Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, and ever since the destruction of the Order by an avaricious French King and his lackey, the Pope at Avignon, Baldwin had held the Church and its organisation in contempt. For that reason Baldwin had chosen to wear a tunic of white today, in memory of the Order he had served and the men with whom he had lived, at whose side he had fought, and whose lives had been betrayed and ended in persecution ordered by the French King.
It was also why he wore his new riding sword. He wanted to have the symbol of his Order with him at his marriage: perhaps for sentimental reasons, perhaps because he felt the need to affirm his comrades at such an important ceremony. He was no philosopher, and did not seek to understand his own motives, but was happy that the new sword weighed heavily at his hip with the little carved Templar cross nearest his person.
He had friends within the Church, it was true, men such as Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton Church, but for Baldwin, a knight who had taken the three-fold oaths of poverty, chastity and obedience, a system that was led by the Pope, a man who had cynically discarded the Templars purely for his own profit, was itself corrupt.
Still, he reflected, approaching the grey block of the old church on the hill, at least today it wouldn’t be that damned fool Alfred, the priest who usually held the services at Cadbury; Peter Clifford himself had agreed to officiate.
‘Come on, Baldwin, stop dawdling!’ Simon chuckled and led the way up the last few hundred yards to St Michael’s Church.
Here the crowd was thicker, with many friends from Crediton where Baldwin was the Keeper of the King’s Peace. The gravedigger was shamefacedly trying to conceal his spade behind him, thinking it looked out of place today. Mingled among the crowd were others: squires, knights and a banneret. Even the local Coroner had made the journey from Exeter. Their horses stood at the edge of the churchyard, held by grooms while their riders mingled and chattered, waiting for Baldwin and his bride. Near the entrance were parked Baldwin’s own wagons, filled with barrels of his latest brew of ale, and his servants and guests were all making free of it.
For once the abstemious knight felt jealous of drinkers.
Lady Katharine was in her hall. Outside the sun was high in the sky and it illuminated the room with long shafts of light in which dust-motes and insects danced. Occasionally a swallow entered and circled above, then darted out through the window again.
If this was a normal time, she would be outside, sitting in her small garden, listening to the birds singing, while sewing or working with Daniel to ensure the manor produced a profit. If her husband were still alive, she might go hunting with him, her falcon on her wrist.
But this was not a normal time. Her man was dead, and so was her son.
She could remember when she first met her husband. It was seven years ago now, when the King had been in St Albans, and Katharine’s father, a knight banneret, had been in attendance.
It had been wretched. Famine was striking all in the kingdom, for rain had killed off much of the harvest, and what remained had to be dried in great ovens before it could be used for anything. Although the King tried to control prices by issuing Ordinances which regulated the cost of all foodstuffs, these only strengthened the black market. Floods were widespread, and Katharine could remember the despair of farmers who couldn’t sow their crops. In St Albans there was no bread to be had, not even for the King himself.
And in the midst of this gloom, she had been the target of every fool in parti-coloured hose. Youths so callow she had no wish to give them a second glance, had circled about her like dogs around a bitch. Some tried to amuse her with jokes; she ignored them. Others flattered her and tried to tempt her with gifts; she rejected them. But her success in ridding herself of these popinjays only led to others trying to attract her with lewd words; one even suggested she should let him visit her in her room. Him she had stared at coldly, and left.
All the time she was pestered by these fools, Squire Roger had avoided her gaze. She had looked to him often, where he stood at the other side of the room, hoping that he might recognise her plight and come to rescue her, but he had nobly smiled and moved on. Only later did she realise that he had thought her content with men of her own age. Yet she had not desired them. She only ever wanted a strong husband, a real man. Someone like him.
And it had been a real delight, a wonderful, ecstatic recognition, when she had seen the love in his eyes. She had thought him cold, but that was a mask to conceal his true feelings. When she confessed how she felt, she found him as passionate as herself, and that same day she and he had become handfast, engaged to be married.
Her father had not been over the moon about it. He’d been hoping for a good local marriage to strengthen his lands, but he was too kindly a man to ignore the obvious adoration that Squire Roger felt for his daughter, and which was so clearly reciprocated. And, he might well have reflected, there could be advantage in being allied to the squire of Sir Reginald of Hatherleigh.
But their time together had been too short, Katharine thought as the breath caught in her throat and she felt another bout of sobbing threaten her composure. And now their only child was gone as well.
Her husband had fallen from his horse, and it must have been God’s will that he should have died there and then, but Katharine couldn’t rid herself of the conviction that Edmund had contributed to his end.
A murdered man might be gathered up to God because He had ordained the fellow should die, but his killer should still be punished. That was why she had a personal determination to see Edmund pay, forcing him to revert to servile status. He had angered Squire Roger and possibly increased the heat of his blood, making him burst his heart.
She clenched a fist and pounded the arm of her seat: Edmund would suffer for taking her husband from her!
Baldwin took a deep breath and strode on, glancing neither to right nor left as he went up to the door where Peter Clifford stood waiting.
‘Sir Baldwin, good morning! The sun has favoured you on this happy day; God must be smiling on you.’
‘I didn’t expect it from the look of the weather yesterday. I was convinced we would get washed out,’ Baldwin admitted gruffly, his eyes darting hither and thither as he sought out his wife-to-be. ‘There’s still time,’ he added gloomily, glancing up at the thin, white clouds hanging peacefully in the almost clear sky.
Peter laughed and continued chatting inconsequentially. He had conducted many such ceremonies, and knew the torment Baldwin was going through, if only at second-hand. In his experience, grooms were always nervous and stiff until after the formal service. Baldwin was true to form.
The knight was pale and, although Peter would never have said so, he was sure that Sir Baldwin was viewing the ceremony with the utmost trepidation. No matter, Peter thought to himself: once the food and wine began to flow, the most terrified groom always recovered.
They were still waiting in the porch when Simon heard a murmur in the crowd, and he walked to the churchyard gate. There he found his wife standing in attendance to another woman.
‘Jeanne, you look wonderful,’ he said simply.
Looking about her, Anney thought that Lady Katharine’s hall had the atmosphere of a prison. It was a place of doom and misery. There was nothing in it to lighten the spirit. If she could, she would have left long ago, but that was impossible, even though it contained almost every painful memory of her life: not only the trial of her man, but the inquest of her son. The husband she had sworn to cleave to had been accused here, in this very room, by his true brother-in-law, the brother of his first wife, the man who had come to expose his bigamy.
There was no doubt of the validity of the charge. He had no choice but to confess, and although he protested that his first wife had trapped him, that he had never wanted to wed her, he had been forced from Throwleigh. Anney had been left alone with her children who, she learned, were legally bastards. She was ruined. No matter that she had given her vows in good faith; the men of the vill regarded her as tainted, and as they made clear to her from that day on, she should be grateful for any attention they might choose to offer.
It had been hard. She had been abused by everyone. The women ignored her, or joked at her expense; the men were worse. A woman needed a protector. Without one, whether father or husband, grown-up son or brother, there was no security, no safety.
This was brought home forcibly the first time she was raped on her way back from the hall. The man responsible was drunk and had seen her approach. She’d known him all her life – that was what really offended Anney more than anything, the fact that he was as old as her father before he died. The fellow had made advances and thrust her into the hedge before lifting her skirts and…
It wasn’t the only time, either. The men of the village looked on her as fair game. She had given herself to a bigamist, so she was contaminated – a mere common stale. After a few weeks, Anney had taken to carrying her
