She was fully aware that her husband held a position of responsibility, and she was proud that he had managed to achieve it. She would not have held him back from any ambition that drove him, being content to look after their daughter and create the family they both wanted, but she was nervous that this killing could have eaten into him so much. Since the murder he had seemed to become more introverted, quietly mulling over it time and again and withdrawing from her, or so she felt. Would it stop with the capture of the killers? She could not tell. Now all she wanted was an end to the matter so that they could move to their new home and forget it, but she was not sure that he would be able to, not until he had caught the men responsible.
Simon turned as Hugh came near and noticed her staring at him. Grinning quickly, he said, “Come on, then. Let’s go and get some food.”
Baldwin Furnshill walked slowly along the lane that led to his house with his mastiff. His brother’s death had left him with a sizeable kennel to manage, and he now found himself responsible for over twenty dogs as well as the estates.
It was fortunate that he had always liked dogs, he thought. One of the trials of the last few years had been the enforced lack of dogs – not just because of the lost hunting opportunities, although he enjoyed a pursuit as much as the next man, but also because he missed the affection. It was wonderful to see the eyes light up, to see the happiness spread over the black muzzled face at the sudden appearance of the master, and now, while he was still so lonely and keen for a companion, the dogs could at least give him that uncomplicated adoration that required so little in return.
He patted the wiry, fawn coat of the huge mastiff walking beside him. Although he had only been home for a short time, this dog seemed to have attached herself to him already. She had been devoted to his brother, he had been told, and had been inconsolable when he had died, nuzzling at his body where it lay on the ground and whimpering until, at last, she had seemed to realise that he had died, and had sat back to howl her grief to the sky.
But as soon as the new Furnshill arrived she seemed to understand that he was the new master of the house. It seemed to Baldwin that she transferred all of her affection and loyalty to him as soon as she first met him. Perhaps it was because somewhere deep in her canine intelligence she recognised him as the brother of her dead favourite, or maybe he had some similarity to his dead brother in appearance that struck a chord. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for her immediate acceptance of him, as if in some way it demonstrated the legitimacy of his claim to the estates, and he had quickly grown to love her ugly, wrinkled face with the huge, constantly open and dripping mouth and calm brown eyes. In no time he had become used to the fact that wherever he went, within his house or outside, his dog would be never more than a matter of feet away, as if she continually needed to reassure herself that this new master had not disappeared.
From the lane Baldwin could see for over a mile towards the south, so he saw Simon and his small party when they were still a long way off, and he watched them slowly climbing the shallow hill that led to his home with a glowering stare.
Normally he was reserved and cautious with strangers and found it hard to trust people. It took him a long time to develop feelings of friendship for anyone; the life of a warrior was harsh and dangerous, especially when his liege lord was gone, and too much had happened in Baldwin’s life for him to be able to take people at face value until he had grown to know them well; and even then he would usually reject a friendly advance.
But with the bailiff he found his natural distrust weakening and the feeling gave him a sensation of wary concern. With a wry grimace, he wondered whether it was the effect of having a stable base, a home at last after so many years of wandering. Was he simply getting soft? Looking for friends, getting too old for the life of a knight? It was possible, he knew, but somehow he doubted it. He felt that it was more due to Simon’s obvious honesty and honour. Shrugging, he clenched his jaw in an attitude of determination, the scar blazing vividly on his cheek. No matter! He could not trust the bailiff with his past, not in any detail. How could he? Even a close friend would find it difficult to ignore a background like his. A recent acquaintance like Simon? No – at least, not yet.
He patted the dog on the head and started back towards the house as the party came closer, the mastiff lumbering happily just behind his heel. Then, as if he was determined to enjoy himself and ensure the pleasure of his guests, a vast, welcoming smile spread over his dark features, and he spread his arms wide and bellowed his greeting.
“Welcome!”
A slow smile lightened Simon’s features. It was impossible not to be cheerful with a host who was so obviously delighted to see them, and when the bailiff finally dropped from his horse he found his hand being grasped firmly before he could even go to his wife and help her down.
“Welcome, Simon. Welcome, Mrs. Puttock,” said Baldwin, smiling broadly and showing his small, square teeth. But the lines of worry on Simon’s face did not escape his notice, and the bailiff saw the small beginnings of the frown, swiftly followed by a sharp nod, as if to acknowledge to himself that he had noted the change in the bailiff correctly and filed the knowledge for reference, before the knight turned to his wife.
“My lady, your servant.” He bowed low, suiting action to words. Margaret smiled as Simon helped her down and nodded at the knight with a coquettish, mocking expression as she had her first sight of her husband’s new friend.
It was plain that this was not a man who had spent his life locally. The erect, proud mien and the clear, glinting dark eyes showed that, and the dark skin pointed to a life spent in regions farther south, where she had been told the sun was more hot. With his square, serious face and curiously powerful gaze, she found him oddly intriguing, and realised why her husband seemed so fascinated with him. There was a niggling thought at the back of her mind, though: he seemed to remind her of someone. It was only after he had appeared to subject her to a careful scrutiny that she realised who.
When she was young there had been a regular annual procession of pilgrims to the church at Crediton to visit the shrine of Saint Boniface, the famous missionary who had brought Christianity to the German peoples. Among them she had once seen a man similar to Baldwin.
He had been a monk, a tall, strong-looking and holy man in a white robe. That he spoke with a strong accent she had first noticed when she had heard him singing. Walking at the head of the column, he had immediately drawn her eyes to him. Interested, and wanting to see what his face looked like, she had followed the line of dirty and threadbare pilgrims for a distance, listening to their songs and chants, until, at last, fascinated by this stranger, she had run ahead to the front of the group so that she could see him more clearly.
At the time, she had felt that this was how Jesus must have looked. The monk was not like the slender, bookish men she sometimes saw at the church and chapel; he looked like a warrior. He had a massive sword hanging from his waist by his heavy leather belt, and his arms were plainly visible as they held the wooden cross high, the material from the short-sleeved tunic falling back and showing the huge biceps. Those arms were not made so strong by hewing wood or tilling soil; they were created to serve God in war, fighting heretics and non-believers. This all came to her as she stared at him walking towards her, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, walking trance-like, seeming to be almost other-worldly, as if he was dropped from Heaven to raise the masses but would be taken back soon.