was profitable, he could expect to become wealthy, a man of power and influence in his own right. Of course, as the bailiff of the castle, he was also held responsible for any failures: for lower tax revenues, for reduced productivity from the demesne lands – for anything. Now, on his way home to his wife, he was gathering his thoughts, framing the best way of putting to her the possibilities and options that the role presented. Being a realist, he not only felt pride at the recognition he had been offered; he was also aware of the awesome immensity of the job that he had been given.
Ever since the Scots had defeated the English army at Bannockburn two years before, matters had got progressively worse, he knew. It was not just the continual attacks on the northern shires by the Scots or their invasion of Ireland, it sometimes appeared that God himself was angry with the whole of Europe and was punishing it. For two years now the whole country had been blighted, suffering under the worst rainstorms ever known. Last year, thirteen hundred and fifteen, had not been so bad down here in the far west; his people had hardly noticed any lack of essentials. Now, though, in the late autumn of thirteen sixteen, the rain had again been constant, and it had ruined the harvest for a second year. In other counties the people had been reduced to eating their horses and dogs in the vain search for sustenance, although it was not quite so bad yet here in Devon. It did mean that there would be a lot to plan for, though, and in his new job as the bailiff of Lydford castle, Simon intended to do all he could to help the people he was responsible for.
Lost in his thoughts, he had a deep frown on his face as he rode. He was a tall and muscular man with a body honed from riding and hunting, in his prime at nearly thirty years old. His hair was thick and a uniform dark brown, with no grey or white hairs to mar the youthful looks that hid his age so well. His complexion was ruddy from the days regularly spent in the open air and the saddle. Fortunately his daily exercise had so far prevented the build-up of fat that he remembered so well hanging under his father’s chin as heavy jowls, making him look so much like one of his mastiffs, but he could still feel the early onset of thickening around his waist from the heavy beer that his household was so proud of.
From his sun- and wind-burned face his dark grey eyes looked out with a calm confidence. He was fortunate to have grown up near Crediton, and to have been taught how to read and write by his father’s friends in the church – a fact that would surely make him unique among the other bailiffs in the district – and he was confident that he was fully capable of the responsibilities that had been given to him.
Looking up at the sky he could see it was already starting to darken as the sun slowly sank over to the west, and he threw a glance back at his servant, who plodded along behind on his old carthorse. “Hugh,” he called, resting his hand on the rump of his horse as he twisted in his saddle to face backwards, “I think we’ll stop off at Bickleigh for the night, if they’ll let us. It’ll be dark long before we get home to Sandford.”
His servant, a lean, morose, dark-haired man with the narrow, sharp features of a ferret, glared back. His demeanour was that of a prisoner being taken to the gallows who had been asked about the weather – angry at the interruption of his thoughts and suspicious of the reasons for the comment.
Satisfied that the remark was made with no malicious intent, he grunted his assent as he lolled in his saddle. He had no desire to ride any farther tonight, and Bickleigh was known to have a good stock of wine and beer – it would be a fine place to rest as far as he was concerned.
The bailiff smiled to himself. Although Hugh had travelled a great deal with his master in the five years since he had taken up his position, he had never fully mastered riding. His family were farmers near Drewsteignton where they kept a small herd of sheep, and until he started to work for Simon he had never ridden a horse. Even now, after a great deal of individual tuition, he still sat too loosely, radiating discomfort as he allowed the horse to plod along with him on its back.
Simon had once asked him why he seemed so ill at ease with horses, partly out of concern, but also from a degree of frustration because his servant’s slowness held him up when he had far to travel.
Glaring aggressively at the ground, Hugh had taken some time to respond, and when he did at last answer it was with a low and mumbling voice, “It’s the distance. That’s what I don’t like.”
“What do you mean, the distance?” Simon had asked, confused at the taciturn response, if that’s all you’re worried about you ought to go faster so that we can get there more quickly.“
“That’s not the distance I mean. I mean the distance down,” Hugh had said, glowering truculently at his shoes, and Simon had stared at him for a few moments before roaring with laughter.
Remembering, Simon grinned to himself as he turned back to face the road ahead. It led along the River Exe here, meandering with the turbulent water at the edge of the forest, and he found himself watching the darkness between the trees on his right with wary interest.
Since the beginning of the rains the previous year the shortage of food had led to a number of the poorer people taking up a life of robbery and thieving. He was not really very worried with this area, but he was all too aware of the problems. As always, when food became scarce the prices rose, and people who would normally have been law-abiding were forced to resort to rougher methods of obtaining what they needed. Now that the crops had failed for a second year several bands of outlaws had grouped themselves together to be safer from the forces of the law. These people, known as “trail bastons”, were trying to eke out a living by taking what they could from unwary travellers. Simon had not heard that any had come to his own area, but he had been warned that one group had apparently started operating a little further north, in the king’s forest up near North Petherton. There had been no news of them coming this far south, but just in case he kept an eye open for an ambush.
It was with some surprise that he recognised the feeling of relief as they came up to the hill that led to Bickleigh, as if he had been under a high level of tension for hours. He had not realised that he had been so on edge, and so it was with a small smile of rueful disgust that he should allow himself to be so worried about outlaws when there was no need to be, that he turned into the track that led to the little castle.
The little keep was one of many built over the years to help defend the shire from the men of Cornwall, held by the de Courtenay family. It was a small fortified building, a square stone tower, with a simple wall surrounding it for protection. Like so many castles built in its time, the entrance to the building was through a door on the first floor, reached by a small external staircase. Bickleigh was used more now as a hunting lodge than a defensive post, and was visited only infrequently, once or twice each year, by Lord de Courtenay. It had its own bailiff who was responsible for tax collecting and the maintenance of the farms on the land all around, but beyond that it was a quiet place, nestling deep in the woods at the side of the hill over a mile from the main road to Tiverton. It had originally been used as a small fort and had been permanently garrisoned against attack, but now it was left alone, a small rural backwater, ignored even by its lord in favour of other larger and more imposing castles with strategic importance – and better hunting.
For Bickleigh was not important now. Oh, Simon knew it had been, back in the days after the invasion when it was essential for the Normans to have their outposts well positioned all over the country they had won. Then it had been crucial as a staging post between Exeter and Tiverton, one of the hundreds built by the invaders to pacify the population that was always ready to revolt against their new king – especially the Wessexmen of Devon. But now? Now it was superseded by the others.
Simon rode up to the front of the old wall and dismounted at the gate, leading his horse through into the courtyard beyond. Warned by the loud clatter of the hoofs on the cobbled yard, a smiling groom arrived and took the bridle from him, pointing to the great oak doors at the top of the stairs that led inside to the living quarters. Smiling back, Simon nodded before mounting the stairs and walking in through the main door where he met John, the de Courtenay’s bailiff of Bickleigh.
“Simon, old friend,” he said, holding out his hand as his eyes wrinkled in a smile of welcome. “Come in, come in. Would you like some refreshment? It’s good to see you again.”
Smiling and squeezing John’s hand, Simon nodded. “Thank you. Yes, some beer and food and a place to rest for the night, if I may. I’m on my way back home and I can’t stay in the saddle any longer today. Do you mind?”
“Mind?” John put his arm around Simon’s shoulders and laughed as he led him along the screened passage to the hall. “Come on, let’s get you fed!”
The little castle echoed in its emptiness as John led the way to the hall. It always surprised Simon that a castle, one he had known to ring to the sounds of cooks, servants and guests, could seem so deserted when the lord was away. It was almost as if the whole building was in hibernation, waiting for the master to return. As they walked, the sound of their booted steps seemed to ring throughout the tower as they trudged along the flagstones of the passage, until they came to the hall where John had been sitting before a roaring fire. Soon servants arrived carrying cold meats and wine, which they placed on a table near Simon, and he sat and helped himself. Hugh
