existing leases were terminated and the plots thrown open to the highest bidder. First refusal was given to the existing tenant, but if another offered a better price, that person won.
‘You mean that even loyal tenants of a magnate could be thrown off their land just because someone who isn’t even local decides to offer money?’ Simon asked.
‘Well – yes, sir.’
‘It should be illegal! How can men have any faith in their masters when they’re treated so shabbily?’
Baldwin too was frowning. ‘The old way is for all retainers to be safe while they stay loyal to their liege-lord. If this sort of idea were to take hold, where would the kingdom be? If no man can trust his lord’s integrity and commitment, no one would be safe. The King himself could decide to impose the same tenancies on his lords!’
‘Hardly, sir. He wouldn’t dare rouse all the nation in that way,’ Daniel said.
‘But has this Edmund been disloyal?’
‘Well, not that I know of, but he is a very inefficient farmer, and he can’t afford…’
‘You think that because of this dispute, Edmund could have caused his master’s death?’
‘He angered Squire Roger by begging, reminding him of the service his father Richard had given.’
‘Loyal and faithful service?’ Simon asked.
‘Yes. That was why his father was freed.’
‘And this is his reward!’
Daniel glanced mournfully at the bailiff. ‘Sir, I don’t invent the laws, I only obey my commands.’
‘As you should,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Yet for the squire’s accidental death – there is no suggestion that Edmund struck the squire – for that, Lady Katharine is determined to punish Edmund. I suppose you think that as a result of her actions, Edmund saw a means to hurt her even more cruelly, and rode down her son? I have heard of such cases, but you want me to believe that a weakly bully like Edmund could do such a thing?
I doubt whether he would have the guts or strength of purpose to attempt so horrific a revenge.‘
‘Sir, Edmund was the last man to pass. If the master was run over, who else could it have been? It must have been Edmund!’
‘You keep repeating that!’ Simon snapped. ‘So what? In God’s name! Even if that bastard Edmund did run down the child, it’s probably only because the fool was asleep and the death an accident. Accidents will sometimes happen, and no one is responsible when they do!’
‘But, Bailiff, he must-’
‘Enough!’ Simon rasped. ‘I will hear no more! You’ve got some kind of fascination with this poor man, and it’s unreasonable and foolish. God’s teeth, do you really think that a miserable serf like him could dream of harming the heir to Throwleigh? Wake up, man, you’re dreaming.’
Daniel held his angry stare for a moment, but then his head dropped, and Simon saw a tear fall from his nose. The bailiff was strangely shocked to realise that the steward was weeping.
Jeanne was waiting for them in front of the house, Wat at her side in case she needed an errand run. She smiled and walked to meet the men as they approached but, before she had covered a few yards, she realised that their mood was not good. Simon rode with his face as black as a moorland thundercloud, while Baldwin kept his distance, staring up thoughtfully at the hill behind the house; Daniel brought up the rear with the two servants. She instantly decided to make use of the customary cure for such moods, and sent Wat to fetch wine.
‘My lord?’ she asked tentatively as they came close, and her husband broke into a smile of sheer delight.
‘Jeanne! Where is Margaret, and Lady Katharine?’
‘They are walking out in the garden behind the stables,’ she said. ‘Was your journey worthwhile?’
He saw her glance behind him at the scowling steward. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I think the only thing we achieved was upsetting Lady Katharine’s man.’
She listened seriously as he spoke of their visit to Edmund’s house. As he finished, she gave him a grave look. ‘Are you really so sure that he is wrong?’
‘As things stand now, yes,’ he said. ‘The boy was certainly run over by a wagon of some sort, but I see no reason why this man should be responsible. And as for murder…’
‘You don’t think Daniel could be right and this fellow wanted to kill the boy in revenge for losing his land – and his freedom, of course?’
Wat returned with the wine, and Baldwin took a sip, watching as the youngster filled pots for the other men. Why should someone want a child dead? he wondered.
‘What’s that?’
Hearing the cheery call, Baldwin winced. The last man he wished to speak to at this moment was Thomas, Squire Roger’s brother. Jeanne saw his look, gave her husband a fleeting smile, and walked away, apologetically telling Thomas that she must prepare for breakfast. Recollecting his manners, the knight fitted a suitably polite smile to his lips before turning to greet the man from Exeter. ‘Good morning, Master Thomas. I didn’t hear you approach. We have been over to Throwleigh to speak to some of the men and find out whether anyone could shed any light on the death of your nephew.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Thomas, shaking his head dejectedly and taking Wat’s remaining wine pot. ‘So sad to see a young whipper-snapper like him cut down in so meaningless a manner. Did you – er – find out anything?’
There was an odd look in his eye, and Baldwin hesitated before answering. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘We spoke to some villeins, but there was nothing to be learned from them.’
‘Very sad. Still,’ continued Thomas, glancing along the road towards Throwleigh, ‘I daresay I shall be able to clear it all up when I begin to make my own enquiries. As lord of the manor, it is my responsibility.’
‘Lord of the manor?’ Simon echoed. He had tethered his horse to a large ring in the courtyard wall, and now stood near Baldwin.
‘Well, of course, Bailiff – but I suppose you didn’t know. The manor is entailed, and may only be passed to a male member of the family’ He smiled smugly up at the building behind them. ‘This all belongs to me now.’
It was in order to leave the presence of the gloating man that Baldwin announced his wish to visit the chapel. The knight was revolted by the self-satisfied smile Thomas of Exeter wore as he surveyed what was now his property. Baldwin felt only disgust for him, and his leave-taking was so short that his rudeness penetrated even Thomas’s thick skin, and he stood staring after Baldwin with a degree of surprise as the knight stalked away.
Baldwin stomped along the yard, through the hall, and into the peace of the little room. He stared at the altar for a moment, then genuflected automatically and walked to sit on a bench by the wall.
The naked greed in Thomas’s eyes was repellent. It was as if the knight had been granted an insight to the man’s soul, and he shuddered at the sheer avarice that flamed there. Herbert’s death meant nothing to him: oh, he would make the right sad noises, he would declare himself desolated, he would offer every sympathy to the poor mother left alone to survive her husband and only child, but that was the limit of his compassion. His true feelings were limited to a desire to get his hands on the house and demesne of Throwleigh.
Hearing steps, Baldwin sighed to himself. It seemed there was nowhere to gain a few moments’ peace in this household.
The door opened, and Baldwin saw the slightly flushed features of Stephen.
‘I am sorry, Brother,’ he said immediately, ‘if I am intruding on you…’
‘Not at all, my son. Can I help you, or are you seeking solitude?’
Baldwin looked away. Setting aside Herbert’s death, he did have that other, private, concern: his feelings towards his wife. He loved her, but he always felt the restraint of the vows he had given as a Templar monk: poverty, obedience, and chastity. It was wrong, he was sure, that he should feel guilty about making love to his wife, but the sense that by doing so he was breaking his oath was too strong to ignore. It was not a matter he could discuss with anyone who knew him well, but he would be enormously comforted to share his anxiety, even though he could not explain the full details. He licked his lips in sudden indecision.
‘Brother,’ he began tentatively, ‘could I speak to you about a matter… It is rather embarrassing… er… in the strictest confidence?’
The form of words was a matter of politeness, and no more. Both men knew that the confessional was sacrosanct, but Baldwin also knew that, if ordered, a worldly monk could be prevailed upon to divulge his secrets to a senior monk or bishop. Even as Stephen nodded silently and sat at his side, Baldwin was considering how best to ask the question he needed answered.
‘Brother, I am afraid that in my life I have sinned.’
‘We all sin.’
