Bishop Stapledon wandered out into the garden with Peter Clifford and expressed his delight at the mixture of plants. Peter, he knew, was very keen on his herbs and spices. Several plants he had arranged to be delivered from far afield.

Irises were among Peter’s favorites. As he explained – at some length – the plant was an almost perfect example of God’s bounty. The roots could be crushed for ink, the flower yielded a juice which could be used as a salve for teeth and gums, the leaves thatched for mats or patching roofs, and if it was needed for none of these purposes, the flowers were both beautiful and sweet-smelling.

The Bishop smiled and nodded as Peter led him round the garden, keen to avoid hurting his host’s feelings by letting his boredom show. Lilies and roses were pointed out to him – they filled a bed near the house – while further on, toward the orchard where the apple, pear, cherry and nut trees grew, was the herb garden. Rue, whose smell the Bishop cordially detested, flourished here, but there was also sage, chamomile, lavender and other attractively perfumed plants. After an hour, even the enthusiastic Peter began to observe the Bishop’s attention waning, and they walked over the lawn, full of daisies, violets, primroses and periwinkles to create an aromatic and attractive cover, to the shelter of an oak where there was a bench.

Here they found Margaret and Hugh. Edith was a short distance away, playing a game with Rollo which seemed to involve pulling flowers from the lawn. Hugh stood as the two approached, but the Bishop waved him back to his seat. “May we join you?”

“Of course, my lord.” Margaret moved along the bench and Hugh stood again resignedly and went to station himself behind her. From here he could see the children. Rollo had frozen at the sound of men’s voices, but seeing two men he recognized, and after a brief confirmatory glance at Hugh, he resumed his game. Hugh suspected he was so used to seeing the priest dispensing charity that he knew he had nothing to fear from men in holy garments.

The men sat, and Stapledon looked at Margaret. “I hope you do not mind me noticing it, but you look very refreshed. Are you feeling somewhat better?”

She could not hide her pleasure from him. “It is not just me,” she confided. “My husband was very sad over the death of our son, but he has almost recovered from it. These last weeks have been difficult, but I think we have got over our pain. Peter’s kindness has helped so much.”

The Bishop nodded gravely. “Your husband was extremely upset. I know how hard it can be. I suppose all of us in the Church are aware, for we see so many tiny coffins being interred, and death can strike the richest as well as the poorest in the land.”

“We shall have another son, God willing,” Margaret said.

“Yes.” Stapledon was watching Rollo. “That young fellow likes playing with your daughter.”

“Edith likes his company too. They are not so very different in age, and where we live she does not have many friends. It is pleasant for her to find someone with whom she can enjoy a game.”

“Yes,” he repeated, then frowned, lost in thought.

“Bishop? Bishop!”

Stapledon looked up, jerked back to the present, to see Roger running over the lawn. The Bishop forced down a sense of annoyance. At last he had begun to relax, and Roger’s bursting in on his pleasant mood of calm was vexing. By the time the rector had approached, however, the Bishop had managed to dispose of the exasperation and had regained his equanimity. “What is it, Roger? Is the house on fire?”

“No, sir. But a messenger has just arrived from Exeter. They have found and captured the two runaway mercenaries, sir, and are bringing them here.”

“Excellent!” said Peter, and rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “Then we should soon be able to put this sorry affair behind us once and for all.”

“Yes,” said Stapledon, but again his eyes moved to the small figure only a few feet away. “Most of us will.”

When Simon and the others arrived back in Crediton, they were hot and dusty. The moisture on the road from the night’s downpour had splashed and spattered their legs on the way to Coleford, and red-brown splotches marked their hose and tunics. Returning, the dampness had been driven off by the sun, and instead of soggy droplets they had been assailed by a clinging mist of fine reddish powder which had risen as their horses’ hooves had disturbed the road. Now, looking at Baldwin, Simon could see that his hair had a wiry firmness, his face had darkened, with paler streaks where the sweat had run, and his tunic was, instead of white, a dull ochre at the shoulder and dark orange-brown at the hem. It made him look as if the color had run from the top down in a rainstorm, the bailiff thought with a grin, which faded when he looked at the state of his own hose.

The powdery dust had not only affected their clothing. Simon’s eyes felt as if they had gravel in them, and his throat was as sore as if he had swallowed a pint of sand. As they passed the inn, he croaked, “Let’s wash away a little of the road with some of Paul’s ale. His wife is a better brewer than Peter’s bottler.”

Baldwin nodded, and they were soon out in the yard behind, gripping quarts of ale.

Simon glanced round after taking a long pull at his drink. At another table were a group of soldiers from Sir Hector’s troop, all studiously avoiding the bailiff’s eye. He recognized none of them, and was about to turn away when he saw Wat.

The mercenary was standing out toward the back of the yard, near the stables, talking to someone Simon could hardly see. Only two boots protruded beyond the stable wall, and a hand which rose and fell in emphasis. Wat was staring with what looked like horrified fascination, occasionally shaking his head in quick denial or nodding in grave agreement.

“Baldwin,” Simon said, hiding his mouth behind his jug, “Wat is over there, in deep debate with someone, and it looks as if it’s a serious matter.”

“Eh?” Baldwin surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder. “I wonder what…”

Catching their eyes on him, the mercenary made a quick gesture to silence his accomplice. He was in two minds whether to speak to the Keeper immediately about this latest discovery, but he could not see how to avoid the unpleasant revelation. It would soon come out anyway, and he saw no way to gain more capital from it. Nothing he could do would reduce the impact of the news.

All of a sudden he felt tired, worn out from his recent planning and manipulations, from his devious trade-offs in the attempt to win the favors of the stronger elements of the troop. The stage had been set ever since Hector had failed in his bid to win a position with the King, for once his attempt to get a new contract had been summarily dismissed, it was obvious to all the others that his leadership was questionable. His fighting ability was never doubted, but the main responsibility was to find contracts and money for his men, and he had fallen short of their expectations. They could now see that he was ill-considered by recruiters. He had turned his allegiances once too often. Now even a King desperate for aid would not employ Sir Hector and his men.

They had discussed this, the men of the band, when they had been told of his lack of success. Some had wanted to keep him on, thinking that he could lead them back to France and a new role, but others were so thoroughly disgruntled with his organization and his reputation for losing contracts that they wanted a change.

It had been this which had prompted Wat to move, to test the water with his colleagues to see whether he could tip the balance and make them all lose their trust in Hector, but this was not how he had intended things to go. From the first, he would have preferred to save his company from any association with murder in England. It would be different if this was France, where killings were sanctioned with the full authority and severity of the power his group could wield, but in England they must live within the law without upsetting too many people, and the spate of murders was impossible for even the most incompetent and corrupt of officials to ignore. In Wat’s estimation, most officials were corrupt, but he was not sure if Baldwin was incompetent.