It was not that the town was easy to get to. For the most part the roads were poor, although Antonio thought they all were in this benighted kingdom. It could hardly be the climate, for though it had been warm and pleasant enough today he knew that here, near what had been the King’s forest of Dartmoor, the weather was apt to change in minutes from sunny and bright to gloomy, wet and miserable.
Antonio turned from the view and walked back to the table, resignedly pouring himself a large mug of ale. He disliked the weak and chilling, belly-filling flavored water the English peasants lived on. The Abbot, he knew, kept a good cellar of wine, but that was for his own use, and though the Abbey had a duty to provide hospitality to travellers, the Abbot had no compunction charging his guests for the wine they drank. It was a sign of parsimoniousness that rankled with the Venetian. His money was tight enough as it was. He preferred to force himself to consume this unwelcome brew while dreaming of the strong red wines of Guyenne.
Abbot Champeaux was an odd fellow, he thought. Seemingly genial, he had a hard streak when it came to business. Antonio had hoped that his offer would have been taken up faster than this, and that he might have been away from here within a day or two. Instead it appeared that the other man needed time to consider his proposals. All it entailed was a monopoly on wool for three years, which was hardly a great period, and his offer of cheap loans should have made the Abbot snap up the offer.
Antonio hoped that the deal would go through. He needed the money that the wool would bring, especially after the fiasco in Bayonne where they had been chased out by a horde of angry townspeople. The resulting chase had almost cost them their lives. Luckily Luke had thought to cut the reins of the pack-horse, and without the slow beast to hold them back they had evaded capture. Not that Antonio had thanked his servant. It had been his duty to save the goods. Still, there was no getting away from the fact that when a knight, three squires, and two men-at-arms were thundering after you, it was better to cut the traces and one’s losses to stay alive.
He looked up at the sound of a door opening and shutting. After a few moments, he heard the light step of his son, the heavier tread of Luke.
“You deigned to return, then? How kind of you. Perhaps you would like me to kill the fatted calf?”
His sarcasm had no effect on the good humor of his son. “Father, you may be irritated, but I have had a pleasant evening and I will not allow you to spoil it. Come and pour ale, Luke. My father needs something for his digestion.”
“No, we’re due with the Abbot, and we’re already late. You can drink when we are with him. At least there we’ll get good wine, instead of this muck.”
He scowlingly pulled on an over tunic and coat, giving his son’s attire a swift appraisal. Pietro had dressed well for his girl. He wore tight hose under his shirt and short tunic, and his best fur-lined cloak: he would do for their host. “Come along, then. I don’t want to see the Abbot upset because of your lateness.”
They crossed the Great Court, past the stables and storerooms, past the sties and kennels, and entered the Kitchen Court. Walking through it, they came to the prayle-the yard before the Abbot’s lodging, where he kept a small orchard and garden, secluded from the busyness of the Great Court, in which he could sit in peaceful contemplation.
The Abbot’s hall was in a building that formed a part of the Abbey’s main perimeter wall. They entered and ascended the stairs to his rooms, following behind an elderly servant.
“My apologies, Father,” Antonio said as the door swung open. “My son forgot the time, and has only now returned. I trust we have not delayed your meal?”
“Not at all, not at all. Please, come in and take some wine with us.”
While the wine was poured, Antonio surreptitiously kept an eye on the others. The bailiff, he knew, was married to the blonde woman, but the knight appeared to be paying great attention to the widow. Antonio stored the information for future use. It was always best, as an international trader and merchant, to log any points that could be of interest. If he was questioned, as he often was, about who knew whom and whether they were friendly toward each other, tiny snippets as to who was wooing which lady could be useful. Dealing with officers of kings he always found distasteful, but sometimes giving away gossipy items about people as a spy was the only way to avoid the more penal rates of tax. And sometimes information like this was useful locally; after all, any lord in the area could have an interest in someone as important as the Keeper of the King’s Peace.
The servants were seated at a second table nearer the door. He saw Pietro frown as a monk entered with the knight’s servant, Edgar, who stood surveying the room before walking to his own place between Peter and Hugh.
At his own table, the Abbot sat to one side, giving pride of place to Baldwin, his most important ranking guest. Antonio and his son took their seats near Baldwin, next to Simon and Margaret, while Jeanne was placed beside Baldwin at Abbot Robert’s insistence.
Jeanne gave a bright smile of apparent pleasure as the Abbot helped her to her seat, but in her heart she would have been happier to curse him. Champeaux’s motives were transparent, and she didn’t want a new husband yet.
It was not that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was unattractive. While he was chuckling at a quip from Margaret, she took the opportunity to study his profile. He was quite comely, she thought-a strange mix of Norman and Celtic, with his swarthy skin and dark hair. The scar on his cheek gave him a reckless, devil-may-care air, though she was sure it didn’t reflect his nature. He appeared too solid and considerate. From the short conversations she had held with him, it was obvious that he was concerned for those poorer than himself, although his reticence about the Church was curious to her. She didn’t know he had been a Templar, and since the destruction of his Order had held the Pope and his cardinals in low regard.
It was a pity, she felt, that she had not met Sir Baldwin before and got to know him. Now, under the gaze of so many others, especially the bailiff’s wife, she felt as if she was being forced into a courtship for which she wasn’t ready.
The bowl arrived, and she dipped her hands in it, taking the towel and drying them. Afterward she caught Baldwin’s eye, and saw that he was nervous, too. Jeanne was offended. What reason did he have to be nervous? The man should have found her perfectly desirable; she wasn’t too old for him, surely? That Baldwin might be experiencing similar qualms as herself made Jeanne quite annoyed-and then she saw him give a quizzical look, and almost laughed out loud as she recognized the irony.
Their predicament was largely due to the matchmaking zeal of Margaret and the Abbot. Their attempts at subtlety were a farce, Jeanne thought without rancor. They were trying, no doubt to help their friends find happiness, though how curious it was that they should think they knew the key to other people’s contentment.
As if by agreement, both chose not to speak to the other. It was not a conscious decision on either side, more a reaction to the air of anticipation in which they were watched.
Margaret noticed the apparent coldness between the two. During the course of the meal she had seen that Baldwin and his elegant neighbor spoke little if at all, and she felt a growing frustration that her hopes might be thwarted, for she was keen to see him marry someone who could provide him with company and children, and this was the first woman in whom he had displayed any interest. That they should suddenly have developed a frostiness was worrying. She cast a quick look at her husband to see whether he had also noticed, but he was talking to Antonio. She heard the Venetian say: