He walked to the buttery in a contemplative mood. This castle felt as though it was about to burst into flames like Huward’s mill. Men of all stations were sullen, responded badly to commands, and were slow to obey. It had all the atmosphere of a place that was expecting the figurehead to disappear at any time soon. Baldwin had seen it in other places over the years. When a warrior-group was about to change their leader, there was a period of anticipation and fear beforehand. Pretenders to the power would jostle and bicker for position in the affections of the rank and file men, and as the leader became gradually divorced from them, the men would imperceptibly change their allegiances until the new leader felt his time was ripe.
That was the impression Baldwin got, even in his exhausted state. This castle was shortly to change hands again. Sir Ralph was to be replaced, and by whom else than his own son? There was nothing so potent as the disloyalty of a son who craved power.
The buttery was a smallish room for so large a hall. A broad plank had been set upon two barrels, and Ralph’s son Esmon stood at it, sipping meditatively from a pot of wine. As his eyes lit upon Baldwin, his face lost all mobility. Baldwin had found a frozen man once, up on a high mountain pass while he was travelling on behalf of his Order. The body had a curious potency about it, as though at any time when he warmed, he might leap into life. Baldwin knew that the same was true for Esmon.
‘May I join you?’ he asked.
‘You want wine? You should have asked a servant to draw some for you,’ Esmon replied insolently.
‘You should remember your manners, young sir. The castle is not yet yours.’
‘What does that mean?’
Baldwin was too tired to bother to explain. ‘You killed the miner Wylkyn. Where were you when the girl Mary was murdered?’
‘I was out. Why, do you seek to accuse me of another murder?’
‘I seek only to learn who killed the girl – and to discover where the body of the miner has been hidden.’
‘I have no idea where his corpse is buried.’
‘Buried?’
‘How else could it have been hidden?’
‘A good question,’ Baldwin said. He saw no reason to let Esmon know that he was sure he already knew where the body lay. ‘You haven’t answered my question: where were you when the girl died?’
‘I was hunting with Father. We told you.’
‘And then you came back here together, you said.’
‘Aha. Yes, well, that wasn’t quite true. He left before me. I waited a while before setting off. I was helping some friends empty a wineskin.’
‘Where did he go?’
Esmon smiled. ‘Out on the road where that poor girl was found.’
Baldwin felt physically sick. This boy was deliberately pushing his father forward as the primary suspect. ‘You mean he might have passed that road?’
Esmon seemed to lose interest in the matter. He sipped more wine and stared at the wall. ‘Don’t take my word for it. Ask Elias, the ploughman. He must have seen my father. And the serf Osbert.’
‘I have – and yes, they did see him. They also saw you, at the bottom of the lane.’
‘I didn’t ride along that lane,’ Esmon said immediately. ‘I came up from the tavern. I was there with some of the men, emptying the skin. If you’ve been told I was on Deave Lane, then whoever said that was lying. And one other thing: you don’t like me. I don’t care – but I shall own this castle one day, and when I do, I shall be a powerful man in my own right. Don’t try to thwart me, Sir Baldwin. I could be a bad enemy.’
Baldwin let his amusement show. ‘You try to threaten me? You, a mere child, seek to scare me? I suppose you think that your friends the Despensers will come and save you from any man who dares to stand in your way?’
His laughter stopped and he stepped forward. ‘Remember this, boy. I have been a knight for many years, and I have killed many men, but always in fair combat. I have never needed a party behind me to attack a poor miner on a moorland road. That is the act of a coward.’
He left Esmon, seething with anger that the younger man should have dared to threaten him again, but as he entered the hall, he found his mood changing. He saw Simon and Hugh sitting side by side on benches, both drinking happily enough and joining in with the chorus of a bawdy song sung by a very drunk man-at-arms.
Baldwin sat with them, regretting now, as he glanced about him, that he had roused Esmon to anger. A man like him could be a dangerous adversary in a place like this, filled with his own paid men. Any one of the men in this hall could be watching him even now with a speculative eye, waiting until he was asleep so that he could slip a knife in between Baldwin’s shoulder-blades.
A cheery thought. He leaned back against the wall, fixing the men in the room with a suspicious glower, but saw no shame or quick embarrassment. Whoever might have been told to kill him was a good actor – or perhaps no one had been told. Maybe he was simply paranoid, seeing enemies wherever he looked, or maybe he was being sensible. He should stay awake all night just in case, to guard himself and the others.
It was no good. His tiredness was overwhelming. He allowed his eyes to close for just a moment’s peace. Surely that could not be dangerous. Perhaps he could catnap as he used to when he was a young warrior in Acre. Then he could sleep for a half hour and wake refreshed and ready for guard duty. Yes, he would close his eyes for a while, he thought. It could do no harm…
He slept like a man who was practising for death.
It was with a great shock of alarm that he awoke. Like a man who has been startled to full wakefulness in an instant, he jerked upright.
The fire in the middle of the floor was still glowing gently. No one had thought to douse it overnight. Often they would not bother in a great hall like this; there were so many men asleep in here, servants and men-at-arms, that any hazard should be minimal. Now the glowing embers were gleaming.
Baldwin heard a creak, and he turned to the heavy tapestries along the wall, but then he heard another creak. It came from the screens, and he listened carefully. All through the room there were loud snores and grunts and whistles from men who had eaten and drunk too much before collapsing where they sat or lay. Snuffing the air, Baldwin was sure that he must be the only man in the room who was not inebriated. The odour of sour breath reeking with wine and ale was pervasive, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust, but as he did so, he caught a whiff of clean, fresh air.
Rising quickly, he rested his hand on his sword and stepped quietly to the screens. Peering around the frame, he looked at the main doors in the cross passage. The door to the court was slightly open, squeaking gently on its hinges, and Baldwin, having convinced himself that there was no assassin concealed there, went to the door. He opened it and took a deep breath of the clean night air. From the sky, he thought that it was the very last hours of the night. In the morning he would regret this, he told himself. He would be all the more tired for having woken in the middle of the night.
As he shut the door quietly and made his way back to the hall, he had no idea how accurate his forecast was to prove.
True to his gloomy prediction, he woke late, with eyes gritty and his senses dulled from the unwarranted disturbance during the night. He was snappish to Hugh and Simon, both of whom appeared to have thrived on their excesses of the night before. It was a rare occurrence for Simon to be so happy and refreshed after drinking; if Simon were to wake so cheerfully every morning, Baldwin would probably have murdered him by now.
‘Come on, Baldwin. Time we were up.’
‘Leave me in peace,’ he groaned. The room had not yet woken and men lay snoring all about. Most were the castle’s servants, but there were some eleven men-at-arms as well, lying in one corner all together, as though they were huddled for security away from the rest of the castle’s staff. One man was stirring.