“No, he’s fine as far as we know. Why did he leave so early, we thought you and he were considering betrothal.”
She tossed her head with a gesture of impatience. “Oh, yes. We were. But we argued, if you want to know. He refused to marry me until he had finished rebuilding his father’s house, and that could take him until next year! I told him, if he wants me, he had better hurry up -I may not wait for him. We argued, and in the end I told him to go. That’s why he left me earlier than usual.”
That night, sitting with Margaret in front of their fire, Simon related the day’s events. He had left Black on the way back from Hollowbrook – it would have been close to dark by the time they got to Blackway, and it seemed pointless to go there when he could continue and get home earlier for once.
His wife had been pleased to have him return so much earlier than usual, and after their meal they played quoits with Edith, currently her favourite game. Now, at last, she had gone to her bed in the solar, and they had two brief hours of peace before they too went to their beds.
“So, this warrener, what was his name?”
“Cenred,” said Simon sleepily.
“Yes, Cenred. What did he have to say?”
She was lying with her head in his lap again, while he stroked her hair with one hand, his other resting on her belly. Outside the rain was sheeting against the walls, and occasional gusts made the door rattle and the tapestries billow.
“Not much, really. He says he saw someone, someone who tried to hide when he came close. Apparently just opposite the Brewer house. The fool was too frightened to look, he thought it might be Old Crockern or something, and just walked on to his own place. Anyway, it’s the other one, Roger Ulton, that interests me now.”
“Wasn’t he one of the men you saw yesterday?”
“Yes.” Simon’s eyes dropped to her face and he smiled, though she could see that he was exhausted. His face was quite grey, even in the light from the flames and the two thick candles that stood on their metal tripods nearby. In the smoky room, the big circles of tiredness under his eyes made them look deeply bruised, and she wondered whether the search was getting too much for him. Touched by a sudden whim she reached a finger up to his cheek, a sympathetic and loving gesture, and was pleased to see his smile broaden as he felt her.
Outside they could hear the rain. It had held off all day, but now, in the darkness of the night, the heavens had opened and the water was steadily dripping from two holes in the thatch. Margaret was glad that at least her husband was indoors with her. She would have been worried if he had been outside in this weather. She stroked her hand over his cheek, wondering at its roughness where the short bristles forced their way through his skin, so unlike his chest and the rest of his body, which was so smooth and soft. She stared at her fingers as they brushed his face, enjoying the tactile sensations, giving herself over to the pleasure of the feel and smell of her man, and she almost missed Simon’s next comment.
“Sorry?”
“I said it’s very odd.” he said again, grinning down at her. “This man Roger seems to have been trying to woo a local girl, but that night he argued with her. He says he was with her all evening, but she swears he left early. Then he says he walked home straight from her house, but Black’s wife saw him go past her place, at the other side of the village. All in all I’m fairly sure it was him who took Brewer home. But if it was, why didn’t he tell us?”
“I’m sure you’ll find out tomorrow. What else did you find out?”
They chatted for another hour or so, but Margaret soon decided that her husband needed to sleep, and led him out to the solar and their mattress. But even then, when they were in bed, she could feel his wakefulness.
He was miserable, a huddled dark figure sitting wrapped in the thick travelling cloak, the hood pulled over his head, in front of the attempted fire that still gave off a thin wisp of smoke as if trying to buoy his spirits by its promise of heat and warmth. But it was still-born. Before the heat could approach his still figure it was dissipated by the gusting wind that hurled the thick raindrops against his back.
“Only a year ago. Only a year,” he muttered, his voice thrown aside by the wind that eddied around, searching out a gap in his clothing trying to stab him with its chill. Shuddering with the cold, he grabbed a loose fold of his cloak and pulled it to him again, suspiciously glaring around the clearing.
Of course, he could have gone to one of the farms and begged for some food and the chance to sit in front of a fire, but at dusk it had seemed warm enough and hardly worth the embarrassment. After all, he was still a knight, and that kind of behaviour was demeaning for a man born to a high family.
“One year!” he spat out viciously through his gritted teeth.
It was only one year ago that his lord, Hugh de Lacy, Lord Berwick, had died. Just one year. And since then he had lost everything. All he possessed was with him now -his father’s sword and a small bag of belongings. Everything else had gone. His position as marshal of the castle overlooking the town had been given to that bastard, the son of his lord’s brother. The rooms in the castle were kept only by right of his position, so they had gone too, and when his successor had suggested that he might prefer to find another home, as if he was to be distrusted, in his rage he had agreed.
But leaving so quickly had cost him dear. He could not wait to take advantage of any remaining credibility he possessed, he wanted simply to leave and forget the pain and despair of seeing his office being debased by that fool. He had ordered his horse to be prepared and had ridden out that very night, feeling the same pride and excitement he had felt more than fifteen years before when he had first become a knight. But that was then, and Rodney of Hungerford had travelled far since then.
He had been surprised at first how quickly his money had all been used. It seemed as though, wherever he went, prices rose before he arrived. Initially he had not worried: after all a knight does not concern himself with money, that is only of concern to a lord. But it disappeared so fast, his little store of coins, that he began to realise that he would soon have to earn some more to replace it.
How long was it since he had last stayed in a bed, a real bed in a building? he wondered. He huddled his shoulders against the bitter wind that swept across from the moors. Two weeks? Three? No, it was two. Two weeks since he had been allowed to stay in the priory overnight. The prior was a kindly man and had offered him a bed for longer, but Rodney could not accept. It would be too much like taking alms, and that was beneath the honour of a knight born to an old family. So he had refused and mounted his horse.
The fire was dead now, and he gazed at the remains with an expression of sadness, a soft smile that seemed to show pity for the flames that were no more, as if it was a living creature that had finally given up the struggle for life and collapsed in front of him, giving itself up to the peace of fighting no longer. It could not compete against the cruel wind that tried to cut through his defences with slow inexorability, like a rusty sword battering at him, seeming to know that he could not continue much longer.
There was not much point, he knew that. Now that his horse had died he could hardly carry on to Cornwall to his brother. It must be well over sixty miles still. Sixty miles over the moors and through the forests.
At the thought he looked up and sneered at the trees around him. Here, although deep in the woods and far from a road, the trees were too close to the moors and were thinly spread. Their stunted, shrivelled shapes stood like the tortured victims of the wind that howled past like a banshee on the way to seek out the night’s prey. In the absolute dark of the cloudy and moonless night, their thick boles stood around him like an army of damned souls, their Hell being this place of misery and despair.