To repay their debt, Baldwin and Edgar had willingly joined the Order, and they served it until its destruction. All through the dreadful years of despair and misery, the only man on whom Baldwin could count was Edgar, and even now his servant was the first to protect him and avenge any harm or dishonour which was brought upon his head.
Over the years Baldwin had suffered many injuries. He had the scars of lance-thrusts, of sword-slashes, a glancing axe-cut that could have removed his arm at the shoulder if it had struck straight, and three crossbow and arrow wounds, each of which could have killed him had he been a little less fortunate.
But fortunate he had been. He was a man whose life appeared to have been blessed so far. Especially since he had met his darling Jeanne.
‘Your wound, Sir Baldwin?’
There was a note of solicitousness in the knight’s voice as he asked the question that made Baldwin glance at him in surprise. ‘I shall be all right.’
He had never, to his knowledge, given Sir Peregrine any reason to think that he cared for the other knight’s companionship, let alone his friendship, but he knew that Sir Peregrine was a resolute man who would seek any potential allies in his determination to curb the powers wrested from the crown by the Despenser family. He had already lost his place at the side of his master, Lord Hugh de Courtenay, and would perhaps be prepared to lose his life in the fight, but Baldwin was not. He had seen the remains of those who had tried to best the King, and although he had no fear of death himself, he did fear the results of his death: the ruination of his wife and daughter, the despoiling of his manor, the destruction of his lands and the harm done to his peasants. There were too many people who depended upon him for him to willingly throw away his life. He felt the weight of his responsibilities.
‘I hope so, my friend.’
Baldwin grunted non-committally. ‘What have you heard of this man who wanders about at night?’ he asked, keen to keep the subject away from national politics.
‘Nothing. It is a new tale to me. A man who opens doors and shutters to peer in at sleeping children? It is hardly likely.’
‘There are some who desire the young and firm,’ Baldwin said tentatively. He had heard of many perversions in his time in the East. There were many there who felt that the sins of the flesh, which in England would be punished by castration or death, were not so important. They weighed less in the minds of people there. Men would lie with men, and sometimes with boys. It was a habit which had at first appalled him, but after a while he grew less intolerant. Such behaviour, although it repelled him personally, should not lead to a man’s execution. Even Pope Leo III had argued that occasional offenders should not be severely punished.
His own feelings were tempered by his experiences as a Templar. He had witnessed the humiliation of many hundreds of honourable, decent monks, their torture and ruin. Many had been accused of sodomy, and their bodies were broken to force their confessions. No, Baldwin could not believe that catamites were as evil as those who inflicted suffering upon the innocent.
Sir Peregrine had spoken and Baldwin had to force his mind to stop wandering. ‘I am sorry, sir?’
‘I said, if a man is guilty of such behaviour, surely he will soon be caught and killed. No one can really think to break into men’s houses and lasciviously eye their sons and daughters with impunity.’
‘No,’ Baldwin agreed.
‘I rather hope that foolish sergeant finds the man again.’
His hope was soon to be fulfilled.
Henry was present at the inquest when it was held, but for all the good it did anyone he might just as well have stayed away. That poor old bastard, Ham, had no one to talk for him. Just the same as any old sod in this city. They could go and hang themselves as far as the courts were concerned. What was the point of going to the courts to demand justice, when the Coroner would stand up there and listen to a bunch of arses telling the story the sergeant had paid them to tell? There was no fairness in a place like this.
He had no faith. Not now. His shoulder was as well healed as it ever would be, but the pain was something he had to cope with every day of his life. There was no escape for him. Just as there was none for Estmund. Est had lost his family, and trying to help him had cost Henry his livelihood and future, thanks to the shit Daniel, the man who’d nearly killed him and ruined his body.
Henry looked over at the sergeant.
Daniel stood leaning heavily on his staff like a man weary almost to death. To Henry’s mind he looked like someone who had slept only fitfully for many days. His eyes flitted from one face to another almost fearfully, and Henry suddenly had a sense of what the man’s life must be like: scared at all times in case a felon saw him as his natural prey and chose to attack him for no apparent reason. Constantly anxious, sleeping lightly so as to spring awake at the slightest disturbance. And now he had slaughtered poor Ham, and many here would not forget or forgive that. One lapse of temper had cost Daniel the trust of the people he was supposed to depend on for his authority.
Yes, he was scared. He started at every sound … soon he must go mad if he was going to continue like this.
So much the better. The bastard deserved death.
Hiding under her blanket, Cecily told herself she had never been scared by the man. Not really. And of course now, with that new board covering the old hole and splinter in the shutter, there was nothing to fear anyway. She was safe enough, and no need to be scared, not of the man, nor of dreams. They wouldn’t hurt her. No, Mother had said she wouldn’t have those dreams again.
The weather was changing again, and she felt the chill at her fingertips and toes. Seeking some comfort, she rolled over and cuddled Arthur. There was a muffled squeak from him when he felt her frozen hands, her cold knees, but he was too deeply asleep to complain loudly. He pushed at her half-heartedly, muttered a little in his sleep, but then simply moved away from her, leaving a warm cocoon where he had lain. Gratefully she snuggled into the conquered territory and closed her eyes again. Sleep soon took her.
When the sound came, she snapped awake in an instant, but was too anxious to turn and see what had made the noise, a strange scraping that seemed to come from the window. Now it was silent, and she was about to persuade herself that she had imagined it when she heard something again. This time it was a quiet slithering, a faint, ever so quiet squeak, like polished metal slipping against a smooth piece of burnished timber, and then there was a rough scraping like a blade rubbing on wood.
She felt the hair start to rise on her neck. Dread filled her heart and she wanted to scream until her father came to rescue her, but she remembered clearly how he had thrashed her the last time she woke him by playing in the chamber when he was trying to sleep. Even a ghost wouldn’t make her disturb him unnecessarily.
A rattle and a thud, and she slowly turned her head, feeling the flesh of her scalp start to move. The peg that stopped the bar had been pushed out again, and now she could see the wooden bar lift from its brackets.
Her breath was uncontrollable. Her ribs spasmed painfully and she found she was panting with terror, moving away from the window in the bed. She wanted to cover her head and face with the blankets and skins, but dared not. Petrified, she was too frightened to avert her gaze, torn between the horror of seeing what might enter and the equal dread of hiding and not seeing it.
The hinges squeaked as the shutter was pulled open, and she saw, or thought she saw, a dark figure in the opening. A man’s body clad in a black robe with a cowl over the head, the face hidden. He seemed to stare in, and then a leg appeared and was thrust inside.