It wasn’t the first time he had hit her, and it wouldn’t be the last, she knew. Blinking tears away, she caught a glimpse of movement and shortly afterwards saw five men on horseback trotting round the bend in the road. Although she recognised Daniel, the manor’s steward, out in front, the other four were unknown to Christiana.
However, the men all had that grave, stern appearance which boded ill to a poor serf, and she felt her heart lurch within her breast. Her feelings toward Edmund would never return to the old level of affection, but if he was in trouble, she would be alone and unprotected: she would not be able to look after Molly and Jordan on her own. Slowly, she crept outside into the yard again, moving cautiously so as not to alert Edmund to her disobedience.
Baldwin motioned with his hand, and at his signal Edgar and Hugh stopped their horses while he approached the house with Simon and Daniel.
‘Godspeed, sirs,’ Edmund offered tentatively as the men reined in, lowering his axe.
The knight studied him. Edmund was one of a type he had found in towns and villages all over Christendom. He was a hard man, formed by the climate of the moors, weathered and beaten like the moorstone itself. His face was prematurely old, with cracks tracing paths all over it, each etched deeply by sun, wind and rain. His back was bowed with the struggle to produce food in a harsh, inclement land. Sparse brown hair framed his saturnine features, and although his beard was thick, dappled with reddish patches, his pate was bald, the flesh showing oddly pale compared with his face.
But it was not only his outward appearance that was so familiar to the knight. The man’s face held a kind of unfocused anger and bitterness. It was as if he knew that anyone he might meet was naturally formed to be an enemy, and that enemy would in the end destroy him. It was a look Baldwin had seen on the faces of men and women all over the world when confronted with their lords and rightful masters. His appearance was not improved by his flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes -proof, if Baldwin had needed any, that the man was drunk.
The knight looked about him at the little yard where this farmer tried to make his living. Before the house was a small plot, criss-crossed with narrow paths, where Edmund grew a sparse collection of weedy vegetables. This early in the year there was not much to show; only a few young bean and pea plants dared raise their heads above the soil, and a couple of cabbages, survivors of the previous year, with the inevitable worm-holes drilled through. The garlic had thrived during the freezing winter, and frail little stems were poking through the mud. His attention moved on. He could recognise the herbs set out further on: hyssop, marjoram, thyme, camomile and rue among others, and all appeared to be growing well in the fresh spring sun.
At the side of the house was a well, with a barn behind, and Baldwin could see the rails which had once contained a pig. Now there was neither sight nor sound of an animal, and the knight was struck with a sense of dilapidation and decay. It made him frown. If this had been one of his own tenants, he would have seen to it that Edgar had spoken to the man, telling him to pull himself together. People who suffered from misfortune were the responsibility of the parish, and the congregation would often look after them, but the village could only be expected to help those who tried their best. There was no reason for people to put themselves out and give up their own hard-earned food for the indolent or foolish.
There was a muted clucking from the opposite end of the house, and Baldwin saw the woman. She was standing under the eaves, her frightened gaze flying from one man to another, and then back to her husband. Baldwin had never seen her before, but her pinched, grey features and scrawny figure told him much. The large bruise at her chin told him even more -and any sympathy for the serf in front of him dissipated. The recently married knight had no time for a man who beat his wife.
‘Why do you keep on at me, Daniel?’ the farmer was whining. ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’
Baldwin saw Simon kick his horse forward. The bailiff cleared his throat. ‘You know your master, Squire Herbert, has died?’
‘Of course I do! Everyone knows he’s dead – the poor lad.’
‘And do you know how he died?’
Edmund shrugged. ‘I heard he was found at the side of the road. I suppose he was hit by a man on a horse or something.’
‘And what if he was hit by a man on a cart?’
‘It’s all the same, sir,’ the farmer said, but he looked pale, as if the blood had fled from his face. Baldwin wasn’t sure if Simon noticed, but the woman gave a start as if from fear.
Meanwhile Simon continued, his voice level and grave, his face impassive. ‘Where were you on that day?’
‘Me, sir? I was here.’
‘That’s a lie!’ snapped Daniel. ‘I saw you on your cart that afternoon. Where had you been?’
‘I didn’t kill the lad.’
‘I didn’t say you did – but the fact you make that connection is suspicious in its own right,’ the steward stated deliberately.
Baldwin watched the farmer. He was obviously very scared, but who wouldn’t be? Daniel was the sole representative of the power of the man’s master. The knight raised his hand to silence the steward, and dropped from his horse. ‘Can you fetch me a little ale or something else to drink?’
Edmund looked surprised, but nodded and shouted over his shoulder to Christiana before ungraciously motioning towards the log. ‘You wish to sit?’ he asked, letting his axe fall to the ground.
Looking at the mossy lump, Baldwin gave a thin smile and shook his head. ‘No, I am happy to stand, thank you.’
Christiana soon came out with an ale jug, a cheap pottery drinking horn and a stack of pots resting on a wooden plank. Lifting her makeshift tray, she offered Baldwin the horn.
The ale was good, he noted with relief. He had regretted his demand almost as soon as he had opened his mouth. Sometimes the ales brewed by poorer wives were utterly undrinkable; the dreadful quality of the grains and the rank herbs they used to try to stop the brew going off conspired to produce a sour beverage which only a fool or a man half-dead from thirst could have desired. This was a good, sweet ale with a malty flavour. ‘It is excellent,’ he congratulated her, and saw the nervous duck of her head at his appreciative comment. With an anxious glance at her husband, she darted off to offer drinks to Simon and Daniel.
‘So it should be,’ the farmer grunted. ‘I don’t see why I should have to drink an unhealthy brew’
Baldwin nodded coldly. As she poured his ale, he had been close enough to observe the bruise on Christiana’s chin, and noted that it was only one of several marks and blemishes on her face. Her husband had taken to beating her regularly – the proof of a bully. The knight was disgusted by the man.
He returned to the subject. ‘When the young Squire Herbert died, you were out on your cart. He died late in the afternoon, and you were seen at about that time, riding along the road where his body was found. Where had you been?’
To Simon, still on his horse, it looked as though the farmer was going to deny that he had been out, but Baldwin lifted his hand, and the farmer looked into his eyes. All at once, his gaze dropped, as if in shame, and he nodded.
‘I was out to Oakhampton, selling some stuff at the market.’
Simon drained his pot and lifted himself from his saddle. As Christiana passed, he touched her shoulder and refilled his pot from her jug before leaning on his horse’s withers.
His friend was watching the farmer intently. ‘You had ale when your business was done?’
‘Of course I did! It was a warm day. I only had the two quarts.’
‘Why were you there?’ Simon interrupted.