Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

“That’s what Walter said. He’s very worried. He feels that there has to be a compromise between the king and his barons, otherwise there must be a war, and God himself can hardly know what the outcome of that would be!”

“No, and God would not want that in a Christian country.”

“Of course not! That is why Walter has allied himself with Aymer de Valence, the Earl of Pembroke, to try to enlist support for the Ordinances.”

“Ah!” Baldwin thought for a moment. “Yes, that would make sense. The earl could count on support from many of the barons for that. What were the Ordinances but controls to ensure good government?”

“Exactly. Walter thinks that if the king can be persuaded to agree, the troubles may be prevented from getting worse – maybe the risk of war can be averted.”

“What do you think?”

Simon glanced up and into the intense dark eyes of his friend, who sat frowning in his concentration. “I think we’ll be lucky to avoid war in some places,” he said simply. “The Earl of Pembroke is on one side, the Earl of Lancaster on the other. Both are rich and powerful. If they fight – and they will – many men will die.”

“Yes, and many women too. In any war it’s always the villeins and ordinary folk who die first and last.”

Shrugging, Simon nodded. “It’s the way of war.”

“But what of the king? You mention Pembroke and Lancaster, what about the king?”

“Does anyone worry about him? He will be with one or the other – he hasn’t got enough support to make his own force without them. And would his support make any difference? After his defeat against the Scots at Bannockburn, who can trust his generalship?”

Baldwin nodded again, as if he was confirming his own thoughts and not listening to the bailiffs words. Then, as if he suddenly noticed her, he turned to Margaret. “Sorry, this must be very boring for you.”

She stared back, her face suddenly drawn and tight. “Boring? How can it be when you’re talking about the future of the land? Our future?” His eyes held hers for a moment, then dropped to her belly, and she could not prevent the smile when his gaze rose to meet hers once more with a question in their black depths.

“My apologies, Margaret. I did not mean to insult you,” he said quietly, “I tend to think that matters of chivalry and warfare are only interesting to men. I forget that they affect women too.“ He sat still for a moment, his eyes seeming to gaze into the distance, Lionors beside him. The huge dog peered into his face, then rested her head on his lap, making him start, suddenly brought back to the world with a shock. ”Blasted hound!“ he muttered, but affectionately, and, taking a few slabs of meat, tossed them away from the table. As the dog softly padded to her food, he rose. ”Come, let’s sit by the fire.“

While the knight sat in his chair, the two servants brought the benches, and soon all were sitting and gazing into the flames, the mastiff asleep, stretched long and lean before the hearth. Edgar walked out to fetch more wine while the friends chatted desultorily, Hugh sitting and nodding under the influence of the fire and alcohol.

“What else is new, Simon?” asked the knight again, and when the bailiff shrugged, turned to Margaret with a raised eyebrow.

She laughed, shaking her head. It sometimes seemed impossible to keep anything from the knight, he had a knack of noticing even the smallest signs, although how he had spotted this she could not guess: she had only begun to realise herself over the last week. Now she was sure even if Simon was not – she was too late this month. “Yes, I think I am pregnant again, but how did you…?”

“It’s easy, Margaret. You look too well, and you seem to dislike food that you used to love – I had the rabbits brought especially for you.”

“Well, we can hope,” Simon said. Then he leaned forward and gazed fixedly at the knight. “But what about you? You were looking for a wife, but I can’t see any sign of a woman’s hand in this house. How is your search progressing?”

To the bailiffs delight, Baldwin gave a petulant shrug, like a child feigning disinterest. “Well, I… I… The thing is… Oh damn it!”

Six miles to the south the Bourc was glancing up through the trees as he rode, retreating into his cloak in the bitter cold. On either side the trees rose stolidly impervious to the weather, but high above he could catch occasional glimpses of the stars, shining as tiny pin-pricks of light which flared and were hidden like sparks from a fire. They glittered briefly before being smothered by the ghostly clouds rushing by, clouds that made him frown with wary anxiety. They raced by as if fearful of the weather that he knew must chase hard on their heels.

Hearing hooves, he stopped and stared ahead cautiously. It was late to be travelling. Soon he saw a man riding toward him. Showing his teeth in a short grin, he nodded. The other man, dressed warm and dark for hunting, nodded back and hurried on. The Bourc smiled ruefully to himself. He was muddy from splashing through puddles, and he knew he was hardly a sight to inspire confidence in a stranger. At a sudden thought he turned, and saw that the man was staring back with frank interest. The Bourc smiled ruefully as he kicked his horse and ambled off towards Wefford.

He had travelled far enough tonight. At the first clearing that looked hopeful, he pulled off the road.

Through the trees he could see a cabin, a simple affair of rough-hewn logs. Part of the roof was gone, and it was in a sorry state, but for all that it was a refuge from the worst of the wind. He led the horses inside and saw to them before starting a fire.

Chewing at some dried meat, he considered his options. His business was finished now, so there was nothing to keep him here. The sooner he could get home the better. If he continued this way, heading to the west and retracing the route he had taken from the coast, he should arrive within a couple of days, but it would surely take a lot longer than necessary. The journey west to Oakhampton and then south was quite out of his way, working its way round the perimeter of the moors. It would be more direct and quicker to cut straight south, over the moors to the sea that way.

It was still dark the next morning, Wednesday, when, over to the south of Furnshill, Samuel Cottey harnessed his old mule to the wagon and prepared for his journey, cursing in the deep blackness before dawn as his already numbed fingers struggled with the rough brass and leather fittings, pulling hard at the thick leather straps.

“Sorry, my love, he muttered as he occasionally caught a flap of skin in the buckles, making the old animal snort and stamp. “Not long, now. We’ll soon have you done.”

All set, he stood back and surveyed his work, rubbing the bandage on his arm that covered the long gash. It was a week ago now that the branch had dropped from the tree be was felling and slashed the flesh of his arm like a sword, but, thanks to God, the old woman’s poultices seemed to be working and it was healing. Sighing, he stretched and then walked back to the cottage, stamping his feet to get the feeling to return to cold toes. Inside the smoky room, he washed himself by the fire in the clay hearth in the middle, smiling crookedly from the side of his mouth, the lips pale and thin in the square, ruddy face under the thatch of grey hair. Sarah, his daughter, smiled back into his light brown eyes as she handed his mug full of warmed beer to him and watched carefully as he drained it, smacking his lips and wiping his hand over his mouth, then burping appreciatively. Giving her a quick grin, he passed back the mug.

“That’s good,” he said, then kissed her cheek briefly. “Be back soon as I can – I’ll try to be home before dark, anyway.”