It was a day he had anticipated with keen delight for five months, ever since he and Jeanne had become handfast, shaking hands on their engagement in the presence of Simon and his wife. Now he had almost completed the Church’s rituals. There was only the blessing of the bridal chamber to come. Then he and his wife could dispense with any further nonsense and get on with their lives together.
As he thought this, he caught sight of Jeanne’s face. She was just leaving the shade of the building, and as the spring sun caught her features she was suffused in a golden glow. He felt his heart lurch. He had been a soldier, a Templar, then a wandering outcast, almost an outlaw, before returning home to his lonely bachelor existence, and to know that this wonderful, attractive and intelligent woman had accepted him as her husband gave him an intense pang, almost of pain.
With that thought he stepped into the sun, and felt a thrill of pure pleasure as he saw her gasp with delight. This was a touch of his own. That morning he had made sure that Edgar sent the children to his garden. Now there was a soft rain of rose petals thrown by four of his workers’ cleaner children. Seeing his wife’s expression, Baldwin knew his efforts had been well-spent. He fumbled for coins and tossed them as the shower began to falter.
‘My Lady?’
Jeanne accepted his hand and they made their stately way down the church’s yard. At the cart, Baldwin saw his servant. He gave Edgar a smile, and nodded towards the gate. To his surprise, Edgar appeared to ignore him. Baldwin assumed the man had missed his instruction. ‘Edgar, open the gate for Lady Jeanne.’
‘Sir.’
Edgar sprang quickly from the cart, marching before Baldwin and his wife. The knight followed, he and Jeanne walking more sedately, but when they were almost at the gate there was a sudden uproar as people began to guffaw, and Baldwin spun round glaring, thinking they were laughing at him or his wife.
Instead he found himself confronted with the sight of Hugh trying to support Wat. The servant gave a weak smile, hitching Wat’s arm over the wagon’s wheel and leaning back nonchalantly, but even as he looked away casually, as if unaware that anything was amiss, his arm had to shoot out to catch the sliding Wat, hauling him back upright by the scruff of his neck.
Baldwin pursed his lips. The boy’s drunkenness was an insult to his wife. He opened his mouth to bellow, but before he could, he felt Jeanne’s hand on his arm.
‘Edgar,’ she said sweetly, ‘perhaps you could help the cattleman’s boy? He seems to have some form of food poisoning.’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘And ensure that he is given a good wash at the church trough while everyone is still here, would you? I’d not like to think he might be dirty when he joined our celebration. See to his washing yourself, would you?’
Edgar clenched his jaw. Her meaning was all too clear: he was the steward, so he was responsible for the cattleman’s lad and he must join in the indignity of publicly washing the brat. He rejoined Hugh and the two half-dragged, half-carried Wat to the trough, while guests and villeins bellowed their delight.
Baldwin took his wife’s arm and they walked through the gate. Here his present stood waiting. For a second Jeanne didn’t notice, but then she gasped.
The pure white Arab mare stood quietly under the tree, the new saddle and harness gleaming. Her coat shone like snow under bright sunlight, and the gold chasing on the leatherwork was almost painful to look at, it was so bright. As she moved, bells fixed to stirrups and bridle tinkled musically.
‘Baldwin, your mare…’
‘Not mine any longer, my love. It is customary to give one’s leman a gift on the day of marriage. I give you this horse. I hope you will find her as much of a pleasure to ride as I have myself.’
Jeanne smiled, her hand already on the bridle. For a moment her eyes filled with tears, she was so happy, and she had to blink them away. Then she touched her husband’s cheek and kissed him again while the guests roared and cheered behind them. She accepted his aid to mount the mare, and sat proudly in the saddle, her tunic awry, her skirts rucked up, while Baldwin took the reins and walked his bride back to his manor.
It was quite alarming how Petronilla had altered since the squire’s death, Daniel thought.
He was standing in the screens, leaving his poor mistress in the hands of Anney, much though it grieved him to quit her side in her present state. When the poor woman was so desolate, Daniel felt he should be with her.
Petronilla kept on weeping when she was alone. The silly chit appeared to have been dreadfully affected by the way that the squire had so suddenly been taken from them, and quite often when Daniel saw her in the dairy or buttery, he noted her raw, red eyes. Of course it was only right and proper that a serf should miss her master and that she should mourn his loss, but Daniel found himself wondering; Petronilla had looked so bonny just before the squire’s death, with her glowing cheeks and fresh complexion.
He sighed and walked to the door, standing on the threshold. Outside in the yard he saw Petronilla herself, talking to the priest. Even as Daniel appeared in the doorway, she bent and kissed Stephen’s ringed finger while he made the sign of the cross over her head.
That was another thing. The girl had taken to speaking to Stephen regularly since the master had gone. She always appeared to be near him, confessing sins or some such – surely she didn’t have that many guilty secrets?
But Daniel had other matters to concern him. It had occurred to him that the bailiff couldn’t have known about Edmund’s imminent eviction or his return to servile status.
Daniel realised perfectly well how the bailiff would have viewed the whole affair: a man falling from his horse and his son dying shortly afterwards. The first was all too common with men of the squire’s age; the second was surely only a sad accident. But Daniel knew something that the bailiff didn’t: he knew about Edmund.
Chapter Nine
Sir Baldwin eyed the plates on the table before him with mistrust. He had long ago given up eating rich foods, preferring simpler fare, but now, at his wedding feast, he had been presented with as complex a mix of pounded, mashed, coloured and spiced dishes as could be found in any palace to satisfy the jaded palate of a royal courtier.
Before him, bowls brimmed with concoctions of the wildest colours: purples, reds, oranges, greens, and some with different mixtures, like the odd-looking dish near his left hand that was quartered white, yellow, green and black. The sight made Baldwin swallow nervously, aware that he would probably have a troubled stomach the next morning.
It was a relief to be able to recognise common foods. To the side of his salt was a dish of roasted thrushes, and beside that, some ‘mawmenny’ – ground mutton in a wine-based gravy, thickened with the minced meat of a fowl and almonds, flavoured with cloves and sugar, and coloured with red dye. There was a plate of blancmange, too: an appetising mixture of veal, pounded and minced, boiled with sweetened almond milk and seasoned with sugar, salt and pepper.
The custard pies were more complex. He had seen them being made: tiny shreds of veal boiled in wine, with sage, savory, hyssop, pepper, cinnamon, cloves, mace, and other strong spices and herbs, the whole thickened with eggs before having dates, ginger and verjuice added. The final operation involved pouring the mixture into the small pastry cases, somewhat inelegantly called ‘coffins’, and cooking it.
It sometimes seemed to the knight that the whole basis of the art of cooking for a feast was to disguise even the simplest of foods by adulterating it with so many herbs or spices that the taste buds rebelled. He watched the stuffed capons being marched to his table with a sense of relief. At least there was little the greasy, rotund tyrant of the kitchen could do to a good, plain fowl, he thought.