He was a small, dapper man, clad in a thick woollen tunic with a heavy, fur-lined cloak against the chill he obviously felt. The fire was roaring, and Simon could see that Sir Richard felt uncomfortably warm after the cool of the evening air. It was not only him. Simon himself felt rather like a candle left too close to a flame, as though he might at any moment melt and topple to the ground.
Cardinal de Fargis had kindly eyes, Simon thought, unlike so many other men of power and wealth. They were dark brown and intelligent, and like Abbot Champeaux, of blessed memory, he had a way of smiling with them that was entirely irresistible. It was a pleasant change to find a senior churchman who wasn’t peering with shortsightedness, too, Simon felt. The cardinal seemed relaxed, calm and at his ease in their company.
‘I am very glad to meet you at last, Master Puttock.’
‘It is my pleasure, Cardinal.’
‘And yet I understand that this house is a sad … um … the word is memory?’
‘Yes, it is sad that I have lost it, but that is nothing to do with you, Cardinal. For my part, I have only good memories of this house. I was very happy here.’
‘And I believe you used to be a stannary bailiff? Yes?’
‘Well, yes. I was a bailiff on the moors,’ he admitted. He would have liked to glance at Sir Richard, but that could have been considered rude. Any lord would expect an inferior to keep his eyes fixed on him.
‘I think I have need of your assistance,’ the cardinal said. He eyed Simon over the brim of his goblet, and gradually a smile warmed his face. ‘There are some very sad events at the abbey.’
‘I don’t know that I can help with that,’ Simon said. ‘Both men are rather displeased with me.’
‘So I have heard. You would seem to be most even handed with your enemies,’ the cardinal said.
The problems at Tavistock Abbey had begun with the death of Robert Champeaux, the last abbot. The brotherhood of monks had held an election to choose their new abbot. There were two contenders. Robert Busse was chosen by the majority, but John de Courtenay, one of the baronial family of Devon, deprecated the result, and made a series of wild allegations against Robert. Simon had been involved with Robert Busse shortly after John had begun his attacks, and had been horrified to learn that Robert had made use of a necromancer in Exeter to try to influence matters to his own benefit. Not only that; there were also allegations that plate and money had been taken from the abbey. And so, to settle the dispute, the pope had finally decided to send a negotiator to listen to the evidence of both sides and attempt to make peace between the brothers. And if that failed, to knock their heads together.
‘I have much still to do,’ the cardinal continued. ‘And yet there is more. There are troubles on the moors and about the area. Men are taking advantage of the abbey’s weakness in this period of interregnum. I need more men to control the moors.’
‘I would be happy to do that,’ Simon said, ‘but I fear it is impossible for me now.’
‘How impossible?’
‘I have no house here. This was mine, but now, as soon as you leave, it will revert to Sir Hugh le Despenser, and he will take it over. He is no friend to me.’
‘The abbey can provide you with a home.’
‘I have a wife and children. It is better for me that I remain in my own house, where I can be with them,’ Simon said firmly.
The cardinal made some more attempts to persuade him, but after their third cup of wine, he admitted defeat. ‘It is a great pity, though. The land is growing ever more restless.’
‘I know. Only five years ago it was quieter, even though there had been the famine and the little wars up and down the country. I have never seen the sort of outbreaks of violence that there have been recently.’
‘Yes? And what have you seen, Bailiff?’
Simon noticed that he used his old title again, but chose to ignore it. ‘Only on the way here we found one poor man who had been slain at the roadside. And the coroner, Sir Peregrine, told us of another, a reeve — which is all the worse because he was investigating an attack and murders on the road near Jacobstowe.’
‘Attack and murders, you say?’ the cardinal asked. ‘How many died?’
‘He said nineteen. There was one man who may have been in Holy Orders, and a number of others. They had been robbed of a series of carts and horses, and their bodies cast to the ground and left.’
The cardinal was frowning. ‘Did he say how long ago this was?’
‘I think he said it was two weeks ago or so. Why, do you think you may know them? I know the coroner would be glad to hear from any man who might know who these fellows were. There was nothing on their bodies or nearby to say who they could have been.’
‘It was two weeks ago that a man of mine was sent to London with a chest of money. It was the payment to the king for the period while the abbey was in a state of voidance. Abbot Champeaux was very foresighted, you understand, and purchased the right of the abbey to manage its own affairs when he died.’
‘So what was the money for?’
‘Your king is a skilful negotiator himself,’ the cardinal said musingly. ‘He sold the management during voidance for a hundred marks. That was ten years ago, on the thirtieth anniversary of Abbot Champeaux’s appointment. But within the contract it was agreed that for every vacancy of forty days or fewer, the abbey must pay forty pounds to the king. And if longer, it must pay a proportionate amount, up to one hundred pounds in every year.’
Sir Richard whistled. ‘A hundred pounds a year?’
‘This was the first hundred pounds.’ Cardinal de Fargis nodded. He looked at Simon. ‘That was what my servant Pietro de Torrino was transporting. With him was Brother Anselm from Tavistock, and eight archers with two mounted men-at-arms. So you see, I would like to know if the dead man was he.’
Fourth Sunday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
Furnshill
Sir Baldwin and his wife had enjoyed a pleasant ride to and from the little chapel where they prayed, which was more than Baldwin could say for the sermon preached by the priest.
He was a new incumbent, this young vicar. Apparently he was the son of a moderately wealthy squire somewhere up in Somerset, and had been sent here to work for a fee when the previous man had been given some other churches and could afford to leave this little parish. It was a shame, because Baldwin had rather liked him. This fellow was an insipid little man, pale and unwholesome-looking. He had a great hooked nose set in a narrow face, which made him look rather like a hawk. But not so powerful. Rather, Baldwin thought his nostrils would be constantly dripping.
‘He was only speaking as he thought right,’ Jeanne said defensively.
‘He was speaking as a fool,’ Baldwin said. ‘How could any man stand there and say that the Templars were evil and proof of God’s enemies on earth?’
‘He knew no better.’
‘I could teach the fool.’
Baldwin, once a Templar, and devoted to his order, was insulted when others spoke of it in a derogatory manner, but the priest this morning had gone much further. He had said that the Templars were all so evil that they should have been destroyed utterly. The thrust of his comments was that the whole of Christendom was in turmoil because of a small number of cruel and dishonourable men, such as the Templars. If all the good men in a Christian community were to do nothing and leave the evil-doers to work unhindered, such behaviour would lead to robbery, murder and war. And then God would grow despondent and seek to punish the world. So unless people became more careful of their responsibilities, and tried to serve God, He might decide to send another famine, or a plague, or a flood.
‘All because of the Templars, he said! The cretin!’
Jeanne knew that Baldwin’s mood would soon pass. He was not a man who could dwell on the incompetence or stupidity of others for long. He knew how foolish men could be, and preferred to look beyond them to other men, of intelligence.