He stopped and gazed about him, taking in the sodden grass, the dark, soaked soil rutted with cart-tracks and hoofprints, booted and bare feet, the marks of dogs and cats and children, and his lip curled. This was one of the worst summers he’d ever known. The famine years of 1315 and 1316 had been terrible, but this year of Our Lord 1322 was a continuation. It was as though there was some sort of blight on the country.
At least his wife and daughter were back home in Lydford. They would have hated being locked up in the castle during the rains. He missed them terribly. Margaret, his Meg, tall and slender as a willow, with her long fair hair and full breasts; his daughter Edith, the coltish young woman of fourteen or fifteen – it was hard to remember now – who at Oakhampton had proved that she was no longer merely his daughter, but was grown into an attractive woman.
He missed them, yes, but he was glad that they were gone. Edith was in so gloomy a temper since the end of the tournament… Simon pushed away the unpleasant memory, hoping that back in the happy, bustling town of Lydford, she would soon forget her misery. Her many admirers would see to that.
It was better than having them moping here. A castle filled with the retinue of a lord was a loud, exciting place, full of roaring, singing men, and wayward-looking women – not only whores: Simon had been surprised at the behaviour of some of the well-born married women. However, as the people faded away, Lord Hugh himself departing to visit Tavistock and then distant manors, taking his stewards, cooks, almoner, ostlers, ushers and bottlers and all the other men of his household with him, the place grew silent. All the local serfs commanded to serve Lord Hugh had cleared out, and only the small garrison remained. It was as though a burgh had been one day filled with people going about their business, and the next the place was dead: all the inhabitants struck down by God’s hand.
A shiver passed up his spine. It was scary to think such things, but he couldn’t help it. He was of a cheerful disposition generally, but he was also a Devonshire man, and that meant he was cursed with a powerful imagination. His friend Baldwin treated his wilder flights as the ravings of an irrational fool, although he usually mitigated the harshness of his words with an affectionate grin. Usually, anyway. Sometimes his irritation got the better of him.
No matter. Simon had been raised in Devon, meeting few strangers, only the occasional traveller, and was accustomed to hearing local stories about the strange things people had seen, the odd things they had heard. Baldwin could dismiss all this if he liked, but even the priests at Crediton’s canonical church knew of ghosts. When Simon had been a student there, he had heard them tell tales around the fire of an evening which had frozen the blood in his veins. Terrible stories of phantasms and ghouls, of ghosts which haunted the living, or even killed them. Simon had never seen one himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t believe in such things. He’d never seen an angel, but he didn’t need to in order to believe in them.
The end of the tournament had been a relief, but only now, with the stands pulled down, the castle all but closed, the lands cleared and all the guests gone, could Simon begin to relax. And it was a marvellous feeling, knowing that at last he could think about packing up his belongings and setting off for home.
He had reached this conclusion when he saw Sir Roger de Gidleigh cantering towards him. When the knight had drawn to a halt at his side, Simon put out a hand to pat the mount’s neck and looked up at him. ‘You only left two days ago. Did your wife chuck you out again?’
‘Her? She’s probably glad to see the back of me. Doesn’t like me mucking up the place,’ Sir Roger joked. He was a thickset man, strong in the arm and shoulder, but with a paunch that demonstrated his skill lay more with a knife and spoon than with a sword and spear. For all that, he rode his mount like a man bred to the saddle from an early age. His face was square and kindly, with warm brown eyes and a tightly cropped thatch of hair which was frosted about the temples – the only proof of his increasing years.
‘You mean you’ve come back here without even seeing her?’ Coroner Roger often derided his wife, but in reality Simon knew he was devoted to her. ‘What’s going on, man? Out with it. This is going to cost me money or time, I can feel it in my bones.’
‘Oh no, Bailiff, this won’t cost you. You and your friend have been requested to visit a delightful inn not far from here, that’s all.’
‘That sounds painless,’ Simon said suspiciously. ‘When you say “my friend”, do you mean yourself?’
‘I’ll be with you, Bailiff, but I meant Sir Baldwin.’
Simon eyed the grinning knight sourly. ‘Look here, I can’t just drop everything to come and view one of your corpses, Coroner.’
‘It’s already been discussed with Lord Hugh. He said, since the work here is finished, you’re free.’
Simon saw a loophole. ‘I don’t work for Lord Hugh. I’m a Stannary Bailiff and I report to the Warden, Abbot Champeaux of Tavistock.’
‘Who has given his permission. Lord Hugh’s staying with him and has said all’s well. Come on, Bailiff! Wipe that grim expression from your face and join me in a jug of wine. I don’t have to see my wife for another week, and that’s enough excuse for a drink!’
Simon grimaced. In truth he was usually happy investigating crimes, but he had hoped to return home and take his rest. ‘Wine? Yes, a pint or two would be good.’
‘After all,’ Coroner Roger said conspiratorially, leaning down and winking at him, ‘this one’s better than most. I am informed that it’s the remains of a cannibal’s feast – and well ripened, too! Surely you wouldn’t want to miss a rarity like that, would you?’
Simon grunted, trying to instil an element of enthusiasm in the sound. He failed.
Approaching Sticklepath from the town of South Zeal, passing up the incline to the crossroads at the top, where he rested the horses and Aylmer, who sat and scratched with an intent expression on his face, Baldwin reflected that the view was attractive, with the vast rounded mass of Cosdon on his left and the rolling countryside of middle Devonshire ahead and to the right.
‘Is it much farther now?’
Baldwin glanced across at his wife. She rode at his side on her white Arab, the gift he had given her on their wedding day. ‘I am sorry. If I could, I would have placed you in the wagon, because it would be more comfortable.’
‘The wagon would not have made it,’ she said. ‘The tracks are too steep, slippery and badly rutted. I’m more comfortable on horseback. Look at that hill. No wagon could climb that.’
He had to agree. The hill west of Sticklepath was a terrible climb. It was only a few weeks ago that Baldwin had travelled this route to the tournament at Oakhampton, but then he had not been considering the view, he had been contemplating the immediate future and the risk of being included in a joust. Now he looked at the trail, he could remember having heard that this must be one of the steepest sections of the road to Cornwall, and he could easily believe it was true.
The road curved away down the hill from Baldwin to become lost among trees and bushes. It reappeared on the far hill, but there it didn’t twist from side to side, but set off almost as straight as an arrow’s path upwards, defined by the moorstone walls at either side, which stood out clearly compared with the green tree-lined slopes.