The castle was a massive grey building; the town huddled south-east of it in the gap between the Rivers Lowman and Exe, an accumulation of limewashed, timber-built places which sprawled haphazardly up the hillside, with gardens, orchards and burgage plots radiating out. Thin fields lay further down the hill, as did pastures and meadows: cattle and horses, sheep and lambs could be seen browsing or dozing in the warm summer sunlight.
They clattered over the timber bridge to the main street leading up to the castle, and Jeanne began to feel the strength and power of the place. It would be strange to live beneath such a massive symbol of a lord’s power, she thought. Strange and intimidating.
Baldwin turned to her as if reading her mind. For a moment he appeared to have forgotten his loss, and he gave her a broad smile. ‘Does it look a glum place to you?’
‘I have no idea how you guessed that was what I was thinking, but yes. It doesn’t appeal to me.’
‘It’s not so dreadful inside,’ he said. ‘My Lord de Courtenay enjoys a comfortable life.’
‘But imagine living beneath these walls all the time,’ she said, shivering as they rode towards the great gatehouse. ‘I heard once of the King’s castle at London, and how the tall walls and towers threatened any who came near. I begin to understand how people must feel when their whole lives are lived in the shadows of a place like this’.
Baldwin cast her a sympathetic glance. Although she had lived in Bordeaux during her youth, she had spent most of her life in England in places where there appeared little need for strong defences. Devon was not like the Scottish or Welsh marches where warfare was a way of life. ‘Didn’t you feel the same at Bordeaux?’
‘Bordeaux? No, of course not! The whole town was enclosed and protected. The castle was only for the last resort, there to protect the King’s subjects.’
Baldwin nodded but wasn’t convinced. The King’s father, Edward I, was perfectly capable of bullying his people into submission, and a place like Bordeaux was protected because it made sense to look after the citizens so that their wealth could be defended and saved for the King himself, rather than handing it to his enemies. No king was truly altruistic.
He glanced up at the castle walls. Strong, solid, unblemished, they looked impregnable – yet he wondered how they would cope with the might of the King’s artillery pounding them. The walls of Bristol had not survived long in 1316 when the King had exercised his will over the townspeople, raising the whole posse of the county against the rebellious folks who would not obey his will…
But his reverie was halted by a cry.
‘Baldwin! About time!’
He spun in his saddle and then smiled as he recognised his old friend Simon. ‘Bailiff Puttock, did they invite you as well? I thought it was to be a select gathering!’
‘Is Margaret with you?’ Jeanne asked as she and her husband dropped gratefully from their mounts.
‘No,’ Simon said, and there was a reticence in his manner. ‘You know she has often miscarried? The midwife told her to stay at home and rest in her bed to prevent another, and I agreed.’
‘What of Hugh?’ Baldwin asked. They were inside the great hall now, sipping drinks, and Baldwin was surprised not to see Simon’s truculent servant making a nuisance of himself among the castle’s own men.
‘Er, no,’ Simon said. ‘Hugh has decided to stay and help Constance with her garden.’
Baldwin’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. He had no idea what sort of woman would want so morose a companion.
‘There’s no need to look like that, Baldwin. Hugh can work well enough.’
‘Really?’
‘When he wants to, yes.’
‘Does he ever want to?’ Baldwin enquired.
‘He’s loyal.’
‘Ah!’
Seeing his expression Simon added defensively, ‘I gave him permission.’
Baldwin snorted derisively. ‘One always agrees with a servant who wishes to do something – if one intends to keep him, that is!’ he scoffed, and glanced around at Edgar, who stood aloof from other servants nearby.
‘Edgar is handfast to Cristine in the tavern at Crediton,’ Jeanne chuckled in explanation. ‘Baldwin is not sure yet that it is a good match: he fears Cristine will tempt Edgar away from his side and, to be honest, I fear it myself. I don’t know how Edgar manages to keep Baldwin so obedient!’
Baldwin gave a dry smile but didn’t answer. He had not told his wife how he had met Edgar in the disastrous battle to defend Acre. Saving Edgar’s life had conferred a curious obligation upon both men and Baldwin was as aware as Edgar of the bond that tied them. It was hard to conceive of life without Edgar. They had been together since Acre, first as refugees, then as Knight and Sergeant in the Templars, more recently as land-owning knight and servant.
Not that Baldwin was an enormously wealthy knight. Certainly not in the same league as some of Hugh de Courtenay’s other knights – and not in the same league as Simon either, he realised as he took in Simon’s fur trimmings at neck and hem, the brilliant vermillion cloth of his cotte and surcoat, the ruddy linen of his hose, and most of all the two gold rings on his fingers. ‘You should be careful, Simon,’ he said seriously. ‘If you flaunt your money like that,’ nodding towards the rings, ‘you’ll be made a knight.’
Simon grinned and was about to reply when he saw that Baldwin was serious. ‘Me?’
‘You could be forced to accept a knighthood if Lord de Courtenay considers you rich enough.’
‘I don’t earn enough to justify it,’ Simon protested.
‘An income of £40 a year is all it takes, and I would think that the chief bailiff of the Warden of the Stannaries would probably have that each year as well as the money he might win from his old farm at Sandford and other investments.’
‘Hmm,’ Simon grunted thoughtfully. ‘I never liked the idea of distraint. Compelling people to become knights when they’ve got no inclination seems foolish.’
‘Certainly you’d be more use as a shield to protect a worthy man from arrows than as any sort of warrior,’ Baldwin observed critically, glancing askance at his friend’s jutting belly.
‘I resent that, Sir Baldwin!’ Simon laughed. ‘It takes a large investment to build a temple to the epicurean arts like this.’ And he slapped his stomach.
Baldwin shook his head as if in disgust, but couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s cheerfulness. Simon had lost the haggard look of two years before when his only son had died, but the greying hair was a feature that he would never again be without. For all that his guts were expanding, his face’s ruddy colouring showed that he still took his regular exercise, riding over the moors to impose his lord’s will on the ever-rebellious miners who scraped a meagre living on Dartmoor. His dark grey eyes had more wisdom, more experience than when Baldwin had first known him. The loss of his boy had affected him badly, as had his wife’s miscarriages since.
‘Anyway, Baldwin, what of your own people? I see you’ve brought Jeanne and Edgar; have you decided not to impose Chops on our poor lord?’
As soon as he asked the question Jeanne saw the sadness return to her husband’s face and she took his hand comfortingly.
Piers Bakere eyed the road sourly as he jogged along on his cart. It was a stupid waste of his time, this journey, but since he must use the manor’s mill, he had to load up with grain every so often and take it down the roadway here to get it ground down to flour.
Normally the portly baker wouldn’t have come: there was no point in his performing menial tasks like this when he had an apprentice, Jack, to do it for him. But Jack had some kind of sickness and was laid up, shivering as if he had the ague, sweating and throwing up. Piers’s wife had fetched the physician, who had inspected Jack’s urine for fully an hour, then his most recent stool, before declaring solemnly that the boy needed to stay in bed, get bled, and eat only food and drink for a hot, dry humour. Then he ran off to fetch the necessary potions. In the meantime it was obvious that the boy must remain in his cot in the hall. He could hardly lift sacks of flour in his present state.