It was not easy. Baldwin had been a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, the Order of warrior monks which had been respected and revered by all those who were most religious. Pilgrims sought out Templars for protection wherever they travelled in the Christian world, and Kings were proud to call them friends.
Yet the greed of the French King and the Pope were sufficient to destroy the noble Order. They had hatched a plot between them, Baldwin believed, in order to share the fabulous wealth of the Order. The fact that their greed must result in the death of thousands of God’s most loyal warriors, that the future reconquest of the Kingdom of Jerusalem must be jeopardised, was nothing to them. They destroyed for their own benefit, and the Knights were tortured and burned to death.
It had given Baldwin an abiding hatred of political power and, most crucial, of any form of bigotry or injustice, and it was a mix of all of these that made him detest the Despenser family. Others hated them for their greed, while some loathed Hugh the Younger because of the rumours of his homosexual relations with the King. That was why, the stories said, the Queen was kept away from the King. Because he had no interest in her.
That was one aspect of the King’s life which did not concern Baldwin. He had lived for a while in the East, and there he had learned tolerance for the sexual activities of others. No, although his wife might despise such unmanly behaviour, he was unbothered. Much more worrying to him was the sheer greed of the Despensers. The family was pillaging the realm every bit as rapaciously as the appalling Piers Gaveston had done only a few years before. Gaveston’s acquisitions had only been halted when he was captured and beheaded, Baldwin recalled. He wondered whether a similar fate might await the Despensers. Somehow he doubted it. They had effectively destroyed all the powerful factions which sought to harm them. There were few left in the country who could challenge them now.
‘So what do you think, Sir Baldwin?’ Coroner Roger asked.
Baldwin realised that his mind had wandered so far from his guest as to be in a different county – or even country. He fitted a serious, intent expression to his face and turned to face Jeanne, who was now sitting next to the coroner ‘What do you think, my love?’
‘I am sure I would not stop you,’ she said sweetly, recognising his dilemma from his demeanour. ‘I leave it up to you, Husband.’
‘Thank you,’ he said with a fixed smile.
‘It would please me to have your company,’ the coroner said. ‘And of course, the abbot was very insistent. He has some regard for your skills, I think.’
‘It is good that someone does,’ Jeanne said.
Baldwin cast her a glance. She was shaking with suppressed laughter. ‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Good, then we can ride for the moors this afternoon,’ Coroner Roger said. ‘For now, may I rest my limbs and head on a bench somewhere? I had to rise early to get here, and a short doze would do me wonderful good.’
‘Of course,’ said Jeanne. ‘And where is this body you need to investigate, Coroner?’
‘Out in the middle of Dartmoor! I am growing heartily sick of the wet, miserable, bog-filled place. It seems as though I must travel there every couple of months to view a corpse.’
At his words, Baldwin felt his stomach lurch, and when he looked to his wife, he saw her face had paled too.
He had paid well for a mere barber, but Simon was pleased. He felt clean and refreshed by the shave, and had learned a little more about Walwynus, or so he thought. No one else had mentioned that Wally was a man for the girls. It certainly sounded odd, though. Just as Ellis had somewhat cruelly said, most men wouldn’t think a man like Wally could have struck a chord with women.
Still, for the first time since he had arrived at the abbey and realised that he had left the hammer behind, Simon felt clean and content. The removal of the stubble at his chin had given him a new confidence, and he actually felt capable of finding Walwynus’ murderer.
Walking along the lane towards the abbey, Simon increased his stride. There was much to do today. He would tell Hugh to remain in the abbey for the forseeable future, exercise their horses and see to their saddles. It was time they were both oiled and serviced. There were plenty of jobs for him to be getting on with, and there was no point in his joining Simon to watch a Commission of Array. Hugh might as well be doing something useful.
He was considering the idea of sitting all day with an arrayer, a prospect which didn’t appeal, when he almost walked into a man who erupted from a cookshop.
‘Mind your step, you arse!’
Simon smiled grimly at the harsh greeting. ‘Receiver. How very pleasant to see you. I note you are in a hurry, as usual.’
‘Oh, it’s you, Bailiff,’ Joce said with no relaxation of his glower. ‘You should be careful where you walk.’
‘Have you heard of the murdered man?’ Simon said, ignoring his rudeness.
‘Who? I know nothing of this.’
‘Walwynus, a miner. He’s been beaten to death. Do you know of anyone who could have done that?’
Joce chewed steadily on his pie. This needed thought. It would be good to point the bailiff in the direction of someone else, but Joce wasn’t aware of any credible enemy. ‘Could he have died in a drunken attack? That’s what happened to his friend, I believe. Two years or so ago, Wally had a fight with his companion – a fellow called Martyn – and
