It was a standing rule that all roads should have their verges cleared for a hundred feet on either side, and it was one of the duties of the Keeper of the King’s Peace in all jurisdictions to see that rule enforced, so that no one could make an ambush against another on the king’s highways, but this was not one of those fast, well-maintained roadways. Here in the middle of Devon, the roads tended to be thin, winding paths with hedges that stood so high on either side that on occasion a man couldn’t see over them. To Stephen, the whole idea of a track like this was anathema. He would prefer to walk by a footpath in the open, across fields and moors, than pass along a dangerous route like this, where a felon could drop a stone on his head at any moment.
Devon was one of those shires he had always tried to avoid. Down here in the wild western lands, everyone was truculent, suspicious and acquisitive, he had heard tell. It was said that civilisation ended at Exeter, and beyond that was a wilderness in which feral men squabbled and fought. Dear Christ in heaven, from all he had seen so far, it was easy to believe. This land looked about as cultivated as the Scottish marches, and the people as cultured as the poor churls living up there. Mean, ill favoured, the lot of them.
At least they appeared to be dressed. One messenger had told him that the folk about here were all so backward that they had no concept of clothing. But that was one of the hazards of asking another messenger about an area: it was impossible to tell whether the stories were true or not. Often a man would take pleasure in giving tales of strange, abnormal folk, so that all the advice must be taken with a large pinch of salt. The idea of a messenger needing to have accurate information about the places he must pass through, as well as his destination, was not new, but in the court, men had grown more and more frivolous over the years.
Not that all were persuaded to humour now. Many were looking more to their own protection and safety. The intrigues at the king’s court were growing ever more hazardous to a man. There was always the risk that a joke played on another could have repercussions that couldn’t be spotted. One man, so Stephen had heard, had been told that a wood was a safe passage, only to be captured and hanged in quick succession. The man who had told him of that path had been taken there and hanged alongside his companion. That was a joke that had seriously backfired.
He was fairly sure that here he would be safe, though. He had escaped from Exeter, which was itself a relief. The sheriff was out of the city, but Stephen had been able to deliver his messages and beg a space on the floor for the night, after some prevarication. No strangers were welcomed any more. There were too many rumours of the king’s spies — or, rather, Despenser’s.
Stephen shivered. Sir Hugh le Despenser was growing ever more wild in his behaviour — more erratic. There was a strange look in his eyes that seemed to show that he was becoming more and more divorced from reality. He was less cautious, more extravagant in every way. Not too many people would see that side of him, perhaps, but little was ever hidden from the messengers. They had contact with the king and his advisers at all times. Stephen was a messenger for Sir Hugh as often as for the king. And he was sure that Despenser was losing control.
The road was winding gently now, the hedges less tall. They appeared stunted. Stephen had seen bushes and trees like this before, especially up north, when he had travelled up to the colder lands near the Scottish. Yes, this was much like those damned, accursed marches. Just like there, the wind here seemed to scour the vegetation, often blighting one side or another, and forcing trees to bend away from the cold blast, turning them into tortured shapes. Now, looking to the south, Stephen could see over the hedges all the way to rounded hills in the distance, hills without any apparent trees. They were only moor and waste, and he thought that they must be the king’s forest of Dartmoor. He hadn’t expected them to be so vast, nor so deserted. Nor so repellent.
‘Hold, rider!’
Swearing aloud, at the man and at himself, Stephen struggled to control his rounsey, which had reared up at the voice.
‘I am a king’s messenger,’ he shouted, pulling at the reins and trying to stop the plunging motion. ‘Sweet Mother of Christ, couldn’t you warn a man before shouting?’
‘Ah, but if we did that, you might not wait to talk to us, might you?’
Stephen brought the beast under control, and could at last pay attention to the men. ‘Who are you?’
Before him stood a man with a badly scarred face. His hair was grizzled, his beard more salt than pepper, and his left eye bright with intelligence. He looked as though he had been hit in the face with a sword: his nose was slashed, the line of the blade passing through an eye that was now gone, and cutting a notch in his right eye socket. He stood in front of Stephen’s horse, a sword in his own fist, smiling with a calm, easy malevolence. ‘Get off the horse.’
‘Be damned to you! Didn’t you hear me? I’m a king’s messenger!’ Stephen blustered.
‘A pox on you! I didn’t ask what you were, I told you to get down!’ the man bellowed, and spat into the road. ‘Let’s see if you have any money on you, king’s messenger.’
Turning, Stephen saw to his dismay that there was another pair of men behind him. Glancing about, he saw two on his left and another on his right as well. Six of them. There was little chance of escaping these outlaws, because that was clearly what they were. ‘You had best not assault me,’ he tried. ‘I have urgent messages from Sir Hugh le Despenser for Sir Robert of Traci.’
With that the man in the road gave a short bow. ‘Oh, in that case, I must be more careful! Come, let us take you to him, master. Sir Robert de Traci is our lord.’
Chapter Eight
Furnshill, near Cadbury
Baldwin whistled to his dog as he reached the turn-off in the road towards his house. Wolf had been sniffing at a badger’s sett, but as soon as he heard his master, he relinquished the scent and hurried to catch up.
Looking about him, Baldwin was satisfied. It was good to see that the estates had not been allowed to sink into disrepair while he had been away. But it was more than that. He had to sit on his horse and study the landscape, drinking in the picture, as though by doing so he could fix it in his mind and his life for all time.
He loved this place. It was many years ago that he had been born here, and in those days he never thought he would own it for himself. His older brother would naturally inherit. That was why he had chosen to leave the country and travel to the Holy Land to try to protect it against the onslaught of the massive armies that opposed it. He arrived in Acre just in time to be injured in the last, tragic days of the city. Also hurt was Edgar, the man who later, with Baldwin, joined the Knights Templar in order to try to repay the debt both felt for having their lives saved. Both had remained in the order until the very end. When the arrests had taken place, both happened to be out of their preceptory, and evaded capture. Later, they had made their way back to England, and Baldwin learned that only a short time earlier, his brother had died in a riding accident, and so he could return as the owner of Furnshill rather than a mere supplicant begging alms from his brother.
‘Come on, fellow,’ he called quietly, and trotted over the front pasture to his house.
There was a man over at the western edge of the house when Baldwin arrived. He looked at Baldwin, blinked, and then scurried off in a hurry.
Baldwin smiled to himself and dropped from his horse, relieved to think that he would not have to set his backside on a saddle for a long journey any time soon. So many days he had spent sitting on a horse in the last year, he felt as though his arse had been remoulded to fit the leatherwork.
He was just tying the horse’s reins to a ring in the wall when he heard her running.