It was good for Baldwin to forget the murder, if only for a little while. The affair was an issue for Simon, certainly, and the Coroner, but not Baldwin, Keeper of the King’s Peace from faraway Crediton. Yet Baldwin was concerned. He couldn’t get the idea out of his mind that Wymond’s body was left specifically to convey a message to Hal.
He tried to put such thoughts from him as he walked with Margaret, but he was keenly sensitive to the mood of the place. Everyone had heard of Wymond’s death by now, and many of the townspeople were gossiping about the murder, but to Baldwin’s relief there was little fear. The townspeople were not going to let the death of an unpopular carpenter stop them enjoying themselves.
With Simon busy, Baldwin felt a duty to keep Simon’s wife entertained and he was determined to do so with as light a manner as possible. Although Edith was a young woman now, she could forget herself occasionally and fall into childish ways. Seeing a man selling sweetmeats, she ran on ahead and Baldwin took the opportunity of asking Margaret how she was.
‘I despair,’ Margaret said when the girl was out of earshot, rocking gently to soothe the child in her arms.
‘Is she that difficult?’ Baldwin asked, smiling inanely as the infant opened his eyes and glowered at the world. Catching sight of Baldwin he frowned and then vomited.
‘More than you could imagine,’ Margaret sighed as she mopped up. ‘She exhausts me. One moment she declares she adores me, the next she shrieks that she loathes me. Naturally I am a saint if I have just given her a treat and an ogre if I’ve denied her one. At other times she is merely sullen and unhelpful.’
‘I presume preventing her riding with her friends makes her sullen?’ Baldwin guessed.
‘Just so. Last week she wanted to ride to Tavistock – on her own, I ask you! She said she was old enough to be wedded, so she was old enough to ride to see her friends. I soon corrected her.’
Hugh reappeared, scowling ferociously as he barged his way through the crowd, two jugs gripped carefully in one hand, while he held his staff in his clenched fist.
Baldwin nodded towards him. ‘It is good to see Hugh back.’
‘You think so? The miserable devil!’ she giggled. ‘But yes, I’m happy he’s returned.’
‘It has been about a year, hasn’t it, that he’s been living away? Has he married Constance?’
‘So he says.’
‘It’s hard to imagine a man leaving his wife behind.’
‘Servants grow accustomed to leaving their families for long periods.’
‘I know. Yet since I married Jeanne, I find it hard to imagine leaving her for weeks at a time. Is Hugh happy with his wife?’
‘I think so.’ She gave a slow nod in assent.
Baldwin knew that Margaret disapproved of the woman called Constance because of her background. Constance had once been a novice nun, and the thought that Hugh had slept with her offended Margaret, who was highly religious. She could not accept that a woman who had given her vows to God could later take up a new life and a secular husband. Tactfully, Baldwin chose to change the subject. ‘Simon must be highly considered if he is asked to organise events such as these. I think your husband may be destined for advancement.’
‘You think so?’ Margaret responded eagerly. ‘He has certainly done very well for himself. When we first met, he was a mere gentleman with land out at Sandford, and now look at him! I feel quite nervous, thinking of the nobles who will be here.’
He gave her a long, pensive look. ‘When you have met as many of the breed as I have, you will soon lose any nerves. You will learn to make allowances for them.’
She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Margaret, most of the truly noble knights are mere vain, primping coxcombs. They have less brain in their heads than they were born with – those that have any at all. Look, there are two there.’
Following his finger, she saw Sir John of Crukerne and his son walking to the combat area where they had seen the two swordsmen. They leaned on the rail, talking. ‘What of them?’
‘They have the knightly attributes, or so they think. Both, from what I have heard, can handle a horse with great skill; both can wield lance, sword or axe; both have great stamina – but there is more to knighthood than that. They show no courtesy, humility or pity. Many knights like to demonstrate their courtesy by elaborate praise of beautiful women, and many would leave their attentions there, having made their target feel flattered as a lady should after such recognition, but there are some, like that squire,’ he jerked his head, ‘who would always try to take more. By force, if necessary.’
‘And the other?’
‘Sir John is no libertine. But a man like him, who has been in many jousts, must have lost much of his sense.’
‘You have been in several yourself, I am sure?’
‘And haven’t you noticed how my brains have been addled?’ he asked lightly. ‘When you are hit about the head by a madman wielding a sword which weighs at least five pounds, you naturally have to wear a helmet, and for all the padding about your brow and ears, the din is appalling.’
She laughed aloud, but her eyes remained upon the two standing at the bars. The fighters had stopped, the shorter man being helped to a corner, blood streaming from the gash in his shoulder and other stab wounds. The victor, the taller man, was chatting to Sir John, but even as Margaret watched, Sir John turned and met her gaze. Although she tried to look away as if she had not observed him, she saw the knight’s sudden wolfish smile and the sight of it made her colour.
Averting her face, she tried to put him from her mind, but she couldn’t. That man’s open stare had made her feel as though he had undressed and mounted her; if not in reality, she was convinced that he had in his mind. She felt as though she had been raped.
Andrew, Sir Edmund of Gloucester’s squire, walked idly to the racks at the edge of the field. This was the starting-point for riders before charging at an opponent, and lances were fitted into their slots, ready for the first challenges.
Lifting one from its rest, he held it at its centre and frowningly gauged its heft and balance. It felt a little top-heavy, but that was normal enough. Squinting along its length he saw that there was a definite curve to it. All the better for the rider who faced it, he thought, for the wood would shatter most spectacularly on impact, making the two riders appear all the more brave for their harsh collision with shards and splinters of wood flying in all directions. The coronal was a goodly lump of iron, with four blunt prongs projecting to disperse the force of the lance and protect the opponent. Otherwise a sharp point with the full mass of knight, horse and armour all riding on the tip could puncture even strong armour and pin a man inside his steel coat. Andrew had seen it happen.
He set the lance back in the rest and took up another. This was straight enough, and he gave a grudging nod of approval as he peered along its length, but as he lifted it back to the vertical and thumped the base against the ground, he thought there was a feeling of weakness in it, as if it had a crack in the wood.
Putting the lance back, he eyed the arena. Imagining himself on horseback, he peered hard, searching for any potholes or tussocks which might conceal a molehill. The last thing he wanted was for his mount to stumble or swerve. With a heavy charger travelling at speed, that could end in disaster: the opponent’s horse might try to dodge, leading to the lance-point striking at an odd angle, perhaps slipping beneath the plate armour and hitting a vital spot, or the manoeuvre could lead to the horses colliding, killing both each other and their riders.