Michael JECKS: Crediton Killings

“Not him. I am Bishop Stapledon.”

Baldwin spun round. Behind him was a man in his sixties, wearing a plain cloak and tunic, both of good quality and cut. At his belt was a short sword, the grip worn from regular use. Graying hair cut fashionably sat atop what looked like a warrior’s head, and Baldwin was reminded of the leaders of the Templars. He had the same aristocratic haughtiness, bred of a long family history and awareness of his power. When Baldwin glanced down he was not surprised to see that the Bishop’s boots were light and fashionable, the point rising elegantly, as befitted a courtier. It made him sigh.

“My Lord Bishop, Godspeed.” Not knowing the man, Baldwin preferred to bow a little and give him the customary formal greeting.

“Godspeed.” The Bishop had keen green-brown eyes which were perpetually on the brink of smiling, as if he was genuinely happy with his lot and saw no reason to be otherwise; Baldwin found himself liking the look of him. While the knight introduced himself and explained that Peter was supervising food in the kitchen, Stapledon nodded absently and issued a string of commands to his men. In minutes two servants were leading horses to the stables, while others lifted chests and bags from the wagon and carried them inside.

It was just as he was about to walk in that Baldwin asked him for a word in confidence.

“Of course, Sir Baldwin. What is it?”

The green eyes held his while he explained. “My friend Simon Puttock, the bailiff of Lydford Castle, has just lost his son, my lord. I fear it is not a cheerful gathering you have come to.”

“How old was the boy?”

“Eighteen or twenty months.”

“Good God! Ah well, we must see what we can do to divert them in their sadness, mustn’t we, Roger?”

This was addressed to a young man, clad in simple clerical gear of cassock, gown and hood. He was introduced to Baldwin as Roger de Grosse, the son of Sir Arnold in Exeter. Baldwin had heard of Sir Arnold de Grosse; he was a patron of a number of churches in Devon and Cornwall. Now, it appeared, he had decided his son should become a rector.

“Do you have a church selected for you?” Baldwin asked.

“Er… yes, sir. Callington. We have just been visiting it in Cornwall. I hope to be confirmed in my position soon,” he said nervously, casting a sidelong glance at the Bishop.

Baldwin indicated the entrance and they made their way inside. Trailing along behind the great politician and man of God, Baldwin had a twinge of doubt as to whether he had done the right thing in warning him about Simon and his wife, but the fear was dispelled as soon as they went into the hall.

Peter had returned, and stood, flustered, as the Bishop walked in. They exchanged greetings, but then Walter went over to Margaret. “My lady, I am so sad to hear of your loss. I promise you, I will remember him, and you, in my prayers. You are an intelligent woman; you know that nothing I can do or say will reduce your grief, but think on this: although God has seen fit to take your boy from you, and that is for some reason we cannot yet comprehend, He did at least give you the gift of the boy in the first place. He might never have done that. That He did so means He may intend giving you another, and this one you may keep.” As he stopped, her eyes filled with tears, and at first Baldwin was worried that he had upset her more, but then he saw her attempt a smile, and breathed a sigh of relief.

As midday crept into the afternoon, Paul sat in the inn’s buttery, carefully totting up his profits. Though he could neither read nor write, he had no difficulty in calculating bills, and could keep a tally of six simultaneously when he needed to. With all his space being taken up by the captain’s men-at-arms, he anticipated a cheerful reckoning at the end of their stay.

He was absolutely exhausted. The girls had run themselves off their feet, all but Sarra. He had quite failed to get the lass to bestir herself. The stupid girl had insisted that she was too tired to get up and work, when he went to her room – and when he roared that it was her fault for escorting the captain to his bedchamber, she had screeched at him to leave her alone or she would speak to Sir Hector about him. The threat was enough. His sole Parthian shot had been to point out that the captain and his men would soon be gone, and if she wanted to make sure she still had a job afterward, she should get out of bed and roll up her sleeves. It had not worked. He had not truly expected it to, for he knew how pig-headed she could be.

Soon he would have to go to the cookshop and collect the evening food. The captain and his men demolished stews, pottages and hams as if they had starved for months, and it was hard keeping up with them. What was even more difficult for the stressed innkeeper was trying to adjust to their hours. He, like most others in the town, relied on religious schedules for his meals. Up at dawn, he would have a short breakfast, ready for his main meal at nine and a supper in the afternoon. Rural lords would eat later, but they did not have to worry about fitting the regular round of jobs into their day and could afford to have others work to prepare their food. The captain and his men seemed happier rising late, the knight at nine, while some of his men were still abed at ten; they preferred their last meal to be both more substantial than the others and served later – much later. If the previous night was anything to go by, any time up to the middle of the night was fine.

Hearing a step, he glanced out into the screens and gave a wry smile. “Hello, Sarra.”

The girl had not seen him, and he was surprised at the way she jumped when he called out. He was hidden slightly in the darkness of the buttery, while she was walking along the lighted screens: he must have surprised her.

“Did you have to do that?” she demanded, and to his amazement she was shaking with anger, white-faced and wide-eyed.

“I’m sorry, Sarra, I had no idea you’d be scared. I was only saying hello.”

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No. Well, I’m sorry.”

She flounced away, out through the door and into the bright sunlight of the yard behind the inn. Crossing it, ignoring the catcalls of two mercenaries at a table, she made her way to her room, and only when she had shut and bolted the door and could stand with her back to it, safe and secure once more in her old room, did she let her breath escape in a long hissing sigh of relief.

The fool had almost made her leap from her skin, the way he had called out to her. He wouldn’t dare do that to anyone else, it was just because he thought of her as a silly wench, good only for serving and flattering the customers. It wasn’t as if he had ever given her any responsibility, even.

Gradually she felt her heartbeat slow and could move from the door to the mattress, where she dropped down, and huddled miserably.

That first evening had been a long, slow anticipation of a delightful, sensual experience. In her dreams she had elevated her meeting with a suitable man to the level of a courtly love affair. There were many songs of how knights would vie for a lady’s love at tournaments, trying to win renown to honor her… and during that evening she had invented dire situations from which Sir Hector would save her, his lady, while in reality she stood beside him refilling his tankard. Her old fantasies had been reinvigorated by his presence, and she had saved him from miserable circumstances time after time while she stood, head bowed, the jug held firmly in her hands waiting for him to hold out his mug again. But instead of finding love, she had been taken like a prize of battle.

She had thought she would be happy with Sir Hector. He had been quiet in the hall, reserved and undemonstrative, not pawing at her like others she had known. At one stage she had wondered whether he was going to show any interest in her after all. But that had changed once they entered his chamber. She had expected compliments, some well-chosen phrases of flattery such as a well-educated knight might use to his chosen lady, but no. Sir Hector had battered at her as if she was a city to be conquered. He had no finesse, no interest in her whatsoever: she was there to satisfy him, and that was all. When once she tried to refuse him, he struck her. Not hard, but painfully. She could still feel the lump on her ribcage where his fist had landed with that short blow.