Jeanne had been saved and taken to Bordeaux, where relations protected her until she met Ralph de Liddinstone and agreed to marry him. But she had found life with him to be a nightmare. He had abused her, beaten her, insulted her before his friends, and finally taken to whipping her. It was a relief when he contracted a fever and died.
It was already well over a year since his death-he died in the summer before she had met Baldwin-and in that time, although the estate had suffered from near-catastrophic disasters, she was happier now than she had been for many years. The only event which had shaken her initial resolve to remain free and uncontracted to any man had been her meeting Sir Baldwin de Furnshill.
Glancing over at him, she felt her face soften at the sight. The knight sat, clearly at his ease, his eyelids drooping with the somnolence induced by a heavy meal, his drink tilting at a dangerous angle in his hand as he tried to fight sleep. Simon had already given up the battle, and was snoring gently, arms folded, head resting against the fireplace, Margaret nodding at his side. They looked comfortable together, and Jeanne felt a quick jealousy. She had never known such companionship with a man, and it seemed unfair that Margaret should have found happiness with the first man she had married.
Baldwin appeared kind, she thought. He had eyes that were keen to smile, rather than scold; his temperament was geared to protecting others rather than taking for himself. The talk about self-advancement they had held over the table had confirmed that, and she could recall conversations with him in Tavistock when he had evinced compassion for the innocent when accused, and for those who were unable to defend themselves. It made her certain that he would make a good husband.
He had asked her to marry him then, but she had temporized. It was not solely because she felt it was too soon after her husband’s death to be seemly, for the Abbot would have married them, and no one would have dared gainsay him; it was more due to her own doubts. After suffering unhappily in one marriage she had no desire to repeat the experience.
And that was her sole remaining source of uncertainty. Was Baldwin pleasant only to her face, and a brute in private? That was how her husband had been: he had been civility and generosity itself while courting her, and it was only when she wed him that she realized his true colors. But there was no denying the fact that she was lonely.
While she contemplated his dozing figure, she heard a soft pattering of paws, which suddenly increased their speed.
Uther had been shut away in the undercroft for the previous two hours while his master ate, not that Uther knew that was the reason. To his simple mind, all that mattered was that he had been away from Baldwin’s side for a long time, and that, he knew, only happened when he had misbehaved. Now he was released, he knew he must make his apologies to his master for whatever he might have done. On entering the hall at a gentle trot, he saw the familiar shape in the chair at the fireside, and launched himself forward.
It was a pleasant dream into which Baldwin had slipped. He was walking once more with Jeanne in the Abbot’s garden at Tavistock, building up to asking her the crucial question, and as he asked, she turned her sweet face to him, and he saw her smiling lips open…and she butted him in the stomach.
“Jeanne!”
He opened his eyes to a mask of horror. Massive brown eyes met his, jowls quivered with saliva which dropped on his chest, and then the jaws opened like the maw of hell, and he saw the tongue flicking forward before he managed to snap his eyes shut.
Only later, long after the disgraced mastiff had been ejected, after the abundant apologies from Edgar, after the pint of strong wine which he had felt entirely justified in drinking to calm his shattered nerves, only then did Baldwin remember the gales of laughter pouring from Jeanne.
But still later, when he was lying in his bed, he recalled with overwhelming horror what he had cried out loud as his dream was shattered by that blasted hound.
In the morning, Simon was annoyed to be woken before daylight. Someone was gently shaking his shoulder, and the bailiff had to stop himself from cursing as he recognized his servant. “Hugh? What is it?”
“Sir Baldwin’s getting ready to go into town, sir. He thought you’d want to join him.”
“He did, did he?”
The disgruntled bailiff dressed himself and went down to the hall. There he found the knight sitting in his chair by the fire, which had only recently been made up and was making more smoke than flame. Wat was on his knees blowing enthusiastically at the feeble embers.
“You’re in a hurry to be off today,” Simon observed suspiciously.
“Sorry, Simon, but I have a murder to solve, and there are many people to speak to.”
The bailiff watched him don a thick coat and cloak. “So it’s got nothing to do with nervousness about seeing Jeanne as soon as she wakes?”
“Nervousness? What have I got to be nervous about?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing. How’s your dog today?”
Baldwin glowered at him scornfully. When Edgar appeared and announced that their horses were ready, the knight walked past the bailiff with an air of absolute disdain. Uncrushed, Simon trailed after him, still fastening his cloak, whistling tunelessly and grinning broadly.
The town, when the three men rode in, was just stirring. Dogs barked, cockerels squawked their welcome to the new day, shutters slammed open, men and women cursed or bellowed, and over it all there was a general hubbub of pots and pans banging as meals were prepared. They rode past shopkeepers dropping their shutters onto trestles and setting goods on display. Some recognized Simon from the time when he had lived here-was it really four years since he had left for Lydford?-and gave him a good-natured nod of the head, or a doubtful frown, depending upon their experience of him. It made him feel good to be alive. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the town.
“Where to first, Baldwin?”
“Up to see our old friend John of Irelaunde. He’d be the first man to be suspected by the average townsman, and I’d rather have a chance to speak to him before someone tries to dangle him from a rope.”
They were soon at the road that led up the hill to the Irishman’s. On the corner stood Godfrey’s house. Baldwin carried on toward John’s property, but Simon called to him. “There’s someone trying to attract your attention, Baldwin. Is that Putthe?”
Without answering, Baldwin trotted his horse through the gate and up to the front door. “Putthe? You’ve had second thoughts?”
“Me?” Putthe, his bandage even grimier now, looked up as if surprised at the question. “No, sir. When I saw you the other night I was still half-concussed, and fearfully upset, what with the strain of losing my master. I forgot to tell you something.”
Baldwin and the others dismounted and followed the servant into the buttery. Here he had a small copper pot heating over a brazier. The scent from it made Simon salivate. It was the smell of sugared wine, mulled with sweet, aromatic herbs. After the journey, it was the tonic he needed.
Even Baldwin couldn’t refuse a mug, and he sighed with gratitude as he felt his first gulp sear a glowing path down his gullet. “Come on, Putthe. What stunning news do you have for us?”
It was hard, but now Putthe knew he had been wrong at first, and he had to ensure that John was protected. He didn’t need any more trouble, and his mistress could make his life a misery if he didn’t protect the Irishman.
“Master, my memory was weak after I was hit. Otherwise I’d have told you when you were here before.”
“Never mind the excuses, what wonderful clues do you now remember?”
“On the night my master was murdered, I was out here. I didn’t say before, because I didn’t think it mattered, but I had someone with me…”
“Who?” Simon demanded immediately. “We already know that your lady had allowed all the servants to go to the inn apart from you and her maid. Who was here with you?”
Puuhe lowered his eyes for a moment. “It was Jack, the blacksmith. He was often round here to see to the master’s horses.”
“And you shared your master’s best ale with him?”
“I was asked to, sir. It wasn’t as if there was any problem with it. Jack had been here to see to Mistress Cecily’s mare-it had cast a shoe, and he had to fit it back.”
“What really happened, Putthe?” Baldwin asked, setting his pot on the floor.
“As I told you, sir, I got such a knock on the head that I couldn’t remember everything all at once,” Putthe said reproachfully. “Soon as I recalled it, I wanted to let you know. What happened was this: Jack was here in the late afternoon, and the mare was skittish, didn’t want any part of having the shoe refitted, so Jack got quite hot and thirsty. Mistress Cecily asked me to invite him in here. I wouldn’t normally, he’s a bit rough and ready, if you follow me, but after he’d spent so long here with the mare, I suppose the mistress thought it was only polite to give him an ale when he was done.
“The master came in after a while, and shared a drink. He was in an excellent mood, and went out just as dark was falling. It was his way to go out when Coffyn was away. He didn’t trust Coffyn’s hired men-thought they could rob the house. Master Godfrey was worried they might decide to take some of his tools or steal a pig or something. You never can trust their type!
“What with one thing and another, it had been a hard day for me and for Jack. We had a few quarts together. One man came, asking for the master, but he went when I said he wasn’t here…”
“Who was that?” asked Baldwin sharply.
“Only one of Coffyn’s men. He said he wanted to pass on some news about Coffyn’s business.”
“Was it normal for Coffyn’s men to come round like that?”
“Not really,” shrugged Putthe, “but they came over sometimes. My master had some interest in helping Matthew Coffyn, and had been for several months.”
“And what happened then?”
“After he’d gone, Jack and I had a little more to drink, and then he left. I put my feet up with another pint or two. I suppose I must have dozed. I don’t know what stirred me. All of a sudden I was wide awake. It took me a minute to get my bearings, as it were. I couldn’t hear anything, not even a mouse, so I just put it down to some noise from the street. You get that sometimes, from carts hitting potholes and suchlike. But then I heard this terrible scream!”