“No, not far. Just to the north of here, to a small manor.” His eyes turned back to their introspective study of the land. “To a place north and east of the moors. It’s called Furnshill.”
The master left him. Men such as he were disturbing, and all too often dangerous. It was hazardous enough just being responsible for a ship in these difficult times without courting additional troubles. He strode forward and began issuing instructions for unloading the ship.
As he left, John, Bourc de Beaumont, turned back to the view. He had other thoughts to absorb him. Not many memories, for they were too far in the past and his life had been full since the parting so many years before, with the continual training and service to the count, the Captal de Beaumont. All his life had been spent in serving him, his lord – and father. He did not regret it, it had been a good education for a man who would become a soldier, a man who would need to spend his time in training with weapons to be able to protect his master.
In that time he had hardly paused to regret his loss. Indeed, it was hard to think of it in those terms. All he now had were vague recollections, pictures seen as if through a milky haze, where faces and features were indistinct.
Was it wrong of him to come and see her, though. The Captal de Beaumont had felt so – had said so – not with anger, but with a slight sadness as he tried to explain that it could do her no good; it would not ease her last years. But the Bourc was sure it could not be wrong to see her just once, to see what she actually looked like. He was not going to punish her for what she had done: she had done the best she could, and without thinking of herself or her own safety. He was grateful for the opportunity she had given him, and had tried to take advantage of it.
At first it had been easy, of course. When he had been young it had all come so naturally, as if he had in truth been born to the Captal de Beaumont’s wife and not to his mother, as if he had not been the Bourc, the bastard. He had known no better. But then, while he was still a squire training to be knight, the snide comments had started. It was not malicious, they were merely the cruel, pointed comments of young boys to a peer who was different. It meant little to them that he was the Captal’s son. To them he had no mother and that was enough. He was marked with the worst scar possible for a child: that of not being the same as others.
But John, Bourc de Beaumont, had proud blood in his veins – from both the Captal and from Anne of Tyre – and he endured the comments, only occasionally defending his virtue and honour. As he grew into a tall man, fit and lean, the need to protect his name reduced in proportion to his size and the extent of his warrior training, until at last he had his spurs and became a knight.
He always knew that some day he would have to go and seek her. In the event he had remained much longer than he had originally planned. For a man trained in war who delighted in battle, there were few places better than the marches between French and English lands. Here there was honourable service, opportunities to prove himself a worthy man, and to earn money from ransoms and protection money. But after so many years of fighting, he wanted some peace for a few months, and a chance to find out the truth while he still could.
Slamming an open hand on to the rail in a gesture of decision, he made his way to his packs, lying on the deck by the main mast. A sudden thought made him pause. She would be old now: according to the Captal de Beaumont she should be about fifty, maybe a little more, so well into old age. She might even have died. Throwing a quick glance at the coast again, he was troubled by the thought.
With an effort he calmed himself and continued to his bags. If she had died, there was nothing he could do about it, it was God’s will. And his own fault for delaying the trip for so long. Collecting his things together, he walked to the plank that would deposit him once more on solid, safe, dry land, and he felt a small smile of relief twitch at his mouth. It would be good to be able to move without the constant pitching and rolling of the round- keeled ship to make him feel continually on the brink of vomiting.
Once at the shore he hefted his packs and took stock. Spying an inn, he set off for it. A drink and some food would fill the time until his horses were offloaded.
When the innkeeper of the ‘Sign of the Moon’ in Wefford entered his hall on the Monday, his feeling of pride was dimmed as the reek attacked his senses. It was not the ale on the floor, that acidic scent held for him the very promise of his business. The smell that assailed his nostrils was the harsh, bitter tang of vomit where young Stephen de la Forte had thrown up – again.
Even now in the early morning he felt the thrill of pride at the sight of his hall. It held the promise of comfort and pleasure, with the tables and benches laid down both sides, more at either end, and the massive hearth in the centre on its bed of chalk and soil. There were no flames now, so he set to his first task, building up the fire slowly with kindling, bending low and blowing gently but persistently until the flames, small and yellow, began to lick upwards enthusiastically and he could put smaller logs on top.
Sitting back on his haunches, he stared at it cautiously, satisfying himself that it had caught. Up above he could see the smoke drifting heavily, high among the blackened rafters. It would be some time before the room heated, he knew, but when it was, the smoke would disappear. Time now for the real work.
He began in the corner by the screens. At first he shoved the benches and chairs aside to be able to sweep underneath, but when he had got halfway, the novelty was wearing off. Realising how long he had already spent, he left the furniture where it was and merely swept around it. He was keen to finish before the first customers appeared. Arriving at the discoloured area, he could not help a grimace of disgust at the odour.
Fetching the big shovel he used in the stables, he carried the old rushes to the manure heap. It was fortunate that the pile was not far from his door, for there was a chill breeze coming from the south. A sudden shiver shook him, and he made haste to finish.
Once the floor was cleared, and all was as clean as he could get it, he found that there was only the hint of the vomit left on the air. The smoke from the fire hung in long streamers around the room like a mist over the moors on a windless day. Gradually eating its way into the atmosphere, it replaced the stench with its own healthy and wholesome bitterness. Nodding happily to himself, the innkeeper wandered outside to the store, and soon returned with fresh rushes, strewing them liberally over the floor. For some, laying new rushes was an irregular task only performed once a year, but for an inn it was the only way to keep the smells from becoming overpowering.
He had completed his task, and was standing with his hands on his hips when he heard the horses. Smiling, he reflected that new rushes worked for customers like cream with a cat. Whenever they were freshly laid the customers were sure to follow. Scanning the room one last time, he confirmed that all seemed well, then strode to the curtain that hid the passageway. At the end of the narrow corridor, he unlatched the front door and threw it open, peering out. Tall and imposing under his hooded cloak, with a bow on his back and sword by his side, was a man on a horse, leading a second by the reins.
The Bourc sprang down lightly. He had been forced to stop for the night at a little wayside inn, some miles from Oakhampton, and had set off again as early as possible in the morning. Now he was chilled to the bone, or so he felt. Puffing out his cheeks, he let his breath drift from compressed lips, then shook himself like a dog fresh from the water. “I think I need a pint of hot ale,” he said softly.
The innkeeper nodded and smiled before turning to fetch the drink and warm it, while the Bourc led his horses round to the stables, rubbing them down and setting out hay and water before making his way indoors. He smiled at the smell of fresh rushes, soft as the scent of hay on a summer’s evening, and the promise of warmth from the burning wood at the hearth. There was a cheering tang from the beer in the pot over the flames. Sighing with pleasure, he waited silently while the innkeeper busied himself pouring the hot and spiced drink into a mug, and took it with a sigh of sheer delight. It was almost painfully lovely after the cold discomfort of the ride here. He gazed deep into the depths of the liquid before sipping, and a slow smile spread over his face.
“Am I heading the right way for Furnshill manor?”
“Yes, sir. It is only a few miles north of here.”
“Good. Good,” he said and sipped. Then, “Tell me, do you know the people of this area well?” The innkeeper nodded. Of course he did – who else would know the local community as well as the publican, his baffled expression implied. “Do you know where I can find a woman, an old woman called Agatha Kyteler?”
To the Bourc, it looked as though the man suddenly caught his breath, and his expression became suspicious. “Why do you want to know about her?”
Before he could answer there was a bellow, and both men’s eyes went to the door. The innkeeper sighed and rose, leaving the Bourc alone, sipping at his drink and considering the innkeeper’s reaction. The man had been distrustful for some reason when her name had been mentioned, he reflected, and he offered up a quick prayer that
