the Cross!
The knight sat back weakly, his hands on his knees. If the monk were to spread this news, Baldwin’s position in the country would be hideously compromised. He had no protector, nor could he afford to buy off someone who threatened blackmail. If his career as a Templar monk should be bruited about, a priest or maybe even a bishop would hear, and they would be bound to try to have him arrested and put to the flames which he had escaped by so slight a margin before.
Baldwin forced himself to breathe slowly, to think rationally. He felt as if he had been punched in the guts, and there was a light dew of sweat on his brow as he feverishly recalled the monk’s expression. Then he stopped, and his frown gradually faded.
It was impossible for the monk to have made the fabulous leap to the conclusion that Baldwin had been a member of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon from the few words the knight had given. Yet the brother had drawn back as if repelled, and suddenly Baldwin recalled how he had put the question. In his nervousness and hesitation, he had phrased the query hypothetically, and the priest had obviously assumed the knight was accusing him of breaking his own vows.
With the relief this cogitation gave him, Baldwin could have laughed aloud. When he heard footsteps outside the door again, so great was his revival, he smiled broadly. The monk walked in and Baldwin greeted him warmly.
‘Brother, my apologies! I fear I gave you entirely the wrong idea. I did not intend to imply that you had been guilty of anything. I am truly sorry if I alarmed you, but it was absolutely unintentional.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Stephen said coldly. Although Baldwin continued to offer fulsome apologies, the priest appeared only partly mollified, and it was only gradually that he allowed himself to be calmed. Eventually he sat down again, although not next to Baldwin this time, and closed his eyes as if exhausted. Opening them again, he gave Baldwin a keen look and settled himself. ‘Come, tell me what is troubling you.’
This time Baldwin was careful to make himself understood. ‘Brother, I once swore an oath, but the man in whom I put my trust proved faithless. He pursued me, without reason, and proved his own dishonour. Have I been right to recant my own vow?’
‘I would have to know more, but if you are saying that you swore your honour and allegiance to a man, and that man subsequently betrayed your trust, I would think that his betrayal would be the defining issue. What I mean is, his lack of honour would release you from your vows to him. How did you recant?’
‘I swore an oath to chastity, but now I have married.’
‘Well, if you made an oath before God to marry a woman, God wouldn’t punish you. Your wedding vows were holy, for God has instructed us to marry. Your vows to Him would carry precedence over any taken previously to a mere man.’
Baldwin thanked him, but frowned. The priest had said all he could to ease his mind, but it wasn’t enough. Baldwin had given his vows to God when he had joined the Templars. ‘Stephen, what would the position be with a monk who decided to give up his calling and take himself a wife? Would the oaths given at his wedding carry greater weight than that of chastity?’
‘Why should you wish to know such a thing?’ Stephen asked, and his voice had an angry edge to it once more. ‘Are you trying to spread rumours about my brethren who may have fallen from the high ideals they should have embraced?’
‘No, no, Brother. I am simply trying to clear the point in my mind.’
‘Well, clear your mind of the point. It doesn’t concern you.’
Baldwin could see that he had unwittingly overstepped the mark once more, and again he offered profuse apologies. Eventually the priest relented, and the small spots of anger on his cheeks faded.
Sitting quietly, Baldwin wasn’t fully convinced by Stephen’s argument. Absolute conviction could only come from explaining his difficulty in detail, ideally to a senior cleric, and that was impossible. The more important the man, the more likely he was to be ambitious, and the more likely he would be to inform the church hierarchy of a renegade Templar. That thought brought to mind other functionaries, and Baldwin found himself meditating once more on the steward of the house. ‘I must ask, Brother, are you aware of any reason why Daniel should hate the farmer in Throwleigh, the one called Edmund?’
‘Him? The tenant to be evicted?’ Stephen asked, but Baldwin was sure he saw a flicker in the priest’s eyes. ‘What could a steward have against a man like him?’
‘Nothing that I can understand,’ Baldwin said honestly. ‘Yet he appears to want to harry Edmund into an early grave. Was Daniel particularly fond of the young squire?’
The priest pursed his thin lips, as if debating whether to answer. When he spoke, it was with a certain caution, as if he was measuring his words with care. ‘I doubt whether Daniel was any more fond of the child than I myself, and I was not. No doubt it is unkind to state the fact so badly on the day of the child’s burial, but I could not find it in me to like Master Herbert. He was wilful, disobedient, and often deceitful. I was regularly forced to chastise him. On the very day his father died, he… Well, perhaps I shouldn’t say more.’
‘Please tell me,’ Baldwin said. ‘I fail to understand what could have happened.’
‘Very well. That same morning, young Master Herbert was found by his father trespassing in the orchard with two friends. When seen, Herbert helped his accomplices to escape, and then, when he was asked by his father who the two were, he lied, saying he’d seen no one. He subsequently proceeded to plead for them, when it was plain to all that they must be punished. The last command Squire Roger gave to me was that I should whip the child, and so I did. Children, Sir Baldwin, have to be trained, the same as any other animal. They must be taught to respect their elders, to tell the truth, and to behave honourably. I fear Master Herbert was not able to do these things. Perhaps in Sir Reginald of Hatherleigh’s service the lad might have learned.’
‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin agreed, but he was secretly shocked at the priest’s candid words. It was appalling, listening to the man who was to bury the child, talking about him like this.
‘I think that was probably why the squire himself died.’
Baldwin looked up. ‘Eh?’
‘I only meant that since the squire fell dead from some imbalance in his bodily humours, they must have been caused by something. He left here in a tearing hurry to go hunting, but was delayed because he had to ride off to demand that the friends of his son should be punished. Thus logically I feel fairly sure that Master Herbert, although unwittingly, was himself a parricide.’
‘You don’t truly mean to say you believe that the child was guilty of his father’s death?’ Baldwin cried.
‘Oh, it’s all very well, Sir Baldwin, to wish to think the best of all the dead,’ said Stephen huffily. ‘But hypocrisy is not one of my faults. In any case, I am only telling you what others also think. Even the boy’s mother blamed him.’
‘Lady Katharine?’ Baldwin burst out.
The priest nodded calmly. ‘Yes, Sir Baldwin. I know you saw how she treated her son at her husband’s grave. It was perfectly obvious, was it not? After that, I don’t know if she felt anything more than loathing for her son. She had loved her husband, you see. And when her son caused him to die, I think she lost all feeling for him. Poor child.’ He stared thoughtfully through the window. ‘He was always unlucky.’
‘In what way?’
Stephen threw him a surprised look, as if he had been musing to himself and had forgotten that Baldwin was present. ‘Hmm? Oh, I only mean that he often got himself into scrapes – and then again he was ever a hapless child. For example, he was present when another local boy died, a little chap called Tom -only a toddler. He fell into a well, and young Master Herbert didn’t fetch help. Usual sort of thing, often happens. But I don’t think the parent ever truly forgave him.’
Baldwin kept the eagerness from his voice as he asked, ‘Whose child was it who died?’
Stephen shrugged. ‘A maid from the village who works here for Lady Katharine – I think because my Lady took pity on her.’
‘Oh? Is she the wife of Edmund?’ asked Baldwin, recalling Christiana’s face and wondering whether she worked at the hall.
‘Him? Good God, no!’ For the first time Stephen gave a dry smile. ‘No, Anney’s husband was still more feckless than Edmund. Anney’s man left her shortly after the birth of her second son, Tom. It was found that he was already married.’
Baldwin felt curiously deflated. He had hoped it might be Edmund. It could have explained much.
