But she was very attractive, the ideal vision of a knightly lady. And the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed, the coy manner she had of peeping at someone from the corner of her eye, her intenseness when she listened, head set to one side as if he was the only person in the room, all made her desirable. That she was young and healthy merely added to her allure.
Looking up, she saw his expression, and he was about to glance away, embarrassed to be discovered studying her, when she smiled, and suddenly he did not mind Margaret preening herself at the other side of the table.
He was startled from his thoughts by the Abbot leaning toward him. “Sir Baldwin, would you like to arrange to come hunting with me?”
“Yes, indeed – but do you not have other duties with the fair? It would be kind of you, but surely you have enough to do without seeing to the comfort of a wandering guest?”
Champeaux shrugged. “My life is one of constant toil with God’s work: Opus Dei. Yet if tomorrow I have to celebrate our founding saint, I can take time the day after to relax. There’s little enough for me to do, in any case. The fair runs itself, with the port-reeve taking most of the burden, so all I am expected to do is wait here in case I’m needed, and usually on the third day of the fair I’m not. It’s too quiet. Will you join me?”
“I would be delighted, Abbot.”
“Then that’s settled.”
The meal ended soon afterward. Compline was not for another hour, but the Abbot had many duties to attend to. As his guests prepared to leave, Baldwin found himself alone with Jeanne. Simon and Margaret pointedly waited at the door, looking at him.
He could not simply walk away as if she did not exist. “My lady, I… er…”
Once he began, he had no idea how to continue. Aware of the interested expression on Edgar’s face, he found himself coloring, and felt a rush of irritation. He was a knight trained in warfare. All over the known world he had travelled without fear, purely because of his prowess with lance and sword; yet now he was flustered, embarrassed and nervous simply because of a woman. It was insufferable.
But of all the knightly skills, the one he needed most now was the one in which he had never been instructed. Squires were taught courtly manners and how to behave with women, but he had learned his knightly skills as a warrior monk. There had been no place for the soft art of courtship when he had taken his vows.
Jeanne saw his pain. “Sir Baldwin?”
“Lady, I wanted to… er…” He wanted to apologize if she had felt pressured, to make her know that he held her in high regard. Yet to say so would imply that she had felt such pressure, and what if she had not? Suddenly he was hemmed in with doubts. “Lady, I…” Then inspiration struck. “Would you like to walk for a little? The evening is clear and warm, and I would be honored to accompany you, if you wouldn’t feel my company to be boring.”
She glanced at the door. Antonio and Pietro stood talking, openly watching her. Near them were Simon and Margaret. The bailiff’s wife wore a look of approval, and Jeanne saw her give a quick nod as if in encouragement. It decided her. “I fear I would feel the cold.”
Instantly she saw the sadness, and loneliness in his eyes as he nodded gravely. “I understand. I will not trouble you again.”
“But if I could send someone to fetch my cloak, I should be all right, shouldn’t I?” she said quickly, and was surprised at her own pleasure at the thought.
Baldwin could not prevent himself standing a little more erect with pride as he walked with her to the door. Then he became aware of his servant at his shoulder. “Um, Edgar? I think you may leave me. I shall not need you.”
Edgar looked at him blankly. He disliked leaving Baldwin unprotected. But as his master stepped out of the room and Edgar heard his steps echoing along the passage and out of the building, he shrugged. There could be little enough danger from the pretty widow, and what danger there was, Baldwin would be certain to enjoy.
14
At the fairground, Jordan Lybbe bundled up the last of his goods and tossed them into his makeshift shed. Hankin leaned against the pole supporting the roof with his arms crossed. His work done for the day, he was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open, and Lybbe gave him a friendly clout over the shoulders. “Don’t worry, boy! You can soon shut your eyes and get some sleep. Stay in there tonight. When you wake up I’ll have your breakfast ready.”
He watched the lad affectionately. Hankin was only ten years old. Lybbe had saved him when his parents had died of a fever, over in Gascony. The town had been unwilling to take on an orphan, and it had been difficult for the English boy in a strange land with no friends. He had become like a son to the lonely Lybbe.
As Hankin went inside with the cloths and made himself a bed of rugs on the grass, Lybbe stood and breathed in the clear evening air.
A breeze flapped the pennants and flags, whipping away the thin gray coils of smoke from the fires out behind the ground where the tents and wagons stood. Fires might be illegal within the fairground itself, but men still needed to keep warm. The wind brought the tang of burning faggots with it, and hints of cooking, making Lybbe’s empty stomach rumble. Although it was chilly, it was a relief after the heat of the day. The coldness reminded the merchant of his youth here in the town.
He stood in the alleyway between the stalls and stared up at the heavens. The sky was a deep blue, with a thick sprinkling of stars shimmering and dancing high above. Lybbe was not given to contemplation, but when he saw those glittering specks, the thousands upon thousands of pin-pricks of light high overhead, he felt an awe and reverence for God.
Slowly he began to make his way toward the town. The fair was quiet now, but just beyond its ditch were small groups sitting at fires, warming their hands and chatting easily about the day’s business. At this time of evening, all the customers had gone and the only people remaining within the perimeter were the stallholders or their guards. After standing all day and shouting their wares, most were exhausted, and needed to rest their feet and throats. They drank from pots of ale or cider, talking in muted voices as they stared wearily at the flames, preparing for the night. Lybbe knew a few, and called out to them as he passed, feeling again the gratitude that among so many visitors he would be unlikely to be recognized, especially with his beard. He looked nothing like the youth who had been forced to leave after the murders.
At the entrance to the fairground he paused. Lybbe had expected to find Elias waiting, but the cook was nowhere to be seen. There was no hurry. Lybbe found a log to sit on in the darkness under a low eave and folded his arms contentedly.
Elias had been shocked to find Lybbe back in Tavistock. The last time they had met, Lybbe had been a fugitive, an outlaw, and Elias had given him food and a bed while they planned how to effect his escape – the only alternative was the rope. That had been almost twenty years ago now, and Lybbe had been surprised by the force of the emotion he had felt when he had once more entered his town, the place he had known as home.
Once he had got over his initial disbelief, Elias had been effusive in his welcome, insisting on purchasing ever more ale, but Lybbe had an aversion to drinking too much. He was nervous of talking too loudly or unwarily, and knew how ale could loosen tongues.
It had alarmed him when the watchmen had attacked him. He had assumed they were seeking him out for his crimes; it was only as they pounced that he realized they wanted to scare him after his refusal to submit to their extortion. In any case, Jordan Lybbe had a loathing for men who tried to coerce others into giving up their goods for no reason. He had put up with enough of that before, and wouldn’t accept it any more.
He found it worrying that Elias was late. After a separation of twenty years, he would have expected punctuality. There was so much still to talk about. Probably it was the horror of the previous night catching up with him, he thought.
Elias had been terrified. That was why Jordan had sent the cook away before he had swapped clothes with the man – and before he had hewn off the head. Elias wouldn’t have been able to cope with that. It couldn’t hurt the dead man, but it could protect him, Lybbe.
