moderation, and that stopped the pain. You should try it!”
“If it is as well with you, I think I’d prefer to try some wine instead. It might help my head to stay on my shoulders,” said Simon, and winced when this brought on another bellow of laughter.
They walked back inside. The servants had already put food on the table, and Margaret was sitting and pecking at a full plate. She looked as if she had little appetite and was eating merely to show gratitude for the food provided, rather than from any desire or need to eat. Simon grinned through his hangover. He recognised the look on her face; it meant she would be irritable today – her head was hurting her more than his own hurt him. He winced – how would they feel when Edith gave them her cheerful welcome? She would be bound to be noisy after an evening with her nurse. Margaret sat tentatively absorbed, her face so pale that it seemed almost transparent, and he felt that if there was a candle behind her he would be able to see its flame through her head. Sitting beside her, he found that even with his feeling of fragility, the world began to look better after taking a good measure of wine with some cold cuts of lamb and bread.
They were just finishing their meal when they heard a horse draw close. Baldwin listened expectantly to the murmuring of voices outside. Soon the visitor entered, and Simon almost dropped his bread in his surprise. It was the monk, Matthew.
Even though he was still feeling hungover and in need of a good gallop in the fresh air to clear the fog from his mind, Simon could clearly see the changing emotions chasing each other across the man’s face as he came into the room. The monk walked swiftly at first, his eyes firmly on the knight. Simon was almost certain that he could discern accusation in his expression, and anger, but both seemed to be fighting against doubt and confusion. It was almost as if he knew that the knight had done something, but was not quite certain. For some reason he could not fathom, the sight of the monk’s expression struck a cold chill, a warning, that seemed to stab at his heart and put him on his guard immediately.
But even as he saw the look, the monk noticed the guests and seemed to slow, almost as if he was regretting entering now he had seen the bailiff. But then, with an almost palpable resolution, he seemed to quicken his steps, and marched across the floor to them, with a look of wary pleasure on his face.
“Sir Baldwin,” he said, as if to an equal – which caused Simon to frown in momentary surprise, “A good morning to you. My apologies if I have interrupted your breakfast.”
Baldwin rose, with a cheerful smile of welcome on his face, and motioned the monk to a seat. “Please join us, brother. Some food?”
“Thank you, but no,” said the monk, and sat opposite Simon. “Bailiff, I am afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “Why, what is it?”
“Last night one of your men passed by the Clanton Barton and asked where you were. It seems that your men have had no success in their search for the man that took my abbot hostage, but they have found that there has been another attack, over near Oakhampton, yesterday. He said that some travellers have been killed, although some escaped. Your constable has gone on to the town, and he asks that you join him there. I fear more people have died on the roads, bailiff.”
Stifling a curse, Simon let his head fall into his hands and tried to gather his thoughts, but when he spoke his voice was strong and determined. “Did he say where the attack was?”
“Yes, I understand it was close to Ashbury, to the west of Oakhampton.”
“And the attack was similar?” Simon looked up and stared at the monk intently. “Does that mean hostages were taken, or that there have been more killings? More burnings?”
The monk gazed back for a moment, then, as if his eyes had been held by a cord that suddenly snapped, he looked away, and his voice was low and troubled. “The messenger said that the men had been killed – some of them burned in their wagons. Some women have been taken, too.”
“Did he say how many people were responsible?”
“No, I am sorry, bailiff. That is all I know, except that the constable asked that you raise a posse as quickly as possible.”
Simon led Margaret and Hugh through to collect their horses while Baldwin bellowed orders behind them and fetched two of his own men to send with them, then followed them into the sunlight with the monk at his side.
“Will two be enough?” the knight asked, “I can see if I can get more for you if you need, Simon.”
“No, two will be fine. Could you send a man to Black’s farm for me? It would save me sending one of my own.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Tell Black about the trail bastons and ask him to raise a new posse and meet me at Copplestone in four hours. We will ride for Oakhampton as soon as possible.”
Mounting his horse, Simon was struck by a sudden thought, and coaxed his horse to walk over to where Matthew stood by the door. The monk seemed to wear an expression of sadness, a look of weary misery, as if he had seen this kind of event too often in his long life and wondered how many more times he would have to witness the departure of the hue and cry in pursuit of outlaws. Speaking low and quietly, so that Margaret would not hear, Simon said, “Matthew, do you know why Tanner, the constable, wanted me to come so quickly? If the attack was over west of Oakhampton, surely the people of the town can cope?”
“Yes, bailiff,” said the monk, and his face when he looked up at Simon was troubled, “but he fears that the outlaws are moving towards Crediton. He thinks whoever is responsible may be coming this way.”
It was incredible what a difference a horse and money could make, Rodney thought as he left the inn. Over the space of only a few days he had gone from being without money and on a dying horse, to having to make his way on foot with no horse, to now being in a position where he could afford a bed, food, and stabling. His new mare seemed happy and fully recovered from whatever had so terrified her, he had eaten well and slept better, and he only had a few days’ travel ahead of him before he could stay with his brother. Life really did seem a great deal better.
Once more on his horse, he slowly rode out of the little village of Inwardleigh and turned his horse’s head to the west. The day was bright and clear, the wind had died to a gentle breeze, and even the mare seemed to feel the excitement and joy of their renewed life. It was almost as if there was an empathy between them, as if she could feel his happiness, or perhaps it was because she had suffered too, and she could now feel the same release that safety and comfort had given him.
The road led them up a steep incline at first, taking them up to a plateau which was almost devoid of trees. The sun behind cast their shadow, a joint black streamer before them.
Gradually, he felt his eyes beginning to get heavy as he rode. The lurching of his mount began to cast its narcotic effect, and he felt his eyelids became heavy as he looked ahead at the road dwindling into the distance. It was no good trying to concentrate, his only thoughts were of the comfort of a full belly, his only feelings of the pleasant warmth of the sun at his back and how the lumbering of his beast seemed so soporific.
Every now and again the mare would jolt and cause his eyes to snap open and his head to rise erect with the sudden shock, but then the casual rolling movement would take over again and he would feel his head nodding and falling until his chin was on his chest and his eyes closed, the calming rhythm soothing him with its hypnotic balm.
It had been like this, he recalled, on the ride up to Bannockburn. They had all been tired after their long journeys, all riding half asleep for days, with little to think of or worry about, just the continual rolling movement of the horse underneath as they all planned what to do after the battle that they were about to win. After all, what could the Scots do? They were hardly in any position to harm the massed forces of England, the soldiers that had won over Wales, that had warred against the French, that had beaten the Scots before so conclusively. What could they do? But win they had.
The army of King Edward was exhausted when it arrived on the road from Falkirk to Stirling. Almost twenty thousand strong, it outnumbered the Scots by two to one, and when their enemy began advance towards them, Rodney could remember his lord’s master, the Earl of Gloucester, arriving and calling them forward: “On, men! On!”
A smile rose to his lips at the memory. Ah, but how they had ridden! It was like the sea rushing on, like a landslide, a glorious, inexorable torrent of humanity and horseflesh, pounding the ground to a mire in the magnificent rush to meet the enemy.
