It was the latter which entranced him. Whereas Simon would admire a pretty woman, or sigh with contentment at the taste of a good wine, Andrew knew no pleasure other than forming perfect, identical figures. His numerals were regular in size and position, the addition always without fault, yet he strove constantly to improve. Simon could read and write, after his education at Crediton with the canons, but he saw these skills as means to an end. Records must be kept, and the only effective manner to store records was on rolls. But Simon didn’t like the idea of spending his entire life trying to make his letter ‘a’ more beautiful. If it was legible, that was enough. No, Simon was happier out in the open than sitting here in this draughty, smoke-filled cell with this pasty-faced, rotund clerk with his reeds and his inks.
‘This weather is nothing,’ Simon responded shortly, and then felt a wave of guilt wash over him at the hurt in Andrew’s eyes. The man was only doing his best to be sociable, yet Simon snapped at him like a drunkard kicking a puppy. Andrew was necessary, and he was going to remain with him whether Simon liked it or not.
He was silent a moment, seeking some means of repairing the damage, but then, irritable with himself, he knew he couldn’t. There wasn’t the understanding in him to be able to make Andrew a friend. He was a servant, nothing more. Simon beckoned the clerk and led the way outside and down to the harbour itself, all the way cursing his miserable fate in being sent here.
What really stuck in his craw was the fact that he was only here because his master had wanted to reward him.
Lady Jeanne de Furnshill was stoic when her husband announced that he was going to have to leave again. ‘It hardly feels as though you have been home at all, my love,’ she said quietly. ‘Richalda shall miss you. As shall I.’
‘Yes, well, I suppose it is a part of the duty of a knight in the King’s service,’ Baldwin said shortly. He looked at her and smiled with as much sincerity as he could manage. ‘My love, I will be home before long.’
‘I understand,’ Jeanne said, with complete honesty and a simultaneous shrivelling sensation inside her breast. She’d known the loss of love before, and now she was to face it again. Perhaps it was something wrong with her?
Her first husband had been a brute and bully; convinced that she was barren, his love for her turned into loathing, and with that, he started to beat her regularly. At the time, Jeanne had sworn to herself that she would never tolerate another husband who raised his fist to her. Of course, Baldwin had not shown any indication that he could do so yet there was a new coldness in his manner towards her, and she was sure that his love for her was fled.
Her sense of unease had been growing, and was confirmed when she joked about his interest in the pretty young peasant girl. His surly response then had shocked her, and she knew that things were no longer the same.
Rationally, she knew that ‘love’ was a commodity which was greatly overrated. A man like Baldwin would naturally find his feelings withering over time. It was perfectly normal for a man to seek younger, more exciting women when he had an opportunity. That was presumably the reason for his need to go to Exeter.
Yes, rationally she knew all this, and yet … she had thought that her man was different. She’d thought he still loved her.
He had only been home a matter of a few weeks. Before then, he and his friend Simon Puttock had been on a pilgrimage, during which they had encountered more dangers than Jeanne could have dreamed of. She had expected risks from sailing, from footpads, from the occasional burst of foul weather, but not all three — plus fevers, shipwreck and pirates as well.
When Baldwin returned, she felt as though her soul had been renewed, as if she had been waiting with her life suspended in his absence. She had missed him terribly, and when he walked in through their door, she threw down the tapestry on which she had been working, and hurled herself at him. She saw his eyes widen in surprise, then he staggered backwards as she thumped into him.
That evening had been wonderful. It was all but impossible to realise that he was truly home again, that she had him all to herself. He looked so happy, so brown, healthy, warm, kind and content, especially when he saw his daughter again, that Jeanne was entirely free from anxiety. Her man was home and she still possessed his love. There was nothing more that she desired. Nothing she could desire.
And yet soon afterwards, within a day or two, she grew aware of a reticence on his part, and that distance had gradually grown into a gulf. The man whom she loved and with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life had slipped away somewhere.
She felt as though her heart would break.
Joel was in his workroom when Mabilla came storming in.
‘Joel!’ she burst out, her face red and tear-stained. ‘Was it you? Did you kill him just to stop him suing you?’
‘Eh? Wha-?’ He was in the process of cramping blocks of wood together in the tricky form of a war-saddle, where the seat rested some inches above the horse. Her sudden eruption into his workshop was an instant disaster. The second block fell from his hands, and the glued edges, gleaming nicely, fell into the grit and sawdust that lay all about on the floor.
‘Now Mabilla, what is the matter?’ he asked with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Oi, you lads, get that wood up and clean it outside. Go on, you nosy gits! Leave me and the lady alone. Vince, get a damned move on!’
‘Henry — did you kill him? Who else could have done it! Oh God, what will become of us?’
Joel saw her red eyes and the trickle of moisture that trailed down both cheeks. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Mabilla? I don’t understand.’
‘Why was he left there, in the chapel?’
Joel bellowed for his apprentice to bring strong wine, and then spoke softly to her. ‘Look, Mabilla, I’ve heard about Henry. I was going to come and see you and give you my condolences as soon as I could. I know his death was a terrible shock — I can scarcely comprehend it myself — but I had nothing to do with it! He was my friend, for God’s sake! One row couldn’t turn us into enemies. Look, I was here all night — you can ask the apprentices if you don’t believe me. I didn’t leave the shop once.’
‘You swear? I thought, because he threatened litigation …’
‘It wasn’t me,’ Joel repeated.
‘Who else could have killed him?’ She turned her bloodshot eyes to him. ‘Joel, you were his oldest friend, please help me! I don’t know who to trust. Oh God, can I trust anyone!’
She was staring about her as though expecting an assassin to leap upon her at any moment. When Joel moved to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, she recoiled as though from a red-hot brand, and he lifted his hand away at the last moment, not actually touching her. She looked like a fawn startled by a circle of raches, petrified with terror.
‘Mabilla! I am terribly sorry to hear of his death. You know Henry was my best friend in the world.’
‘Even when he threatened to sue you? He told me all about it, that he came here and threatened to do so if the German sued him.’
‘He was an old friend. Old friends don’t kill each other over a matter of business.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I am terribly sorry, maid. You know that. I shall miss him dreadfully.’
‘You will miss him? I shall miss him — and so will Julia! She is in her bed still, paralysed with grief, and there is no one can help us. No! Get away from me! Don’t touch me!’ she shrieked, slapping at him with both hands when he approached her.
‘I only want to help, Mabilla. That’s all.’