Clarice’s words went ignored.
‘And she was so pretty. So pretty. As she grew older she became more so, but I missed her growing. I should have been there to watch her, to guide her; I should have been there for her to describe the first man she was attracted to, to help her dress and learn how to comport herself. I should have been there.’
‘You were there when she needed you.’
‘How can you say that?’ Matilda flashed. ‘She needed me when she met that bastard Dyne! She needed me to tell her that the man was evil – that he would kill her!’
‘You couldn’t predict that,’ Clarice pointed out reasonably.
‘How do I know?’ Matilda wailed miserably. ‘How can I tell? But at least I would have been there for her, instead of ignoring her for so long.’
‘It is the way of children that they are put to their work,’ said Clarice, who had left her mother and home when she was eight. She patted her mistress’s hand sympathetically. ‘You did all you thought best for her.’
‘And now whenever I go to celebrate Mass, he’s there, watching me with his piggy little eyes, like a demon,’ Matilda said. ‘He killed her, and now he claims the protection of the altar in my own church. Even Father Abraham supports him.’
‘It is the law.’
‘Stuff the law! I want revenge!’
It was a relief when August came and Baldwin could see how well his crops were doing. To him this time of year was rewarding and reassuring, proof of Dame Nature’s fruitfulness.
There was always much to be done, but at least his manor was heading towards the culmination of the annual effort. Soon the men would be trooping off to the fields to rake the corn for the harvesters. Those with scythes would be sweeping the great blades from side to side, mowing the slender yellow stalks; women in thick fustian aprons would bundle up the sheaves and stack them in stooks, while the children, chattering and laughing, their slings or bows in their hands, would prepare to shoot the rabbits and hares that would bolt from the fields as their cover was cut down. Afterwards, while the threshers flailed the grain from the stalks, the gleaners would crouch among the stubble, picking over the dirt to gather as much of the fallen grain as possible before the birds got it all.
And overnight many would celebrate, drinking heavily from cider or ale jars, snoring under the stars, both because walking home was too strenuous, and because Baldwin’s haywarden would willingly pay them to stay in the fields to prevent thieves taking the precious crop – and nine months later the parish priest would have a rash of squalling children to baptise.
But Baldwin was not content. Although his land was fertile and the harvest looked to be good, he heard that the fighting in Wales was spreading and he wanted more, much more: enough to fill his granaries and give him the confidence that his people would have plenty of food for the winter in case war came to his lands.
He had altered his routine now. Rising soon after dawn, he practised with a sword or cudgels on the flat grass before his house. It was normal for a man-at-arms to perform such ritual dances with weapons of all types, but Baldwin knew that many of his peers did not bother. They relied on the cavalry charge, the weight of steel, chargers and knights welded together in an unstoppable phalanx.
Baldwin had seen the shattering effect of a troop of heavily armoured knights on horseback, but he was not convinced that modern fights would be won that easily. He had kept in touch with developments across Europe where resolute Swiss farmers had destroyed an Austrian army at Morgarten and Flemish peasants had massacred France’s elite at Courtrai, while nearer home the Scots had slaughtered the English at Bannockburn. There was an unpleasant sense of the natural order being overturned, if the chivalrous could be killed by villeins.
Whatever nasty surprises battle might hold, Baldwin intended to ensure that his own lack of preparation would not be a contributory factor. That was why he spent his mornings swinging weapons in the guard positions while balancing solidly on both legs, moving to protect his right flank then his left, striking at imaginary foes, thrusting, parrying, stepping quickly to one side or another. Sometimes his servant Edgar joined him and the two would cautiously dance about each other, their sword-blades shimmering and gleaming in the sun. Both men gathered fresh scars. They only used unrebated weapons, and if one or the other lost concentration for a moment he was likely to regret it.
After a bout or two, whether with a real or an imaginary opponent, Baldwin would go for a ride, usually up over the hill towards Bickleigh but sometimes south to Crediton, to attend court or just to pick up whatever gossip he could from the inns. The news was rarely good, and it concerned him to see how men had taken to wearing weapons. It wasn’t only he who practised; there were enough fighters in Crediton from old King Edward I’s wars to form a small army.
When he returned to his manor, he would often soak in a bath. This was a luxury he had been forced to live without when he was a Templar, for the Rule of the Order forbade bathing, but now he saw to it that all the wood ashes were gathered from the fires, and these were boiled with mutton fat to produce his solid soap cakes. While bathing he could forget the troubles besetting the kingdom. Cleansed, he would dine with his wife before walking with her over his lands, or taking his dogs to hunt some kind of venison – boar, deer, rabbit or hare.
But even as he chased his game, always at the back of his mind was the anxiety of the political situation. War would come. It might not be this month or the one after, but the loathing between the King and his lords was strong, mutual – and irreconcilable.
That was why, when he received the invitation to visit Tiverton Castle during the feast of St Giles, he was not overly surprised. The de Courtenay family would want to test the loyalty of their knights if they were soon to be tried in battle. The saint’s feast and the fair which celebrated it would give Lord Hugh de Courtenay the excuse he needed to speak to all his men.
Chapter Four
Once they arrived in Exeter Sir Gilbert began to wonder where their next destination should be. The noise was deafening, the city heaving. It was a Friday, and the whole place seemed full of farmers and other peasants who had turned up to sell their produce at the market or to buy provisions. Sir Gilbert dropped from his stallion and gave the reins to a boy. Glancing at the teeming marketplace in the Cathedral precinct, he saw it was packed with what looked like the whole of Christianity. Men and women shouted their wares, gaily dressed girls bustled about offering drink, beggars shuffled on crippled legs, piteously calling for alms; a child with a belly distended by starvation squeaked for food at his mother’s feet, a scrawny woman who sat with her back against a wall feebly watching passers-by with eyes made immense with hunger; Sir Gilbert threw the pair some coins.
He paused at the ring, where a massive bull was trampling a dog, spraying blood and gore with defiant tosses of its head. Bulls had to be baited before death to tenderise their flesh, but Sir Gilbert was confident this hoary beast would have iron bands for muscles: even after baiting and hanging he would be inedible.
An official jostled him, hurrying by with two scruffy men carrying long staves; behind them, a man was led by a rope, bawling his innocence – he was a tavern-keeper found selling short measures. There would be little sympathy for him here. Sir Gilbert’s dogs both lunged at the little procession, but he had put them on leashes as he entered the city and now he hauled them back. They were unsettled in so large a crowd and the knight decided to find somewhere to sit and rest.
Overhead, flags fluttered gently in the breeze. Fresh air was certainly welcome, for the high walls of the city trapped the air within and Sir Gilbert’s nostrils were assailed with the stench. Sweat from the men and women all about him vied with animal and human excrement and the persistent tang of urine, thickened by the reek of putrefaction from the tanners on Exe Island. Fanning the air disgustedly, Sir Gilbert bought a bunch of herbs and held it beneath his nose in a vain attempt to drown out the surrounding odours.