Today he felt unsettled, and it was not merely his wound: it was a curious manor, this, the small estate which had been his wife’s first husband’s.
It had a lovely outlook, being some miles north of Tavistock but not quite on the moors, with a view of Dartmoor itself. The manor house was a good, solid moorstone building, with sound grey walls, lately whitewashed (Baldwin suspected because the local steward had heard that his mistress’s husband was coming to see the place) and thatched well only the previous summer. It stood on a small knoll, as though on its own shallow motte, and all about it at a distance of some sixty yards were woods, with the only bare aspect being to the south, where a man could see almost all the way to Brent Tor on a clear day, so it was said. Sir Baldwin didn’t know about that, but he did know that today he needed to try his muscles.
Some three or four months ago he’d been the victim of an attack, and the encounter had nearly killed him. Even now, the wound in his breast was enough to make his chest seize up when he over-exerted himself. The pain was normally a dull ache, but every so often it grew into a flaming agony that seemed to threaten to rip his ribs apart. Last night had been one such occasion.
They had come here to Liddinstone a matter of a month ago. He had promised his wife that they would come to see how the manor was faring, and as soon as he felt able to make the journey from his little estate near Cadbury, a short distance south of Tiverton, they had arranged their affairs, leaving Edgar in charge.
Edgar had been his most loyal servant for more years than either cared to remember. They had met in the hellhole of Acre in 1291, both arriving in time to witness the city’s death at the hands of many thousands of Moors. They had set up a vast siege encampment all about the city walls, and during their time there, Baldwin had found Edgar and saved his life. Subsequently, both had been injured and would have died, had it not been for the generosity of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar, who had rescued them. As a result, as soon as they could, both had given their oaths to serve the Order, and Baldwin became a knight while Edgar became his sergeant. They served together for many years, until the appalling day when the Order was arrested.
Friday 13th October 1307. It was a date that felt as though it had been engraved with a red-hot burin on Baldwin’s heart. Each year he felt drawn to toast his comrades on that day, and yet he could not. The idea that he should celebrate their destruction was repellent. No, it was better that he remembered them all on days like today, when the sun was newly risen with the promise of clear weather, like so many of those other days when he and his companions had woken with the dawn.
He held his sword out forwards, his arm straight, elbow and wrist locked, the peacock-blue steel of the blade sitting still in his grip, and he smiled to himself grimly. There were few knights who were as old as he and yet still capable of holding their swords outstretched for any period. He was more than fifty years old now, and although he knew that he could best most men half his age, he had to pick his moments and his opponents.
Yet if there was one thing that the Templars had taught him, it was the benefit of constant practice. A man who trained was a man who could rely on his reflexes, and now Baldwin swung the sword in his wrist, first letting the point drop down then spinning it up on his right, then dropping it and flicking it up on the left of his forearm to form a figure 8. After twenty of those, he threw the sword spinning into the air, and caught it with his left hand, repeating the exercise before tossing it up again and catching it in his right hand once more.
Now he started the serious training. This was basic work, but he had performed these actions almost every morning since his acceptance into his Order. It was only at times of great pain that he had neglected his training, such as late last year, 1323, when the crossbow bolt had laid him low for so long.
He could consider the near-death with equanimity now, although at the time he had been appalled that he could die and leave his wife and daughter without a protector. True, Edgar would be there, and knowing Edgar he would continue to offer his support and what security he could to Baldwin’s widow and offspring, but it wasn’t the same.
It was a dreadful thought, that his wife should be widowed and left to fend for herself. Of all his nightmares, that was the one which recurred most often and left him distraught, unrefreshed and emotionally drained in the morning.
Jeanne de Liddinstone, as she had been before marrying Baldwin, had been born to a moderately wealthy family, but when they had been murdered she had left to live with family in Bordeaux, only returning when she married Ralph de Liddinstone.
Sadly Ralph proved to be a brute. He took to abusing his wife when she couldn’t produce a child for him, and accused her of barrenness. Shortly before Baldwin first met her, Ralph died. A little while later, Baldwin married Jeanne. Now they had a daughter, Richalda.
He lifted the point of the blade so that the tip was in line with his arm, the point up-slanting, and then swivelled his body right, blocking an imaginary hack; with a flick of his wrist he moved the blade to point out to his right, and brought his fist across, the blade trailing, covering a thrust at his head. The sword’s point fell and he covered a series of attacks at his legs, always a vulnerable target, especially in this age of staffs and polearms, then began a series of defensive manoeuvres, first to cover his right flank, then his left. At the end of this, he was panting, and there was a fine sheen of sweat over his features, as well as what felt like a small snake of ice on his spine where the perspiration had soaked into his shirt.
The only parts of his body that felt hot were his forearms and his wound.
His breast was so damp, he pulled his shirt away suspiciously and stared down to where the foul, swollen pock mark stood so plainly, thinking for a moment that the damned thing was leaking once more. For the last two months it had seemed fairly well on the way to healing, but before Christmas every time he exercised it had wept a watery, unpleasant liquor, and even some little while after Candlemas it had bled just a little. It was enough to make a man concern himself over his health. Especially now that he had something to lose, Baldwin told himself.
The sun was quite high in the sky now, and Baldwin stood staring ahead. The hills of Dartmoor were licked with a bright orange-pink glow where the sun hit them, while the parts the sun could not reach were blue-grey, with small flecks of what looked like whiteness to show where the frost still lay thickly on the grasses. It was a perfect, marvellous sight to Baldwin, who had spent so many years abroad in hot countries which had no frost to stimulate them.
‘My husband? Are you training again?’
Baldwin narrowed his eyes and winced without turning at once. When he faced his wife, it was with an expression of bright cheerfulness. ‘My love! I had thought to leave you resting. I didn’t intend to wake you. I am sorry.’
‘Husband, do you mean you’ve only just risen?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ he said with apparent surprise.
‘Then you haven’t been out here long enough to work up a sweat?’
He recoiled from the questing hand that snaked towards his back, growling. ‘Woman, please leave my person. Treat an invalid with a little respect.’
‘So much of an invalid that you can stand out here in the frost and the freezing air?’
‘I was looking at the view,’ he protested.
‘With your sword in your hand,’ she said with innocent deliberation.
‘May I not keep anything secret from your suspicious mind?’
‘Husband,’ she said sweetly, ‘do I hound you for all your secrets? I have no need. You give them up so easily and unintentionally.’