young, broad-shouldered and with the powerful right arm that spoke of a life spent in training for war – he recognized immediately.
Sir Robert could see that his younger brother had grown to maturity. The slim, lithe boy of fourteen who had left home six years before had developed into a swarthy warrior. Blue eyes held his calmly, but the face had changed: the nose had been broken, and a thick scar marred the flat of his right cheek which would, Robert was sure, attract all the women in Exeter.
For his part, John Beauscyr was unimpressed by the sight of his brother and had to conceal a grimace of disgust. Always more interested in study than in fighting, Robert had the ascetic thinness of a priest; his skin was waxy from spending too many hours indoors. Even his handshake felt limp and pathetic. John was sure that his older brother would have made a better merchant than knight, and it was a constant source of aggravation that in the lottery of life he should have come second: it would be Robert, not he, who would inherit the old Manor of Beauscyr in Dartmoor.
The second visitor was a tall man, standing a little away from the fire as though keeping back until sure that Sir Robert was no danger. Having seen the welcome given by John, he stepped forward, and Sir Robert was struck by the sense of power emanating from him, not strength of muscle alone, but of purpose and of will. John introduced them.
“Robert, this is my master, Sir Ralph of Warton. I have been his squire for over two years now. Sir Ralph, this is my brother.”
Sir Robert glanced quickly at his father, then gestured to the waiting servant. “Sir Ralph, I am pleased that you have come to visit our house, you are most welcome. Are you to be here for some time?”
Sir Ralph graciously inclined his head. “Not for long, I fear, sir. This is simply the last stage of our journey to the coast. I confess I find the current state of the kingdom depressing, and will be glad to leave when I may.”
“Who would not?” said Sir William shortly, instructing the servant to fetch more wine and some cold meats. “Since the famine there are hardly enough villeins to work the fields.”
“But it is peaceful here.”
“I suppose so. At least down here we are safe from the raids of those murderers from Scotland.”
“They are the devil’s own brood,” Sir Ralph agreed.
“Of course, sir. Mad! They must be mad. One victory and they seem to think they can raid with impunity as far into the kingdom as they choose. Don’t they realize that they will suffer the Pope’s extreme displeasure? Their leader is already excommunicated, I believe – do they want their whole country to suffer anathema?”
“They already do.” It was John who spoke, and Robert was interested to see that he reddened and looked down as his knight shot a keen glance at him. It was as if he suddenly realized he had said something wrong. Sir Ralph spoke then as he took a mug of wine from the servant.
“Yes, the Scottish are all under an interdict. The Pope decided to punish them for refusing to seal their dispute with King Edward, who is, after all, their liege lord.”
“Good,” said Sir William, rubbing his hands together with a smile of satisfaction. “Let us hope they will realize the error of their ways, then. Perhaps this will make them see that they cannot live by simply stealing what they want all the time. Those Scottish are no more than a tribe of outlaws.”
“More to the point, it also stops any chance of a new crusade to the Holy Land, and that is what the Pope wishes for,” Sir Ralph continued, staring into his mug.
“While the Scottish continue raiding in the north, and with the French King threatening the south, King Edward can hardly be expected to agree to travel to Palestine. The Pope’s desire for a new attempt on the Holy Land must stay just that: a desire, with no chance of being satisfied.”
“At least the Pope’s trying to cow the Scots into submission.”
“Yes, sir. And the news from Ireland sounds better. The King’s justiciar over there has apparently forced the Scottish invaders back. Thanks to God for a wise man who can command his troops.”
“If, er… if there was to be a new crusade, Sir Ralph – would you join it?” asked Sir Robert, and was fixed with an intense stare from the knight’s gray eyes.
“Yes, sir. I am like your brother here. I have no property; my brother inherited it all from our father. What I crave – what I need – is an oppportunity to win glory and favors. Where else should a knight be, but in battle? If there was a new crusade I could win fame and wealth. But be that as it may, there will be no crusade. Not while the French and English kings bicker among themselves at every opportunity. No, I will not be going to Palestine. But I want to cross the sea, to see new lands and fight. There are wars in Italy where a knight can earn good sums. I may go there.”
Motioning for more wine, Sir William burped and agreed. “Yes, the Italian cities offer good opportunities.”
Sir Ralph nodded, but his eyes remained on Sir Robert. After a moment John cleared his throat.
“So how is the demesne? The Manor looks as though it’s hardly suffered, compared with the rest of the kingdom.”
“We’ve been lucky,” Sir William agreed. “The estates have not been so badly affected as others. And not many villeins have died.”
“But some have run away.”
Sir Robert’s sharp tone made his brother and the knight look up. His father opened his mouth to speak but Sir Robert carried on, his anger rising again swiftly as he remembered the incident. “Oh, yes, some have run. Like Peter Bruther…”
John frowned. “Who, old Martha’s son?”
“Yes. She died, and he ran away some nine months ago. We thought he must have gone east, to try to win his freedom, but I saw him today on the road to Exeter. The cretin did not run far, apparently, he just went to the moors. He saw me, too, and went to the trouble of stopping me to show he does not fear us any more, the cur!”
“Did you beat him?” his brother asked, curious.
“He was surrounded by miners, like guards round a king. I could do nothing. If I had, they would have attacked me.” Sir Robert glared at the fire, while John could not hide his sneer at this weakness.
Shrugging, Sir Ralph said, “Well, if you want him, go after him. If a villein runs away he must remain free for a year and a day to gain his freedom. If he has not been gone for a year yet, you have every right to bring him back.”
“Not here, Sir Ralph. The moors are different. And others will see him get away with it, without punishment! He will see to that: the rogue promised it, and laughed at me. Him – a villein – laughing at me!”
Sir William wore a worried frown. “This could be bad for the demesne. What can we do? If we do nothing, the other villeins will see that they can go when they want, and the Manor will fail for lack of workers, but if we try to pull him back, the miners could fight us.”
John was unconcerned. “Demand that the warden at Lydford comes and sorts it out. He has responsibility for the tinners in Devon under the law. Peter Bruther must come back, and the warden can make him.”
“Maybe you’re right,” muttered Robert. Looking up suddenly, John was surprised by the fury on his brother’s face as he ground out: “One thing I do know: if I catch that bastard alone, out on the moors, he’ll regret his laughter at my expense.”
“You mustn’t harm a miner,” his father remonstrated mildly.
“Me? I mustn’t let villeins run away, Father, and neither should you!”
2
“For the love of God, Simon!”
“What?” Simon Puttock turned in his saddle, and peered at his friend.
His companion sighed dramatically, but when he caught Simon’s expression he could not help breaking into loud, but not unkind, laughter. “Your misery, that’s what! You’ve been like a bear with a leg in a trap all the way, complaining about this visit. Are you going to keep it up until we get there? What are you so troubled about? The
