sudden ill-humor.
This was usually his favorite position, before his old long house, looking down to the south. The building itself was on rising land, and in front the ground fell away for a short distance. Apart from a small hillock, there was nothing to obscure the view, and Baldwin often came out here to sit on the old tree-trunk to consider any problems he had, letting his mind range over issues and solutions while he gazed into the distance.
Today he knew he would not find peace. He seated himself, resting his arms on his thighs and staring, but could not see a way out of it.
The problem had its roots in his acceptance two years before of the position of Keeper of the King’s Peace. At the time he had been wary of taking on the responsibility, knowing that it must inevitably embroil him in any arguments or disputes which exercised the local population, but holding magisterial powers meant that he could at least display a little restraint with some of the more paltry of crimes, and he had managed to help in two serious investigations over the last two or three years, bringing two murderers to justice. That was the positive side; the negative side lay in the inevitable calls to meet others who felt he was important enough to be courted.
And now he had been asked to go to Peter Clifford’s to meet Walter Stapledon.
He sighed, forcing himself to sit upright and scowling at a house so far off near the horizon it appeared as a mere splash of white among the green of the trees which surrounded it. If there was a way to avoid the meeting, he failed to see it.
It was not that he disliked Stapledon – he had never met the man – but the Bishop of Exeter was an astute politician, not a mere priest. In late 1316 Walter Stapledon had helped create a new movement which strove to break the deadlock between the King and his cousin, Thomas of Lancaster. Acrimonious disputes between Edward II and his Steward of England had led to the brink of civil war, and Walter and his friends had managed to avert it only through skilled negotiation.
And now Baldwin was invited to meet him… The knight set his jaw: there was only one reason why the Bishop would want to meet him, and that was to force him to declare his allegiances. Baldwin had few loyalties: in the main he recognized a commitment to his villeins, but that was as far as his convictions took him. From his bitter experience, prelates and kings were equally capable of squashing people with as little compunction as they would a flea if there was a profit in it, and he saw no need to ally himself to any of them. He was reluctant to meet the imposing Bishop and be questioned, but there was no way to evade the invitation; he would have to go.
There was one silver lining to this storm cloud: his old friend Simon Puttock would also be there. Peter Clifford’s messenger had taken special care to mention that the bailiff to Lydford and his wife would be visiting Peter at the same time. This carefully appended comment showed how alive Peter was to the knight’s antipathy to politicians, and Baldwin had nearly laughed when the youth had recited his message, frowning with concentration: “And my master said to be sure to tell you that Simon Puttock, bailiff of Lydford, will also be there, and his family. He knows you will want to see them. They will be joining my master for supper.”
Baldwin snorted.
Yes, he would have to go and meet this Bishop – but he must be alive to the risks and take care not to become embroiled in any political matters.
As it happened, the meeting with Stapledon was the least of his difficulties that night.
Peter Clifford’s house was a pleasant, airy building near the new church, which was still some way from being completed. Piles of rubble and masonry waiting to be dressed lay all round in untidy heaps as if a siege had been in progress with heavy artillery. When Baldwin arrived at a little after noon, his servant by his side, he gazed about the place with interest.
The walls of the new church looked to him like the wharves of a busy port: the scaffolding rose on all sides like the thrusting masts and flag-poles of a fleet in harbor. He paused at the sight, studying the grotesque structure of the scaffolding, all bound together with hemp and with walkways of flimsy timber, with a wince. Baldwin feared no man alive – he had witnessed the worst sufferings that men could inflict – but he had a dislike verging on loathing when it came to heights. He could not understand how men could scramble along such insubstantial planks like monkeys, putting their faith in the strength of knots tied by others. Too many regularly died, proving that such faith was misplaced.
“So, Baldwin. You’ve not lost your distrust of English workers then, to judge from the disgust on your face?”
Just by his stirrup was a tall, dark-haired man with a square face burned brown from sun and wind and, as Baldwin turned, he gave a slow smile.
“Simon!” The knight passed his reins to Edgar, his waiting servant, and dropped from his horse. In a moment he was shaking hands and grinning, but the expression on his friend’s face made him hesitate. There was a pinched tiredness in Simon’s grin which he had not seen before. It looked as if the bailiff was concealing a secret pain.
“Baldwin, it’s good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you too.”
Pulling away, Simon said thinly, attempting humor, “Oh yes – just so you have someone to talk to while the good Bishop is spouting forth about affairs of state, you mean?”
Baldwin grimaced shamefacedly. “Well, not entirely, old friend, but your company would help to – perhaps – divert the conversation from some of the more serious affairs of state.”
“I hope so,” Simon laughed. “If not, Margaret will slit my throat.”
“Margaret is here?”
“Where else should my wife be, but at my side? Yes, she’s here.”
While Edgar led the horses away to the stables, they walked to Peter’s house, but before they arrived at the door Baldwin took his friend by the arm and halted, studying him. Simon had lost weight; his face was thinner than Baldwin recalled, and lines of strain were etched deep into his forehead and at either side of his mouth. His dark hair had begun to recede, giving him a distinguished appearance, but his gray eyes, once sparkling with intelligence, were now dim and vapid. “Simon, tell me if I am prying where I’m not wanted, but is there something wrong?” Baldwin said gently.
“You’re my closest friend,” Simon said, and the other man was shocked to see his eyes glisten. “I… You can’t intrude, Baldwin, I have no secrets from you.” He looked away and said in a broken voice: “It’s Peterkin, my boy.”
The knight frowned in quick concern. Peterkin was Simon and Margaret’s son, a lad of just over a year and a half. “What is it, Simon?”
“He’s dead.”
“Simon… I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’m almost over it. It has been hard, though. You know how much we both wanted a son, and to have lost him like this is very cruel.”
“When? I mean, how did he die?”
Simon made a futile little gesture. “Three weeks ago. He had been fractious for some time, crying and whining, but we didn’t know why. For a day and a night he had a fever, and wouldn’t eat, diarrhea all the time, and then… And then he was dead.”
“My friend, I…” Baldwin murmured, but Simon shook his head.
“It’s all right, Baldwin.”
“And Margaret?”
“She has taken it cruelly. It’s not surprising.” His voice was taut.
“Let us go inside,” said Baldwin. Simon’s anguish, though he tried to keep it under control, was painful to witness. The knight could feel his misery.
They walked into the house. Inside, Baldwin saw Simon’s wife sitting by the fire, her daughter Edith at her side. Behind them was Hugh, Simon’s servant, and a short way away Peter Clifford sat on his chair. Baldwin was glad that the Bishop had not yet arrived – a stranger’s presence would have inhibited Margaret. As it was, she had little desire to talk. The knight nodded to Peter, who gave him a twisted grin. He had been a close friend of Simon’s since before Baldwin had met the bailiff, yet he found it difficult to know what to say to them. Peter had never married, and consoling those who had lost their children was, he felt, beyond his powers. It was a relief for him to see another friend arrive.
Rather than greet the priest, Baldwin walked over to Margaret and knelt before her, his sword scabbard
