the roof, but the limewash was a mess with green lichen and moss growing thickly, and his confidence in the builder was somewhat diminished by the rubble at the side of the place where a large portion had collapsed. Still, he reflected, it should last long enough for lunch. He nodded to his companion.
“Hardly looks the sort of place Baldwin would pick. More like one of your grotty little alehouses, Hugh.”
Hugh, his servant, ignored the jibe. He was a wiry, short man, and wore a perpetual frown on his face, as though he knew the world was making fun of him.
Today he felt particularly disgruntled, and as he hopped from his horse he tugged his thick fustian cloak about him more tightly. “I’d be happier staying in an alehouse than going on in this weather,“ he grunted.
“Enough grumbling, Hugh. Look on the bright side – Peter’s message makes it look like there’ll be women enough willing to warm you up at Belstone! So long as you don’t let this pisshead priest Baldwin’s bringing with him find you in one of his nun’s beds!”
Hugh snorted contemptuously, ignoring his master’s joke. The idea that nuns would grant sexual favours wasn’t new, it was the fantasy of every adolescent male – and many weak-minded adult males, too. Hugh had heard plenty of stories about such women, especially the ones who escaped from convents. They often couldn’t lift their tunics fast enough, from what he’d been told. Not that they were running any great risks; for if they returned to their nunnery they would be welcomed with open arms, even if they had to accept a penance of some sort to show the Church’s displeasure. But there was one aspect to all this Hugh was convinced of. “They’d not look at me,” he muttered.
Simon grinned broadly. “So that’s what has got to you – you reckon you’re too lowly for them.”
“Nuns are all well-born, aren’t they? Daughters of nobles and lords and such. Nah, they’d not look at my sort.”
Dropping from his horse and tossing the reins to the waiting ostler, Simon chuckled aloud. “In that case, be happy, Hugh, because you’ll not be risking your eternal soul by fornicating with a woman dedicated to Christ.” He caught a glimpse of his servant’s black expression. “Hell’s teeth! Try to cheer up!”
Simon Puttock, the Bailiff of Lydford under the Warden of the Stannaries, was far too happy to tolerate his servant’s dour expression. While Hugh looked over the landscape and saw grass smothered under a freezing white covering, skeletal trees with no leaves, paths and tracks made treacherous with ice and no prospect of a warm meal until they arrived at the priory, Simon saw the world differently: to him the land was delicately rimed with frost which served to emphasise its soft contours, the trees were full of the promise of spring, their branches preparing to explode with fresh green leaves, the roads on which they travelled were solid and dry instead of spattering them with mud, and the alehouse held the certainty of a reward after having come so far: there would be ale heated at the side of the fire. There was good reason for his cheerful humour, for his wife was pregnant again.
He strode over the threshold into the dim, fuggy hall. Two candles smoked at one wall, and a cold draught came in from the high, unglazed windows, but the fire was smouldering nicely, and the household’s iron pot hung over it, a thick soup bubbling gently. There were only a few men inside, two near the fire watching a third man lying atop a slatternly looking girl on a rug in a far corner.
Simon hesitated, but seeing a man near the door to the buttery, waved to him and ordered two ales, then took a seat. Hugh soon joined him, and eyed the two on the floor. It wasn’t the sort of behaviour he could understand. He had made use of prostitutes himself before – which man hadn’t? – but he’d never been tempted to couple in public like these two; it reminded him too much of dogs in the street. Although now Hugh was almost tempted to nudge her and ask whether he could have her later.
For Hugh was lonely. It was a novel sensation to him, because he had been a shepherd out on the moors near Drewsteignton as a lad, and most of his youth had been spent many miles from other people, especially girls; his early adult life had been one of complete self-reliance, with only his charges and a dog for company, and although Simon, his master, had rescued him from the boredom – and damp – of that existence, still the change had prevented Hugh from meeting women of his own level. Those with whom he came into contact at Lydford were mostly suspicious of someone from so far away, for Hugh’s accent set him apart from the servants of the busy stannary town, and when he returned with his master to their old town of Crediton, the women were prone to see him as a feeble-witted and awkward country fellow, someone of little account and useful only as the butt of jokes.
It was now over two years since Hugh had been romantically involved with a woman. There were whores in the taverns near Lydford which lined the busy roads north and south, but that was very different. And now Simon was to be a father again, Hugh was aware of a kind of jealousy. He hated feeling that way about his master, but he couldn’t help it. Especially when Simon was so tediously proud.
Hugh watched as the whore and her bawd rose, the man joining the other two by the fire, casting suspicious looks at the strangers as he retied his hose and the girl went out to the room at the back.
Simon sat with a faraway smile on his face, paying scarcely any heed to those around him. Simon Puttock was a tall man with dark hair in which the grey was rapidly becoming prominent. Usually he tended to wear a serious expression, because his position as Bailiff for the Warden of the Stannaries meant that he was one of the most senior law officers on the moors, but today Simon was beaming, and the world was pleasing to his eye, for he was quite sure that his wife would give birth to a son.
They had had a son before – Peterkin – but he had died young. Simon had been so proud to have an heir, and yet when Peterkin become fractious and petulant, crying all night, he had realised there was something seriously wrong. Peterkin had a fever. Soon the poor little lad had diarrhoea, and gradually his squalling faded. Before long it was a muted whimper, and then a pained breath, and the lad passed away quietly early one morning. It was terrible to admit it, but Simon had been almost glad when the end had come, because at least he wouldn’t have to confront his inability to do anything to help his boy.
And now Margaret, his lovely Meg, had fallen pregnant again. It was wonderful to think that she would soon be growing, her belly expanding fruitfully, giving life to a new child after three years of trying to replace poor Peterkin. Grinning broadly, he slapped his servant on the shoulder. “Come on, Hugh, you’ve hardly touched your drink. Hurry up, or I’ll let you collect the reckoning as punishment.”
Glowering morosely, Hugh took a long pull at his quart, but his stomach was not in it. “It’s all right for them as have the money.”
“I pay you well enough, and it’s not as if you have other expenses,” Simon said happily, unaware how his words affected his man. He was sincerely fond of his servant, and would not have wished to hurt his feelings. “You’re not in the same position as Edgar, Baldwin’s man, are you? He’s going to be married soon and has to save every farthing he can.”
“Aye, well he’s welcome,” Hugh retorted, but without his usual vigour.
Simon didn’t notice his remark, but waved at the young prostitute as she returned to the room. She carried a jug, and refilled their ales from it. Hugh looked up at her just as she happened to glance at him, and she smiled.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Me?” Hugh asked, then, “Hugh.”
“I’m Rose. Call me if you want me,” she said.
Her face was plain and round. There was little about her which would usually have attracted Hugh, but today he thought her beautiful. She was perhaps twenty or twenty-one years old, not too tall, and wore her dark hair wantonly loose over her shoulders, but what Hugh noticed most about her was her eyes. They were steady and green, and he was just considering the coins in his pocket when there was a sudden row from the road, and such thoughts were thrust from his mind.
Bishop Bertrand entered regally, pausing in the doorway and perusing the hall with his nose in the air; to Simon he looked like a bad imitation of a cleric from a morality play, but he curbed the comments which rose immediately to his lips and instead stood and bowed, then winked at his friend behind.
“Simon, it is good to see you again,” Baldwin said, crossing the floor and shaking the bailiff’s hand. “Permit me to introduce Bishop Bertrand, the suffragan of Exeter.”
Bertrand held out his hand. Simon made the usual obeisance and kissed his ring, and the bishop sat in Simon’s chair, pulling his coat tight about him.
“It is very bitter out there,” he murmured.
Simon took his quart pot and drank. “Not as bad as it can be, my Lord Bishop. In this last winter, the snow
