his back. Slowly, John winked.
Paul, the innkeeper, was unable to sit down in the buttery until well into the night. The cries and laughter had gradually faded as men fell asleep-some, like the captain himself, staggering to individual rooms. Sir Hector had gone at least three hours ago, Paul thought distractedly, wiping his forehead with his towel, so he at least would be asleep by now.
A step behind him heralded the arrival of his wife. “Margery? I thought you’d have gone to bed by now.”
She sank down onto the bench beside him, gazing round the little room with its wreckage of empty barrels, pots and jugs. “I’d better start a new brew tomorrow,” she said tiredly. Her face was gray even in the yellow candlelight, and the lines at either side of her mouth were like slashes in her skin. Even her green tunic and off- white apron hung dispiritedly as if over-fatigued. She pulled her wimple free and scratched her hair loose.
He put out a hand and touched her arm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get some of them to move, but at least they’ve not caused any trouble. There’s not been any fighting or anything.”
“What of the other guests? What happened to them?”
“They’ve all decided to go. The goldsmith and his apprentice were first, then the burgess from Bath, then the merchant and his family…They all found they had important business elsewhere and had to move on-always shortly after one of the captain’s men had spoken to them. I suppose we should be grateful no one was hurt. There was no violence.”
In answer she shrugged, a tiny gesture of exhaustion. “No, and they’ve done little damage-just some broken jugs, and they can soon be replaced. Let’s hope they’ll be gone tomorrow.”
“I don’t know about that. I heard one of them talking earlier, and he was saying they might stay for a few nights more.”
“I hope not!”
He could sympathize with her hostility. They were used to quieter guests: merchants, clerics and burgesses. It was rare for them to have more than ten staying at the inn, and a group of thirty, all men-at-arms, was unheard of. The money would be welcome, if they did not argue too much about the charge but, as Paul knew, this kind of client was all too likely to balk at the real cost of the stay. Soldiers were prone to preying on the fears of peaceable folk to try to force large discounts. Paul sighed; he would have to add a goodly portion to the amount they had drunk so that he could haggle over the final reckoning. Otherwise he would end up subsidizing their stay, and that was something he could ill-afford.
His wife’s mind was on the same problem. “It’s not just the food and drink, is it? We’ve got the fodder for their horses to buy in as well. What if they refuse to pay enough?”
“We’ll have to see,” he said comfortingly, patting her knee.
She smiled, but then her face hardened. “You know where Sarra’s gone?”
“Sarra?” He could not meet her gaze.
“With him,” she said. “With their captain. She’s gone to his chamber with him.”
Paul sighed. “She’s old enough to know what she’s doing, Margery.”
“Old enough? She may be old enough, but she obviously doesn’t realize!” his wife said hotly. “You know how hopeless she is: her head’s up in the clouds most of the time. And what about him? You know as well as I do what sort of man he is. He’s just taking advantage of her, and she’ll get nothing from him.”
“Margery, she is old enough to know her own mind,” he repeated. “And if he is taking advantage, what can we do?”
“She thought he might marry her; you know what a romantic fool she is.”
“In that case she was trying to take advantage of him as well,” Paul said reasonably.
“But what if she gets with child? He won’t want to help her then, will he? We’ll be the ones left holding the baby!”
The innkeeper squeezed her hand. “We’ll just have to see what we can do for the best if it comes to it.”
“But what if she does have a child? She can’t look after it, can she? And I wouldn’t want to see her on the street like Judith and her poor Rollo.” Her eyes widened. “Rollo! You know what they say about the boy. Perhaps…”
“Enough, Margery,” he said and stood up. “It’s time we were going to our own beds. It’s late, and we have much to do in the morning to get this mess straight. If there is a child, we’ll see what should be done then. I’m not going to worry about it now. Come, let’s go to bed.”
She stared up at him, a little angry at being put off, but then gave a self-mocking smile and rose. “Very well, husband. But I’d be happier if that stupid girl had left him alone.”
“Maybe she’ll have cause to regret her actions too,” Paul said, glancing in the direction of the room where Sarra and the captain now lay, as if he could see through the wattle and timber. For some reason, he had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach; he recognized it as a premonition of something evil about to happen, and the awareness made him shudder.
4
I t was two days later that the knight of Furnshill, Baldwin, strode out into the sunshine with a feeling of impending doom. The morning was clear and bright, small clouds like freshly cleaned balls of fleece hung suspended in a deep blue sky, and the sound of larks singing high overhead, the chirruping of the tits in the bushes, and the raucous, chuckling sqawks of blackbirds scurrying off, flying inches from the ground in urgent panic at his appearance, gave him a momentary respite from his black mood.
Tall, with brown hair shot through with silver and a neat black beard which just followed the line of his jaw, Baldwin was an anachronistic figure for a modern knight. Most men went cleanshaven these days, like his friend Simon Puttock, the bailiff of Lydford; few sported even a moustache. Nor did his dress follow the latest fashion for ostentatious display, for he preferred to appear in a stained old tunic which hung loosely until nipped in at his belt. Other knights would have commented on his shabby old boots, which hardly had any toe at all, and did not match the modern courtly trend for elongated points curling back toward the ankle. A long scar marked Sir Baldwin’s cheek, stretching from temple to jaw; the sole remaining evidence of a lively past.
As his attire showed, Sir Baldwin Furnshill was not like other men in this increasingly secular world. He had been a warrior monk, one of the Knights Templar, until the Order had been disbanded; with its destruction his own faith in the church had been shattered. Now forty-six, he was well into his middle age and content to spend the remainder of his life as a rural knight, leading a quiet existence, avoiding the pomp of tournaments and other royal festivals. The supposed excitements of life at the center of politics bored him, not because he disliked power, but because he saw those that sought it to be manipulative and unprincipled. His own experience had led him to doubt the honor of those at the very pinnacle of political and religious authority, and the thought of circulating among men who were, to his mind, corrupt and dishonest was unattractive to him.
At a time when King Edward II was so ineffectual, this was not a common point of view. Many wished to get close to the monarch, hoping that by proximity they would be able to snatch the control which constantly eluded Edward himself. Baldwin Furnshill was happier leaving such machinations and knavery to others. For himself, he was content to stay in Devon and find satisfaction in his work, leaving the administration of the nation to those who felt they had an aptitude for it.
But there were times when he could not help becoming involved, and this was one of them. As he thought of his meeting, his face took on a glowering aspect, and the beauty of the countryside ahead could not relieve his sudden ill-humor.
This was usually his favorite position, before his old long house, looking down to the south. The building itself was on rising land, and in front the ground fell away for a short distance. Apart from a small hillock, there was nothing to obscure the view, and Baldwin often came out here to sit on the old tree-trunk to consider any problems he had, letting his mind range over issues and solutions while he gazed into the distance.
Today he knew he would not find peace. He seated himself, resting his arms on his thighs and staring, but could not see a way out of it.
The problem had its roots in his acceptance two years before of the position of Keeper of the King’s Peace. At the time he had been wary of taking on the responsibility, knowing that it must inevitably embroil him in any
