and ran to the door.
When she was young, her parents had both been murdered by trail bastons, the foul club-men who had wandered the land in the last years of King Edward I – this king’s father. These sounded like another band of men-at-arms marching. It was a distinctive noise: the tinny clattering of many pots and griddles knocking together where they were hooked on the outside of the wagons, the dull, hollow squeaking of ill-greased axles, the rattle and thump of heavy wheels striking ruts, the tramp, tramp of feet, the occasional shout and jeering laugh. All these noises could be from a large entourage, one with which the King had surrounded himself, and when she fearfully stared out, she saw a procession of men, wagons and carts, all well-covered against the cold, all faceless under their hats.
Since the visit of Stapledon’s messenger, Jeanne had been worried that trail bastons could come here. Furnshill was almost on the road from Tiverton to Exeter. Seeing them now, she was suddenly convinced it was the army of the Despensers.
She was aware of a thickening sensation in her throat, and the hairs on her scalp tingled; her legs felt as if they couldn’t support her. There was a growing muzziness in her head, an inability to think. She wanted to escape – but she couldn’t. Her duty was to her husband’s manor and house; Jeanne was the wife of a knight.
The recollection cured her. By God’s good grace, she would acquit herself like the lady she was. Striding to the door she shouted, “Edgar!” and ran to the yard behind the house. Here, normality prevailed. Men exercised horses, others idled between jobs, passing the time of day with dairymaids and house-servants.
Hearing her shout, Edgar rushed from the stables, an expression of mild surprise on his face.
“There is a force in the road. We must arm the men and…”
She was talking to the air. At her first words Edgar had bolted for the screens, and now he stood at the far side of the threshold, a stout pike hidden behind the door where he could grab it at need.
Feeling somewhat ridiculous, Jeanne trailed after him. “Shall I call the men to arms?”
Edgar surveyed the men who now marched up the lane to the manor, then shook his head. “They don’t look like outlaws, and if they were Despensers, we’d have heard. They’d have razed the land on their way here, and we’d have seen refugees passing for hours.”
“Then who are they?” she demanded, peering over his shoulder.
As she spoke, a man riding a pony near the front rode back to a man on a tall grey destrier. While Jeanne watched, the pony’s rider nodded, whirled around and set off towards the house at a canter. Soon he was at the door, a youngish man with a round face and angry features beneath a wide-brimmed felt hat. He sat hunched on his pony as if frozen.
“My Lord begs your kindness, and asks would it be possible to rest his horses and men here overnight?”
Edgar was about to answer when Jeanne spoke up, her hand on his sleeve. “Normally I’d be glad to offer comfort to weary travellers, but my husband isn’t here, and without his permission I cannot allow strangers to enter.”
The messenger hawked and spat, then tilted his hat back on his head. “Are you sure you couldn’t allow us just a couple of hours before your fire, my Lady? We’ve ridden far this day already, and the air has practically frozen our innards, we’ve been out in it so long.”
“The Lady of the house has spoken,” Edgar said, and although there was no curtness in his voice, his tone sufficed to demonstrate that he would ensure her will was obeyed.
“Oh, very well. I don’t even know why he wanted to come to such a miserable spot!” the young man said, staring at the house with evident distaste. He turned in his saddle to call back. “My Lord, they won’t let us in, not even to sit before the fire.”
“Really?”
And with that voice Jeanne felt her trepidation fall away.
“My Lord Bishop! I didn’t know it was you – of course you are welcome, and your men too!” She gasped with relief and delight.
It was at the door to the infirmary and dorter that Simon saw the old woman. Joan sat contentedly on a bench sipping at a large cup of wine, her legs stretched out before her. She opened her eyes as Simon approached.
“May I sit with you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “If by that you mean, can you ask me questions, say so!”
Simon grunted as he lowered himself, rubbing at his temples.
Joan gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry. I get so used to being the first person anyone comes to for help that sometimes I make myself sound tetchy to grab a little peace.”
“The nuns all come to you?”
“Oh, yes. I am the oldest. They think I have a monopoly on commonsense and experience.”
“Where were you today when Katerine died?”
She gave a sad smile. “I was walking in the orchard, Bailiff. Alone. I wish I’d been here to pray for poor Katerine, falling like that.”
“She didn’t fall by accident. She was murdered.”
Joan’s eyes opened with horror. “But… How can you be sure? I thought she had slipped or something.”
Simon didn’t explain his theory. “Were you there for long?”
“Not very. I needed to clear my head a little. I am used to work, Bailiff, and spending all my days indoors before a fire seems strangely boring. I had thought sitting at a fire would be a delightful retirement – all pleasures can pale.”
“Did you see anyone here when you came back?”
“Only Denise.” Joan wrinkled her nose. “She was rather drunk again, I am afraid.”
“Where was she?”
“She’s the sacrist. Where would she be? I saw her leaving the church after cleaning up.”
“Alone?” he asked, and Joan nodded.
“Everyone seems to have been alone,” he grumbled.
She chuckled. “It’s the duty of the contemplative life! But there is one thing in my favour.”
“And that is?”
“That I had no reason to want to hurt poor Katerine. I know not all the novices liked her – in fact, I think Agnes and she had fallen out over something – not that either confided in me.”
Simon motioned for her to continue.
“I know little about it. When Agnes first came here, she soon befriended Katerine, but more recently they have hardly spoken.“
“How did Agnes get on with Moll?”
“I think most of the women here found Moll difficult. Someone who wishes to be a saint can be tedious company, especially when she considers it her duty to report any misbehaviour. Not the best way to make friends.“
“Who else could have wanted to see Moll and Katerine dead?”
“Although the nuns and novices here often confide in me, I assure you none of them have admitted to murder,” Joan said. She shivered. “And now I think it is time I returned to the boredom of watching a fire. Alas! Although I find sitting in front of the flames dull, I still crave the heat.”
“One last question, please. Did Denise like Moll and Katerine?” Joan hesitated. “Denise? What on earth makes you ask that?” she said lightly, but as she walked through the door to the infirmary, Simon saw her throw him a look over her shoulder.
Jeanne had a quick eye, and while Edgar organised the servants to see to the bishop’s men, she sat him in Baldwin’s own chair before the fire and served him herself, darting little glances over his embroidered robes, the heavy rings on his fingers, the weighty belt with all the enamelled metalwork, the expensive Spanish boots of such soft, supple leather and the velvet hat which must surely have come from an exotic source. It was plain to her eye that the man who had left Exeter as a well-known but honourable cleric had enhanced himself by his position as the country’s Treasurer.
