felt that the maid was prepared to seek out any fault and emphasize it to Baldwin’s disadvantage.
“Is it very much further? It seems like an age since we left the town, and years since we saw a decent road,” Emma demanded some little while later.
Edgar was some distance in front now. In Margaret’s jaundiced opinion, he was trying to leave as much space as possible between himself and Emma. It would be difficult to question him. “What do you think, Hugh?” Margaret asked, glancing at him.
Hugh rode along uncomfortably, gripping the reins of the packhorse in his fist. He was one of those moormen who seemed to have held on to more of his Celtic past than most of his contemporaries. He was lithe and short, with a shock of untidy dark hair over his morose features. The man had been in Simon’s service for many years, and the bailiff swore that with Hugh at his side he need fear neither footpad nor trail bastion, for Hugh’s expression was such that those upon whom he glowered would be certain to be turned to stone.
He now looked up at the sun, then at the road ahead, at the trees on either side and the icy mud at his horse’s hooves. “It’s about another league.”
“You can tell that by looking at the sky and the trees? Hah! I suppose it might be double that, or treble, for all you know. And my poor lady tired out there after coming all this way, too! Surely the knight could have arranged for a room at the inn so we could break our journey a little.”
Margaret listened with frank astonishment, then nodded to her man. “Hugh? Tell her how you know it’s one league.”
“That oak with the broken branch,” he pointed. “Lost that branch in the bad winter of ”15, and it was down when me and the master were riding back from Tiverton. I know it from the elm opposite, that one that’s got the sort of fork in its upper branches there. See? It’s quite odd. Don’t know another one like it. And that holly, up ahead there, is where I once saw a pair of thrushes attacking a magpie that was trying to get into their nest. It didn’t, though.“
“Was it scared off by the thrushes?” asked Jeanne, interested despite herself.
“No,” he said simply. “I killed it with my slingshot.”
“That was kind,” she smiled.
“Not really,” he grunted, scowling at his horse’s neck. “I was trying to get the thrushes. Make a good pie, do two thrushes.”
Emma was studying him with ill-concealed disgust, and on hearing this gave a little exclamation. “My lady adores little birds that sing. And you kill them for food? I hadn’t realized this area was so poor that peasants and bondsmen ate songbirds.”
Margaret saw Hugh’s expression become even more somber as he sullenly surveyed their path ahead. She quickly interrupted his thoughts before he could express his feelings, which she was sure were colored already by Emma’s eviction of him from the inn’s buttery. “I think you’ll find that the people living here are better off than your folk in Liddinstone, Emma. Your mistress no doubt has a flourishing estate, but the land here is most fertile. All farming prospers in Baldwin’s fields. And then again, he is known for his kindness and generosity to those who cannot support themselves.”
“That’s the trouble with so many knights nowadays. They have no idea how to treat their people. If they’re hungry, it’s because they’re idle. They need the whip more than they need largesse.”
On hearing this, Margaret surrendered in the unequal battle. The maid was plainly incorrigible, and Margaret preferred to ignore her rather than hear her friend the knight being slandered. She was surprised that Jeanne did not defend him, and shot her a glance. Jeanne exhibited every sign of anger. Her mouth was compressed into a thin line, and she stared ahead fixedly without blinking.
Margaret was content. Emma would be lashed by her mistress’ tongue later.
As they came to the top of a long rising slope, Edgar turned off into a rough track that led away to the right, and they set off after him.
Jeanne allowed her fury to fade away. There was no point in raging at the stupid woman, not once she had made up her mind. Jeanne knew Emma too well. The maid had already decided that Baldwin was no good for her. Emma thought that someone who lived so far from what she called “civilization” was likely to be a boor.
But Jeanne was also aware that Emma’s antipathy to Baldwin was not caused solely by concern for the welfare of her mistress. Emma liked running her own household. She enjoyed a good life at Liddinstone, the other servants all went in fear of her, and she could get her own way with ease. If she were to move with her mistress to live at Furnshill, there was no telling how the new servants would react to her.
It made Jeanne sigh. Emma had been with her from very early on-indeed, that was partly why her respect for her maid bordered on fear. When Jeanne had been orphaned, her uncle had taken her in to live with his household in Bordeaux, and had set Emma the task of being her maid. For a farmer’s daughter from Devon the rules and conventions of polite society in such an important town were mind-boggling, but under Emma’s rough tuition, Jeanne had avoided some of the worst and most embarrassing faux pas. While she grew to womanhood, Emma had been the constant reminder of the debt of honor and fidelity Jeanne owed to her uncle. Whenever she put a foot wrong, Emma snapped at her in correction; when Jeanne made a foolish comment, it was Emma who criticized. Even when she had married and returned to Devon as the mistress of Liddinstone, it had seemed impossible to discard Emma, and the maid had remained with her.
But her presence was not relaxing, and now, after so many years, the bonds of obedience to her uncle, the ties of loyalty and, if she was honest, of habit, were beginning to chafe at her. Jeanne was no child now, and her automatic deference to her tutor was increasingly difficult to sustain.
Jeanne knew her maid was unhappy at the thought that she might be about to remarry, but her maid’s fears were not, she felt, sufficient reason for her to reject Baldwin. She had enjoyed her time with him when they had last met, and the way that he had smiled at her at the inn had made her heart leap. She would reserve her judgment, but of one thing she was determined: no matter what Emma’s feelings, Jeanne would make up her own mind whether or not to wed Baldwin, and that decision would be taken in her own interest-not her maid’s.
Jeanne nodded to herself with determination, and gave herself up to studying the countryside.
From here she could see for miles in the clear winter air. Before them were woods dropping away to river beds. Over the sound of their hooves she could hear the rushing water. Right, though, the land undulated gently, falling in ripples and small hills, until it climbed again many miles to the south. And there, south and west, she could see the blue-black hills of the moors. “What a perfect view.”
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Margaret agreed softly. “So much more beautiful here than Dartmoor, with its blasted and dingy commons. This area is the most delightful I know.”
For once Emma was still, and they carried on along the track, which fell into a valley between two tree- covered hills, then wound around the side of another little hillock, until at last Hugh pointed. “There it is!”
Jeanne was enthralled. A large whitewashed house lay before them, long and low, built for comfort, not defense, for here there was little need to fear attack. The ground rose up to it, with a great sweep of pastureland before it on which some sheep grazed, while on the other three sides the property was enclosed by trees. She opened her mouth to express her joy on seeing it.
Emma beat her. “Ugh! It’s tiny, isn’t it?” 10
S imon and Baldwin walked from the hall and only when they were in the open air again did they exchange a glance.
“Baldwin, you know what I’m thinking, don’t you?”
“It does seem suspicious that she should have sent the servants away,” Baldwin admitted cautiously. “But there might be a perfectly sound reason for her to have done so. There is a little evidence pointing to her, but no proof. And no motive, so far as we know, for her to want to have her father killed.”
“Perhaps not-yet! But if what we have heard is true and she sent all the servants away, it was she who gave the killer a clear run at her father.”
“Why should a girl want her own father dead?”
“There are many possibilities. To take one: perhaps he didn’t approve of her lover.”
“Her lover?”
“We know she was at the window. You yourself confirmed that she was wearing the tunic that left the threads at the window. Who should she be speaking to except a lover?”
“There are other possibilities, Simon,” Baldwin pointed out dryly. “But let us treat your proposition seriously for a moment. If you are right, why should she give us a description of his clothing, when she could more usefully
