The King himself supported Despenser, of course. That must count for something. If there were to be a fight, the King would stand at the side of the Despensers – and surely villeins and knights would prefer to remain loyal to their monarch rather than follow upstarts from the Marches who had been declared to be in revolt.
In the meantime, the King had ordered the Marcher Lords to London where he could hear their complaints. If the rumours were true and they were bringing their armies with them, Sir Gilbert might have to change his allegiance. It was hard to see where else he could go – but then, while thinking of the Templars, Sir Gilbert remembered Devon.
When the Templars had been destroyed, he had been living in a small Templar manor near Tiverton. In those days he had often met Lord Hugh de Courtenay, a baron who, like Sir Gilbert himself, was keen on his hunting. Sir Gilbert hadn’t been back for over a decade, but he knew de Courtenay was an important man, one who could control his own small army, a man who was potentially useful. And someone who could give good advice.
At last – some sort of solution! Sir Gilbert smiled to himself. He would suggest to Despenser that he should sound out de Courtenay. That way, he could see how influential barons viewed the Despensers and decide whether his own loyalty was misplaced.
Feeling a little less anxious now, Sir Gilbert settled back in the boat, unaware that his decision would lead to his death in a matter of weeks.
Joan drained her cup and set it carefully down on the table before her. As she contemplated getting up and leaving, a shadow fell over her and she looked up to see the handsome stranger. He was holding a fresh jug in his hand.
‘I wondered if you would like a drink with me’, he said.
‘Why should I?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. You looked lonely, and I thought perhaps we could talk.’
‘Why are you here?’ she asked, peering around him at the crowded table he had just left.
He beamed. ‘My friend Daniel there has just finished his apprenticeship and we’re here to help him to celebrate!’ To reinforce his words he up-ended his pot and set it down empty next to hers with a belch of content. ‘Sorry!’ Filling both their cups, he shot her a look. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’
‘You haven’t been looking hard, then,’ she rejoined tartly.
‘You’ve lived here long?’
‘Almost all my life. What of you?’
‘I was born in Exeter. My father wanted to make sure I learned a decent trade so he sent me here thirteen years ago, when I was eight.’
‘What trade?’
‘I am to be a spicer, although,’ his eyes took on a thoughtful expression, ‘I am not sure that I should remain here. I think there’s more money to be made in Exeter.’
‘Really?’ she said cynically. His words sounded boastful to her.
‘Yes,’ he grinned and mimicked her. ‘Really! I work for John Sherman now, but when I’m trained, Exeter will beckon. There’s more potential for a spicer there.’
‘You’re bold enough, anyway. Coming over here without introducing yourself. Or did you think me…’
‘Forgive me,’ he said laughing, and gave a mock-serious bow. ‘I am called Philip Dyne, or Phil of Exeter. And no, I did not think you a common tavern girl. You don’t behave like one.’
‘I am Joan. Joan Carter,’ she said.
‘It’s a good name. Can I buy you a jug of wine?’
She thought a moment. Philip Dyne had already chased away the residual dregs of her gloom and made her laugh. With another sip of wine strange but exciting thoughts beset her. She noticed that his lips seemed very full and attractive, and the thought of kissing them was appealing.
Later, much later, the noise in the tavern grew deafening. When there came a loud guffaw and roar from an adjacent table, Dyne gave a fleeting frown, and she could guess what he was thinking: it was not conducive for talk here.
She knew men and their earthy desires. They weren’t like girls. But she felt she’d be happy to satisfy this man; she’d be happy to stroll with him, or better, lie with him in the long grass that bordered the riverbank down in the meadow.
Sipping her wine, she considered him speculatively. With a boldness that surprised her, she knocked back the remainder of her pot with gusto, then refilled it. This too she drank quickly. A fire started in her belly, warming her whole body.
She wanted him, but not here. As another burst of laughter exploded at the next table, she gave him a shy, coquettish grin and nodded towards the doorway. He eagerly took her hint and stood; with delight he helped her from her seat. They interlaced their fingers while they drained their jugs, and then walked from the tavern, still hand-in-hand, and Joan led the way to the riverbank.
Chapter Two
Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace for Crediton, mounted his wife’s Arab mare and set spurs to her flanks.
With something of a belly, now that his wife ordered his kitchen, Sir Baldwin was a tall, dark-haired man with a weathered complexion from his years of living in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Unlike his contemporaries he wore a black beard that followed the line of his jaw. Proof of his fighting background lay in the scar which stretched from his temple to his jaw, but the lines of sadness and despair that had once scored his features were gone. He felt comfortable and happy as he followed the smooth track that led along the front meadow to the roadway. Here he paused and glanced behind him, waiting for his mastiff.
‘Uther! Uther, come here.’
The dog ignored him. Nose deep in a bush at the roadside, tail moving slowly, the huge beast joyfully inhaled.
‘Uther!’
The dog’s head turned to him, tilted a little as if in enquiry. Sighing, Baldwin gave up. ‘Chopsie!’
At his call the tawny dog padded quietly to his side and looked up with an expression that was so much like a smile, Baldwin had to chuckle despite his annoyance. Uther was young but there appeared to be nothing Baldwin could do to teach him his real name. No matter what he did, the dog only responded to the silly name which Baldwin’s servant, Edgar, had given him.
But it was impossible for Baldwin to feel angry at the renaming of his dog, least of all towards the dog himself. For Uther Baldwin felt only affection, especially on a fine day like this. The sun shone brightly while a cool breeze stopped the heat becoming overpowering; high overhead, larks sang busily, shooting up as he came close, then dropping silently back to their nests after he had passed. A blackbird flew off close to the ground, its harsh warning call alerting all other creatures to Baldwin and Uther’s presence.
It was good land here. Trees covered much of the landscape still, for few town-dwellers could be bothered to travel so far to fetch firewood or building materials, and there were not enough peasants to clear areas for growing crops. From here he could see many areas of agriculture, but each was discrete, separated by swathes of woodland through which the roads cut meanderingly, following hillsides or riverbanks. At this time of year, July, the trees still wore their covering of lighter-coloured, newer leaves. Oak, elm, chestnut and beech gave the hills a pleasing verdant tone, while in those areas where there was space the ground was bright with the yellow of buttercups or scattered with daisies. Baldwin rode slowly, enjoying the sights and scents of this, his land.
But for all the pleasure of the journey, his mind could not leave the threatened war. No matter where he went, it was the main topic of conversation and he was worried that the whole country could soon be engulfed in flames.
His concern was for his wife, for Baldwin had only recently been married. He knew perfectly well that if war came he would be called away to fight for his master, Lord Hugh de Courtenay. If Baldwin died, or worse, if the war came here to Furnshill, he would not be able to protect her; that thought tore at him with each fresh rumour of battle.