Edmund glowered, and for a moment Baldwin thought he would be silent, but then the farmer lifted his head defiantly. ‘Sir, I’d seen a dead rabbit in the road. It’d only just been killed – maybe by a sling or something. I picked it up, and then I thought I’d better take it to the manor, so I rode on, but there was no one there.’
‘Liar! I was at the gateway and saw you ride straight past. You never made any attempt to leave a rabbit or anything else.’
‘I was going to leave the rabbit, but I dozed, and the pony found the road home.’
‘You poached the manor’s rabbits!’ Daniel asserted.
‘I never poached anything – someone else killed it. I was going to take it in… Anyway, if I hadn’t, it’d only have been stolen by a dog or a fox,’ Edmund protested sulkily.
Seeing the scandalised steward taking breath, Baldwin swiftly said, ‘I think we can forget about rabbits, Daniel. Let us draw a veil over such matters; in trying to hide them, people may be forced to conceal other facts which could help us. Now, Edmund, you stopped your wagon and collected up this tiny cony-corpse. You then rode on towards the manor, is that right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And saw what?’
‘Nothing, sir. I was tired: I rode back dozing, and saw nothing else until I turned off to go back to the village.’
Baldwin shook his head. ‘What of other carts?’
Edmund stared confusedly. ‘Oh, there was only the one, the fishman’s cart. I saw him on the road heading north, some while before I got to the fork and noticed the rabbit.’
‘So if he had knocked the boy down, you would have seen the body on the road?’
‘I… Yes, I suppose…’
‘So he hadn’t, had he?’
Edmund was silent, his nervous gaze going from one to another.
Simon finished his pot and gave him a not-unfriendly look. ‘We’re not here to arrest you, farmer. All we want to do is clear up what actually happened to the lad.’
‘But I don’t know!’
‘Did you see anyone else up there?’ Baldwin asked after a moment.
Edmund was alive to the possibilities and dangers of his situation. If he admitted whom he had seen, he could be dealt with severely; yet if he held his tongue, he would surely be at risk of losing his life. He took a cautious glance at Daniel. The old steward was frowning fixedly at him, as if daring him to make any comment about the people he had seen up on the moors that day. Edmund swallowed quickly.
‘Sir, I did see some folks. I saw the girl, Petronilla, the young maid from the hall. And I saw Anney, Lady Katharine’s maid, walking further up on the moors. No one else.’
And as he told the lie, Edmund stared guiltily at his feet.
Chapter Twelve
While James van Relenghes supped his wine by the fire, Godfrey slipped out through the screens and left the hall by the great door to the yard.
Striding quickly, he crossed the court and paused a moment at the wide-open stable. People were always bustling about in here, shouting to each other, oiling and polishing saddles and bridles, gentling the horses, grooming them, taking the great animals from their stalls to be set into harnesses to go to the fields, or preparing them for exercise. One idle weapons master went more or less unnoticed.
He saw the man he wanted, and moved around the room, always keeping his target in view. As he came closer, he reached under his jack and eased his concealed knife in its sheath before covering the last few yards at speed. He gripped Nicholas’s arm and beamed into his face.
‘Well, now, old son! Isn’t this a nice thing, eh? Christ’s wounds, but it’s been ages. Last time we met was in France, wasn’t it?’ he babbled, pulling the startled servant towards the doors. ‘How long has it been – what, seven years? No, must be more than that – say about ten. Still…’
By now he’d brought his quarry out to the open air, and his wide eyes lent his smile a somewhat manic air as he brought his face close to Thomas of Exeter’s right-hand man.
‘… It’s never too late to renew an old acquaintance, is it, Nicky boy?’
‘He was lying,’ said Daniel bitterly.
The steward was peevish. He’d hoped for greater things from the famous knight of Furnshill; Sir Baldwin was supposed to be almost omniscient, and yet to the steward’s mind the knight had just had the wool pulled over his eyes by an unscrupulous serf. He could have got more from Edmund himself if he’d been left alone to question the sod, without the supposed benefit of the knight’s presence.
Baldwin sighed. ‘The man’s mere appearance on the same road as that on which the boy died is no proof that he was present at Herbert’s death, let alone that he had an active part in it. What of your own fish-seller?’
‘Sir Baldwin, you yourself pointed out that if the fish-seller had run Herbert down, Edmund would have seen the body’
‘Very well, then. Let us suppose that Herbert was run down by Edmund,’ Baldwin said. ‘But was the man awake? He admits going to the inn, admits to returning after a few ales – how often have you seen a man in that condition? If the boy ran out from the side of the road and fell under his wheels, despite the bump he might not know anything about it.’
‘His wagon was empty, and he’s only got a light one. If he ran down the boy, he’d know all about it,’ Daniel asserted.
Baldwin was even more convinced that the steward was determined to implicate the villein for some unknown reason, and the knight wasn’t prepared to be a willing accomplice in the destruction of Edmund for a crime of which he might well be innocent. ‘There is no evidence to suggest that he was guilty of anything,’ he said strongly. ‘Even if, as you say, he was aware of riding over a child, you couldn’t expect him to run straight to the manor, where people like you would assume he was guilty of murder.’
‘Of course we would! Who else had a wish to attack my Lady Katharine’s family!’
Baldwin stopped his horse and stared.
Simon looked as baffled as he felt. ‘Why on earth would a nonentity like him want to hurt the likes of her?’
‘Because she’s reclaimed him as a villein!’ Daniel burst out. While the two men stared, he explained the legal loophole by which Lady Katharine had trapped Edmund back into her service.
‘But that’s outrageous!’ Simon cried. ‘She is taking advantage of her position – and doing so to overrule her husband’s express wishes.’
Daniel suddenly felt very old, and almost regretted calling the bailiff back. He had no choice: he must explain how the manor he served could unfairly treat its tenants.
‘We’re trying a new system here – just like the Earldom of Cornwall,’ he began defensively. ‘If someone else offers more money than the existing tenants, the highest bidder wins the land.’
‘You mean serfs are evicted when their lord is offered a good sum?’ Simon asked.
‘Urn… not only then. This is for free tenants as well. The tenants on our lands have a lease for only seven years, and when it is due for renewal, anyone who can offer more money may have it.’
Baldwin and Simon exchanged shocked glances. Tenants were either freemen or serfs. The former paid fixed rents, while the latter had the burden of labour owed to their lords as well as the expense of the feudal taxes: the merchet, paid by women when they wished to be married, chevage, paid by serfs who wished permission to live away from the demesne, plus a range of other arbitrary charges that could be imposed by a greedy lord. But this very arbitrariness only affected those who were servile, not the free.
Daniel pointedly avoided their eyes while he explained how the system worked. Every seven years the existing leases were terminated and the plots thrown open to the highest bidder. First refusal was given to the existing tenant, but if another offered a better price, that person won.
‘You mean that even loyal tenants of a magnate could be thrown off their land just because someone who isn’t even local decides to offer money?’ Simon asked.
‘Well –
yes, sir.’
‘It should be illegal! How can men have any faith in their masters when they’re treated so shabbily?’
Baldwin too was frowning. ‘The old way is for all retainers to be safe while they stay loyal to their liege-lord. If this sort of idea were to take hold, where would the kingdom be? If no man can trust his lord’s integrity and commitment, no one would be safe. The King himself could decide to impose the same tenancies on his lords!’
‘Hardly, sir. He wouldn’t dare rouse all the nation in that way,’ Daniel said.
‘But has this Edmund been disloyal?’
‘Well, not that I know of, but he is a very inefficient farmer, and he can’t afford…’
‘You think that because of this dispute, Edmund could have caused his master’s death?’
‘He angered Squire Roger by begging, reminding him of the service his father Richard had given.’
‘Loyal and faithful service?’ Simon asked.
‘Yes. That was why his father was freed.’
‘And this is his reward!’
Daniel glanced mournfully at the bailiff. ‘Sir, I don’t invent the laws, I only obey my commands.’
‘As you should,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Yet for the squire’s accidental death – there is no suggestion that Edmund struck the squire – for that, Lady Katharine is determined to punish Edmund. I suppose you think that as a result of her actions, Edmund saw a means to hurt her even more cruelly, and rode down her son? I have heard of such cases, but you want me to believe that a weakly bully like Edmund could do such a thing?
I doubt whether he would have the guts or strength of purpose to attempt so horrific a revenge.‘
‘Sir, Edmund was the last man to pass. If the master was run over, who else could it have been? It must have been Edmund!’
‘You keep repeating that!’ Simon snapped. ‘So what? In God’s name! Even if that bastard Edmund did run down the child, it’s probably only because the fool was asleep and the death an accident. Accidents will sometimes happen, and no one is responsible when they do!’
‘But, Bailiff, he must…’
‘Enough!’ Simon rasped. ‘I will hear no more! You’ve got some kind of fascination with this poor man, and it’s unreasonable and foolish. God’s teeth, do you really think that a miserable serf like him could dream of harming the heir to Throwleigh? Wake up, man, you’re dreaming.’
Daniel held his angry stare for a moment, but then his head dropped, and Simon saw a tear fall from his nose. The bailiff was strangely shocked to realise that the steward was weeping.
Jeanne was waiting for them in front of the house, Wat at her side in case she needed an errand run. She smiled and walked to meet the men as they approached but, before she had covered a few yards, she realised that their mood was not good. Simon rode with his face as black as a moorland thundercloud, while Baldwin kept his distance, staring up thoughtfully at the hill behind the house; Daniel brought up the rear with the two servants. She instantly decided to make use of the customary cure for such moods, and sent Wat to fetch wine.
‘My lord?’ she asked tentatively as they came close, and her husband broke into a smile of sheer delight.
‘Jeanne! Where is Margaret, and Lady Katharine?’
‘They are walking out in the garden behind the stables,’ she said. ‘Was your journey worthwhile?’
He saw her glance behind him at the scowling steward. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I think the only thing we achieved was upsetting Lady Katharine’s man.’
She listened seriously as he spoke of their visit to Edmund’s house. As he finished, she gave him a grave look. ‘Are you really so sure that he is wrong?’
‘As things stand now, yes,’ he said. ‘The boy was certainly run over by a wagon of some sort, but I see no reason why this man should be responsible. And as for murder…’
‘You don’t think Daniel could be right and this fellow wanted to kill the boy in revenge for losing his land – and his freedom, of course?’
Wat returned with the wine, and Baldwin took a sip, watching as the youngster filled pots for the other men. Why should someone want a child dead? he wondered.
‘What’s that?’
Hearing the cheery call, Baldwin winced. The last man he wished to speak to at this moment was Thomas, Squire Roger’s brother. Jeanne saw his look, gave her husband a fleeting smile, and walked away, apologetically telling Thomas that she must prepare for breakfast. Recollecting his manners, the knight fitted a suitably polite smile to his lips before turning to greet the man from Exeter. ‘Good morning, Master Thomas. I didn’t hear you approach. We have been over to Throwleigh to speak to some of the men and find out whether anyone could shed any light on the death of your nephew.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Thomas, shaking his head dejectedly and taking Wat’s remaining wine pot. ‘So sad to see a young whipper-snapper like him cut down in so meaningless a manner. Did you – er – find out anything?’
There was an odd look in his eye, and Baldwin hesitated before answering. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘We spoke to some villeins, but there was nothing to be learned from them.’
‘Very sad. Still,’ continued Thomas, glancing along the road towards Throwleigh, ‘I daresay I shall be able to clear it all up when I begin to make my own enquiries. As lord of the manor, it is my responsibility.’
‘Lord of the manor?’ Simon echoed. He had tethered his horse to a large ring in the courtyard wall, and now stood near Baldwin.
‘Well, of course, Bailiff – but I suppose you didn’t know. The manor is entailed, and may only be passed to a male member of the family’ He smiled smugly up at the building behind them. ‘This all belongs to me now.’
It was in order to leave the presence of the gloating man that Baldwin announced his wish to visit the chapel. The knight was revolted by the self-satisfied smile Thomas of Exeter wore as he surveyed what was now his property. Baldwin felt only disgust for him, and his leave-taking was so short that his rudeness penetrated even Thomas’s thick skin, and he stood staring after Baldwin with a degree of surprise as the knight stalked away.
Baldwin stomped along the yard, through the hall, and into the peace of the little room. He stared at the altar for a moment, then genuflected automatically and walked to sit on a bench by the wall.
The naked greed in Thomas’s eyes was repellent. It was as if the knight had been granted an insight to the man’s soul, and he shuddered at the sheer avarice that flamed there. Herbert’s death meant nothing to him: oh, he would make the right sad noises, he would declare himself desolated, he would offer every sympathy to the poor mother left alone to survive her husband and only child, but that was the limit of his compassion. His true feelings were limited to a desire to get his hands on the house and demesne of Throwleigh.
Hearing steps, Baldwin sighed to himself. It seemed there was nowhere to gain a few moments’ peace in this household.
The door opened, and Baldwin saw the slightly flushed features of Stephen.
‘I am sorry, Brother,’ he said immediately, ‘if I am intruding on you…’
‘Not at all, my son. Can I help you, or are you seeking solitude?’
Baldwin looked away. Setting aside Herbert’s death, he did have that other, private, concern: his feelings towards his wife. He loved her, but he always felt the restraint of the vows he had given as a Templar monk: poverty, obedience, and chastity. It was wrong, he was sure, that he should feel guilty about making love to his wife, but the sense that by doing so he was breaking his oath was too strong to ignore. It was not a matter he could discuss with anyone who knew him well, but he would be enormously comforted to share his anxiety, even though he could not explain the full details. He licked his lips in sudden indecision.
‘Brother,’ he began tentatively, ‘could I speak to you about a matter… It is rather embarrassing… er… in the strictest confidence?’
The form of words was a matter of politeness, and no more. Both men kne
w that the confessional was sacrosanct, but Baldwin also knew that, if ordered, a worldly monk could be prevailed upon to divulge his secrets to a senior monk or bishop. Even as Stephen nodded silently and sat at his side, Baldwin was considering how best to ask the question he needed answered.
‘Brother, I am afraid that in my life I have sinned.’
‘We all sin.’
Baldwin gave a faint smile. ‘Yes – but I mean intentionally. Brother, if a man takes an oath and then is betrayed, does that mean the oath itself is null and void?’
Stephen looked at him, surprised. ‘What do you mean?’
Baldwin took a deep breath. He couldn’t confess to his membership of the Knights Templar, for since their destruction many priests would look askance on one of that fraternity – especially bearing in mind the nature of some of the accusations. ‘Well, suppose I were a man of the cloth, and had taken the vow of chastity, and yet was tempted into… um… into lust for…’
He stopped. The priest had gone as white as the plaster on the whitewashed wall, then as red as Baldwin’s crimson tunic. Standing, he stared down at the knight with an expression of sheer fury. ‘You dare to try and trick me into… You bastard! You try to accuse me – no, don’t! Don’t touch me!’
Chapter Thirteen
Alan saw another pigeon, a tempting, plump target. It swooped over the tree high above him, flew across the field and on, but even as he held his breath, it made a wide circle, and returned in a leisurely manner. At last it dropped down towards the field.
His decoy, a live pigeon tethered by the leg to a stick, which kept flapping and cooing, showing that there was food here, was working well. Alan pursed his lips as the new bird came down, beating its wings wildly as it landed, and as it ruffled its feathers and tucked its wings away, Alan was already whirling his long-stringed sling over his head, behind the cover of his hedge. Still spinning, he let go of the cord.
Squire Throwleigh’s Heir aktm-7 Page 11
