If a man wished to make a mark, then he had to take a firm grip on the various controls which maintained government. And Sir Hugh le Despenser was clutching hold of all he could.
If Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was a fly in his food, he would scoop out that little fly, and crush it. That was what he would do now. He would control the knight by the use of an attack upon his best friend. Simon Puttock could be ruined, entirely destroyed, if Sir Baldwin did not come to see reason. Perhaps he would, in which case Sir Hugh could make up his mind whether to appear magnanimous in victory, or perhaps just prove to all that setting one’s face against him was a recipe for disaster. Either way, the bailiff would find life more difficult shortly, he told himself with satisfaction.
No one had ever managed to mark Wattere and live before, and Sir Hugh le Despenser seriously doubted that a peasant bailiff from the bogs of Devon would achieve what so many had died in attempting.
Lydford
Simon felt the wariness again as he peered through his window.
‘There is no one there, Simon,’ Baldwin said. He was standing at the side of Simon’s large table, spearing a slab of meat and putting it upon his plate. At his side the ever-expectant Wolf watched hopefully. ‘He won’t come this early.’
‘Why?’ Simon demanded, rolling his injured shoulder. It stung badly. Margaret had treated it with some foul-smelling concoction of her own devising, which hurt more than the original wound. Well, he told himself, often the cure was a lot worse than the injury. He only hoped that was correct.
‘Because he’ll have formed a regard for your hardiness, since you scratched him. He’ll either come at some unearthly hour of the morning to intimidate you, or perhaps late at night, in the dark, when you’ll be unsettled.’
‘Not during the day?’
‘An all-out assault during the day? I doubt it greatly. That would be most foolhardy.’
‘What can we do, Sir Baldwin?’ Margaret asked quietly. She was pale with anxiety.
Baldwin smiled at her. He had never seen her look more concerned, and the sight of her paleness was enough to stir his own anger. ‘My dear, we shall wait for Edgar to arrive here with help from the good Bishop Stapledon, and then we shall take our fight to the man who has caused all this upset. This William atte Wattere. You know where he can be found?’ he asked, turning back to Simon.
‘Hugh has tracked him down to an inn at Mary Tavy.’
‘Good. Then we can take a ride there later, when Edgar arrives.’
Eltham Palace
Richard of Bury left his table and walked the short distance from his room to the great hall, where he walked through to the buttery and drew off a jug of ale.
Walking back to his chamber, he saw the Earl. ‘Your Highness, are you to come to study soon?’
‘I have other matters to occupy me just now,’ Earl Edward said.
Bury nodded, standing aside for the Earl. He was clearly very busy just now. From the look of his hosen, he had been riding through some very muddy fields, and knowing the Earl as he did, Bury guessed that he had been hunting or hawking for most of the morning. Now, however, there was something else in his eyes, too. ‘Is there anything with which I can help you?’
The Earl stopped a moment and peered at him. Bury almost had the feeling that he was going to speak, but then the moment passed, and the Earl shook his head briefly, before walking off.
It left Bury with the odd feeling that, not only was the Earl keeping something back from him, but he was also keeping something back in order to protect Bury himself.
That, Bury told himself, was not comforting. Because if the Earl knew of something that was so dangerous to Bury that Bury himself must have it hidden from him, it was a deeply alarming secret indeed.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Golden Cock, Mary Tavy
Late in the afternoon, they reached the inn and stopped, their horses resting and cropping the scrubby grass, while they studied the land about here.
In happier times Simon had been here fairly often. It was a useful stopping point when he was on his way to or from Tavistock. Not absolutely direct, it was true, and to come here he had to divert a little from his usual path, but the landlord had always been accommodating, and the ale refreshing after a ride in the sun. Many were the evenings he had rested here after a long day’s ride.
The old inn was a long, narrow building, with the low thatch that was so common of the older long-houses. The windows were small, unglazed, and all but concealed by the thatch itself. A small hole in the thatch let out a thin mist of smoke from the fire, but more seemed to be oozing from the window and door.
Baldwin and Simon rode to the front of the place, and sat there a while, peering at it before swinging from their saddles. Wolf stood with head lowered, eyeing the place with a frown on his great head. While they waited, Baldwin’s man Edgar slipped down from the trees beside the inn and ran noiselessly to the inn’s wall. Hugh was already at the other corner of the building.
When Baldwin had been a Templar, Edgar had been his man-at-arms. The two had trained together as a unit, fighting on horseback, riding with lances, then practising with swords and axes on foot, but although Simon had seen Baldwin become enraged and fight with ruthless efficiency, it was Edgar whom he viewed with the greater respect. Edgar was that little bit younger, he was slightly faster, and he had the mind of a born killer: he could kill without compunction. Not because he enjoyed inflicting pain, but because he was perfectly honed as a weapon. Simon was a good fighter, in an untrained way. He was quick and competent, his skills built up over the years, but Edgar had been taught by the Knights Templar. A man who was originally competent, he had become thoroughly professional. Simon knew that Baldwin regretted having killed men; he was not sure that Edgar ever suffered from the same feelings.
However, he was not to kill today. Baldwin had made that perfectly clear. Today was to be bloodless. They were here to speak with the man who was attempting to persecute Simon.
Gripping a long staff, Edgar moved along the wall of the inn with all the noise of a shadow, while Simon and Baldwin made a meal of tying their reins to a pair of saplings. The two of them looked at each other, and then marched side-by-side to the doorway.
Then, just as they reached the threshold, before they could enter, the door slammed wide open, and William and three men hurtled out, coming to a halt a few paces before them. William had his sword out already, and it was pointing at Simon.
‘You thought you could jump me, Master Bailiff? I am surprised at you. Attacking a man in a tavern could be thought of as an attempt at murder. You know what that means, don’t you? A premeditated homicide carries the same penalty as a successful one: death. Looks like I’ll have to arrest you and take you in. And then your nice little wife can entertain me when I go to take over the house.’
‘What is your reason for trying to steal this man’s house?’ Baldwin asked harshly.
‘He is a squatter. My master owns the land outright. And your friend there will be happy enough to agree to that when we ask him.’
‘What does that mean?’
William Wattere smiled thinly. ‘We can put things to you in a way you understand. Perhaps we’ll string you up and rape your women in front of you until you sign it all over to us, eh? Or we could take a hammer to your fingers, one by one. You have made me angry, you see. I was happy to be reasonable, but when you found out you were dealing with Sir Hugh le Despenser’s man, you should have expected someone a bit more competent than you. You aren’t bright enough to take me, Bailiff. And it’s stupid, anyway. You try to hurt a man who is Despenser’s own, and he will always seek you out. You’ll always pay.’