With a thrill of euphoria, she was aware of being touched, and although she felt a reverential trepidation, she wanted to cry from sheer bliss, convinced she was about to be granted a vision of heaven. She tried to open her mouth, but it was stopped, covered, and she smiled, thinking God was granting her the kiss of peace.
The pressure grew; she tried to return the kiss, but her lips met something else – cloth? – and it was being shoved upon her heavily, not gently. It threatened to stifle her. Moll tried to speak, to explain that His love was too strong for her, but could say nothing. The force over her mouth and nose was not that of a sweet kiss, it was the smothering of suffocation. She opened her eyes, but all was dark, and suddenly she was scared, all pleasure gone. Something was being held over her face; a pillow. It was impossible to breathe, and in that instant she knew that she was being murdered.
That awareness lent her a desperate urge to defend herself. She flung her arms out to punch, but missed; she caught hold of a tunic and pulled, trying to haul whoever it was away from her, but asphyxia made her attempt feeble; the effort exhausted her, and soon she was spent, her panic depleting what energy remained in her frail body. She knew she was about to die.
In a final burst of terror she thrashed with both fists, but a hand caught her wrist, and she felt someone sit astride her chest, thrusting her forearms under her assailant’s knees. She was impotent, utterly defenceless, as the pillow was squeezed against her face and her chest was slowly crushed under the weight of her killer.
Even as she slipped away, she felt the stinging slash at her arm as the knife opened her artery.
Chapter Two
Wandering to the front of his house, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill whistled as he drew to a halt at his door and gazed out over the meadow towards Dartmoor, reflecting happily that he had much to be cheerful about.
It was only a matter of weeks since his marriage to Lady Jeanne de Liddinstone, a union formed from love and not with a view to political or financial gain. Jeanne, a tall, slender woman with red-gold hair and the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen, was to him the very picture of perfection. Her face was regular, if a little round; her nose short and too small; her mouth over-wide, with a full upper lip that made her appear stubborn; her forehead was perhaps too broad – and yet to Baldwin she was beautiful.
At first he had been prey to guilt over his affection for her. It had felt wrong, because he had taken the threefold vows: obedience, poverty and chastity. He had been a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon – a Knight Templar – and although his Order had been destroyed by an avaricious French King and his willing lackey the Pope, both trying to grab as much of the Templars’ wealth as they could, Sir Baldwin had been confused, knowing that his desire for Jeanne was most unchaste.
In the early days of their marriage he had felt as though he was denying his faith by making love with his wife; it was as if each occasion was a renewal of his act of apostasy. His vows had been made to the Pope, God’s own vicar on earth, and thus were as holy as any oath could be – but gradually Sir Baldwin came to believe that his honour was not tainted. It was the Pope who had resiled, for he had not protected those who had sworn loyalty to him, and instead threw them to their enemies for money. And that surely meant that all Baldwin’s vows were retracted: he was not guilty of rejecting God, he was the victim of persecution, and that reflection gave him great comfort.
He had kept his previous life as a warrior monk secret from Jeanne less as a conscious act of concealment, more as an extension of his cautious nature. Over the years since that appalling day, Friday, 13 October 1307, fourteen years ago, when the Templars had been rounded up and shackled together within their own halls or thrown into gaols, Baldwin had been forced to keep his service hidden. The Order was illegal, and any confession of his place within it could have resulted in his arrest. Some day, he swore, he would tell Jeanne. He trusted her, and it was mean-minded of him not to share his past with her, but there had not as yet been an opportunity.
At the back of his mind was the vague fear that she might not understand how he and his comrades had been betrayed, that she might believe her husband was a devil-worshipper, as the Templars had been described, but he shook off this possibility with contempt. He must trust to her commonsense. Jeanne was no flibbertigibbet, flighty and frivolous, but a mature and intelligent woman, one in whom he could trust. It was largely due to her that he felt so secure now, so habituated to his life.
The sun was high in the sky, concealed by clouds, but as Baldwin hooked his thumbs into his belt and surveyed the land, it broke through a gap. All at once the scene took on a brighter, livelier aspect. The trees which lined the meadow were touched with a faint gold, the shadows stretched stark against the bright green of the grass, while the sheep meandering about suddenly looked fresher and cleaner. On the lawn, where the sunlight had not yet reached because of the shadows of the trees, each blade of grass was rimed, while in the middle where the previous night’s frost had melted, beads of moisture shone like jewels in the low light.
Baldwin sighed contentedly and watched the long feather of his breath gradually fade away in the chill morning air. It was a constant source of surprise to him how the weather could be so irregular: three weeks ago at his wedding it had been warm springtime, with fresh green colours licking at the trees and shoots thrusting upwards from the soil at the base of the trees and in the fields; now, so short a time later, the land was frozen once more, and frost had blackened young flowers and leaves. It was worrying that his villeins had sown their seeds. Sir Baldwin was no agricultural expert but he was concerned that young shoots might be harmed by the severe cold.
His view was uninterrupted from here, right down as far south as Dartmoor, the sight of which made him stop whistling, his lips still puckered, as he warily studied the grey hills, outlined with white where the snow had fallen.
Try as he might, he could not like the moors. Dartmoor was as bleak and untameable as the deserts he had seen in his youth as a Templar, when he had travelled as far as Acre in defence of the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem. To Baldwin’s mind it was uninviting; threatening, almost.
But he would not allow it to affect his mood. He had enjoyed a fast ride to Cadbury and back, hurtling along on his new courser, a strong beast with powerful shoulders and haunches which had cost him thirty marks, money he counted as well spent. There was no doubt that the stallion was more than capable of carrying him swiftly over great distances, and could serve as his destrier if need be; although at this moment Baldwin was more interested in the animal’s ability to cover his mares. His stock was low; a murrain had reduced his stables and he must breed more.
Hearing light steps behind him, he turned to see his wife, and felt once again the pride and longing which always seemed to accompany her appearance.
“My Lord,” Jeanne greeted him, signalling to the boy behind her. “I expected you in your hall, but if you would stand out here, would you care for warmed wine?“
She watched hawk-like as the boy, Wat, the cattleman’s son, carefully brought the jug to his master and filled a pot, passing it to Sir Baldwin. Only when her husband had taken the pot from the lad did Jeanne relax. Wat was far too interested in the manor’s ales for his own good. As a servant he had come to enjoy tasting all the barrels in the buttery, and from his appearance that morning, he had tried much of the strong ale the previous night. Jeanne had been sure he would spill Baldwin’s drink, but thankfully he didn’t. Blissfully unaware of his pale- faced servant, Baldwin stood at the side of the doorway, his pot steaming and filling the air with the good, wholesome scent of cloves and nutmeg, cinnamon and lemon, while he gazed proudly over his demesne.
Jeanne was content. Here, with this husband who valued peace, who detested animosity and arguments, she could live restfully. Her duties were hardly onerous: she scarcely had enough to fill her day in this well- organised estate. The manor had a fund of stolid, hardworking serfs, and in the house were servants to take charge of almost any aspect of life. Jeanne saw her responsibility as maintaining the calm efficiency of the place so as to ensure the continued tranquillity of the knight, her husband.
From the look of him, she had so far succeeded. At his wedding, Sir Baldwin had been slim-waisted, a tall man in his middle forties. He had carried himself like a swordsman, broad-shouldered and with a heavily muscled right arm, but now his form was subtly altering as Lady Jeanne regulated his kitchen and forced the cook to learn new dishes. Baldwin’s belly was thickening, his chin growing beneath the neatly trimmed, dark beard. Even the lines of suffering which had marked his forehead and had lain at either side of his mouth were fading, and the scar
