It was while he was making a mental note to speak again to Tanner that he saw someone come on to the road from a track on the right, and he stared in surprise.

Although he had ridden through this village many times on his way to Exeter or Crediton, he had never stopped, and knew no one living here. There were too many families on his lands for him to be able to know them all, but he was sure he would have known this one. Tall, covered by a heavy, grey, fur-fringed cloak that fell to the ground and was pinned with a shining metal brooch, the figure stood quietly watching, face covered by the hood as the small group approached. Though the body was covered by the draped cloak, Baldwin was sure that it must be a woman, and from the little he could see, a wealthy and elegant lady. Glancing quickly over at his companion, he saw that the rector was dozing, his head nodding gently with the steady jog of his horse, and when he looked back the lady had disappeared.

Frowning, he peered carefully, but there was no sign of her. Clearly she wanted to remain out of sight, but he was sure, as they rode up close, that he could feel her eyes on him. The sensation was unsettling, as if he was the quarry of an invisible hunter. It was this that made him turn, after they had passed, and glance back.

There, not far from the spot where he had seen the cloaked figure, was a short peasant woman with sharply suspicious features, gazing back at him round a tree before hurriedly jerking back as if to avoid being seen.

He turned back to the road with a grin lifting the corner of his mouth. Just a poor old woman trying to avoid the wealthy knight in case he demands food or drink, he thought. But then he felt a quick, cold shiver twitch his shoulders. Where did the other one go?

Agatha Kyteler watched the departing group with an expression so intense it was almost a glare. She waited until they had passed through the ford and carried on out of sight round the curve beyond. Drawing in her breath she let it out in a slow sigh, then muttered, berating herself for allowing her distrust to delay her. She still had much to do.

Pausing, she let her head fall back, then stretched her arms high overhead and yawned before rubbing slowly at the small of her back with her fists. After an afternoon of collecting herbs and roots she was exhausted, and her back was strained after so much bending. She relaxed and stooped to pick up her basket, patting the wiry head of her black and tan lurcher, which was seated beside her. As usual he responded eagerly and bounced up exuberantly before streaking off on the scent of a hare.

The basket was old, the wicker snapped and frayed, and she gave it a wry grimace as she hefted it. It was so much like her: ragged, worn and tired, too ancient to last much longer.

She knew that the local villagers were glad enough for her to be here most of the time, any small village was grateful for the help that an experienced midwife could offer, but they still looked at her askance. It was obvious why. They thought she was too clever. That was the risk, she knew. She was not a local, not brought up in the same way, trained in the same rules. While enjoying the results of her skills, the people around were scared of how she might have acquired them. And her accent was too strong as well. It set her apart from them and made them shun her. She was different. Of course, the fact that she lived a little outside the village in her own assart did not help matters. She gave a sudden grin: it was almost as if it made her stranger and even more awe-inspiring, guaranteeing her occult powers – in the eyes of her neighbours, at least.

She could not fully understand why. The people were genuinely scared of her, and yet she was no threat to anybody. There were rumours put about by the old hag Grisel Oatway, but they were hardly enough to make the people around go in terror of her.

In any case, she valued her solitude. Her life had been full enough. Peace was attractive in the evening of her life, and she was happy to be left alone with her thoughts; especially now she was in a new country. But she could not contain her annoyance when people tried to avoid her. They knew they needed her – they were always keen enough to take her advice or her medicines, like the poultice for Sam Cottey’s bad arm, the mixture for Walter de la Forte’s cow, and the potion for Jennie Miller to reduce her back pain.

“Hello Agatha.”

The voice, low and steady, soft but assured, came from her left, between her and the road, and at the sound she stiffened, her eyes searching from bough to bough, trying to see who had spoken.

A slim figure tentatively edged away from the cover of a large chestnut tree, and Agatha saw a woman, tall and slim, face covered by the fur-lined hood. “Agatha, I need your help,” she said softly.

In the late afternoon of the Saturday, under a leaden sky in which gulls wheeled, the wind blew up from the grey sea in a series of gusts, disturbing the branches of the trees at the shore and cutting through the clothes of the man standing on the foredeck like arrows of ice. Until the old ship was secured he must stay here, but the coldness of the middle of winter made him wish he could leave this duty to another and make his way below, to his cabin and a warm pot of wine.

It was rare for him to be sailing this early in the year. As the master of the cog Thomas, he tried to keep the old timbers out of the sea during the freezing cold of the winter so that the clinkered hull could be retarred and sealed, but these last few years had been so hard that any cargo of food could bring high profits, and even though the Thomas needed maintenance, the old ship was good for a few more trips over to France and the English ports of Gascony.

From here, the master could see most of the old town. His lip curled into a disdainful sneer, twisting the podgy face into a glower of loathing under its thatch of greying brown hair, his hazel eyes flitting over the port area with near disgust. This was not what he and Thomas had become used to over the years.

Usually he would try to make for the wealthier Cinque ports, or for London, where the people had money and the towns were used to entertaining sailors, but not on this trip. The Cinque ports were getting too silted, making it difficult and dangerous for a cog the size of Thomas to manoeuvre into the harbour, and London was far too busy at this time of year. He sighed to himself. But this was such a miserable place!

In London there was a cheery bustle, with merchants, seamen and wharfingers shouting and swearing at each other, and the occasional fight when a curse resulted in the drawing of sword or dagger. Here was very different. Four scattered villages lay to the east of the sound, and he could just make out the Benedictine abbey that owned most of the area. Apart from that the whole place looked dead. On the docks there were a couple of men splicing heavy coils of rope, but for the most part the master could well imagine that his was the first ship seen here for months – or years. It seemed as if the place was deserted after long years of desolation.

Not, he reflected, that it would have been too surprising if it had been left long ago by its inhabitants. The French pirates, long competitors of the Cinque ports, had for some time spread their carnage to other southern ports. Now even the smaller places like this, Plymouth, were being attacked and fired more often and, with so many tiny villages and towns on the coast, it was easy for the murderers to attack with relative impunity. After all, there was no organised navy, so the country could hardly be defended in so many places. The only answer was for each man to look to his own protection, and generally that meant helping the village or town.