It was a source of amusement to her that so many people strove so hard to make their little marks on the world. Surely anyone of them could see that it was pointless. Great people carved out great lives, and little people from a place like thiswere correspondingly dull and little in comparison. She was born to greatness because she had come from a great family. Herfather was the famous Lord Maurice Berkeley.
From her earliest years she had been highly aware of her position. It was impossible not to be. Her father ranked amongstthe most powerful in the realm, and his army was one of those which was most often called upon to support the king. Every year, so it seemed, while she grew up, the familyhad a ritual sending off of the young men, the knights, esquires, men-at-arms and all their servants, as they answered thecall to help the king defend his realm or attack his enemies. Each year the army would gather, and then drift off, more commonlythan not heading northwards, the sprawling mass of men and horses consuming hundreds of yards of roadway, churning the surfaceinto a foul mixture of mud, discarded bones and broken pots, dung and human faeces. Once, when she was very young, she hadoverheard her mother exclaim that it was a relief to see them all go: there had been scarcely enough food to keep the menfed at the castle and estates, and now that they were gone they could steal provisions from the vills through which they passedand leave the household’s stores alone.
It had been a militaristic upbringing. She had known how to wield a sword and dagger from an early age; she learned both atthe same time as her brother. Although her father had no sympathy for women who sought to equal the prowess of their brothers,he was content to see his child learn how to protect herself. There were few enough defences for a woman in this rough world. Teaching her skill with arms was one of the best methods of seeing his child safe.
Not that there was much safety these days even for her family. Poor Father! He was in his castle much of the time now. Once,only four years ago, he had been so trusted that he had been given the post of seneschal of Gascony and the duchy of Aquitaine- the king’s own representative and commander-in-chief of the king’s forces there in his absence. It had been a wonderfultime for the whole family. Ah! She had been so proud.
Not now. Since the king appeared to have lost his mind — not a happy thought, and not one which could safely be repeated to anyonenow that his spies were everywhere, but true, nonetheless — and had provoked the war against the Lords Marcher, her father’sfall from grace had been inevitable. The only source of consolation was the fact that her father had surrendered and avoidedinvolvement in the battle of Boroughbridge. So many of his friends and their sons had perished either at the battle itself,or in the reprisals that occurred up and down the country afterwards. Even here at Exeter there were the remains of one ortwo knights who were thought to have been involved, still hanging from a post outside the South Gate. Almost all the citiesin the land had their own reminders of the king’s brutal retaliation.
She had known King Edward II. The man had never struck her as particularly cruel. It seemed strange to think that he couldhave so changed. Unless it was those devils in human guise, the Despensers. It was much easier to think of them as being responsiblefor the killings. They, father and son, were so avaricious, they would take a widow and torture her to have her sign awayher rightful possessions to them. Like poor Madam Baret.
But no matter who was responsible for it, the fact remained that her father stayed in his castle. He was under suspicion becausea few of his knights had gone to Boroughbridge: Sir Thomas Gournay and Sir John Maltravers, to mention only two, had been forced to fly the realmand find new lives abroad as free-lances. At least there were always places for a man to fight and earn a living, thanks beto God.
What was less pleasant was to reflect on the fate of her brother, also called Maurice. He had been implicated in the looting of Despenser lands and estates, and as soon as the Despensershad survived the last wars they had returned filled with wrath to avenge themselves on those who had taken their plate andplundered their treasure-houses. Maurice had simply disappeared, and although it was rumoured that he was hiding somewherein the country, no one could find him.
She walked into the main hall of the castle, where her husband sat working with his steward, the undersheriff, and his keeperand returner of writs. Madam Alice nodded to her husband, but paid no attention to the scribblers with him. They were onlyservants of one kind or another, when all was said and done.
‘Wife.’
She smiled at him. ‘I shall be walking about the town shortly, husband. Do you wish for anything from the market?’
He waved a hand in bland denial. ‘No, I have all I need, my love.’
‘Then I shall see you later.’
She turned and left the hall, and behind her heard the sound of the men talking again, the gruff tone of the keeper and returnerof writs, the laugh of the undersheriff, but there was nothing in her mind, as she walked from the hall down to the courtyardand out into the open, grassed area between the castle and the city, other than her coming meeting.
If she had seen the expression of black distrust on her husband’s face, she would have paused to wonder what might have causedit.
Exeter City
Before they left, Baldwin sucked at his bottom lip and took one last look at the body of Mucheton.
‘Was he married? A sweetheart?’
‘I think he was married, yes, but I don’t know the woman myself.’
‘Send someone to find her, and bring news of her to me at the Talbot’s Inn.’
‘I can’t leave my place here, though’.
‘I will send a man to replace you here,’ Baldwin said. ‘You need to be rested.’
He walked slowly after the coroner. Sir Richard took him down the alley towards the South Gate. As they reached the messenger’sbody once more, Baldwin shook his head, eyes narrowed.
‘I find it very peculiar that the bishop could not tell us his name. And it is more strange still that the fellow should diewithin a short while of being in receipt of a message from the bishop. But for now, what we need to do is speak to all thosewho have had anything to do with his fellow’s death. As soon as you have held the inquest, I should have him carried awayto the nearest church ready for his burial, poor soul.’
‘HOI!’ the coroner boomed back at Thomas. ‘You! What is the name of the man who found this fellow? Older man, looked like a harethat’s been chased by the hounds too long?’
‘It was Will Skinner, the watchman from the gate.’
‘Does he live there?’ Baldwin glanced at the gatehouse and again felt like a man about to enter an ambush. It made a chillwash through his frame, and he had to wrap his arms about his breast to calm the shiver that threatened. And then he saw something. In a low window to the left of the main gate, he was sure that he caught a fleeting glimpse of a pale face. He kept his eyes on that little gap as he listened to the response.
‘Next to it, in that small cottage, aye. But he’ll be asleep by now, I reckon.’
‘Really?’ the coroner said. ‘How quaint.’
His manner was one of simple amusement, but Baldwin did not feel the same lightness of spirit. The sun was being smotheredby some grey, unwholesome-looking clouds as they made their way to the gate, and Baldwin kept his eyes on the window all theway until the opening was out of sight, wondering who had been watching. It didn’t matter: surely it was only a child watchingthe two king’s officers at work, or perhaps a servant.