‘You are to remain with me all the while I am in England.’
‘Yes, but there is little point. You’ve already got your old two back.’
‘Pons and André? Those two? I do not think that they are reliable men. No, I need you two, still.’
‘I don’t think so. We should return to our master.’
‘Your master? And what do you think he would say about you deserting me here before my long return journey? If any harm comes to me, he will be most displeased.’
Peter grinned. ‘Ah, well, I think I can take that risk.’
‘He is perhaps little more than a boy, but make no mistake, my friend. The Earl of Chester is yet the heir to a realm. He will be your king one day, if you live long enough to witness it.’
‘My master would want us back with him.’
‘Then go. But I will tell him you deserted me.’
‘Hardly deserted.’ Peter’s grin and expansive wave of his hand took in the whole abbey, indicating that there were many others nearby to protect the Bishop.
‘In any case, it would seem likely that we shall meet him shortly.’
‘How so?’
‘We shall move to London, nearer him, before long. The King wishes to discuss the treaty provisions with his barons. He is calling all his barons to Westminster. I am myself to go there to take any further instructions from your king.’
Peter nodded, still grinning, but there was little humour in his voice. ‘Very well. We’ll remain with you a little longer. But only a little. We owe our service to him, and no one else.’
Feast of the Apostles21
Lydford
Waiting for his daughter and her husband-to-be, Simon was fretful and on edge. He had already sent his wife off out, and his manservant, Hugh, away to speak to Sir Baldwin, so that he could speak with his prospective son-in-law in private, but he was not looking forward to the interview. The idea of losing his daughter was as painful as the idea of losing a limb. She was a part of him. But, as Meg would keep pointing out, Edith was over seventeen now. She was old enough to know her mind.
When he heard the horses arriving, he went slowly across the floor of his hall, and stood by the fire, now smoking gently, and waited there, his back to the flames, arms folded, legs firmly planted. The boy would have to enter and confront him like that, a challenging father. Perhaps a fearsome one.
The man who entered was not Edith’s Peter, though.
‘Who are you?’ Simon demanded.
‘You are whom?’ the man asked.
‘I am the owner of this farm, friend. Who are you?’ Simon grated.
‘My name is known to you already, I think. I am called William atte Wattere. And you are, I suppose, Simon Puttock, one time Bailiff of Lydford for Abbot Robert?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Ah, good. Then I have the right place.’
‘I do not think so.’
‘You are wrong.’ Wattere smiled.
‘By what right do you claim to be able to take my land?’
‘It is not your land, friend. It belongs to my Lord Hugh Despenser. He owns it now, and wants it for his own, so I have been sent to remove any obstructions.’
He did not look like the brutal enforcer of an illegal act of theft. Rather, he was a mild-looking man with a slight squint. He had the narrow features of an ascetic, but without any appearance of a rat. He had gleaming eyes, which seemed to be bright with pleasure and fun, and Simon had the distinct impression that he would be enormously enjoyable as a drinking companion, if the circumstance of their meeting was different.
‘Such as the true owner?’
‘Such as any squatter, yes.’
Simon looked about him. His hall was as familiar to him as his own hand, and yet as he stood here, it looked to him slightly different, as though it was already taken from him, and he was, in fact, a trespasser here.
And then a flood of pure anger washed through his veins.
He was no petitioner! He was no humble churl who could be forced to submit to the rape of his property and treasure. No man, none, could take from him what was his own. The bastard who tried it would have his head broken!
‘You must have your things out of here within the week,’ Wattere said. ‘I gave your wife a week, but in your absence, so I suppose a little compassion is in order. Unless you make it difficult, of course.’ His mild grin grew wider. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Make it difficult?’ Simon snarled. ‘I’ll be damned to hell before I agree to being robbed by a felon like you!’
‘If you take that attitude, I will ensure that you are out of here in days, and your eviction will be as unpleasant as I can contrive.’ And now the eyes changed. The humour and pleasantness left them, and in their place was an icy calmness. A calculating expression that was almost desire.
Simon felt a red curtain of rage fall over his eyes. He grasped his sword-hilt and moved towards the man, sweeping out the blade.
Wattere had seen Simon’s sudden movement, and he stepped back and to the side in the same instant. His sword was out, and the two swords clashed, ringing. ‘It will make things worse for you if you try to thwart Sir Hugh’s official,’ he grated, all amiability gone from his voice.
‘You dare threaten me for defending my own?’ Simon roared, and sprang forward, sword up.
There was a scream, and he shot a look over his shoulder. There, in the doorway, was his daughter Edith and her fiancé. Simon felt a swift burning over his left shoulder, and knew he had been struck. Then he lifted his own sword and felt Wattere’s slide down its edge. The two were watching each other, their eyes firmly locked. Simon could remember once being taught that it was a mistake to watch the man’s sword. Better by far to keep an eye on the man’s face. ‘Watch his eyes, boy. Watch his eyes. You’ll see his intention there, and when he wants to attack, he’ll betray it.’
And he saw it now. A momentary narrowing of the eyes, and suddenly the blade was lancing forward to his breast. A slash of his own, and the blade was swept aside, an upward flick, and Simon’s point raked along the man’s inner forearm. He felt it strike the elbow with a soft sucking, and yanked it free. Wattere’s arm was oozing blood, a thick mess, and his sword was already on the ground when Simon took a pace forward and rested his sword-point on Wattere’s throat. ‘Yield.’
‘Why? What will you do?’
‘You attack me in my own house, my own hall, and you ask what I shall do? This is my home, churl. You desecrate it with your presence. Yield, or I’ll destroy you.’
Wattere looked up at him and curled his lip. ‘You? Kill me?’ he sneered. He knew enough about Simon Puttock. He had checked on him before threatening him, for a man was a fool who tried to bully another without being aware of his strengths, and he had been told that this man was a mere clerk at best. He’d been a bailiff on the moor, but that was an easy job, and then he’d got an even softer position as Keeper of Dartmouth. That, Wattere had been told, was more or less a clerical post, and the man was a lightweight. He hadn’t drawn sword in many years. Anyway, these Devon boys were mere children when they were set against a man like Wattere, with years of fighting and enforcement for Despenser. There was nothing to fear here.
Now, though, he saw something different in Simon’s eye, and was prey to a sudden doubt. Wattere recognised pure, blind rage when he saw it, and the expression in Simon Puttock’s eyes just now was not that of a gentle, bovine creature. If this was a soft-hearted animal, it was one which had contracted rabies. His eyes were more like those of a terrier when put in a sty with a sackload of rats. The red mist had fallen over him, and he was perfectly capable of killing, especially now, in hot blood.
‘Shit! I yield! I yield!’ he snapped quickly as he saw Simon’s sword move.
‘Get up, and go. If I see you here again, I will have you arrested and held at Lydford.’