‘I told you I am a King’s man. Answer me!’
‘I, too, am a King’s official,’ Baldwin said mildly. ‘So what rank are you?’
‘I have the rank of the man who demanded first, friend. I call you “friend” now, but soon I shall lose patience.’
He thrust his head forward, jaw jutting aggressively, but then he stopped. There was a low grumbling noise, and when he looked down, he met Aylmer’s face snarling up at him, right near his cods. He sprang back, his hand going to his knife. ‘Keep that brute away from me!’
Baldwin smiled, but there was no humour in his face. He was annoyed that this self-important bully should dare to delay him in his business. Edgar, he could see, was as ready as a cocked crossbow, waiting for the signal to attack.
Then his irritation left him. Drogo was a foolish man overcome with his authority in this, his own little sphere. It was ridiculous that he and Sir Baldwin should be standing up to each other like a pair of game cocks while men prepared to do battle on their behalf. If Baldwin pushed the matter, he might be forced to put the other to the sword, and Edgar would risk his life in battle against three. There was no point.
‘I should hate to see you lose your patience, friend. So let me say, I am Sir Baldwin of Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, and friend to Coroner Roger de Gidleigh, who should be visiting you here shortly to investigate a body. Now, who are you?’
The man didn’t answer him, but merely spat. ‘A Keeper to help a Coroner! What a blessing. We are fortunate to have so many officials here to help us sort out a four-year-old murder. Maybe there’s some mystery everyone forgot to tell us about, eh?’
‘And you are?’
He stared up at Baldwin with unconcealed disgust. ‘Nothing to do with you!’ and strode from the place with every appearance of bitter fury. After a few moments the other men trailed after him, one of them with a pronounced limp. The last, whom Drogo had called Vin, stood as if working up the courage to speak, but then he too walked away, giving Baldwin an apologetic grimace before making off after his leader.
Only the woman remained. She was attractive, of middle height, and her hair was a mouse-brown. She looked as though her inclination tended more to laughter and singing than melancholy, but it was obvious that sadness had affected her, and as Baldwin gave her a politely welcoming smile, she looked away hurriedly.
Baldwin was intrigued by Drogo’s assertion that there was a four-year-old murder to be investigated. He had expected something much more recent. Aware of Jeanne moving her Arab nearer to him as Edgar entered the inn, he thought she was nervous of Drogo and his men.
He was wrong. Jeanne knew he was capable of protecting himself, even with his bruises. No, it was the atmosphere. It felt as though there was a miasma of violence and fear about the place, almost as though it was infected by a malignant disease, and it reminded her of stories she had heard in France many years ago, stories in which evil spirits could invade a vill.
The fear which she had known as a young woman in France was with her again here. There was a curious deadness of sound. None of the usual squealing of children, none of the barking or yapping or whining of dogs, no whinnying – nothing. There was not even the hum of people talking, or the dull thud of axe hitting wood, only a low grumbling from the earth as though the soil itself was complaining. Seeing the mill she realised that it came from there.
Baldwin did not notice his wife’s distress. He chewed at his moustache while they waited for Edgar to return, which he did a few minutes later with a large man who wore a long leather apron. He wiped his hands on it as he bowed to Baldwin.
‘Master, I’m William Taverner. Your man said you want beds.’
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards Edgar, who now leaned nonchalantly against the doorpost, his hands in his belt, apparently staring into the middle distance and unaware of the conversation.
‘Yes, master Taverner. I need a room for my wife and child and their servant, and somewhere for me and my servant. In the meantime, I want a jug of wine for each of us in front of your fire.’
The taverner was a short, fat man with straggling brown hair scraped over a bald pate. He rasped a hand over his poorly shaven chin as he considered. ‘I have a small chamber at the back, but I’d have to throw out some others, and they’ve already paid for the use of it. It’s not reasonable for me to evict them.’ As if to aid his resolve, he fiddled with coins in the pocket of his apron.
‘I am sure you will find a way,’ Baldwin said with suave confidence. ‘Has the Coroner arrived yet?’
There was a faint but noticeable stiffening of the man’s manner. ‘You’re friends of his?’
Baldwin never liked being answered with a question, especially after the rudeness of Drogo and his men. His tone sharpened. ‘Has he arrived?’
His answer was a surly grunt which persuaded Baldwin that Sir Roger had already made his presence felt. It gave him some little amusement, and he was pleased to have had the behaviour of the locals explained. If the Coroner was in the vill and throwing his weight around, it was no surprise that folk here were resentful.
‘You will help my man empty the room for my wife and bring in all my belongings,’ Baldwin said coldly. ‘And I am sure your wife will be pleased to serve me in your hall.’
Will Taverner shook his head. Another bleeding knight. It wasn’t enough that there was Drogo biting the head off everyone and the Reeve was like a feral cat being stoned, running all over and scratching at everyone, no, now there was a Coroner and a Keeper. And he was expected to chuck out Ivo and Miles, both of whom had paid well, to accommodate this idle bugger’s wife. Sod him!
It wasn’t only the King’s officials that were upsetting everyone, though. Since Swet’s daughter had turned up – and no one doubted that it was Aline’s bones up there – everyone had grown tetchy. People avoided each other’s eye. They all knew why. Aline was only the latest of the Strangler’s victims to be found.
Will made one last attempt. ‘My wife, she–’
Suddenly the knight was off his horse. With one bound he landed immediately in front of Will, and the innkeeper gave a startled squeak and jumped back, only to find himself pressed against Edgar, who caught his upper arms.
Baldwin was flushed, and he looked enraged. Staring at the innkeeper with glittering eyes, he said quietly, ‘Master Taverner, I have much to be getting on with to help the Coroner and I do not wish for delay. If your wife is busy, send your son or daughter.’
Taverner looked away. ‘My son’s dead. The flooding.’
‘I am sorry. So many have died,’ Baldwin said more gently, although not solely in compassion. His leap from the horse had jolted his flank and his injuries were aching dully. For a moment he thought he might topple over.
‘God’s will,’ the taverner muttered, turning away. ‘I’ll fetch my daughter. She can serve you.’
‘I am grateful,’ Baldwin called after him. The French-sounding ‘Nicky’ had already gone, and when he glanced around, he saw that she was striding towards a small cottage at the western edge of the vill. ‘Edgar, see to the wagons. I shall be back shortly,’ he said.
‘Where are you going, Husband?’ Jeanne asked.
‘To take a look about the place,’ he said. ‘Would you care to join me?’
She let her gaze sweep around the view, from the stained walls of the tavern to the sodden roadway, on past the chapel with its small, desolate graveyard to the grim, dark moors above.
‘I think perhaps I shall wait here with a warming drink,’ she said.
Chapter Four