“I can think of several. The mercenaries themselves. Take Wat: he wants to get rid of his master; I think that is plain enough. Otherwise he would not have been so forthcoming about Sir Hector’s relationship with Judith.”
“Maybe he wanted to see justice done.”
Baldwin gave him a long, intense stare. “Justice done – Wat? I think you mistake him for a pleasant man, for a gentleman, Simon. He is not; he is a mercenary – a ruthless, dedicated killer and despoiler. A knight should fight for Christianity, for the greater glory of his name and reputation in this world and the next. He should defend the weak and unfortunate, showing courtesy and largesse. Have you noticed any of these attributes in Hector or his men – Wat, for example?”
“I’m sure they…”
With an uncharacteristic burst of anger, Baldwin reined in his horse. “Simon, don’t try to be their apologist. They are evil, nothing more. Men like them ride where they will, offering allegiance only to those who pay them, and no one else, but even that is only for as long as it suits them. They have no conception of honor or largesse; all they want is the next sum of money, and they are casual about how they receive it.”
“Calm yourself, Baldwin,” Simon said soothingly. “I accept that you understand more about such men than me; I’ve never come across them before.”
“My apologies, Simon. This whole affair is starting to make me smart, and like a bear baited at the pole, I turn on whoever I can reach.”
“When we came out today, you were thinking that the matter could be resolved by looking at the local situation. Surely that has worked, in the main? Now we have learned that the butcher’s wife was also known to Sir Hector. It seems fairly clear that he threw over Judith for her, and quite probably the same thing happened to Sarra when he met Mary Butcher again in town.”
“Yes. And now she too has disappeared,” Baldwin said grimly.
“She may not be dead, Baldwin. Think on this; if she was intelligent, as soon as she had heard about Sarra and Judith dying, she might have put two and two together. Maybe she’s run off to protect herself?”
“It is possible, certainly.”
“In terms of this whole affair, though, let’s just hope that Stapledon’s men catch the two thieves. At least they might be able to shed some light on the thing.”
Bishop Stapledon wandered out into the garden with Peter Clifford and expressed his delight at the mixture of plants. Peter, he knew, was very keen on his herbs and spices. Several plants he had arranged to be delivered from far afield.
Irises were among Peter’s favorites. As he explained – at some length – the plant was an almost perfect example of God’s bounty. The roots could be crushed for ink, the flower yielded a juice which could be used as a salve for teeth and gums, the leaves thatched for mats or patching roofs, and if it was needed for none of these purposes, the flowers were both beautiful and sweet-smelling.
The Bishop smiled and nodded as Peter led him round the garden, keen to avoid hurting his host’s feelings by letting his boredom show. Lilies and roses were pointed out to him – they filled a bed near the house – while further on, toward the orchard where the apple, pear, cherry and nut trees grew, was the herb garden. Rue, whose smell the Bishop cordially detested, flourished here, but there was also sage, chamomile, lavender and other attractively perfumed plants. After an hour, even the enthusiastic Peter began to observe the Bishop’s attention waning, and they walked over the lawn, full of daisies, violets, primroses and periwinkles to create an aromatic and attractive cover, to the shelter of an oak where there was a bench.
Here they found Margaret and Hugh. Edith was a short distance away, playing a game with Rollo which seemed to involve pulling flowers from the lawn. Hugh stood as the two approached, but the Bishop waved him back to his seat. “May we join you?”
“Of course, my lord.” Margaret moved along the bench and Hugh stood again resignedly and went to station himself behind her. From here he could see the children. Rollo had frozen at the sound of men’s voices, but seeing two men he recognized, and after a brief confirmatory glance at Hugh, he resumed his game. Hugh suspected he was so used to seeing the priest dispensing charity that he knew he had nothing to fear from men in holy garments.
The men sat, and Stapledon looked at Margaret. “I hope you do not mind me noticing it, but you look very refreshed. Are you feeling somewhat better?”
She could not hide her pleasure from him. “It is not just me,” she confided. “My husband was very sad over the death of our son, but he has almost recovered from it. These last weeks have been difficult, but I think we have got over our pain. Peter’s kindness has helped so much.”
The Bishop nodded gravely. “Your husband was extremely upset. I know how hard it can be. I suppose all of us in the Church are aware, for we see so many tiny coffins being interred, and death can strike the richest as well as the poorest in the land.”
“We shall have another son, God willing,” Margaret said.
“Yes.” Stapledon was watching Rollo. “That young fellow likes playing with your daughter.”
“Edith likes his company too. They are not so very different in age, and where we live she does not have many friends. It is pleasant for her to find someone with whom she can enjoy a game.”
“Yes,” he repeated, then frowned, lost in thought.
“Bishop? Bishop!”
Stapledon looked up, jerked back to the present, to see Roger running over the lawn. The Bishop forced down a sense of annoyance. At last he had begun to relax, and Roger’s bursting in on his pleasant mood of calm was vexing. By the time the rector had approached, however, the Bishop had managed to dispose of the exasperation and had regained his equanimity. “What is it, Roger? Is the house on fire?”
“No, sir. But a messenger has just arrived from Exeter. They have found and captured the two runaway mercenaries, sir, and are bringing them here.”
“Excellent!” said Peter, and rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “Then we should soon be able to put this sorry affair behind us once and for all.”
“Yes,” said Stapledon, but again his eyes moved to the small figure only a few feet away. “Most of us will.”
When Simon and the others arrived back in Crediton, they were hot and dusty. The moisture on the road from the night’s downpour had splashed and spattered their legs on the way to Coleford, and red-brown splotches marked their hose and tunics. Returning, the dampness had been driven off by the sun, and instead of soggy droplets they had been assailed by a clinging mist of fine reddish powder which had risen as their horses’ hooves had disturbed the road. Now, looking at Baldwin, Simon could see that his hair had a wiry firmness, his face had darkened, with paler streaks where the sweat had run, and his tunic was, instead of white, a dull ochre at the shoulder and dark orange-brown at the hem. It made him look as if the color had run from the top down in a rainstorm, the bailiff thought with a grin, which faded when he looked at the state of his own hose.
The powdery dust had not only affected their clothing. Simon’s eyes felt as if they had gravel in them, and his throat was as sore as if he had swallowed a pint of sand. As they passed the inn, he croaked, “Let’s wash away a little of the road with some of Paul’s ale. His wife is a better brewer than Peter’s bottler.”
Baldwin nodded, and they were soon out in the yard behind, gripping quarts of ale.
Simon glanced round after taking a long pull at his drink. At another table were a group of soldiers from Sir Hector’s troop, all studiously avoiding the bailiff’s eye. He recognized none of them, and was about to turn away when he saw Wat.
The mercenary was standing out toward the back of the yard, near the stables, talking to someone Simon could hardly see. Only two boots protruded beyond the stable wall, and a hand which rose and fell in emphasis. Wat was staring with what looked like horrified fascination, occasionally shaking his head in quick denial or nodding in grave agreement.
“Baldwin,” Simon said, hiding his mouth behind his jug, “Wat is over there, in deep debate with someone, and it looks as if it’s a serious matter.”
“Eh?” Baldwin surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder. “I wonder what…”
Catching their eyes on him, the mercenary made a quick gesture to silence his accomplice. He was in two minds whether to speak to the Keeper immediately about this latest discovery, but he could not see how to avoid
