‘It doesn’t work for every woman he meets,’ Margaret said with a chuckle.
‘No, well, you already have the best man in the world,’ Simon said.
‘I know.’
‘So now all we need do is wait to hear from him … and from Edith, of course.’
‘I will pray that we do so soon,’ Margaret said quietly.
‘And I too,’ Simon said, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The hills about here meant that Baldwin was already out of sight, but Simon stood staring out after him as though still watching his friend disappear from view.
‘He is a good friend, Simon, isn’t he?’ Margaret said.
‘Hmm? Baldwin? Oh, yes. The best you could hope to meet. I just pray that he will be successful.’
‘And what if he is? We shall still not be able to speak with her,’ Margaret said. ‘Even to see her would be known to her husband and father-in-law.’
‘But we may at least learn that she is well, and she can be reassured to know that we still love her,’ Simon said. ‘And perhaps we can arrange to see her in Exeter, away from her house.’
‘Perhaps,’ Margaret said. ‘I am only glad that we are here again, husband.’
He grunted, but she could see that he appreciated her comments. For his own part, she knew, he missed the moors and his old job of bailiff to the Stannaries. His had been one of the most important jobs on the moors: keeping the peace between the tenants and tin-miners. Miners were all working on the king’s lands, and were responsible only to him, so that they could maximise their harvest of metal, which enriched him as well. But their extensive rights meant that there were frequent clashes with other landowners in the area, so Simon was forever riding over the moors and breaking up fights, attaching men to come to his next court, or trying to discover the names of the bodies which were occasionally discovered, murdered, in the wastes.
Some years ago, the far-sighted Abbot Robert had invested one hundred pounds in the farm of tin on the moors. Thus Simon had reported to him, and some few years ago, as a reward for his hard efforts, the abbot had given him a new job: that of Keeper of his Port of Dartmouth. It should have been a wonderful promotion, and that was indeed what the abbot had intended, but for Margaret it was a dreadful disappointment. Simon had been taken away from her and installed for weeks at a time in the sea port, while it was impossible for her to follow him.
Since that kindly old man’s death, Simon and Margaret’s lives had grown still more unsettled. The abbacy itself had become the source of dispute and bickering.
While the monks elected Brother Roger Busse, another monk, John de Courtenay, desired the position for himself. He started a bitter legal case to demonstrate that Busse was not a fit man. The wrangling had grown fierce, with both candidates making ever more wild accusations, and in that terrible environment, Simon had found his own position grown intolerable. With both men vying for power, no one in authority was safe. They both attempted to persuade Simon to use what influence he had in support of them, while threatening him with dire consequences should he fail so to do.
In this atmosphere of distrust and deception, Simon had been persecuted by Despenser too, until he lost even his home in Lydford, and he and Margaret had been forced to return here to West Sandford.
She knew it was a sore disappointment to her husband, and she greatly regretted that – but she was content to be here now. The idea that she might be forced to cope with the loss of their daughter while her husband was sent off on business for the abbot, or while he wandered the moors in pursuit of felons or thrust himself between warring parties of miners and moorland tenants, was too awful. She wouldn’t be able to manage on her own.
Friday before Candlemas
*
It was not a place he had ever been to before. A small town set amidst the flat lands, there was nothing here to interest him – but all around was absolute emptiness, and that was what Richard de Folville wished for now.
So he had rolled himself in a blanket under the stars, cursing his misfortune and his enemies, and praying for his safe arrival in France.
If only he knew where his brothers were. Their companionship was the thing he craved. He was a fool to have sent Eustace away like that. Rather than riding off to see John and tell him, he would have been better advised to remain with his brothers and ride with them.
He wished he knew which way they had taken. Eustace had mentioned that he would go to France, which probably meant heading south. That would have been direct, but Richard was convinced that with the posse being hard on his brothers’ heels, they would be best served by escaping England as quickly as possible. So this morning, after a miserable night in the open, he had lit a fire while he hunched down nearby, considering his route.
There was no choice really, he thought. He had heard that Bishop’s Llyn
*
was near to the sea, and it was surely the second or third most important port in the country, so it was ideal. He had first thought of London, but it was that little bit further, and with the king’s administration being based there, much more dangerous. Even though London was a massive city, to this renegade, it felt no better than walking into a trap.
The way to Bishop’s Llyn was some fifty miles or more, and he reckoned he must have ridden at least thirty yesterday. It hadn’t been easy. The going was hard, with plenty of wet, muddy roads – always a danger to a man who didn’t know where the potholes were.
It was dark before he had reached this place, but he had steeled himself and continued. If someone was to stop him, he would declare that he was riding on urgent business for the Bishop of Norwich. It wouldn’t persuade a posse, but it might just save him from arrest for riding about suspiciously. Any stranger making a journey at dark was a source of deepest suspicion, even a man with a tonsure.
The fire was good and heartening. There was something about the sight of flames and the warmth they gave off that soothed a man’s heart. It was not the mere heat itself, he was sure, but something about the colours and sparks that dazzled the intellect.
He had some water in a pot, which he had set over the flames, and now he chewed some stale bread while he waited for the water to boil. In his pack there were some leaves which he could steep – old, dried mint from last year. He could almost taste the hot drink already, and he hunched over the fire, watching the pot avidly. So avidly that he didn’t hear the horse until it was almost at his side.
‘So, a priest, and all alone out here, eh?’
Simon was up and about early that morning. The idea that there could be an intervention by Baldwin had given him such a sense of hopefulness that it was hard to stay in bed. Unusually for him, he was awake before dawn, and rather than run the risk of disturbing his wife, he rose and went to his hall.
The fire was cold and dead, and he set about making it afresh. Leaving the ashes to form a base, he went and fetched a bundle of twigs from his woodstore. Each year as the men laid the hedge and trimmed old twigs, they were collected and tied into faggots like this. He had a little piece of charred cloth and wisps of birch bark which he collected together, and then began to strike a spark from a flint with the back of his knife.
As he worked, his mind wandered. The scrape, scrape, scrape was comforting in some curious way, and he found that he could consider the recent events dispassionately.
His first thoughts were of absolute gratitude to Baldwin. There was no one else who would have been able to think of a speedy solution to his problems with such apparent ease and then leave to put it in force.
Baldwin was a good friend; Simon knew that. Oh, in the deepest misery of the last month or two, when he had thought Baldwin to have betrayed him, he had been unsure, as though the one incident could have altered Baldwin’s personality – or perhaps showed it in its true colours. Margaret would not believe it, and she had grown quite angry with Simon on occasion as he muttered futilely about Baldwin’s bad faith, his preparedness to risk all for his own safety. And it was irrational. But a man was
entitled to be irrational when it came to the safety of his own daughter.
The spark caught and there was a tiny red glimmer from the black cloth. He carefully wrapped it about some more of the thin bark scrapings, and blew gently until there was a larger glow, adding a little material, some twigs and more bark about the outside of his cylinder of tinder, still blowing, gradually moving to set it on the ashes. A flame caught, and he picked up some dry rushes from the floor, which soon flared up. More bark on top, and then he could start setting twigs about and above the heat. Soon there was the healthy crackle of fire, and he gently set the faggot over the top, hoping not to disturb the tinder.
He fetched bread and some wine, and warmed the wine by the side of the fire while he brought logs inside and stacked them nearby.
It was a ritual he had performed every day when he was smaller, but now the task of preparing and making a fire was something he did only rarely. There was a sadness in that, he reflected. A man should have certain jobs, certain duties, which defined him. Simon had been a bailiff and had carried out that function for many years. Other men were not so lucky as to have a role for that long. Many died before reaching Simon’s advanced age. Not that he felt old. He was the same man inside as he had always been, and yet there was no denying that his paunch was becoming as formidable as his father’s had been, and the line of his throat was not so sleek as before.
But the fact of losing first one job, and then his post as Keeper of the Port for the abbot, had left him feeling dislocated. That was only enhanced when Despenser grew to know him, and decided to attack him deliberately – first by alarming Simon himself and threatening his home, and then by attacking his family. Well, Despenser had taken the house at Lydford, and Simon sincerely hoped that it would never bring in a benefit for him. Simon had loved that house, but he would be content to set fire to it now, just to deprive Sir Hugh of any profit.
As usual, a short while before the sun rose and penetrated the
window, there was a rattle of small feet, and suddenly Perkin was in the room with him. He stopped dead on seeing his father, and then a mischievous grin washed over his face, and he ran at Simon, throwing his arms about him and crying, ‘Hello, Daddy!’
Simon ruffled his hair. At times like this he found it difficult to put his emotions into words. His heart seemed to swell; he knew pride, he knew surprise to think that he could have created such a marvellous little man, and he knew overwhelming love. Simple adoration, the sort of affection that could never be erased.
Margaret followed soon after, as all the servants began to surface. Hugh walked in, scowled at the hearth as though disgusted that a grown man could have produced such a meagre fire, and promptly set about building it with fresh logs, until it was roaring. Only then did he nod to himself and walk out again, all the while ignoring his master. Only Margaret merited a greeting.
There was a shout, then a cry, and soon after that, a scrabble of boots and a tousled figure appeared. ‘Hugh kicked me!’
‘No. He kicked your bedding. Of course, you wouldn’t have been abed still, not at this time of day, would you?’ Simon said with poisonous politeness.
‘He meant to kick me,’ Rob said sulkily.
While he lived in Dartmouth, Simon had acquired this lad. He was only thirteen or so, with a dark, ferrety face and the eyes of one who knew how to rob a man’s laces while he was not looking. Probably the son of a sailor, because Simon was sure that his mother would be over-friendly to any matelot with a bulging purse, he had been raised as an urchin at Dartmouth’s port, surviving on whatever he could gain for himself. He was no angel, but Simon felt some sympathy for the lad. Rob had not been granted the best opportunities, yet had managed to live without gaining the close attention of Dartmouth’s authorities.
‘Then you should be glad he wasn’t angry,’ Simon said. ‘Or he would have broken something.’
‘It’s not fair! I’m a free man.’
‘You’re in my employ, boy, and you have failed yet again to
get up in time.’ Simon tried to speak sternly, but knew it was pointless. ‘Go and fetch more logs in, then start your chores. I can’t do all your jobs for you, lad.’
Margaret was grinning as Rob shuffled his feet on his way out. ‘You didn’t thrash him today, then?’
‘How can you thrash a lad like him? He wouldn’t feel it.’
‘Ah, my husband, the soul of kindness, always!’
‘Meg, let’s take the air before breaking our fast,’ Simon suggested, wanting a private word with her. ‘Come and walk with me a while.’
They strolled along the old lane, to where the land rose and they could look down over a vast swathe of territory. Turning to the south-west, Simon pointed with his chin. ‘Look at that. Dartmoor.’
‘And it’s raining there again,’ his wife responded. ‘What is it, Simon?’
‘The next year will be dangerous, Meg. From all I’ve heard, Despenser will not give up power, and the king will support him in all he does. But Despenser cannot be allowed to stay. Baldwin and I discussed it last night.’
‘This is dangerous talk.’
‘Meg, there’s no sense hiding it. I agree with Baldwin. I think war is coming.’
Her face froze at those words. She looked away, over the peaceful countryside, at the little copses, the shaws and fields. The pastures were empty, but that only added to the atmosphere of calmness. Quietly, she said, ‘You think the fighting would reach here?’
‘My love, Baldwin is right: the fighting may even
start
here. The queen could choose to land in Devon; the King has not been favoured here since he confiscated her territories, has he? Whereas her popularity has grown.’
Margaret could not help but throw a glance towards their house. ‘Perkin …’
‘And you. All of us would be in danger. So I think we should consider moving away for a little while.’