“He told me it was vicious work in the narrow streets.”

“Yes, because they were all connected, and there were so many men against us that even if we held them back for a minute, others could get round behind us. They kept leapfrogging us all the way back, all the way to the harbour. It was mayhem, hand-to-hand all the way. The harbour was to the south and we headed straight for it when we saw that the battle was lost. On the way we found Edgar here. He was wounded, and we helped him along with us. But when we got close enough to see the sea, we found our route was blocked. The enemy was before us, cutting us off. We had no choice: north, south and east were forbidden to us. We went west, to the Temple.”

“You were both there during the siege of the Knights of the Temple?”

“Oh, yes!” Baldwin gave a short laugh. “Not that we were much help to them. Edgar was too ill. I myself fell on rubble on the second day and broke my ankle. Your father saved me then.” He looked over at the young knight beside him. “We were at the main gate of the Temple when we were suddenly attacked by a strong force. They had a ram, and the bar that held the door gave way, snapping in the middle. Half of it landed near me, and that’s what made me fall. A stone turned under my foot and broke the joint. Your father stood by me, holding off the enemy until I was dragged away and the gates fastened again. He managed to keep the men rallied.

“In the end, your father was hit by an arrow, and the wound soon festered in the heat. We were lucky. The Templars allowed all three of us to leave on one of the Templar ships. They took us away to Cyprus, where they tended our wounds and nursed us back to health.” Back to Cyprus, he mused. The words hardly covered the panicked rush to the ships and the feelings of relief and elation at being removed from the immediate dangers of the ruined city.

“I have been in similar positions,” said the Bourc meditatively. Drawing his dagger, he thrust it deep into the fire. When he had poured himself a fresh mug of wine, he warmed it by stirring it with the knife. “It’s hard when you’re surrounded and know you cannot escape.”

“Aye. It’s worse when your enemy has sworn to destroy you utterly and leave no survivors,” said Baldwin shortly. Then he glanced up and smiled. “Anyway, that’s the truth of it, for what it’s worth.” He threw a shrewd glance at his guest. “So did you come all the way here to hear that? The message and gifts hardly merit a knight as a messenger!”

“No,” said the Bourc shortly. “No, I did not come just for that. I wanted a bed for the night as well. I will be gone early tomorrow, I came for other business, a debt which I owe from that same siege.”

“How so? You can only have been a child back then.”

“I was, yes. I was less than a year old. My mother, Anne of Tyre, had me by my father, but she could not escape from the city when it was taken. She gave me to my nurse, and this woman took me away.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, she took me from Acre and brought me home. You see this ring?” When he lifted his left hand, Baldwin saw a gold ring which held a large red stone. The Bourc stared at it for a moment, then let his arm fall and stared into the flames. “This was given to my mother by my father. She gave it to my nurse, who gave it to my people as a token that I was my father’s son. She saved my life and made sure I was safe. Now she lives near here. That’s why I’ve come. To see her and thank her. For my life. I saw her briefly today on my way here, and will return to her tomorrow, then go home.”

“Who was she? Maybe I know her.”

“A lowly nurse? Maybe. She was named Agatha Kyteler.”

Baldwin shook his head. “No. I don’t know her. The name is unfamiliar.”

It was late in the afternoon of the next day, Tuesday, when Simon Puttock and his wife arrived. By then Baldwin was sitting in his hall. John, Bourc de Beaumont had left at noon, and the knight was beginning to wonder if the bailiff and his wife had been forced to change their plans. Looking up at the sound of horses, he walked to the door and, seeing his friends, bellowed for servants.

Though it was getting dark, the day’s weak sun had not managed to clear the white spatterings of frost from the dirt and grass, and Baldwin could see that behind his guests a thin grey mist was already lying in the valley. On a clear day he could see for miles from here in front of his house, and today he could make out the moors lying under their blanket of pure white snow in the far distance, looking somehow less threatening than in the summer when they loomed dark and menacing.

Baldwin’s manor house was not a modern castellated property. Built in easier times, it was thatched like a farmhouse, the only concessions to safety being in the tiny windows and its position. Standing high on the side of the hill facing south, it lay in a clearing, surrounded at a safe distance by the old woods. In front there was a shallow gully in which the rainwater drained away, and it was here that the track lay, rising gradually to the flat area before his door.

The knight watched as the small party approached. In the lead was the tall, slim figure of his friend Simon Puttock, a ruddy-faced, brown-haired man in his thirtieth year. Just behind him was his wife, Margaret, slim and elegant in her fur-lined grey cloak, hood down to show pale features glowing with the cold and exercise under thick tresses of blond hair trapped by her net. Bringing up the rear was their servant, Hugh, his dark face, Baldwin saw with a widening grin, pulled into his customary morose glower.

Spreading his arms wide, Baldwin walked forward to meet them. “Simon, Margaret, welcome!” he shouted as they came close, his face breaking into a broad smile.

After the ride from Exeter, Margaret was frozen, her fingers feeling like icicles under her gloves, but she felt a smile tugging at her mouth on seeing his pleasure. Before her husband could drop to the ground and help her down, Baldwin was beside her, bowing low, then offering her his hand with a smile, his teeth almost startling in contrast with his black moustache. Giving him a quick nod of gratitude, she accepted his hand and dropped to the ground, then stood looking at the view while she waited for the others.

She had always loved this area, with its trees and tiny villages. The soft hills rolled gently up and down over a landscape scored with red stripes where the rich earth showed through the green carpet, smoke rising where the villeins held their smallholdings. It was so unlike the bleak, grey Devil’s heathland Simon had to look after now at Lydford. Here there were happy communities still, not like on the moors.

On the moors the weather was so cold and inclement that nothing could survive but the heather and ferns. Even the trees she had seen, types she knew well from around Crediton, grew stunted and shrivelled.

Not like this lush view. Here, she felt, the land must be much as God had intended. This was how Eden must have looked: even now in the middle of winter it was green and healthy. It seemed impossible that the moors were a scant half-day’s journey away.

“Come inside, both of you, out of the cold. I have food prepared. This is quite a week for entertaining!”

Baldwin led the way, chatting about his visit from Peter Clifford on the previous Friday night and the Bourc’s arrival the night before, though most of what he said passed over their heads – at present they were interested only in his fire, and they hurried to the hearth.

The room was just as Margaret recalled, long and broad, with a fireplace and chimney in the north wall, and benches set around the tables. Bread and cold meats lay on platters on the table, and a pot hung from its chain over the flames, giving off a strong gamey smell. When she walked over, tugging off her gloves, and held her hands towards the flames, she saw that a thick soup was bubbling inside, and her mouth watered at the scent that slowly rose to fill the room.