on the water as the soil was washed from their hooves. As
soon as they left the pebbles that bounded the river, they were riding over an unmetalled roadway again, covered in glutinous, dark mud. The entire village was in this condition, and Baldwin
wondered how anyone could remain clean for a moment.
As they rode towards the inn, a building on their left with a scrap of furze bush tied above the door to show that ale was on sale, Baldwin noticed some peasants watching him and his entourage.
To his surprise, none looked at all welcoming: all were grim and suspicious, especially the four scruffily dressed men and one woman standing at the inn’s door. Baldwin was reminded of the
stories he had heard of travellers becoming lost on a journey and finding themselves in strange surroundings. All too often the inhabitants of such vills would be wary, fearful of
‘foreigners’ from far distant places – which could mean someone from two villages away – and might hurl stones or worse at newcomers. There was a merchant recently who had
complained to him about being pelted with dogshit, and another who was on the receiving end of sticks and clods of earth.
It was fortunate that this vill was on the Cornwall road, he told himself, because the people here should be well used to seeing strangers riding through. Otherwise, from the looks on their
faces, he might have been tempted to bend low over his mount’s neck, rake his spurs along the beast’s flanks and ride hell for leather out of this place.
Perhaps the people here were just put out at the thought of the Coroner’s arrival. That would mean fines for breaking the King’s Peace which would affect everybody in the vill, so it
was no great surprise that they should eye strangers glumly.
At the inn he remained seated upon his horse while Edgar swung down from his saddle and strolled forward. There was a small group at the entrance, and Edgar stood a moment, waiting for them to
part. Aylmer wandered along behind him and stood staring, head tilted.
Snatches of conversation wafted up to Baldwin even as the folk stared at him and his wife.
First he heard the woman. ‘She was pregnant. She told me so in confidence.’
‘Terrible if it’s true. Poor Aline!’
‘Would he kill her to silence her?’ the woman asked.
‘Who can tell?’ a man sighed.
To Baldwin’s surprise, the group did not give way to Edgar. Two men stood at the doorway, blocking it. A younger-looking man with startlingly fair hair planted himself next to them, while
another, older man eyed Baldwin and curled his lip.
A broad fellow, with a rugged face and a badly broken nose, he looked the sort to have been involved in lots of fights, possibly the instigator of many of them. His gaze was unblinking, rather
like a snake’s, and Baldwin half expected to see a forked tongue flicker from between the pale lips.
Not that he was entirely reptilian. Aged forty years old or so, he had the ruddy complexion of a moorman, and Baldwin would have put him down for a miner if his hands had been dirtier or more
calloused, but although he had the appearance of a man who has laboured, his hands were not ingrained with dirt. Dressed in a good linen shirt under a crimson tunic, he was clearly no peasant. From
his shoulder dangled a horn, while the dagger which hung from his belt looked well made, with a leather grip wired into place and an enamelled pommel; the sort of craftsmanship that a peasant could
not afford. His clothes and knife spoke of money, and his manner showed he was of some rank, and probably power, since he dared show such studied insolence.
It was the first time Baldwin had seen Edgar’s swagger fail. Normally the controlled threat in his posture persuaded people to hurry from his path. Apparently folk here were less easily
intimidated. Edgar stopped before the man, and Baldwin saw him rise on the balls of his feet, preparing for violence. Baldwin reached over his belly and felt for his sword, easing it in the sheath
so that he could pull it free in a moment, but even as he shifted in his saddle, ready to kick his mount forward, the woman spoke up.
‘Drogo, you should not stop travellers from eating and drinking. They need sustenance.’ She had a pleasant, low voice, and Baldwin recognised her accent as French.
The man she called Drogo gently pushed her out of his way. ‘Quite so, Nicky, but I have a duty to keep an eye on people around here.’
‘Why is that your duty?’ Baldwin asked quietly. ‘Are you the Reeve of this vill?’
That earned him a short laugh. ‘Do I look as stupid as Alexander? De Belston, he’s called, but only because his gut’s as great as a bell, the slug. No, I’m an official of
the King, so you can begin by answering my questions and not by answering me back!’
‘Drogo, you shouldn’t.’
The fair, younger man, who wore faded brown hose and a much patched green tunic, stepped forward as though to persuade his companion not to intimidate Baldwin. He looked fit, maybe twenty-two
years of age, and had a pleasant face, with weather-beaten brown skin and calm grey eyes under thick, carelessly cropped hair that hadn’t seen a barber for some weeks. His eyebrows were
delicately shaped arcs that sat high on his features, giving him an expression of perpetual astonishment, which Baldwin was sure would make him attractive to women.
Drogo shook his hand from his forearm. ‘Want to take my post, Vin?’ he sneered. ‘Is that it? You pathetic, poxed little turd.
I
lead this group, not you. That means
I
make the decisions about who I question and why.’
He stepped forward, carelessly allowing his shoulder to jostle Edgar as he passed. Edgar said nothing; he merely altered his stance a little, placing his feet further apart, while Aylmer sat,
gazing over his shoulder at Baldwin.
Baldwin was not concerned about his servant. Edgar had survived many fights, probably more than Baldwin himself, and yet bore no scars. He would be able to hold off the three men ranged before
him on his own.
‘First of all, who are you, eh?’ The man was near Baldwin’s horse now, moving to the beast’s left side, where he would be safer from Baldwin’s sword arm. His eyes
assessed the good leatherwork at saddle and bridle, the enamelled badges declaring Baldwin’s heredity. ‘Where are you from?’
‘By what authority do you ask?’
‘Just answer the question,’ Drogo snapped.
‘I am a traveller here, a stranger. Why should I answer your questions if you do not tell me the authority by which you ask?’
‘I told you I am a King’s man. Answer me!’
‘I, too, am a King’s official,’ Baldwin said mildly. ‘So what rank are you?’
‘I have the rank of the man who demanded first, friend. I call you “friend” now, but soon I shall lose patience.’
He thrust his head forward, jaw jutting aggressively, but then he stopped. There was a low grumbling noise, and when he looked down, he met Aylmer’s face snarling up at him, right near his
cods. He sprang back, his hand going to his knife. ‘Keep that brute away from me!’
Baldwin smiled, but there was no humour in his face. He was annoyed that this self-important bully should dare to delay him in his business. Edgar, he could see, was as ready as a cocked
crossbow, waiting for the signal to attack.
Then his irritation left him. Drogo was a foolish man overcome with his authority in this, his own little sphere. It was ridiculous that he and Sir Baldwin should be standing up to each other
like a pair of game cocks while men prepared to do battle on their behalf. If Baldwin pushed the matter, he might be forced to put the other to the sword, and Edgar would risk his life in battle
against three. There was no point.
‘I should hate to see you lose your patience, friend. So let me say, I am Sir Baldwin of Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, and friend to Coroner Roger de Gidleigh,
who should be visiting you here shortly to investigate a body. Now, who are you?’
The man didn’t answer him, but merely spat. ‘A Keeper to help a Coroner! What a blessing. We are fortunate to have so many officials here to help us sort out a four-year-old murder.
Maybe there’s some mystery everyone forgot to tell us about, eh?’
‘And you are?’
He stared up at Baldwin with unconcealed disgust. ‘Nothing to do with you!’ and strode from the place with every appearance of bitter fury. After a few moments the other men trailed
after him, one of them with a pronounced limp. The last, whom Drogo had called Vin, stood as if working up the courage to speak, but then he too walked away, giving Baldwin an apologetic grimace
before making off after his leader.
Only the woman remained. She was attractive, of middle height, and her hair was a mouse-brown. She looked as though her inclination tended more to laughter and singing than melancholy, but it
was obvious that sadness had affected her, and as Baldwin gave her a politely welcoming smile, she looked away hurriedly.
Baldwin was intrigued by Drogo’s assertion that there was a four-year-old murder to be investigated. He had expected something much more recent. Aware of Jeanne moving her Arab nearer to
him as Edgar entered the inn, he thought she was nervous of Drogo and his men.
He was wrong. Jeanne knew he was capable of protecting himself, even with his bruises. No, it was the atmosphere. It felt as though there was a miasma of violence and fear about the place,
almost as though it was infected by a malignant disease, and it reminded her of stories she had heard in France many years ago, stories in which evil spirits could invade a vill.
The fear which she had known as a young woman in France was with her again here. There was a curious deadness of sound. None of the usual squealing of children, none of the barking or yapping or
whining of dogs, no whinnying – nothing. There was not even the hum of people talking, or the dull thud of axe hitting wood, only a low grumbling from the earth as though the soil itself was
complaining. Seeing the mill she realised that it came from there.
Baldwin did not notice his wife’s distress. He chewed at his moustache while they waited for Edgar to return, which he did a few minutes later with a large man who wore a long leather
apron. He wiped his hands on it as he bowed to Baldwin.
‘Master, I’m William Taverner. Your man said you want beds.’
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards Edgar, who now leaned nonchalantly against the doorpost, his hands in his belt, apparently staring into the middle distance and unaware of the
conversation.
‘Yes, master Taverner. I need a room for my wife and child and their servant, and somewhere for me and my servant. In the meantime, I want a jug of wine for each of us in front of your
fire.’
The taverner was a short, fat man with straggling brown hair scraped over a bald pate. He rasped a hand over his poorly shaven chin as he considered. ‘I have a small chamber at the back,
but I ’d have to throw out some others, and they’ve already paid for the use of it. It’s not reasonable for me to evict them.’ As if to aid his resolve, he fiddled with
coins in the pocket of his apron.
‘I am sure you will find a way,’ Baldwin said with suave confidence. ‘Has the Coroner arrived yet?’
There was a faint but noticeable stiffening of the man’s manner. ‘You’re friends of his?’
Baldwin never liked being answered with a question, especially after the rudeness of Drogo and his men. His tone sharpened. ‘Has he arrived?’
His answer was a surly grunt which persuaded Baldwin that Sir Roger had already made his presence felt. It gave him some little amusement, and he was pleased to have had the behaviour of the
locals explained. If the Coroner was in the vill and throwing his weight around, it was no surprise that folk here were resentful.