Free The Traitor of St. Giles by Michael Jecks Page B

permission.’
    Baldwin snorted derisively. ‘One always agrees with a servant who wishes to do something – if one intends to keep him, that is!’ he scoffed, and glanced around at Edgar, who stood aloof from other servants nearby.
    ‘Edgar is handfast to Cristine in the tavern at Crediton,’ Jeanne chuckled in explanation. ‘Baldwin is not sure yet that it is a good match: he fears Cristine will tempt Edgar away from his side and, to be honest, I fear it myself. I don’t know how Edgar manages to keep Baldwin so obedient!’
    Baldwin gave a dry smile but didn’t answer. He had not told his wife how he had met Edgar in the disastrous battle to defend Acre. Saving Edgar’s life had conferred a curious obligation upon both men and Baldwin was as aware as Edgar of the bond that tied them. It was hard to conceive of life without Edgar. They had been together since Acre, first as refugees, then as Knight and Sergeant in the Templars, more recently as land-owning knight and servant.
    Not that Baldwin was an enormously wealthy knight. Certainly not in the same league as some of Hugh de Courtenay’s other knights – and not in the same league as Simon either, he realised as he took in Simon’s fur trimmings at neck and hem, the brilliant vermillion cloth of his cotte and surcoat, the ruddy linen of his hose, and most of all the two gold rings on his fingers. ‘You should be careful, Simon,’ he said seriously. ‘If you flaunt your money like that,’ nodding towards the rings, ‘you’ll be made a knight.’
    Simon grinned and was about to reply when he saw that Baldwin was serious. ‘Me?’
    ‘You could be forced to accept a knighthood if Lord de Courtenay considers you rich enough.’
    ‘I don’t earn enough to justify it,’ Simon protested.
    ‘An income of £40 a year is all it takes, and I would think that the chief bailiff of the Warden of the Stannaries would probably have that each year as well as the money he might win from his old farm at Sandford and other investments.’
    ‘Hmm,’ Simon grunted thoughtfully. ‘I never liked the idea of distraint. Compelling people to become knights when they’ve got no inclination seems foolish.’
    ‘Certainly you’d be more use as a shield to protect a worthy man from arrows than as any sort of warrior,’ Baldwin observed critically, glancing askance at his friend’s jutting belly.
    ‘I resent that, Sir Baldwin!’ Simon laughed. ‘It takes a large investment to build a temple to the epicurean arts like this.’ And he slapped his stomach.
    Baldwin shook his head as if in disgust, but couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s cheerfulness. Simon had lost the haggard look of two years before when his only son had died, but the greying hair was a feature that he would never again be without. For all that his guts were expanding, his face’s ruddy colouring showed that he still took his regular exercise, riding over the moors to impose his lord’s will on the ever-rebellious miners who scraped a meagre living on Dartmoor. His dark grey eyes had more wisdom, more experience than when Baldwin had first known him. The loss of his boy had affected him badly, as had his wife’s miscarriages since.
    ‘Anyway, Baldwin, what of your own people? I see you’ve brought Jeanne and Edgar; have you decided not to impose Chops on our poor lord?’
    As soon as he asked the question Jeanne saw the sadness return to her husband’s face and she took his hand comfortingly.
    Piers Bakere eyed the road sourly as he jogged along on his cart. It was a stupid waste of his time, this journey, but since he must use the manor’s mill, he had to load up with grain every so often and take it down the roadway here to get it ground down to flour.
    Normally the portly baker wouldn’t have come: there was no point in his performing menial tasks like this when he had an apprentice, Jack, to do it for him. But Jack had some kind of sickness and was laid up, shivering as if he had the