Quivil’s distress was the misery of mankind. Rodde stood quietly by the side of the grave, his staff still held to protect the younger man until Quivil subsided into weeping. Then he cast his prop aside and climbed down to help Edmund out.
A fortnight later the weather had turned. Now each morning the land was frozen, the grass rimed with frost. The ponds and ditches were filled with ice, on top of which the ducks and geese waddled, protesting loudly and with some confusion at the sudden loss of their favorite element. Sir Baldwin Furnshill still found the English weather difficult to cope with, even after so many years back at his estate. His blood had been thinned by his sojourn in the Mediterranean and subsequent soft living in Paris.
He pulled up at his stableyard as twilight fell, shouting for his groom and dropping from his horse. Usually he rode a dainty Arab, but today he had left early, and had chosen his rounsey, a solid beast who jerked his head and pranced skittishly, his breath steaming in the bitter evening air. The knight patted his neck while he waited for his men. “I know, I know-you haven’t had enough exercise today. I’ll see you’re taken out for longer tomorrow. Calm yourself!”
Cold it might be, but Baldwin loved his land. The small estate stood some five or six miles north and east of Crediton, near to Cadbury. It had been his older brother’s, but when poor Reynald had fallen from his horse while hunting and broken his neck, the land had come to Baldwin. After wandering for so long with little money and few comforts, the knight was delighted to own so prosperous and fertile a region of Devon-especially with the comfortable house; especially with his recent improvements. He was determined to impress his guests. One of them, anyway, he amended with a small smile.
The sun was already gone and twilight was giving way to nighttime. In the distance he could see a wraithlike streamer of smoke rising over a wood. There, he knew, a tenant of his was settling down with a pint or two of ale, tired after a day of hedging. Baldwin had passed him on the way. Above, the stars were breaking out as the sky dulled and darkened. It was strangely relaxing, as if no harm could come to anyone who appreciated its beauty, and the knight felt some of his earlier trepidation and gloom fade away.
Passing the reins to the groom, Baldwin walked from the yard and strode to his front door. Before he opened it, he looked back over his shoulder. In the time it had taken to reach the threshold, night had fallen. He could make out the faint outlines of the hillsides shining like old pewter in the moonlight. Above him the sky was a deep blue-black, across which silver-rimmed clouds drifted idly.
He opened the door. Instantly there was a scrabbling, and he caught a glimpse of the massive shape.
“Oh, no-God, no!”
It launched at him. His eyes widened in shock, then it was on him, and the knight staggered back under the assault. His heel snagged on a step, and he was falling. Even as his shoulder struck the packed earth of the path, he saw the jaws open at his throat, smelled the foul breath, and he shut his eyes against the inevitable.
“Good evening, sir.”
Baldwin dared raise one lid, fending off the attack as best he could. A thick gobbet of saliva landed quivering on his cheek and he shuddered. “Edgar, get the brute off me!”
“It wasn’t my idea to get the monster,” Edgar said pointedly. “In fact I remember saying it would be stupid to replace the bitch.”
Baldwin felt the weight leave his chest as his servant hauled on the thick leather collar, and rolled stiffly to his side before levering himself up. The mastiff was sitting at Edgar’s side now, his hindquarters wriggling as he tried to wag his tail. Slobber dribbled from his huge black jowls, and he was whining excitedly, desperate to greet his master with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. And that, Baldwin knew, was a lot of enthusiasm.
Edgar was right, he reflected, but that hardly eased matters. It had seemed such a good idea at the time, replacing his old mastiff with a new one. Lionors had been his brother’s bitch originally, and when the knight arrived after Reynald’s death, Lionors had transferred all her affection to him unreservedly. At first it had been stifling, for Baldwin had been used to a hard life of constant travel, and having a creature so dependent upon him was irksome, especially when she took to grabbing whatever she could and chewing it in a demonstration of fervent adoration.
But he had been surprised by his sense of loss when she died. It had happened quite quietly. She had not come to him in the morning when he arose, but had remained lying by the fire. Ben, the brown and black farm dog Baldwin had adopted in days gone by, had stayed at her side, sitting quietly, and gazing at Baldwin with an expression of anxious confusion. When the knight touched her old body, it was still warm, but there was no breath whistling and snorting through her short, age-whitened muzzle, and he suddenly found his eyes brimming at the realization that she would no longer chew his sticks, or dribble on his lap while he ate, or leave a noxious reminder of her presence in the corner of the hall. He found he missed her.
So he had decided to take one of her great-grandchildren to replace her. He had overruled Edgar and gone to the kennels behind the stables, and as soon as he had seen the tawny mass of blubber and fur, he had pointed, and said, “That is the one.” And so “Uther” was chosen as the house’s guard.
Except Baldwin’s servant refused to dignify the animal with such a name. He felt that the monster should be identified by something that reflected the reality. Consequently, due to Edgar’s constant repetition, the eight-month-old now answered to “Chops.”
“This dog should return to the kennels, sir,” Edgar said.
“Uther stays.”
“He attacked Cottey this morning.”
“Uther st-” Baldwin gave his servant a suspicious look. What do you mean, “attacked Cottey”?“
“Cottey came to speak to you and the dog scared him almost stupid.”
“You mean Uther made him brighter than normal!” he growled.
“It was nothing to laugh about. When I got there, Uther had him up against the table and-”
“The table?” A light glimmered in Baldwin’s eye. He asked suavely, “So this was in the hall, was it?”
Edgar waved a hand. “It’s irrelevant, the point is the dog terrified the poor-”
“Uther is a guard. Cottey should have known that. If he walked straight into the hall, it’s no surprise Uther tried to defend the place. The dog was doing his duty against a draw-latch.”
Seeing that he had lost that sally, Edgar ventured a fresh attack. “And what about other guests? What if this mutt should take it into his so-called brain to defend the house against someone staying with you?”
Baldwin’s attitude altered subtly. Now there was a degree of shiftiness in his manner as he avoided his servant’s gaze. “He just needs a little training. Anyway, he’s fine with people he’s been introduced to.”
“Yesterday Chops was with me all morning. I left the room for a few minutes, and when I came back in he barked at me! I had been gone long enough to draw one quart of ale from the buttery; in that time the mutt had forgotten me, and you seriously suggest he’s going to be fine with strangers?”
Baldwin ruffled the dog’s ears. At his touch Uther sprang up, and the knight had to avert his face as another gobbet of slobber flew upward. “He’s just affectionate,” he said gruffly, forcing the dog down again. On his chest two massive, damp paw prints reflected the light from the open doorway.
Edgar stared at them pointedly. “And what about the lady Jeanne?”
The knight hesitated. He had to admit that Edgar had a point there, as he looked at the fresh mud that spattered his tunic. The widow from Liddinstone was due to visit any day, in the company of Simon Puttock and his wife.