“Well…” Clifford paused, thinking hard. Pope Clement had died two years before, in thirteen hundred and fourteen. The papacy had remained empty until this year when Pope John had been chosen. He frowned as he thought about it. What if the new pope did dislike de Penne for some act during Clement’s period of office? De Penne would have been left in place during the interregnum and then removed from his position when the new pontiff took office. Could that be why he was on his way to Buckland now, in thirteen sixteen, because his previous acts had so offended the new pope?
“And Matthew said that there would not be another murder like it, he said that the murderer of the abbot was temporarily mad!” Simon recalled. “He must have guessed even then!”
“Surely the monk would have gone to see Furnshill if he thought that, to ask him to confess. It would be his duty, to save his soul.”
“He was at the manor on the day I left to follow the outlaws!” said Simon suddenly. “It was he who gave me the message from Tanner about the outlaws!” He paused, frowning as he considered. “And think, if the pope was offended by Oliver de Penne’s actions, might not Baldwin have been as well? What if the service de Penne provided to Clement, the service that was so offensive to John was equally offensive to Baldwin?”
Clifford shook his head. “No. I agree that the timing matches, that it is plausible, but it seems a little too farfetched. Why should Baldwin’s brother die just then, making it necessary for the knight to return home? Surely it would have been easier for Baldwin to kill the abbot on his way through France, or somewhere else, long before he arrived here? No, I find it a little too…”
“But that’s the point! What if Baldwin didn’t even know that de Penne was here? All he knew was that he was on his way here to take up his new position as the master of Furnshill Manor, and the meeting with the abbot was pure chance? Just like me! I was given my new position, I came home, and found almost immediately that there was a murder! Chance. It could have happened at any time!”
“My friend,” said Clifford, smiling indulgently, like a tutor at a child with a new and radical idea. “Don’t you think that that is too much of a coincidence? By chance, this man’s brother dies and he comes home. By chance the abbot is disliked by the new pope. By chance the abbot is sent to Buckland. By chance they meet and the knight kills him-. No! There is too much chance, too much coincidence.”
Simon nodded, staring gloomily at the fire. “Yes, when you put it like that…” he muttered.
“There is one other thing,” mused Peter.
“What?” said Simon, not turning his head.
“You are assuming that the killer was a knight. What if he was not?”
“But only a knight wears armour!” Simon protested, looking up in despair. He felt as if all of his careful reasoning was being dismantled brick by brick as he listened to the priest. Now, even he himself found it difficult to believe in his own case against the knight.
“Any man may wear armour. What is it if not a shell that can be put on and taken off? Perhaps a man stole the armour from a knight? I don’t know, but it is a point you should consider, Simon.” Clifford rose. “Now, let me go and fetch some wine for you. You look as though you could use some!”
Simon shook his head and stood. “No. Thank you for the overnight rest, but we must be on our way.”
“Very well, if you’re sure,” said Clifford, looking at him watchfully. “My friend, I hope that God will watch over you on your journey and send you an answer.”
“Thank you, old friend,” said Simon. Then, with a quick smile, he added, “And I hope he will make things clearer at the same time!”
Hugh and Simon rode slowly out of Crediton on the road to Sandford. Simon’s mind was whirling as he tried to concentrate on the murder. No matter how he looked at it, he believed that the knight with the trail bastons, Rodney of Hungerford, could not have been the man who had killed the abbot. Peter Clifford, being the priest, heard quickly about any traveller on the roads because any man journeying in these parts was still a novelty, even if the traffic was increasing now. A knight would surely have been mentioned, especially an impoverished one.
And then there was the problem of the second man. Whoever this could have been, he was not with the knight. Could Rodney have had a companion on the way and left him after the murder at Copplestone? It was possible, certainly, but not very likely. Two men who had committed a crime like that would be bound together by their guilt.
The weather had abated somewhat. The rain was lighter, and the wind had died down, so that drops fell vertically now, instead of being thrown like small exploding stones at their faces by the driving gusts. As they rode out of the town, the sun at last struggled to become free of the clouds, and an uneasy light shone down, as if there had been a truce called between the elements.
Suddenly a thought occurred to Simon as he rode up the steep hill to the north of the town. If there were two men, then they must have had the same grudge against the abbot! He sat up in his saddle as he quickly thought it through. If one only had a grudge, surely the other would have taken the money even if the first did not? If only one had reason to kill de Penne, the other would have taken the money – especially if they were shortly to split up. “So what does that mean?” he wondered aloud. “That both had the same reason to kill the man?”
“Sorry?” Hugh was, as always, a little behind and he was concerned because his master was so deep in thought as he rode. He saw Simon wave an impatient, dismissive hand as if annoyed at the interruption of his thoughts and so, offended, he reset his features into their normal taciturn mould.
“So,” Simon mused, “there were two men. Both had the same desire for revenge against the abbot. One was a knight, or at least in armour. The other was dressed as a man of war – an esquire, perhaps? They had a reason to kill de Penne, a reason that made them want to kill him in a dishonourable way, like a heretic. But they did not steal from him. Why? Knights take spoil from their enemies when they are victors. Was it an affair of honour? A woman?” He shrugged.
He knew that in war women were often taken by knights as part of the spoil. If the knight had lost his woman, perhaps he and a friend had decided to avenge her by killing her rapist? It was possible. He shot a glance back at Hugh.
“Hugh?”
Hugh glared back.
“Hugh,” Simon asked hesitantly, “if someone was to rape Margaret, and I decided to kill the man, would you help me to get him?”
His servant stared in frank astonishment. “Of course I would!” he said hotly.
“Hmm.” Simon returned to his solitary glare at the road and said no more.
They ambled slowly down the other side of the hill and by the side of the Creedy stream as it meandered along the bottom of the valley that led to Sandford, Simon silent all the way as he continued his contemplation. Hugh was quiet too, not sure how to break his master out of his reverie, but worried at his obvious distraction.
Hugh rode less stiffly now. The previous evening had been an absolute delight to his tired and worn body. The warmth and hot food and drink had worked a magical cure on his misery from too many days in the saddle and too many nights sleeping rough by the road and on the moors, especially the last one when they had not even been able to light a fire – and he felt calm and relaxed at the thought of being at home again and being able to sleep on his own palliasse.
But he was not happy at the way that Simon kept worrying at this murder like a cat with a mouse. Certainly Hugh had been upset by the killing, but his master was taking it too deeply, he thought, and that could not be good for him. He tried to speak occasionally as they went, padding slowly on the road, talking about Margaret and Edith, and how glad they would be to see them again, but he only got angry grunts in response, so in the end he gave up and followed in disgruntled silence.
At last, as they started up the hill that led to Sandford, he felt his spirits rise and could not help the smile that slowly spread across his face at the thought of the fire in the hall, and he was about to try to speak to Simon again when he saw his master pause at the road into the village.
Simon sat stationary on his horse, staring north up the road that led to Furnshill. “I’ll know soon. I’ll figure it all out soon,” he murmured, then jerked the reins and trotted to the lane that led home.
Why should Baldwin have killed the abbot? That was the question that kept nagging at his tired mind – for, try as he might, he could see no other explanation for de Penne’s death. It had to be his friend. At last, as they cleared the village and wound along the track that took them out to the house, he set his shoulders with a new determination. He knew who was responsible for one death, but any confrontation could wait. There remained another to solve.
