The Traitor of St. Giles (8 page)

But how could they? They had left the rapist here alone, riding off at speed. What if he were to leave the roadway and bolt? Matilda Carter gritted her teeth. He would not get away. She swore by Holy Mother Mary that she would shadow the lad and make sure he couldn’t escape.

When he stood, shakily wiping at his face with a sleeve, Matilda took her horse’s reins and pulled the mare after her, resolutely trailing the weeping penitent as he continued on his way south.

On foot she walked after him, growing tired now but filled with bitterness and the angry determination to see Philip Dyne dead.

They set off to St Giles’s Fair early the next morning. Baldwin did not enjoy going to town, but once he knew he must endure an unpleasant duty, he was resolved to begin it as soon as possible. Today he looked upon the journey as a useful distraction from his sadness.

Their retinue was as small as he could make it. There was no point in dragging half his servants with him, not on a political visit like this – although it was a fine balancing act knowing how many to bring. If Baldwin brought a large entourage it might make him appear too rich, as though he was trying to score points off other knights; too few people with him and Lord Hugh de Courtenay could feel that there was some slight intended: that his lordship didn’t warrant a show of respect. On the other hand, the harvest would soon be ready, and for that the manor needed every spare hand. Baldwin had no intention of denuding his demesne of men.

Jeanne knew all this, but she was concerned that he could have brought too few with him. He had only his servant, Edgar, the cattleman’s son, Wat, and Jeanne had brought her maid, Petronilla. Petronilla had given birth only a month before and baby Stephen was proving to be a handful; Petronilla had grown pale and apathetic, yawning and dozing whenever she might. Her obvious exhaustion made Jeanne wonder how she herself might cope with childbirth.

Usually a child was welcomed wholeheartedly into a household but Stephen had caused no little complaint among the other servants. All slept communally in Baldwin’s hall and when the child was being difficult, demanding his mother in the darkest hours of the night, Jeanne knew that others dreamed black thoughts of smothering babies. Edgar had been heard to wonder aloud why Herod had never been canonised.

At least now he was sleeping, rocked gently in the wagon, lying among the gifts which Baldwin and Jeanne had brought for Lord Hugh de Courtenay, and while he slept Petronilla had regained much of her animation. She was fairskinned and blonde, and incarceration indoors had made her pale, but the walk had already put roses in her cheeks, making her look much younger. Wat’s hand was in hers as she pointed out flowers, birds or animals, a habit which Wat, who had fallen in love with Petronilla when he first met her in Throwleigh, scorned. At his age – about fourteen; no one was quite sure, least of all his father – he was almost old enough to marry, and the scowl on his face demonstrated his belief that inconsequential chats about flowers and blackbirds were demeaning.

Trying not to grin to herself as she caught sight of his expression, Jeanne glanced at her husband.

Baldwin had been dreadfully saddened by the death of his dog. Uther had been an uncomfortable companion, as much as Jeanne liked dogs, because his habits of slobbering over those whom he adored, of farting beneath the table at mealtimes, of resting his head in a lap and dribbling, tended to make some people fractious about him. And the more unpopular he felt, the more poor Uther tried to endear himself, usually with disastrous consequences, like the time he knocked Baldwin over in his enthusiasm to welcome the knight home after an extended absence of less than an hour.

But there was no denying that the beast had adored Baldwin, nor that he had reciprocated Uther’s affection. Even when the dog died biting on Baldwin’s arm, Baldwin hadn’t complained. His forearm was a mass of scabs where Uther’s teeth had sunk in, and Jeanne had seen her man touch the scabs every so often, as if reminding himself of his hound’s death. Although Baldwin smiled as often as before, it was clear to Jeanne that he felt the hound’s death keenly. She had suggested another dog, but he had smiled sadly and shaken his head. No replacement would be able to fill the space left by Uther. Perhaps in a year or so.

Jeanne sighed, but she was not used to inaction. She was sure that her husband needed another dog to bring him out of his odd, quiet mood, and she would find him one. Perhaps a pleasing little pet-dog, something small enough to sit on his lap? Some knights thought them the height of fashion, so she had heard. It made for a wonderful companion, something so small and cuddly.

The word cuddly brought to her mind a vision of Uther’s head, massive, dark-jowled, sombre, panting, with a long dribble of slime forever dangling. Shuddering slightly, she decided to act. Maybe there would be something suitable in Tiverton.

Tiverton. It was an odd-sounding place. Although Jeanne had lived in Furnshill for some months now, she had never made the journey north: there had never been the need. Crediton held all that they needed in terms of those foodstuffs they couldn’t grow themselves, and if there was anything else they required, they tended to send to Exeter. That great port could provide anything that was available in the world and there was little point in going elsewhere.

Being a Devon-born woman, Jeanne had been raised in the county, but she had been adopted by her uncle and taken to live with him in Bordeaux when her parents were murdered by a gang of trail bastons. Many such outlaws had killed, raped and thieved their way through the country over the last twenty years and Jeanne had been lucky to escape with her life. The axe-blow intended to kill her had glanced off. She still had a dent in her skull where it struck.

Jeanne had learned much about gracious living in Bordeaux, but her first husband, Sir Ralph de Liddinstone, was a rough, heavy-handed bully, who had lost all affection for her when she proved unable to conceive a child for him. He had beaten her whenever he was drunk, and when he died some three years before, his passing had been a source of real relief to Jeanne. And then she had met Sir Baldwin de Furnshill.

Where her first husband had been hot-headed, untutored and ill-mannered, Baldwin was calm, educated and courteous to a fault. When it came to their bedchamber he had been almost embarrassingly respectful, a condition which Jeanne had not been prepared to allow to continue, for not only did she long for a child, she knew that Baldwin did as well. She had seen his tenderness towards Petronilla’s, even though the poor baby was illegitimate.

It was as she was contemplating the possibility of a baby of her own that she realised that they had almost reached the town. It was clear above the trees lining the far riverbank ahead and she surveyed it with interest.

The castle was a massive grey building; the town huddled south-east of it in the gap between the Rivers Lowman and Exe, an accumulation of limewashed, timber-built places which sprawled haphazardly up the hillside, with gardens, orchards and burgage plots radiating out. Thin fields lay further down the hill, as did pastures and meadows: cattle and horses, sheep and lambs could be seen browsing or dozing in the warm summer sunlight.

They clattered over the timber bridge to the main street leading up to the castle, and Jeanne began to feel the strength and power of the place. It would be strange to live beneath such a massive symbol of a lord’s power, she thought. Strange and intimidating.

Baldwin turned to her as if reading her mind. For a moment he appeared to have forgotten his loss, and he gave her a broad smile. ‘Does it look a glum place to you?’

‘I have no idea how you guessed that was what I was thinking, but yes. It doesn’t appeal to me.’

‘It’s not so dreadful inside,’ he said. ‘My Lord de Courtenay enjoys a comfortable life.’

‘But imagine living beneath these walls all the time,’ she said, shivering as they rode towards the great gatehouse. ‘I heard once of the King’s castle at London, and how the tall walls and towers threatened any who came near. I begin to understand how people must feel when their whole lives are lived in the shadows of a place like this’.

Baldwin cast her a sympathetic glance. Although she had lived in Bordeaux during her youth, she had spent most of her life in England in places where there appeared little need for strong defences. Devon was not like the Scottish or Welsh marches where warfare was a way of life. ‘Didn’t you feel the same at Bordeaux?’

‘Bordeaux? No, of course not! The whole town was enclosed and protected. The castle was only for the last resort, there to protect the King’s subjects.’

Baldwin nodded but wasn’t convinced. The King’s father, Edward I, was perfectly capable of bullying his people into submission, and a place like Bordeaux was protected because it made sense to look after the citizens so that their wealth could be defended and saved for the King himself, rather than handing it to his enemies. No king was truly altruistic.

He glanced up at the castle walls. Strong, solid, unblemished, they looked impregnable – yet he wondered how they would cope with the might of the King’s artillery pounding them. The walls of Bristol had not survived long in 1316 when the King had exercised his will over the townspeople, raising the whole posse of the county against the rebellious folks who would not obey his will . . .

But his reverie was halted by a cry.

‘Baldwin! About time!’

He spun in his saddle and then smiled as he recognised his old friend Simon. ‘Bailiff Puttock, did they invite you as well? I thought it was to be a select gathering!’

‘Is Margaret with you?’ Jeanne asked as she and her husband dropped gratefully from their mounts.

‘No,’ Simon said, and there was a reticence in his manner. ‘You know she has often miscarried? The midwife told her to stay at home and rest in her bed to prevent another, and I agreed.’

‘What of Hugh?’ Baldwin asked. They were inside the great hall now, sipping drinks, and Baldwin was surprised not to see Simon’s truculent servant making a nuisance of himself among the castle’s own men.

‘Er, no,’ Simon said. ‘Hugh has decided to stay and help Constance with her garden.’

Baldwin’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. He had no idea what sort of woman would want so morose a companion.

‘There’s no need to look like that, Baldwin. Hugh can work well enough.’

‘Really?’

‘When he wants to, yes.’

‘Does he ever want to?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘He’s loyal.’

‘Ah!’

Seeing his expression Simon added defensively, ‘I gave him permission.’

Baldwin snorted derisively. ‘One always agrees with a servant who wishes to do something – if one intends to keep him, that is!’ he scoffed, and glanced around at Edgar, who stood aloof from other servants nearby.

‘Edgar is handfast to Cristine in the tavern at Crediton,’ Jeanne chuckled in explanation. ‘Baldwin is not sure yet that it is a good match: he fears Cristine will tempt Edgar away from his side and, to be honest, I fear it myself. I don’t know how Edgar manages to keep Baldwin so obedient!’

Baldwin gave a dry smile but didn’t answer. He had not told his wife how he had met Edgar in the disastrous battle to defend Acre. Saving Edgar’s life had conferred a curious obligation upon both men and Baldwin was as aware as Edgar of the bond that tied them. It was hard to conceive of life without Edgar. They had been together since Acre, first as refugees, then as Knight and Sergeant in the Templars, more recently as land-owning knight and servant.

Not that Baldwin was an enormously wealthy knight. Certainly not in the same league as some of Hugh de Courtenay’s other knights – and not in the same league as Simon either, he realised as he took in Simon’s fur trimmings at neck and hem, the brilliant vermillion cloth of his cotte and surcoat, the ruddy linen of his hose, and most of all the two gold rings on his fingers. ‘You should be careful, Simon,’ he said seriously. ‘If you flaunt your money like that,’ nodding towards the rings, ‘you’ll be made a knight.’

Simon grinned and was about to reply when he saw that Baldwin was serious. ‘Me?’

‘You could be forced to accept a knighthood if Lord de Courtenay considers you rich enough.’

‘I don’t earn enough to justify it,’ Simon protested.

‘An income of £40 a year is all it takes, and I would think that the chief bailiff of the Warden of the Stannaries would probably have that each year as well as the money he might win from his old farm at Sandford and other investments.’

‘Hmm,’ Simon grunted thoughtfully. ‘I never liked the idea of distraint. Compelling people to become knights when they’ve got no inclination seems foolish.’

‘Certainly you’d be more use as a shield to protect a worthy man from arrows than as any sort of warrior,’ Baldwin observed critically, glancing askance at his friend’s jutting belly.

‘I resent that, Sir Baldwin!’ Simon laughed. ‘It takes a large investment to build a temple to the epicurean arts like this.’ And he slapped his stomach.

Baldwin shook his head as if in disgust, but couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s cheerfulness. Simon had lost the haggard look of two years before when his only son had died, but the greying hair was a feature that he would never again be without. For all that his guts were expanding, his face’s ruddy colouring showed that he still took his regular exercise, riding over the moors to impose his lord’s will on the ever-rebellious miners who scraped a meagre living on Dartmoor. His dark grey eyes had more wisdom, more experience than when Baldwin had first known him. The loss of his boy had affected him badly, as had his wife’s miscarriages since.

‘Anyway, Baldwin, what of your own people? I see you’ve brought Jeanne and Edgar; have you decided not to impose Chops on our poor lord?’

As soon as he asked the question Jeanne saw the sadness return to her husband’s face and she took his hand comfortingly.

Piers Bakere eyed the road sourly as he jogged along on his cart. It was a stupid waste of his time, this journey, but since he must use the manor’s mill, he had to load up with grain every so often and take it down the roadway here to get it ground down to flour.