was to see the land where I should have been living if my parents had not died. The only hardship was living so far from a town, but I soon became used to it.”
Margaret nodded. She could imagine that for a town-dweller the move to the wilds of Dartmoor would have been hard. “When I return to Lydford, you must come and visit us. It is hard for a widow when so few people live nearby. You will make new friends with those we know in Lydford.”
“That would be very kind of you,” Jeanne said, and her gaze fell upon Baldwin. When she glanced back at Margaret, her eyebrow was raised in a silent question, and Margaret had to stifle a giggle. She had no idea her plan was so transparent.
“Do you have any children?” she asked, and saw a shadow pass over her new friend’s face.
“No, none. It has been the regret of my life.”
“We only have the one. Our son died this year,” Margaret said softly.
This was the first time she had felt able to leave her daughter behind since her son, Peter, had died. When he had gone, she had almost suffered a brain fever, especially since she had felt as if she had also lost her husband. Simon had always been a model husband, but he felt the lack of a son very acutely. When Peter had been born, Simon was delighted, seeing in his boy a future companion who would carry on his name, and perhaps begin a dynasty that could become a noble family. The shock when their son had died had been all the greater.
She glanced at him. Simon was listening to the conversation and adding his own comments. The men were talking about tin now, and she could see that the Abbot was pleased with what he heard from his bailiff. Simon, she knew, was respected among the miners because he had shown himself to be shrewd and fair, upholding the rights of the tinners whenever he could, but punishing them when they tried to overstep the mark. Seeing the Abbot treating her husband’s remarks with such respect made her feel a glow of pride. Abbot Champeaux was an important man in Devon.
Baldwin, she could see, was still worrying at the problem of the murdered man. She wished they would return to discussing the killing; it was vastly more interesting than this talk of metal and wool. Her attention wandered to the anxious features of Antonio da Cammino. He was staring at the door through which his son had left, and looking at him, Margaret could feel a little of his pain. Margaret was a sensible woman, born and raised on a farm, and she had seen how young creatures could turn on their parents. Seeing Antonio’s expression made her remember that no matter how careful were the parents, their children could always prove to be a disappointment. Fleetingly she wondered how her dead son might have turned out.
Simon saw the sudden dullness in his wife’s eyes and quickly left the conversation, bringing the bottler to top up her wine.
While he spoke to Abbot Champeaux and Cammino, Baldwin noticed Margaret and Simon together. They looked happy with each other again, now that both had overcome their sadness. He could watch the affection between Simon and his wife with pleasure, but it sometimes reminded him of his own loneliness. Then he caught a measuring look from Jeanne.
It made him consider his position. When he had joined the Templars he had taken the vow of chastity. Yet since his Order had been destroyed by the Pope’s avarice, he considered his oaths annulled. The Pope had demanded obedience, and had then betrayed his knights, so how could the oaths of poverty and chastity be valid?
Baldwin was proud not to have succumbed to lust as so many of his peers did so regularly, but he could admit to himself that now he was adrift in the secular world, without the great purpose of the Templars to order his life, he felt the same urges as his fellows. He wanted a wife for a companion. And he wanted a son to continue his name.
His attention was drawn back as the Venetian spoke. “My lord Abbot, I hear that a man has been found dead. Is that right?”
“I fear so, Antonio. He appears to have been killed out near the tavern on the Brentor road.”
“A great shame, the poor man,” Cammino said, shaking his head.
“Yes. I am fortunate indeed to have Sir Baldwin and Simon here. They are experienced in finding killers. I am sure they will soon discover the murderer.”
“Yes. Of course.” Cammino was thoughtful for a moment, then he glanced at the door. “My lord Abbot, ladies, Sir Baldwin, Simon – I fear I should find my son and ensure that he is not making a fool of himself somewhere else.” He took his leave of them, his servant following him through the door.
When Baldwin caught a glimpse of the Abbot’s expression, he saw that it betrayed relief. Champeaux made no effort to hide his feelings. “It is well said that a man’s worst enemy is his son – the son always knows how to hurt. So, Sir Baldwin, is there anything else you will need to conduct your enquiry?”
“Hmm? Oh, no.” The knight’s gaze was firmly locked on the door through which the two Venetians had left. “No, I think I have everything I need, thank you.”
“Good. In that case, let us dine. I know I am hungry!”
Holcroft walked slowly and deliberately on his way to the brewers’ stalls. More than before, he felt he needed a drink, and not a weak ale.
A monk had robbed Will Ruby! The idea was mad, yet Ruby had been convincing. He had seen the Benedictine, had bowed to him, acknowledging the man, and as soon as he passed, had been struck on the head. While he was on the ground, stunned, his purse was grabbed, there was a flash of steel, and he had lost his money. At the time he was glad that the blade had cut only the thongs of his purse and hadn’t stabbed his heart, but as he said to the port-reeve, if this was to get out, there would be danger for any monk in the town.
That was the rub, and Holcroft knew it. It was inconceivable that a real monk could be guilty, it had to be someone masquerading. But if this got out, people would at best look askance at a monk in the street. If he didn’t let it be known that someone was dressing in monk’s garb to steal, the man could continue unimpeded, but if Holcroft did, it would be impossible for a monk to walk abroad – at the fair almost everyone was a foreigner, and few would know one of the real monks.
He sipped at his beer. The story would be bound to get about if there was another theft; he was lucky that the first man to be attacked was a townsman wary of causing offense to the Abbot. The next merchant to be robbed was likely to be someone from out of town, and then the news would become common knowledge, and when it did, there was the risk that a mob could form. Tavistock had ever been a quiet, safe town, with few of the riots so common to great cities like Bristol and London, but Holcroft knew perfectly well that there was resentment among some of the population at the wealth of the Abbey. Like dried tinder, mutiny required but a tiny spark to ignite an all-consuming flame, and news that a monk was robbing people could be that spark.
He had no choice: he must tell the Abbot. Finishing his ale, he set the empty pot back on the table and stared at it. When he glowered around him there was no sign of a Benedictine habit, which was a relief, but that only meant that the thief was somewhere else, waiting to strike the first passer-by with a filled purse.
Holcroft set off toward the Abbey with a heart that had sunk so far it felt as if it was dragging on the ground behind him.
In the fairground the excitement of the morning had died a little. Now the visitors walked more speculatively, with less urgency, as they realized that there was plenty more for all to buy and no need to rush to get stock from the first stall to display something suitable.
People strolled along the thronged streets and alleys, measuring the wares, assessing their worth and comparing the goods from one stall with those of the next.
Elias could see how the customers wandered from one place to another, and was glad that he sold meats and pies. With his business, people wanted what he had or they didn’t. There was none of that seeing something on one trestle, then rushing back to another merchant and telling him that the same cloth, or gloves, or shirt, could be purchased for at least a penny less five stalls up. For Elias, it was a simple case of “What’s in that pie? Oh, good, I’ll take one.”
He sat on his barrel and rested his back against the pole of the awning. A jug of ale in his lap, he gradually allowed the warmth of the sun to ease his eyelids shut. It was so good to sit and soak up the heat.
Elias had married, but his wife had died in childbirth with their second child. His first had succumbed to a strange disease which made him short of breath and sneeze in the spring, and though Elias had thought that he should be safe enough when he got to ten years old, the cook had returned home one afternoon to find his boy lying
