At the first gate the two men had to wait for a few minutes, but were soon admitted and gladly dropped from their saddles. The Manor was only some twelve miles from Lydford, but after all the hills on the way and the streams they had needed to ford, it felt much farther. Simon stood rubbing the small of his back, and Baldwin gave a pained grimace.
“I think I must be out of condition for journeys like that,” Baldwin admitted. “Ah, is that our host?”
At the top of the staircase to the hall a man had appeared. Seeing the two visitors, he made his way down the steps and marched over to them. Simon could see he was not the man who had sent the peremptory message demanding help in recovering his villein. Sir William was well into his fifties, while this man was only some twenty years old.
“My father asked me to greet you,” he announced. “I’m his son, Sir Robert Beauscyr. You’re the bailiff? Come with me, and…”
“No,” Baldwin interrupted quickly as the man motioned. “This is the bailiff. I am merely a friend.”
Robert Beauscyr flushed angrily as he looked at Simon, as if the bailiff had deliberately misled him. Simon’s heart fell at his haughty and dismissive glance, and the thin, tightly-pursed lips. They showed how unlikely it was that there would be any calm and logical discussion. He sighed as, with a curt wave of his hand, Sir Robert Beauscyr motioned the two men to follow him and led the way to the hall. Here, Simon knew, he would be asked to explain himself, and it was bound to be an unpleasant experience.
3
At the top of the steps, they found themselves in the narrow screens passage. On the left was an open door, leading into a buttery filled with casks and boxes, where a man was filling a jug with ale – a welcome sight after their ride. Baldwin followed the others into the hall. Here a fire smoldered in a hearth in the middle of the floor, and benches and tables stood haphazardly on the dry rushes. Tapestries darkened by age and woodsmoke covered the walls, illuminated by shafts of light from the high windows. Before him was a dais on which, round a large table, sat three men and a woman. Simon was almost at the dais, Robert Beauscyr introducing him, and as the people were named for him, Baldwin studied them with interest.
“My father, Sir William Beauscyr.” A large man, and ungainly, was the knight’s first impression. The body was misproportioned for his short legs, and the arms swung, long and heavily-muscled as an ape’s, under the short-sleeved blue tunic. A large star-like scar marked both cheeks, as if from a lance-thrust. His brows were heavy and intimidating, while his thick mouth was a vivid pink, fleshy and sensuous in the pale-colored face. Although he had once been a fighter, it must have been many years ago. Sir William was no longer a man to instil fear, Baldwin decided, noting the heavy paunch spilling over the leather belt.
“My mother, Lady Matillida.”
Watching the elegant woman nod regally, Baldwin was impressed. She looked little older than her son, but must have been in her late thirties to have had a lad of his age. Tall, certainly not less than five feet six, and dark-eyed, she was slim and graceful, with movements as quick and assured as an eagle. She gave Baldwin the definite feeling that she had the bulk of the intelligence in her marriage.
“My brother, John.” This youth was clearly training to be a soldier. Well-formed, with lighter hair than the others in his family, he had surprisingly clear blue eyes for such a dark colored skin, which flitted over Simon and then passed on to Baldwin with an intensity the knight found curiously unsettling. Then there was one more.
“My brother’s master, Sir Ralph of Warton.” Slim and elegant in his flowing green tunic, he struck Baldwin as being a well-travelled man. It showed in his calm eyes, dark, hooded eyes under thin eyebrows. He had no visible scars, but Baldwin knew all too well that many men of war carried their battle honors under their clothes, at the points where their armor was weakest. As he studied the knight, Simon introduced them, and as his name and title were given, Baldwin was suddenly aware of his interest being reciprocated. Sir Ralph of Warton was plainly disconcerted by his presence, as if for some reason he had cause to fear Baldwin – or his position.
Food was brought, bread fresh from the ovens and cold meats, and Simon and Baldwin, as guests, were invited to join the family at their board. Gratefully they accepted, sitting together at the end of the table opposite Sir Ralph. By common consent all avoided mention of the reason for Simon’s visit until the meal was finished, then Matillida, her son John and Sir Ralph all rose and looked enquiringly at Sir Robert, expecting him to join them. He steadfastly refused to meet their eyes, staring instead at his father, who gave a petulant shrug of his shoulders in assent.
As soon as the other three had left them alone, it was the son who began to set out the case for the return of the wayward villein, his father toying with his empty pewter goblet.
“So what d’you intend to do, bailiff? We asked the chief warden of Lydford to come and investigate; instead he’s sent you, so what’re you going to do? This leaching away of our villeins must be halted or we’ll be ruined.”
“It’s difficult, of course,” said Simon soothingly. “The chief warden asked me to come and talk it through with you. But you understand the difficulties. Your villein’s now a miner, a stanner, and…”
“We know all that! The question is, what’re you going to do to get him back? If the Manor can’t produce food, we’ll have no money: we’ll be unable to pay our taxes. Mark my words, if this miserable cur gets away with his disloyalty, others will soon follow his example.”
“Yes, but the stanners have ancient rights…” Simon sighed as he was interrupted again.
“You don’t need to tell me of them! I was born here, I know about the stannary privileges. This isn’t the same. Peter Bruther’s no tinner. He’s not digging for peat or tinning. He’s just sitting in his new cottage and enjoying doing nothing. Don’t take my word for it, go and see for yourself!”
Speaking patiently, Simon said, “Even if I did, what good would it do? It makes no difference whether I see him lazing around or not. As far as the law’s concerned, he’s no longer your responsibility now, so…”
“None of our responsibility?” The boy’s voice rose to a shout. “He’s our villein, and the law’s allowing him to run away! Just to satisfy a few thugs on the moors…”
“And the King,” Baldwin interjected mildly.
Sir Robert shot him a glance of loathing. His voice shook with contempt as he sneered: “The King? That runt! What…”
“Be silent, Robert.” His father leaned forward at last, resting his elbows on the table. Like others Baldwin had known with wounded cheeks, the old knight had a slight lisp as if his tongue was damaged. He looked tired, and Baldwin was sure that it was not his idea to send to the chief warden for help. “Now, bailiff, you know my son is right. Something has to be done; I cannot allow my villeins to fade from my lands. What will the position of the chief warden be if I go and fetch this man Bruther back?”
“You mustn’t,” Simon said bluntly. “If you do, the miners will be within their rights to prevent you, and the chief warden doesn’t want a fight.”
“You will do nothing to help us, then?”
Simon held up his hands in a gesture of despondency. “What do you want me to say, sir? Do you want me to lie? To promise something you know I can’t offer? I’ve got no massive force to call on, I’m merely the King’s man here – and I can’t sanction any breaking of the law. Bruther has the law on his side. If you try to get him back, I must tell you I’ll have to support the miners if they want to stop you. But you already know that. Look – if you wish, I can try to lend some support to your plight by writing…”