Edgar, man-at-arms to Sir Baldwin, and more recently the knight’s bottler and steward, a tall, straight man, serious by nature and assured of his own importance, went straight to the largest wagon, on which two great casks were set. He rummaged under its seat until he found a small sack which he opened. Inside were two drinking pots, which he passed to his accomplice, Simon’s servant Hugh.
Hugh, a taciturn, narrow-featured man with the slim build of a moorman, took them and filled both, holding one to Baldwin’s man. ‘To your master.’
‘To Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and his lady, Jeanne,’ Edgar nodded, and they drained their pots.
‘What now, then?’ Hugh asked after their second drink.
Edgar shrugged while Hugh bent to fill them again. There had been a time when he hadn’t wished to talk to Hugh, when he had thought the bailiff’s servant was too common for a man like him, who had, while a sergeant in the Order of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon – the Knights Templar – dined with princes and lords. More recently, having been thrown together with Hugh over the last four years whenever their masters had met, he had grown to enjoy the moorman’s company.
‘Everyone is to go to Furnshill for the banquet. You know the way of these things. It’s lucky the kitchen was designed on generous proportions,’ Edgar said, eyeing the waiting horses and carts. ‘There’ll be no work finished today on Sir Baldwin’s estate.’
It was a subject he felt strongly about. He was the knight’s steward, and was responsible for the profits from the lands around Cadbury. To be steward was an honour, but it was a heavy responsibility as well. All looked to him when anything went wrong: if there wasn’t sufficient grain stored through the winter to sow in the fields, if there wasn’t enough food for guests at a feast, if the harvest failed and provisions must be acquired, it was the steward who was to blame.
As steward, he was always on the lookout for the next potential problem, and today he found it while Hugh was passing up his fourth large cup of ale. Edgar took it, but his eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that noise?’
Hugh listened, an expression of vague perplexity on his face. Sure enough, there was a quiet buzzing sound. He cocked his head, staring all around at the churchyard, but could see nothing. Then Edgar gave a muttered, ‘Oh, Hell’s teeth!’ and sprang down from the wagon. He peered beneath the cart parked alongside and groaned: ‘God’s blood, but you can’t keep him off it’
Underneath was young Wat, the Furnshill cattleman’s son, all of thirteen years old, and as drunk as a blacksmith on St Clem’s Day. He didn’t waken when they grabbed his booted feet and hauled him out onto the grass, nor when they called to him, or pinched him; he only grunted and rolled over. Hugh experimentally tipped half a cup of ale over his head, but the lad merely smiled happily and licked his lips in his sleep.
‘Come on, Hugh,’ Edgar said resignedly. ‘We can’t leave him here.’
The two servants each took an arm and hoisted the youngster to his feet. His legs wouldn’t support him, unfortunately, and it was hard work to keep him upright. In the end, Edgar clambered onto the wagon, and was just taking hold of Wat’s arms to lift him into it when he realised that the guests had begun to leave the church. He swiftly dropped to the ground again as Baldwin appeared in the church’s doorway.
‘Quick, prop him,’ Hugh hissed, and the two supported the slumping figure between them as the knight and his lady walked out.
Baldwin felt curiously lightheaded as he paused in the porch. His whole life had undergone a transformation, he knew, and yet he himself hadn’t changed. The sky looked wonderful, with a few tiny, fluffy clouds hanging motionless in the azure blue, and from here he could see the verdant countryside stretching away for miles. The scent of flowers came to him, and their strong, sweet odour made him feel quite drunk.
It was a day he had anticipated with keen delight for five months, ever since he and Jeanne had become handfast, shaking hands on their engagement in the presence of Simon and his wife. Now he had almost completed the Church’s rituals. There was only the blessing of the bridal chamber to come. Then he and his wife could dispense with any further nonsense and get on with their lives together.
As he thought this, he caught sight of Jeanne’s face. She was just leaving the shade of the building, and as the spring sun caught her features she was suffused in a golden glow. He felt his heart lurch. He had been a soldier, a Templar, then a wandering outcast, almost an outlaw, before returning home to his lonely bachelor existence, and to know that this wonderful, attractive and intelligent woman had accepted him as her husband gave him an intense pang, almost of pain.
With that thought he stepped into the sun, and felt a thrill of pure pleasure as he saw her gasp with delight. This was a touch of his own. That morning he had made sure that Edgar sent the children to his garden. Now there was a soft rain of rose petals thrown by four of his workers’ cleaner children. Seeing his wife’s expression, Baldwin knew his efforts had been well-spent. He fumbled for coins and tossed them as the shower began to falter.
‘My Lady?’
Jeanne accepted his hand and they made their stately way down the church’s yard. At the cart, Baldwin saw his servant. He gave Edgar a smile, and nodded towards the gate. To his surprise, Edgar appeared to ignore him. Baldwin assumed the man had missed his instruction. ‘Edgar, open the gate for Lady Jeanne.’
‘Sir.’
Edgar sprang quickly from the cart, marching before Baldwin and his wife. The knight followed, he and Jeanne walking more sedately, but when they were almost at the gate there was a sudden uproar as people began to guffaw, and Baldwin spun round glaring, thinking they were laughing at him or his wife.
Instead he found himself confronted with the sight of Hugh trying to support Wat. The servant gave a weak smile, hitching Wat’s arm over the wagon’s wheel and leaning back nonchalantly, but even as he looked away casually, as if unaware that anything was amiss, his arm had to shoot out to catch the sliding Wat, hauling him back upright by the scruff of his neck.
Baldwin pursed his lips. The boy’s drunkenness was an insult to his wife. He opened his mouth to bellow, but before he could, he felt Jeanne’s hand on his arm.
‘Edgar,’ she said sweetly, ‘perhaps you could help the cattleman’s boy? He seems to have some form of food poisoning.’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘And ensure that he is given a good wash at the church trough while everyone is still here, would you? I’d not like to think he might be dirty when he joined our celebration. See to his washing yourself, would you?’
Edgar clenched his jaw. Her meaning was all too clear: he was the steward, so he was responsible for the cattleman’s lad and he must join in the indignity of publicly washing the brat. He rejoined Hugh and the two half- dragged, half-carried Wat to the trough, while guests and villeins bellowed their delight.
Baldwin took his wife’s arm and they walked through the gate. Here his present stood waiting. For a second Jeanne didn’t notice, but then she gasped.
The pure white Arab mare stood quietly under the tree, the new saddle and harness gleaming. Her coat shone like snow under bright sunlight, and the gold chasing on the leatherwork was almost painful to look at, it was so bright. As she moved, bells fixed to stirrups and bridle tinkled musically.
‘Baldwin, your mare…’
‘Not mine any longer, my love. It is customary to give one’s leman a gift on the day of marriage. I give you this horse. I hope you will find her as much of a pleasure to ride as I have myself.’
Jeanne smiled, her hand already on the bridle. For a moment her eyes filled with tears, she was so happy, and she had to blink them away. Then she touched her husband’s cheek and kissed him again while the guests roared and cheered behind them. She accepted his aid to mount the mare, and sat proudly in the saddle, her tunic awry, her skirts rucked up, while Baldwin took the reins and walked his bride back to his manor.
It was quite alarming how Petronilla had altered since the squire’s death, Daniel thought.
He was standing in the screens, leaving his poor mistress in the hands of Anney, much though it grieved him to quit her side in her present state. When the poor woman was so desolate, Daniel felt he should be with her.
Petronilla kept on weeping when she was alone. The silly chit appeared to have been dreadfully affected by the way that the squire had so suddenly been taken from them, and quite often when Daniel saw her in the dairy or buttery, he noted her raw, red eyes. Of course it was only right and proper that a serf should miss her master and that she should mourn his loss, but Daniel found himself wondering; Petronilla had looked so bonny just before the squire’s death, with her glowing cheeks and fresh complexion.
He sighed and walked to the door, standing on the threshold. Outside in the yard he saw Petronilla herself, talking to the priest. Even as Daniel appeared in the doorway, she bent and kissed Stephen’s ringed finger while he
