disapproval of his friends and servants; their censure was a weight he could hardly bear. If only, he thought, if only they could understand. He knew he could not help his wife. No matter how long he spent with her, he could not explain his feelings, and listening to her going on and on about how they had found poor Peterkin lying in his bed, cold and blue, merely added to his anguish and frustration. If he spent too long with her, he wanted to hit her, just to make her quiet. His own despair at his loss was hard enough to carry; he did not have the strength to support her as well. Peterkin had died, and Simon could not think of a future without his son. Without an heir.
Nearby, Baldwin forced his mind to the search. There was not much chance, he thought, that the thief would be down this way. Still, they had to cover all options. If the lad was local, from Thorverton, there was no reason for him to head down toward the moors. If he had any sense, he would have gone east, to Exeter, where he could hide. There were smiths there who would ask few questions about where silver came from, if the price was right. He pursed his lips. Yes, if he had to guess, he would say the boy had gone that way.
But Baldwin kept an eye on Simon as they rode. The knight could not understand why Simon did not stay with his wife. It was out of character, like his cold treatment of her earlier, and as such it was incomprehensible. Baldwin had suffered loss himself. In his experience, it always made him more dependent on his friends, not less, so Simon’s apparent withdrawal from his wife was all the more baffling. If there was any fighting, Baldwin decided he must remain close to his friend. Whether from the urgency of the call to horse or simple absent-mindedness, he saw that Simon had forgotten his sword, and only wore his old bone-handled knife. Others in the party were better prepared. Roger de Grosse had joined them on a lively bay, with a short sword at his side. The rector looked flushed but excited, and Baldwin was amused to see such warlike enthusiasm on the face of a man who was devoting his life to God, though he could understand why. Of all prey, he had once heard someone say, the most invigorating to pursue was another man.
They came to a stream which lay still and strangely solid-looking, like a ribbon of polished metal under the bright moon. Their hooves churned it, creating a luminous spray, and to Baldwin it felt like vandalism to destroy the peaceful water, as if they were knights “riding out” on a chevauchee, leaving mayhem in their wake. The destruction left him with a sense of impending disaster, as if their casual wrecking of such beauty and peace was about to bring doom upon them all. He shook off his black mood irritably. It was Simon’s part to be superstitious, not his. He would not tolerate foolish premonitions.
A short way after the stream there was another road westward, and here Baldwin separated his force, grateful for the need for thought and action. Five he sent east while he continued south with the others, keeping Simon at his side.
The trees crowded round the lane like a suspicious army, and Baldwin found himself eyeing the thick trunks with trepidation. In previous manhunts he and Simon had been able to make use of hunters skilled in tracking, and rushing along the road like this made him realize just how much he had depended on them. There could be thousands of signs, even now in the dark, which the hunters of wolves and foxes would be able to discern and advise on. He glared behind. The eleven men of the troop were making so much noise that they could be heard by a man on foot leagues away. It would take mere seconds to duck into the trees and hide. He grunted as the futility of the exercise struck him. Whether the man was on this road or not, there was next to no chance that they would find him. It would take a miracle.
He was about to hold up a hand and halt the posse when a cry came from in front. Frowning as he tried to pierce the darkness, he set spurs to his horse and quickened his pace. The road bent to the left, gently dropping down the slope over the summit of a small hill. As they came round the bend, Baldwin saw three shadowy figures, one lying unconscious on the ground, two standing over him, a short distance from the verge. Automatically he slowed, feeling for his sword, aware of Edgar at his side. He was about to bellow a challenge when one of the men took a step forward.
“Thanks to God you’re here! We’ve got him!”
“Who are you? Who have you got?” Baldwin demanded.
Two fearful eyes stared up at him, set in a weasellike face. “Sir, we’ve caught a thief. This man stole Sir Hector’s silver.”
“Who are you?”
The other moved forward, a confident-looking, strong man, Baldwin thought. “I’m Henry the Hurdle, sir. This here’s my friend, John Smithson. We’re with Sir Hector’s troop.”
“And who is that?” he asked, pointing.
“Philip Cole, so he says, but I don’t know if it’s really his name. He only appeared the day before yesterday, and now he’s stolen my master’s silver. Look! We found this on him.” He held up two plates and a small leather purse.
Baldwin took them and weighed them in his hand thoughtfully. “Why did you follow him? Did you know your master’s silver was missing?”
“No, sir, but we spotted him skulking round the streets, furtive-like, so we thought we’d follow him, take a look at what he was up to. Then we saw him examining a silver plate, and I thought I recognized it as one of my master’s.”
Henry’s face was earnest, his eyes compelling, and the knight nodded encouragingly.
“We called out to him, but he started running away, and we only caught up with him here. We had to knock him out to stop him struggling.” He took a long, weary breath. “We were just wondering how to get him back to town, us not having a horse.”
“You have done well. Your master will reward you, I’m sure,” Baldwin said, staring down at the still body. The man would have to be tried, and Baldwin would be the man to pursue him in the court. But there was something not quite right about the stolen plate…
6
A t Crediton they delivered their prisoner to the jail, much to the disgust of Tanner, the Constable. Edgar, who knew him, explained with a malicious smile that Tanner was friendly with a certain widow whom he knew to be lonely quite regularly, and this was an evening when she would expect him.
Their return had been slow, with the two men-at-arms walking. The thief’s body they had slung, bound, over the horse of another trooper, who had led his mount on foot. By the time they got back to Crediton the prisoner was awake again, and had begun to shout and complain, but he was soon plunged into a horrified silence when he was told who had captured him and why. The prisoner’s eyes were bloodshot, and his gaze wandered as if he found it hard to concentrate. Sir Baldwin knew that a hard knock on the head could addle a man’s mind, and was sure that it would be more profitable to question him the following morning.
The two men who had captured Cole were unhappy about this. One, the weasel-faced soldier said, “Our master will want to speak to him.”
Baldwin gave a curt shake of the head. “Sir Hector may well want to question Cole, but he can wait. This man will have to be investigated, and if he is found to have been the thief, your master will see that our revenge is swift.”
His response did not satisfy them. Their glowers indicated that their captive’s guilt was plain enough given his decision to run away-especially since he had been found with some of the stolen items on him. They gave in with bad grace only when they realized that Baldwin would not be swayed. Hugh and Edgar were sent back to Peter Clifford’s with the horses, while Baldwin and Simon went on to the inn, having first given instructions to Tanner to keep his charge in the jail without any visitors. The knight had a shrewd idea that one of Sir Hector’s entourage might think he could earn favors by punishing the thief.
Baldwin had taken the recovered silver from the two, and he studied the plates with interest when he had an opportunity, standing with Simon in the hall of the inn near a guttering candle. The plates were doubtless of fine quality. Deep and heavy, adorned with leaves and a hunting scene, they were both beautiful and valuable. He turned them over and over, his mind far away. When his name was called, he came to with a start. A messenger was waiting to conduct them to Sir Hector.
Crossing the hall, Baldwin was struck by how deserted the place was. It was strange to see a room, normally so bustling and raucous, now empty. Most of Sir Hector’s men were still out searching, and were unlikely to return
