Going up to the sickroom, she waited until Alice had gone out on some errand, then, while gently putting Joan’s pillow more comfortably under her head, slipped the stone under the mattress. ‘It’s three times thicker than mine,’ she thought to herself. ‘But if it has any powers at all, a few inches of goose-feather won’t stop it!’
Next day was Sunday and Matilda had the chance to speak to Philip when they mingled in the churchyard after Mass. She told him of Canon Thomas’s kind words to her and his promise to see if there was any sign of a document of manumission in Exeter. Then she went on to describe Simon Mercator’s foul behaviour towards Gillota, and the effect on the former soldier was remarkable. Normally placid and amiable, he instantly reddened with anger.
‘The bastard! He can’t be allowed to get away with that! I know of his bad reputation with women, but when it concerns someone you know and respect it’s not to be tolerated.’
She put a hand on his arm in alarm. ‘Philip! Gillota and I are villeins, at least to him, to do with as he likes! We must avoid him as much as we can, that’s all that can be done.’
Philip was not to be mollified, his face set in a grim scowl of determination. ‘I will warn him, for I am a free man — and one used to fighting and confronting enemies. I will make him understand that, if he approaches Gillota again, he will have me to contend with!’
He glowered in the direction of Walter and his steward, who were just leaving through the churchyard gate.
‘I will go to Walter Lupus as well. He is supposed to be the man’s master, though sometimes I wonder who is in charge of this manor!’
Now Matilda was really worried, for she recognized the stubborn streak in Philip and knew he meant what he said. For a moment she wondered if this violent reaction to an insult to Gillota meant that it was her daughter, rather than herself, who interested him, but their ages were so far apart that it would be ridiculous.
‘Please do not be hasty,’ she pleaded again. ‘They are powerful men and the likes of us cannot hope to prevail against them. My daughter and I will just make sure we avoid him at every turn.’
The churchyard had emptied now, and they were obliged to leave as well, though they arranged to meet in the early evening near the mill. Many villagers, especially youngsters and courting couples, paraded the village on a Sunday, as all work, even on their own crofts, was forbidden on the Sabbath, other than tending the animals.
Philip de Mora was a man of his word, and after he had eaten his solitary dinner of thin potage, bread and salted fish, he set off for the manor house, which was on a side turning from the main track that ran through Kentisbury towards Combe Martin.
There was a dry ditch around the outside of the stockade, which Philip crossed at the big gates on a wooden ramp that could be quickly removed as a further defensive measure. No one had attacked the village in living memory — the main danger was from marauding pirates coming in from the coast. The Severn Sea was rife with marine bandits, some based on Lundy Island, as well as from Wales, Ireland and even as far afield as the Mediterranean, but as Kentisbury was a few miles inland, the coastal villages suffered most.
One of the thugs imported by Lupus was lurking inside the gate and demanded to know his business. He was known as Garth, a hulking man with shaggy black hair and a rim of beard around his face and chin, widely suspected of being an Exmoor outlaw who had crept back into the village with Simon’s connivance.
‘I’m seeking the steward,’ snapped Philip, fingering the hilt of his long dagger. ‘Where is he?’
He was in no mood to be questioned further by some low-life servant and strode straight past as Garth pointed towards the door of the hall. This was up some wooden steps, the hall being built over the undercroft, a semi-basement used for storage.
Inside he found the steward sitting alone at a table, though several servants were nearby, clearing dishes and scraps of food from other trestles. A pewter goblet of wine was in front of him and a small wineskin lay nearby. There was no sign of Walter Lupus, who was upstairs with his wife.
‘What do you want?’ growled Simon, looking up at the new arrival. ‘You can’t just walk in here on a Sunday. Come back tomorrow, if your business is urgent.’
If the former archer had not been a free man, the steward would have called for Garth or his fellow thug Daniel to throw him out, but he knew that this Philip de Mora had been a member of the King’s army. He needed to be treated with circumspection in case he had some influential friends, as he had been under the standard of Baldwin de Redvers, Earl of Devon.
‘My business is urgent,’ snapped Philip, becoming flushed with anger once again at the steward’s dismissive manner. He was a tall, powerful man and hovered threateningly over Simon Mercator. ‘I came to warn you that if you act indecently again with that young maid Gillota, you’ll have me to contend with! Understand?’
The steward shot to his feet, his stool clattering over behind him. He was shorter and slighter than Philip, but his years in office as a right-hand man to manor lords gave him an arrogance that compensated for his physical disadvantage.
‘You insolent swine!’ he howled, quickly outdoing Philip for the redness of his features. ‘Get out of here at once, before I have you flogged!’
‘You have no power over me, Mercator,’ snapped Philip. ‘I am not one of your serfs to abuse and torment. I only rent a dwelling from your master, and I can walk out of this village tomorrow — and perhaps I will, except that I need to stay to make sure you behave yourself!’
Several of the hall servants were starting to smirk at their hated steward’s discomfiture, and Simon, suddenly realizing they were present, turned to scream at them to clear off. Then he began to yell for one of his creatures, Garth or Daniel, to rid him of this interloper.
Philip jabbed him in the chest with a finger of his good hand. ‘Think on what I’ve said, steward!’ he rasped. ‘Lay a finger on that girl or her mother, and I’ll find you and beat you senseless! Is that clear?’
Simon’s flushed face now drained into a pallor of rage, as he could hardly credit that any villager was rash enough to speak to him in this manner, especially in front of gossiping servants.
Any caution because of the man having been a soldier was thrown to the winds in his fury. He began to rant and threaten Philip with every punishment from mutilation to branding, but Gillota’s champion had turned on his heel and was making for the door. As he reached it, Garth lumbered up the steps and, at the steward’s screeched command, tried to grab the archer. Philip gave him a hefty push in the chest, which sent him stumbling back to fall over a bench, and by the time he got to his feet the visitor had vanished.
Quivering with rage and damaged pride, Simon Mercator threw down the rest of his wine in a savage gesture.
‘The insolent swine, he’ll regret this!’ he snarled, mainly to himself, as Garth had no idea what was going on. ‘I’ll see him swing for this.’
When they met near the watermill that evening, Matilda’s concern for Philip increased when he told her of his warning to the manor steward.
‘He’s an evil, vindictive man,’ she said. ‘He’ll not take such an insult to his rank lightly. He will plot your downfall somehow.’
She even suggested that Philip should leave the village and seek his future elsewhere, though this was the last thing she wanted from a purely selfish point of view. Even on their short acquaintance, she felt drawn to him, the first time since her husband died that she had even entertained the thought of marrying again.
But he shook his head deliberately. ‘I’ll not stir from here until I know that you and your daughter are safe from this man, even if it takes me years!’
They sat on the grass above the millpond and looked at the big wheel, now silent on a Sunday. It was another example of the hold that a manor lord had over his subjects, as everyone was forced to use the mill to grind the corn that they grew on their crofts, just as they had to use the lord’s baking ovens to fire their bread — all for a fee, of course.
‘They say in the village that you have special gifts, Matilda,’ he said. ‘I recall when I was a lad, there was a wise woman in the village who used to treat everyone’s ills, but it was not your mother, was it?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it was old Sarah, wife of the farrier. I just happen to have picked up some knowledge of herbs and suchlike — no magic about it!’ Matilda played the matter down for her own protection, though a number of the villagers, who had known her all her life, suspected that she had unusual gifts. That ability was now niggling at the back of her mind, worrying that this brave man was heading for serious trouble if he persisted in antagonizing the steward.
As it grew dusk, Philip walked her back to the manor house and then went back to his empty cottage,
