‘But these boys,’ Thomas added solemnly with a grimace and shake of his head, ‘they’re the most unholy nuisances. They shout and run when they shouldn’t, they play practical jokes in the churchyard and carry on as if there were no authority that could hold them.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘They shoot their damned slings at anything that takes their fancy. Often out poaching, so I’m told. And they fire at people when they want to, knowing they can run off and hide. That’s what… Anyway, they shoot at folks for no reason, just to make them jump or fall from their horse. They have no respect for anyone. I’ll tell you this, if they’re not taught a lesson soon, they’ll be fodder for the gibbet, and nothing more.’
Baldwin wasn’t listening, and missed his lapse. The knight was quite certain that he could never learn anything of any use from the bone-headed Master of Throwleigh, so he merely nodded and made understanding noises while watching the rest of the guests. He could see that Simon and their wives were enjoying a story from Edgar, who had a store of jokes and tales suitable for occasions even as sad as this. Behind them, sitting on her large chair, was Lady Katharine.
The knight watched her for a moment. At her side was the maid Anney, holding her mistress’s drinking vessel, and even as Baldwin watched, she passed it to her lady, hardly glancing at her as she put it into Katharine’s hand. Baldwin was convinced there was a lingering resentment between maid and mistress, but he was not convinced that it could have sparked the fuse that led to the murder.
The mother herself was an enigma. Had Baldwin only seen her reaction at her husband’s funeral, when the woman had recoiled from her own son as if in revulsion, he would have believed her more than capable of hating Herbert enough to kill him. And yet now, having witnessed her despair at the funeral, he found it hard to dispute Simon’s outrage at the suggestion. It was unthinkable that a woman should knowingly murder her own boy.
As he considered her, Daniel touched her shoulder and bent to whisper in her ear.
There it was again, he thought. Glancing at Jeanne, he saw her quick nod, and he grinned to himself. She had seen it too – the hand resting on the shoulder just a moment too long, with that hint of a certain special affinity accepted by both sides.
It was then that he noticed van Relenghes again. The Fleming was standing unconcernedly sipping at his wine, alone for a moment; his servant had gone to refill a jug.
Baldwin studied him dispassionately, recalling the way Anney had described him. James van Relenghes had the look of someone set apart from the group within the hall. It was not because he was foreign, because that would imply isolation caused by incomprehension, either of language or customs; no, this was a different sort of otherness. He was aloof, separate. He smiled pleasantly enough at people who spoke to him or passed by, yet Baldwin watched the eyes, as he had been commanded by Anney, and sure enough, they reflected an inner coldness. The eyes displayed calculation; the potential for shallow deceit.
As if aware he was the subject of a close scrutiny, van Relenghes glanced up and met Baldwin’s gaze boldly. He raised his goblet cheerily, then bowed slightly and sauntered from the room.
‘I think someone needs to teach you a lesson,’ Baldwin murmured, his attention flitting to Lady Katharine. ‘Whatever your game is, I hope you get your come-uppance.’
Godfrey had not noticed his master’s departure. A moment later he returned to where van Relenghes had been standing, his jug in his hand, and looked round casually, expecting to see his master. Soon his search became more keen, and he walked around the room, earnestly seeking van Relenghes, before stopping dead, head cocked to one side, listening to something outside. He ran from the room with every appearance of agitation.
Baldwin had no idea his wish was already being granted.
Hugh was dozing on his stool of moorland stone when van Relenghes came out.
‘You – fetch me a horse,’ he commanded. ‘I wish to ride.’
‘You need a groom for that, sir,’ Hugh yawned. ‘They’re over there.’
‘Fetch me a horse, drunken sot!’ van Relenghes hissed, kicking Hugh’s pot, which shattered into a hundred pieces.
Hugh looked at the shards, then leaned back.
‘Did you hear me? I want a horse, now!’ van Relenghes said.
‘Nothing to do with me,’ Hugh said, insolently closing his eyes.
‘You had better do as you are bid, serf, or…’
Suddenly van Relenghes became aware that they weren’t alone. The men who had been waiting at the other side of the yard had silently walked up and now formed a close circle about them.
Nicholas smiled. ‘We’ve been asked to have a word with you, Fleming.’
Van Relenghes went pale as he realised he was trapped. He kept his hand from his sword – he would have had three men grab his arm before he could pull it two inches from its scabbard – and tried to be calm. ‘What do you want?’
‘You’ve wronged our master, haven’t you? He wants us to explain that he doesn’t like people telling villainous lies about him.’
‘This is something I should discuss with your master. Now, if you…’
‘Oh no, sir. He asked us to speak to you, most particular like,’ said Nicholas, and moved to stand directly in front of the Fleming as he attempted to sidle away.
‘I have to speak to the Lady Katharine.’
‘No need. This is my master’s hall, isn’t it?’ said Nicholas conversationally. He nodded, and one of his companions, a heavy man with a wall-eye, took hold of van Relenghes’s sleeve.
‘Keep away from me! Leave go, scum, or I’ll…’
Hugh watched impassively as Nicholas reached for his dagger. A second man grabbed the Fleming’s free arm, and he was held still. With that Hugh’s expression changed.
‘Here, you can’t do that! Give him room to swing his blade.’
Nicholas pushed him away with his free hand. ‘Go back inside if you don’t want to see a man punished.’
‘Fight him fairly, or leave him alone,’ Hugh stated. ‘This is no better than an outlaw’s trick. Let him get his sword out.’
‘Piss off, serf, unless you want to join him!’ hissed the walleyed man, and Hugh stood stock-still a moment.
He gazed at their faces. Mostly bearded, two of them scarred, one with a single eye and a damp, empty socket where the other should have been. All had the same animal lust to inflict pain. They would attack Hugh too, unarmed as he was, if they had the slightest provocation. Resigned, he took a cautious step backwards, then another.
‘Now, Master Fleming,’ said Nicholas comfortably.
‘Godfrey!’ van Relenghes screamed, wide-eyed with terror, as the blade moved towards his face.
Hugh bolted inside, colliding with someone running out. It was Godfrey. The master-of-arms tripped over Hugh’s foot, and fell headlong into the wall, striking it with a dull thud and collapsing. Hugh had stumbled as well, but he went over Godfrey, who cushioned his fall. Rising quickly, he hurried into the hall, making straight for Daniel.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and before the astonished steward could stop him, he snatched Daniel’s staff of office and sped back outside.
The Fleming’s face was a bloody mask, and Nicholas, laughing, was about to make a second long slash, when Hugh exploded into their midst.
His first blow caught the man on van Relenghes’s left, and he crumpled without a sound. Before he had fallen, Hugh had whipped his weapon into the quarter-staff fighting position, and swept it down on Nicholas’s knife hand. The man gave a shriek, more of surprise than actual pain, dropping his blade, and while the group remained frozen with surprise, Hugh had time to thrust at wall-eye: the point of the stave hit him high in the belly, and he fell, gasping loudly as he tried to catch his breath. Then Hugh could face the others.
There were three remaining, and Hugh was comfortable with the odds. Nicholas had drawn his sword, a single-edge falchion which had seen better days; one of the others had a heavy Dani
sh axe, while the third had a bill. He was Hugh’s main problem: a man with a weapon of the same length and reach.
He saw the bill move to his left, and dropped the point of the staff to parry, immediately trying a stab to the gut which was knocked aside with ease. The man knew how to handle his weapon, Hugh noted glumly. The bill swung low, aiming at his legs, and Hugh withdrew his left foot as the blade passed, immediately stepping forward to attack the man’s open flank, out as he did so, Nicholas slashed at him, and Hugh had to swing away, retreating before the sword. The axe swung in a mean arc, and Hugh took another pace back.
There were voices now, people shouting, one man egging on Hugh’s opponents, the rest calling for peace, but Hugh kept his eyes on the three men before him. They had sorted themselves out now: the sword was on Hugh’s left, axe right, and bill before him.
Making a quick decision, Hugh sprang to his right, feinted with his staff, making the axeman swing to defend his right, and then reversed his grip, sending the butt smashing into the side of the man’s head.
As the axeman grunted and fell, his axe hit the bill of the man behind. Hugh quickly took advantage, and swung the top of the staff into his throat. With a hideous gurgling scream that sent a hot thrill of excitement into Hugh’s blood, he dropped his bill and fell to his knees, grabbing at his throat as he fought for air. Hugh sent the pole’s point at his head above the ear and he fell without another sound. Wall-eye was breathing stertorously, resting on all fours, so Hugh casually dropped him with a short cut of the staff at the back of his neck.
But all the time his attention was fixed on Nicholas. Hugh walked around the fallen men, his staff pointing at the wary survivor, who gripped his sword with both hands, staring in fascination at the point of the stave as it moved slowly, from side to side, then up and down, at no time more than a few feet from his own neck.
Nicholas had been in many fights, but never had he been foolish enough to stand against a man with a staff when he only had a sword. A wooden pole was of little use in the hands of someone who had no idea how to use it, but a man who was skilled with a pole was always at an advantage against a man with a sword. As the iron-shod point of the thick oaken stick darted to his left, Nicholas instinctively moved the blade to guard his side. The jarring shock of the two weapons colliding was enough to make him wince.
All at once the point swung low, aiming at his knees, and he had to leap back, away from his men. He had hoped that one would get up and help him, or that this furious little servant would stumble on one of them, but now even that vain hope was taken from him. Nicholas knew he was going to lose, and when he did, he would have no defence unless his master admitted ordering him to attack.
‘It was my master!’ he shouted. ‘I was ordered to wound the Fleming because of what he said about my master.’
‘So what?’ demanded Hugh, and poked the stick forward again, this time aiming at Nicholas’s chest. The blow was badly timed, and easily blocked, but with a weapon of little more than two feet long, Nicholas couldn’t take the advantage, not against a staff of nearly six feet. It was hopeless.
Hugh had his measure, and he began to strike faster: first at his left, then his right; up towards Nicholas’s head, down at his ankles; back towards his shoulders, down to thrust at his belly, all the time pressing forward, never allowing Nicholas time to relax from a blow before the next was in motion, never allowing him a moment to catch his breath, constantly seeking an opening, shoving forward.
It wasn’t that Hugh had a desire to hurt the man, but since he had become involved in a fight which was not of his making, Hugh was determined to win it.
The end was not long in coming. Nicholas saw the attack at his head, saw the pole move from right to left as if Hugh was going to swing at the other side of his head at the last moment, moved his sword, and then, just too late, saw that the staff wasn’t where it should have been: instead it was coming straight towards his face.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As the stave struck Nicholas’s nose and the man jerked backwards to lie unconscious on the ground, Simon gave a loud guffaw and applauded vigorously. He strode to his servant’s side, clapping him on the back as he stood glowering breathlessly at his victims. ‘Well done, Hugh!’
The bailiff and Baldwin had been among the first to rush from the hall to see what Hugh meant by his seizure of the staff, and they had witnessed almost the whole fight. When Baldwin had put his hand to his own sword, Simon had shaken his head; he had seen Hugh fighting against larger numbers before now, and the sight of his man knocking over all the fellows from Thomas’s entourage was no surprise to him. An English farmer’s son soon learned to protect himself from all predators.
Baldwin glanced about him at the men lying all around, one or two groaning, Nicholas snuffling and shaking his head, still stupefied by his broken nose. ‘Yes, you fought well – but what was it all about?’
Hugh leaned on his borrowed staff, trying to catch his breath. ‘They were holding the Fleming so he couldn’t fight back, and that’s not right, sir. When I tried to get them to free him, they threatened me, and shoved me away, so I got angry.’ He gazed about him, his spirits sinking a little as he realised how many witnesses there had been to his fight. At Sir Baldwin’s side was his wife, and Hugh saw Jeanne was staring at him with open-eyed astonishment. ‘Well, they shouldn’t have pushed me,’ he said grumpily.
‘The steward said his master had ordered him to attack van Relenghes, didn’t he?’ said Simon.
Thomas stood listening at the step to the hall, his features strained and pale. His face told the story only too well: he had never conceived that the Fleming could have survived. Of course, van Relenghes had his guard, but Godfrey was a mercenary, not someone who’d risk his neck against overwhelming odds like this. Thomas had assumed the Fleming would lose.
‘It was nothing to do with me. The man was lying.’
‘Your servant, Thomas?’ Simon said disbelievingly. ‘He’d tell such a lie against you?’
‘Of course he did! Probably wanted to rob the Fleming,’ said Thomas.
‘What did you tell your man to do?’ Simon asked him. He had walked nearer, and now stood staring down at the Fleming. Van Relenghes’s face was covered in gore, and Simon glanced at Petronilla, who gave a shiver, but nodded, and went to the trough to fill a bucket. She began cleaning his wound, a long gash from ear to nostril.
Thomas felt a stab of satisfaction. Nicholas had done his job well, no matter that he had given the game away afterwards. Thomas had insisted that his man should ruin the Fleming’s good looks, and that scar alone would succeed. Many women like their men to have marks on their faces, but this one would permanently damage his handsome features. Thomas heard the bailiff speak again, and glanced up.
‘I said, what did you order your man to do?’ Simon demanded. ‘Look at him! Why did you order him to wound a guest in this house?’
‘I can answer that, I think, Bailiff.’ Lady Katharine descended the steps, her finger pointed accusingly at her brother-in-law.
‘This was how Thomas, my dear brother, tried to honour the memory of my husband and my son. He ordered the punishment of this man on the day of my son’s funeral just so he could have his revenge on the one who betrayed his secret to me.’
Thomas made a feeble little gesture, which vaguely indicated the people about him. ‘My lady, surely – um – we should talk about this in private. There’s no need to discuss family affairs in the open with servants and villeins to witness it all.’
‘Why should we not discuss it here? This is my home, Thomas!’ she snapped.
‘No, Lady. It is mine! And I choose not to speak of such matters in the court like a serf begging alms. If you wish to talk to me, I shall be inside.’
So saying, Thomas gathered his pride to him like a man trying to wrap himself up in a tattered and shredded cloak. He gave Simon a cold glance, up and down, and strode up the stairs, past the lady and into the hall. A second or two l
ater Godfrey appeared, blinking and rubbing an ugly bruise on his temple.
As if in general agreement that the entertainment was over, the crowd began to disperse, some laughing, many winking and grinning at Hugh, who suddenly realised he was still gripping Daniel’s staff of office. He shamefacedly lowered his head, walked to the steward and passed it to him with a mumbled word of regret for taking it so rudely.
‘Don’t dare to apologise,’ Daniel said, struggling not to laugh. ‘After what I’ve seen today, you’re welcome to it whenever you need it. What a fight! I swear I haven’t seen such a staff-fight since the Welsh wars!’ He clapped Hugh on the back. ‘And for protecting the manor’s guest, whatever the greasy little bugger may be like, you deserve the thanks of all of us here. Come inside and drink wine with me, friend. I’d hate to think you were my enemy, after all!’
But before returning to the hall, Hugh went to Petronilla, still squatting at the side of the Fleming. Godfrey was assisting her, holding a damp cloth to the bloody cut, while the girl gently wiped at the clots on the man’s face. He lay quite still, his face a perfect mask of pain.
‘Thanks,’ Godfrey said simply. ‘I’m only sorry I missed seeing your defence of him.’
Hugh shrugged. ‘He’ll need that wound stitched.’
‘Yes, well, someone can do it later. It’s not a hard job,’ said Godfrey easily.
Hugh turned away. Baldwin and Simon were already on the steps which led back to the hall, and Hugh was about to follow them when Godfrey touched his arm.
‘I threatened you, when you were trying to serve drinks in the hall. I’m sorry about that. After you protected my master I can’t help feeling we owe you something in return.’
Hugh stared at his feet. He wasn’t used to accepting gratitude from others, and didn’t know how to respond.
Godfrey grinned crookedly. ‘Don’t worry, I can’t promise you money…’ Hugh’s morose expression deteriorated, ‘… it’s only this: I know your master and the knight have been trying to find out what happened that day…’
Squire Throwleigh’s Heir aktm-7 Page 24
