As it happened, the meeting with Stapledon was the least of his difficulties that night.

Peter Clifford’s house was a pleasant, airy building near the new church, which was still some way from being completed. Piles of rubble and masonry waiting to be dressed lay all round in untidy heaps as if a siege had been in progress with heavy artillery. When Baldwin arrived at a little after noon, his servant by his side, he gazed about the place with interest.

The walls of the new church looked to him like the wharves of a busy port: the scaffolding rose on all sides like the thrusting masts and flag-poles of a fleet in harbor. He paused at the sight, studying the grotesque structure of the scaffolding, all bound together with hemp and with walkways of flimsy timber, with a wince. Baldwin feared no man alive – he had witnessed the worst sufferings that men could inflict – but he had a dislike verging on loathing when it came to heights. He could not understand how men could scramble along such insubstantial planks like monkeys, putting their faith in the strength of knots tied by others. Too many regularly died, proving that such faith was misplaced.

“So, Baldwin. You’ve not lost your distrust of English workers then, to judge from the disgust on your face?”

Just by his stirrup was a tall, dark-haired man with a square face burned brown from sun and wind and, as Baldwin turned, he gave a slow smile.

“Simon!” The knight passed his reins to Edgar, his waiting servant, and dropped from his horse. In a moment he was shaking hands and grinning, but the expression on his friend’s face made him hesitate. There was a pinched tiredness in Simon’s grin which he had not seen before. It looked as if the bailiff was concealing a secret pain.

“Baldwin, it’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

Pulling away, Simon said thinly, attempting humor, “Oh yes – just so you have someone to talk to while the good Bishop is spouting forth about affairs of state, you mean?”

Baldwin grimaced shamefacedly. “Well, not entirely, old friend, but your company would help to – perhaps – divert the conversation from some of the more serious affairs of state.”

“I hope so,” Simon laughed. “If not, Margaret will slit my throat.”

“Margaret is here?”

“Where else should my wife be, but at my side? Yes, she’s here.”

While Edgar led the horses away to the stables, they walked to Peter’s house, but before they arrived at the door Baldwin took his friend by the arm and halted, studying him. Simon had lost weight; his face was thinner than Baldwin recalled, and lines of strain were etched deep into his forehead and at either side of his mouth. His dark hair had begun to recede, giving him a distinguished appearance, but his gray eyes, once sparkling with intelligence, were now dim and vapid. “Simon, tell me if I am prying where I’m not wanted, but is there something wrong?” Baldwin said gently.

“You’re my closest friend,” Simon said, and the other man was shocked to see his eyes glisten. “I… You can’t intrude, Baldwin, I have no secrets from you.” He looked away and said in a broken voice: “It’s Peterkin, my boy.”

The knight frowned in quick concern. Peterkin was Simon and Margaret’s son, a lad of just over a year and a half. “What is it, Simon?”

“He’s dead.”

“Simon… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’m almost over it. It has been hard, though. You know how much we both wanted a son, and to have lost him like this is very cruel.”

“When? I mean, how did he die?”

Simon made a futile little gesture. “Three weeks ago. He had been fractious for some time, crying and whining, but we didn’t know why. For a day and a night he had a fever, and wouldn’t eat, diarrhea all the time, and then… And then he was dead.”

“My friend, I…” Baldwin murmured, but Simon shook his head.

“It’s all right, Baldwin.”

“And Margaret?”

“She has taken it cruelly. It’s not surprising.” His voice was taut.

“Let us go inside,” said Baldwin. Simon’s anguish, though he tried to keep it under control, was painful to witness. The knight could feel his misery.

They walked into the house. Inside, Baldwin saw Simon’s wife sitting by the fire, her daughter Edith at her side. Behind them was Hugh, Simon’s servant, and a short way away Peter Clifford sat on his chair. Baldwin was glad that the Bishop had not yet arrived – a stranger’s presence would have inhibited Margaret. As it was, she had little desire to talk. The knight nodded to Peter, who gave him a twisted grin. He had been a close friend of Simon’s since before Baldwin had met the bailiff, yet he found it difficult to know what to say to them. Peter had never married, and consoling those who had lost their children was, he felt, beyond his powers. It was a relief for him to see another friend arrive.

Rather than greet the priest, Baldwin walked over to Margaret and knelt before her, his sword scabbard clattering on the flagged floor as he took her hands in his. “Margaret, I have just heard about Peterkin. I am terribly sorry. There’s nothing I can do or say which will ease your loss, but you know you have my deepest sympathy.”

“Baldwin, thank you.” She gave him a fragile smile. “Of course we miss him awfully. We can only hope that God grants us another son to take his place.”

Peter Clifford leaned forward and patted her hand. “He will, my dear. He will. Keep your faith, and He will send more children to lighten your life.”

Margaret sat still and made no comment, holding Baldwin’s gaze. To him she looked like a tragic figure from a Greek play. Usually tall and willowy, with the pale complexion and long fair hair that Baldwin associated with the women of the Holy Roman Empire, now she seemed shrivelled and wasted. Her skin, once soft as a fresh peach, looked dry and brittle, her hair, which he had only ever seen carefully braided and held in its net, straggled carelessly, making her seem much older.

“He was our first son,” she murmured. “After seven years, we had managed to have a brother for our daughter. And now he has been snatched away from us.”

Baldwin wanted to console her, but could think of nothing to say. He got up, staring down at her, while she, as if unaware of his presence, gazed at the floor. Across the room, Simon stood, wretched. The bailiff was transfixed by his wife’s heartbreak, but trapped by his own feelings of loss, he had no idea how to soothe her.

The knight quietly stepped away from Margaret. Now he was glad he had come, if only to protect Margaret and her husband from any comments made by the Bishop. As he moved away he saw her hand grip her daughter’s convulsively. It looked like a desperate attempt to hold on to her, as if by doing so she could protect Edith’s precious life and save her from being stolen away as well.

Walter Stapledon arrived an hour after Baldwin, but the atmosphere had not improved. Peter Clifford was out of the room when Baldwin heard the blowing and stamping of horses in the yard, and he noticed a nervous young canon leaping to his feet in alarm at the realization that Peter was not there to welcome his guests. Motioning to him, Baldwin said, “Fetch your master. I will entertain Bishop Stapledon.” The lad immediately ran from the room, and Baldwin, sighing, left the Puttocks and their servant alone for a moment. His own servant, Edgar, followed along behind him.

Outside, he found a fair retinue of six men dismounting from their horses, grumbling and muttering as they rubbed sore backs and stretched stiff joints. There was one clerical type he could see, a man in a plain robe, climbing down from a wagon, and Baldwin made his way to him. “Bishop?”

“Not him. I am Bishop Stapledon.”

Baldwin spun round. Behind him was a man in his sixties, wearing a plain cloak and tunic, both of good quality and cut. At his belt was a short sword, the grip worn from regular use. Graying hair cut fashionably sat atop what looked like a warrior’s head, and Baldwin was reminded of the leaders of the Templars. He had the same aristocratic haughtiness, bred of a long family history and awareness of his power. When Baldwin glanced down he was not surprised to see that the Bishop’s boots were light and fashionable, the point rising elegantly, as befitted a courtier. It made him sigh.