Behind them came another, seated on a massive black stallion which gleamed as if it had been oiled as it passed among the pools of daylight. It was this man who immediately caught Peter’s eye.

He was huge, at least six feet tall, and his demeanor showed he was used to commanding men. It was there in his self-awareness and stillness, in the way he scarcely glanced at the strangers by the side of the road, but rode on, his frown fixed ahead as if searching out new battles. His tunic showed the effects of days on the road, but was made of expensive cloth and bore no device to show his allegiance. Crediton was renowned for its wool, and Peter, like most men from the town, could recognize quality material. This man’s was very good. Light, soft, and fine woven, under its layer of dust it was the fresh crimson of a good, full-bodied wine. Whoever the man was, he must surely be wealthy.

Adam’s glance fell on the men behind. Three more were on horseback, but behind were at least another twenty, and wagons trailed along in the rear. He could not help cringing away. Warrior bands were too unpredictable for his liking.

As the stallion came level with him, Peter Clifford stepped forward. “Good morning, sir. Peace be with you.”

The little column of men and horses stopped, and there was silence for a moment. Then the man’s head snapped to Clifford and stared at him unblinkingly. The priest smiled, but his face slowly froze under the intense gaze of the pale gray eyes. They were wide-set in the square face, and held no compassion, only contempt. Unnerved, the priest nearly retreated under their sullen scrutiny. He had no idea what he had said to cause so much offense. As he opened his mouth to speak further, the knight spat at his feet.

“There, Priest!” he said. “So much for your peace!”

“I meant no insult, sir, it was merely a greeting…”

“No insult?” he thundered, and his horse stamped and blew as if it too felt the depth of the slight. This time Clifford could not help himself taking a quick step back. Adam felt a prickle of cold fear wash his back as, suddenly, the man leaned down until his elbow rested on the horse’s withers, and he looked back at the men on foot. “”No insult,“ the little priest says. ”No insult,“” he sneered, and faced Clifford again. “Do you think we are friars, Priest? Do we look like monks? Or maybe you think we’re weavers and millers looking for a new market. We are soldiers, man! We fight for our living. We don’t want peace! In peacetime we starve. We want war! The pox on your peace!”

Adam watched as the furious man jabbed spurs into his horse’s flanks and jerked its head back to face the road, the men-at-arms trailing after, one or two throwing him and the priest a casual, uninterested glance.

“Father, who on earth does he think he is, that he should dare to insult a man of God?” Adam asked, breathless in his horror.

Clifford smiled thinly and shrugged – a tall, ascetic man of a little over fifty, with hair that was now a faded reflection of its past redness. He stood, silently watching as the men marched past, followed by lurching wagons laden with chests and strongboxes.

Though still tall, Peter Clifford was stooped, and this together with his slitted eyes made some of his parishioners scared of him, thinking him aggressive. In reality, both were the result of reading too often by weak candlelight. His skin had paled to the color of old parchment, showing how little time he spent in the open air away from his studies. There was a tautness in his figure to prove he still rode regularly, though he could no longer enjoy hunting and hawking as often as he had in his youth. The crow’s feet at either side of his intelligent dark eyes hinted that he was a good and cheerful soul, but now he was troubled, peering after the dust-shrouded men as they passed round a curve in the road and out of sight.

Turning to Adam, he smiled sadly. “They are men of war and violence. Soldiers-mercenaries! They can have no understanding of the pleasures which I enjoy in serving God. All they know is how to slaughter. Kind words come hard to such as them.” He stared after them as the last of the wagons passed by. “I wonder where they are going?” he muttered to himself.

“Aye. And let’s hope they don’t want to stay here long, Father,” said Adam emphatically. “I’ve seen enough like them before now, and we don’t want their sort in Crediton for long. There’ll be trouble.”

“No, there shouldn’t be. If they make trouble, the town can defend itself. There were only some thirty men, all told, and the town can protect itself against so few. But you’re right, they are unsettling, and it would be better if they were not to stay.” Clifford put them from his mind and set off toward the town. “In any case, I have too much work to do to remain idly wondering about a group of rude travellers. I must get back to Crediton to prepare for the Bishop.”

Adam coaxed his horse into movement and rattled along beside him for a while. “Bishop?” he enquired.

“Yes, Walter Stapledon has been to visit someone in Cornwall. He let me know that he is to stay with us shortly – on his return journey to Exeter. We must get things ready for him.”

“I… er… Will you need meat for him? I have these two calves, and…”

“Possibly. I will have the cook come and see you,” said Clifford absently. It was obvious even to the butcher that the priest’s mind was on other things, and soon Adam whipped his horse into a faster pace toward home. News of the band of soldiers would probably calm his wife’s temper a little, he reflected.

The trees gave way at last to open land, and Adam could see the men and women in the narrow fields. A group stood in a corner, drinking ale and eating as they took their rest, while others carried on with their work. Adam could see that the harvest was good. The weather had for once been kind to the farmers, and the wheat and barley were standing tall and proud in the strips. He turned in, leaving the main track and taking a shortcut to avoid meeting the soldiers again. Soon he was at Crediton’s outskirts. He passed old cob buildings and entered the busy thoroughfare which ran through the center. Here the noise and bustle of the little town dispelled the last residue of languor from the ale and he sat a little straighter in his seat.

Crediton was always busy. The birthplace of St. Boniface had a thriving religious community; the abundance of farms ensured the profits of the merchants and tradesmen, and proximity to Exeter guaranteed the availability of rare foodstuffs and precious goods which could be purchased with the money earned from the cloth-makers.

Now, in the late afternoon, there was a busyness about the town which many lords in other areas would envy. Adam had been raised on an estate west of here, but had been permitted to become an apprentice, so he knew the difference between urban life and that of the peasants in the country. Towns were not feudal or rural, and the restrictions which were imposed on others did not exist in places like Crediton. Here business and crafts could thrive, the only rules being laid down for the benefit and advantage of the population.

And thrive it did, if the crowds were any sign. Milling at either side of the road, avoiding the dung heaps where horses or oxen had passed, keeping clear of the open sewer which travelled down the middle of the street and trying not to step into the puddles of urine from beasts or men as they went on their way, the people of Crediton were not calm and quiet: they hurried. Adam saw one man, who must have been wealthy since he wore a fur-lined cloak tossed casually over a shoulder despite the heat, stumble and fall. The butcher joined in the general amusement, guffawing as the poor individual knelt upright in disgust, shaking his hands free of ordure, whether human or animal Adam could not see. The man was beside himself in rage and frustration.