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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.
    â€œCome 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 toward 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.
    As her hands gradually began to warm and struggle back to painful life, she turned to heat her back. Casting an eye over the hall, she let Simon and Baldwin’s conversation float over her unheeded. They were talking about the knight’s friend, the Bourc de Beaumont, and his journey to find his old nurse. She had no interest in tales of old battles, and stories of the kingdom of Jerusalem saddened her—it was depressing to think of the holy places being violated by heretics. Unfastening her cloak, she swept it off.
    Baldwin stood by the table and surveyed the food, arrayed on its platters as if for inspection. Glancingdown and seeing his dog, he took his knife and cut a slab of ham, tossing it to her, before turning and smiling at his guests.
    To Margaret, he appeared to have changed a great deal in some ways; not at all in others. The lines on his face, the scars and weals of suffering, had almost all gone, to be replaced by a calm acceptance of life. It was as if a sheet of linen which had been wrinkled and creased had been ironed smooth again. Where the pain had sat, now there was only calm acceptance. But still he had the quick, assured manner that she recalled from last year when she had first met him.
    Simon too had noticed the signs of comfort and peace, and he was pleased, knowing that it was due to his own intervention that the knight was still free. Baldwin had admitted to having been a member of the Knights Templar when they had met the year before, and Simon was sure that his decision to keep the man’s secret was the right one.
    It had not been easy, especially after the murder of the Abbot of Buckland. It had been a dreadful year. There had been a band of marauding outlaws, murdering and burning from Oakhampton to Crediton, and then the abbot was taken and killed as well. For a newly appointed bailiff, the series of deaths was a problem of vast proportions, but he had managed to solve them. After hearing the knight’s tale, he had been forced to search his own soul, but in the end there had been little point in arresting him, and Simon had kept his secret hidden. Now he was pleased at how the knight had justified his decision.
    â€œDo you realize, Baldwin, how well you are considered in Exeter?” he asked as they sat.
    The knight raised an eyebrow and gave him aquizzical glance, as if expecting a trap of some sort. “Oh yes?” he said suspiciously.
    â€œYes, even Walter Stapledon has heard good reports of you.”
    â€œThen I hope the good bishop keeps his reports to himself, my friend! I have no desire to be called away