“Good. I would be grateful if you could let me know when he arrives. It’s been a long time since I last saw him.”

The eyebrow lifted a little farther in sardonic amusement before Baldwin gave a short laugh. “Peter, you asked me that last night! I said I would send a messenger to you as soon as he arrived. Do you expect me to forget so quickly?”

Smiling, the knight studied the ground ahead, searching for prey. He had not realised how drunk Peter had been the previous night. As for him, he rarely consumed much alcohol. It was too ingrained in his nature now, even if he had turned his back on the religious life of a monk. Glancing back, he saw his quiet, restless servant Edgar close behind. Peter had once said that he appeared to be so close to Baldwin that a shadow could not squeeze between them, the knight recalled, and his smile broadened at the thought. How else should a knight and his man-at-arms be? “This should be fine. There’re normally birds here. We need go no further.”

On this hill they were a little above the trees, and they could look down over the woods to the occasional plumes of smoke from the cottages. In the cool morning air they looked like strings of mist trying to rise to heaven, and Peter felt strangely calmed at the sight, as if it was proof of the need of all elements to struggle ever upwards to God. The thought helped to ease the pain in his head and the rumbling acid in his belly.

Sighing, he watched as a small fluttering flock of pigeons rose from the trees to their left, drifting off into the rising mist. The sun was quite high now, and the priest gazed up at it with concern. It looked watery in the pale sky, as if the heat which had once blazed would never return, and he offered up a quick prayer for a better harvest this year. From north and east he had heard of people being forced to resort to all sorts of extreme behaviour to survive. In parts of the kingdom all dogs and cats had disappeared, and he had heard of people eating rats. There were even rumours of cannibalism in the east.

“Please, God!” he muttered, suddenly struck with a sense of near panic. “Let us have a good crop this year.”

“Yes,” he heard Baldwin murmur in quiet agreement. “Let’s hope it’s better this year.” But his reflective mood was broken even as he spoke. From beyond the trees, where a pool lay, there was a sudden flash of feathers as a heron rose. Drawing the hood from the peregrine, Baldwin quickly loosed her and spurred his horse, crying, “Oo-ee! Oo-ee!” to lure her on towards her prey, while Peter sat and watched and winced.

It was mid-morning when they decided to return to Furnshill for lunch. By now Peter was sure it was too late; he would never be able to warm himself again. The cold had eaten past his thick cloak, and under his two tunics and shirt, taking up permanent abode beneath his skin. Although it had been a pleasure to watch the peregrine launch herself upwards, only to stoop, plummeting like an iron crossbow bolt on to her unfortunate targets, the delight in her skill was offset by his chilled dampness.

When the knight expressed himself content with their catch and suggested they should make their way back, it came as a relief to the priest, and he agreed with enthusiasm. It was short lived: soon he gave himself up to his abject, frozen misery.

Baldwin was thoughtful too. After many years of wandering and rough living he hardly felt the cold now, but he was aware that he was becoming more used to an easy life. The muscles on his shoulders still bore witness to his days of training as a swordsman, his arms were still thick and hard, his neck corded under the leathery skin, but the definition of his belly was becoming less clear, and he found himself wondering whether he was losing his fine temper, like a blade left too long unpolished and without care.

It was no false pride that led him to feel concern at the beginning of his paunch. Under the terms of his knight’s tenure at Furnshill, he must be ready to go and serve the de Courtenays, the Lords of Devon, for forty days every year. It was always possible that he could be called to go to assist his lord in the north, or on the Welsh marches – or even over to France to the king’s lands there.

Riding down the slope, Baldwin gave the hawk to Edgar before they passed in among the trees. The great oaks, elms and ashes towered above them here, their branches occasionally making the three men duck in their saddles as they passed along, until they came to an open area, the common land that led up to Wefford. Here they turned right, on to the main path north that led through the village itself.

Wefford was a small cluster of houses and farms that serviced the strips to the south of Furnshill, huddled squashed together like suspicious villagers watching a stranger. Baldwin knew it to be a thriving community which contributed well to his estates, providing not only money but also men to work the fields. As with all landholders, his greatest problems were caused by the areas that had insufficient menfolk to help with the manor’s estate. Money coming in to his exchequer was welcome, but if there was nobody to tend his fields, his main source of income, his land, must be ruined.

Here in Wefford, though, he had never had any problems. The villeins seemed content, placidly carrying on with their lives. Even last year, in the confusion of the disastrous harvest, the people had managed to produce plenty of food: enough not just for themselves, but to share with other hamlets on the Furnshill estates, and Baldwin felt a small stirring of pride as they came into the little village.

It was laid out on either side of the north-south road from Exeter to Tiverton, a straggling huddle of cottages and outbuildings that serviced the parallel scars of the fields. All the buildings were limewashed, stolid structures with their thatching thickly covered with moss. Up to the north lay the ford which had given the place its name, and halfway along the village, opposite the building that proudly acted as inn to the local folk, was the road west to Sandford and Crediton. Baldwin glanced at it as he passed. It led in among the woods, through the dark and gloomy trunks of the ancient trees, winding as it rose and fell over the hillocks of the softly undulating land, trying to find the easiest path for the traveller.

But the track was not well kept, he could see, and his brows jerked into a quick frown. Since he had accepted the position of Keeper of the King’s Peace, he had needed to take on many new responsibilities, all going back to the Statute of Winchester. There the institutions for law and order had been reorganised and new regulations set out: how the hundred, the watch and the posse should work together; how areas should train for their own defence, and how they should protect against wandering bands of outlaws. Not only must Baldwin ensure that all men in the area were armed and trained in arms, he must keep the brushwood cleared from the public highways as well, to a distance of two hundred feet. Only three weeks ago he had told the constable, Tanner, that this track must be cleared, and Tanner had agreed to arrange it. It looked as if nothing had been done.

Sighing, he turned back to the road ahead. It was not Tanner’s fault, he knew. The constable would have tried to enforce the order, but how could he persuade people to do it in the middle of winter? There would be a complete lack of interest. After all, the villagers would reckon, why bother to do all this work when it was only for the protection of the king’s men, who had too easy a life already, or for merchants, who deserved to be robbed when they charged more than their goods were worth? It was not for the defence of the local people that the tracks should be cleared – for the same statute demanded that all men in the land must be trained in war and armed so that they might be able to protect themselves. No, this rule was for the safety of the wealthy, and that being so, the locals reasoned, the wealthy could clear the highways themselves. The villeins of Wefford had enough work already just keeping themselves fed.