of the smaller farms and homesteads even this far west had been evacuated, and where men had once worked, burning and sawing, now the brambles and nettles had taken over. Wherever the trees allowed a sprinkle of sun to strike the ground, the ubiquitous foxglove had colonised and erased almost all evidence of man’s occupation.
It all suited his mood, for Sir Baldwin Furnshill, the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, was joining his friend to witness the funeral of Squire Roger of Throwleigh, representing the Sheriff, who had been called away to meet the King’s procurers, while Simon was there to represent the Warden himself.
The knight, a tall man in his middle forties with the build of a swordsman, broad-shouldered with a heavily muscled right arm and still slim-waisted, rode easily, as befitted someone who had travelled extensively. His face was keen and sharp, with a neatly trimmed beard of the same dark colour as his hair, but his features had been marked with pain over the years: lines lay etched deeply into his forehead and at either side of his mouth.
His companion, a close friend, was more than ten years younger, yet did not look it. Simon Puttock’s hair was richly peppered with grey, and his figure was beginning to run to fat.
‘You are putting on weight, Simon.’
‘Bollocks!’
Baldwin gave him a look of haughty disdain.
‘If you want to distract yourself, think again about your fiancee,’ Simon laughed. ‘Don’t try getting at me.’
‘It is a shame that Squire Roger chose this moment to die,’ Baldwin admitted.
‘Why, because it’s only a short while to your wedding, you mean? Ah, I’m sure he’d be sorry to have dragged you from your home when you’re in the middle of the preparations.’
That was why Simon had been with his friend. Simon’s wife was helping Lady Jeanne, Baldwin’s fiancee, to prepare for their wedding, and Simon had been diverting Baldwin, trying to keep his mind from the myriad details of the celebration – and preventing the knight from getting in Jeanne’s and Margaret’s way. For once it was a relief to Simon that his daughter was not with him, for Edith had elected to stay at Lydford with a friend rather than make the gruelling journey to Furnshill. If she had also been there, Simon was sure she would have been under the feet of the bride-to-be at every opportunity.
‘You think I have any say about the arrangements?’ Baldwin protested. ‘God’s bones! I had thought that Jeanne would have had little time to organise me, especially now she’s lost her maidservants.’ It was a never- ending source of pleasure to him that she had, too, he reflected secretly. Jeanne’s ‘maid’ had been a large, coarse, brutal figure, an ungainly, peevish, froward woman who put the fear of God – or the Devil – into all she met – especially Baldwin. He shuddered at the memory. ‘But no! What with inviting the guests and telling me where they must sleep, and Edgar taking over all the other preparations…’
He stopped himself. The delight he was giving his friend was almost painful to observe, and he had no desire to increase Simon’s pleasure. It was curiously unsettling to reflect on the matter, too. Soon his whole life would be altered, he knew. The absence of his servant, Edgar, was a proof of that. Formerly Edgar had never let the knight out of his sight, and yet where was he now? Baldwin and he had been together for many years; Edgar had served as his man-at-arms when they were both warriors, and without him Baldwin felt strangely naked.
But Edgar refused to let anyone else take over the supervision of the wedding. In any case, while the bailiff was at his side, Baldwin was content. It would be a very hardy outlaw who would dare attack a knight and a sturdy fighter like Simon, especially seeing the quality of their weapons. Baldwin touched the hilt of his new riding sword with a feeling of smugness.
It was short, the blade only twenty-one inches long, but it was made of the most beautiful, bright, peacock- blue steel he had ever seen, with grey steel quillons that curved gently from the leather-covered hilt, and a pommel that balanced the whole weapon perfectly. When he first picked it up, it felt almost alive in his hand.
Sir Baldwin had bought it only a month before, and it was so much lighter than his old war sword that he hardly felt it at his hip, but that wasn’t the only reason why he was already so fond of it; he liked the writing – and the motif on the reverse. Baldwin had found a good jeweller who had used a burin to carve the four letters carefully into the long fuller of the blade, filling each with silver wire and hammering it tight: BOAC. They stood for Beati Omnipotensque Angeli Christi – Blessed and Omnipotent are the Angels of Christ. But on the other side of the blade was a simple sign: the cross of the Knights Templar, his old Order.
Baldwin felt his mood lighten as the trackway narrowed, went into a dip. Soon they were out from under the trees and paused at a ford. The two men rested their horses again, letting the beasts dip their heads thankfully into the brackish brown water that ran from the moors.
‘Not far now,’ Simon commented as his horse puffed and snorted, shaking its mane, before stooping for more.
Baldwin patted his rounsey’s neck. ‘You knew the squire, didn’t you?’
‘A little. I had some dealings with him. The usual petty stuff: he had his villeins run away and declare themselves miners. And miners dammed his streams and diverted his water for their leats. Didn’t you know him?’
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin. He had a recollection of a heavy-set man with a red face and hoarse, bellowing laugh. ‘He was invited to the wedding with his wife. Poor devil!’
‘He had a good life,’ Simon said disinterestedly. ‘Fought many battles, won his lord’s thanks and respect – and a pleasant estate.’
‘True.’ The knight knew as well as any that the easiest way for a man-at-arms to make money was to capture an enemy knight or lord and sell him. Squire Roger had been thoroughly successful at this, taking prisoners of such importance that he had been able to sell them, for a share in their profits, to his King. Without the cost of keeping them, but with a significant share of their worth, he had become wealthy. ‘He always struck me as a generous, capable man,’ Baldwin continued. ‘How did you find him?’
Simon considered a moment. ‘A gentleman: always courteous, keen to avoid disputes. It’s not often you meet someone like him. His wife was much the same – bright and intelligent. She and my wife got on well.’
‘I suppose the funeral will be in the village?’ Baldwin asked, his mind moving on to the sombre event they must witness the next day.
‘Yes. The church lies west of the hamlet. It’s a lovely place, the Church of St Mary the Virgin, very peaceful. His body will rest there happily enough.’
Baldwin nodded, and they clattered along together.
‘I believe the priest was the squire’s own man,’ Baldwin observed as he kicked his horse on. ‘Doesn’t he live at the hall?’
‘Yes, I think so. The squire employed him as a tutor. I can’t imagine too many priests who would be prepared to come to a quiet backwater like this.’
‘Godforsaken little vill would be nearer the mark, wouldn’t it?’ Baldwin said lightly. ‘Still, some like the desolation.’
‘Some of us do, yes,’ Simon chuckled. ‘But you don’t have to search for motives here, Baldwin. There’s nothing suspicious about Roger’s death.’
‘No,’ Baldwin agreed, grinning. He and Simon had investigated many murders together, but he had no concerns about the sudden death of the squire. There was no suggestion of violence: he’d simply fallen dead from his horse. It was sad, but there was not much to regret in a swift and painless death.
The only issue that could cause difficulties was the will, but Baldwin felt sure that a man like Squire Throwleigh would have ensured all was in order. No doubt his wife would control the estate until the heir was of age.
A slow smile broke out over his features as he considered that word ‘wife’. It was a curious title. A woman who was prepared to become the possession of another. Not that Baldwin would ever think of his Jeanne as a chattel. She was too precious to him.
‘Are you thinking of her again?’
‘Well? What of it?’
‘Nothing, Baldwin,’ Simon laughed, ‘but try to keep your feelings away from your face, all right? Don’t forget we’re here to witness a burial. If you keep that inane grin on your face, Roger’s widow will be within her rights to have you flogged around the churchyard!’
Baldwin hurriedly brought his mind back to the present. There was one topic which he knew Simon would treat seriously.
