Squire Throwleigh’s Heir aktm-7

by Michael Jecks

  How could he explain? They had to hit him to make him shut up, but the harder they hit, the louder he cried. Finally, only when he was silent, did they realise their crime.

  And then they heard Lady Katharine’s shrill voice from the doorway.

  ‘Is this true?’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Lady Katharine had been left on her bed when Daniel went out to the yard to accost the fish-seller, but she had soon recovered. The faint had left her weak and shaky, but she had managed to rise, and looked at her reflection in a mirror.

  It was no longer the face of a happily married woman and mother, nor of the successful wife of a powerful squire. Her face had become a mask of horror. All that she loved had been destroyed. Even the woman in whom she had placed all her trust had betrayed her. Lady Katharine could hardly believe all that she had heard, and yet she must.

  Staggering a little, she made her way back to the hall and there, while she leaned on the doorway, she heard the boys and Baldwin.

  She could not absorb it. There was a scream rising inside her, which felt as if it might snuff out her very life if she allowed it to escape. It was composed of all her agony, all her sorrow at what she had lost. If it left her body, it must take her soul with it.

  ‘Is it true?’ she whispered.

  Daniel made to move towards her, but she held out a hand without speaking, and he stopped, frozen with despair.

  Baldwin closed his eyes for a moment, then said compassionately: ‘My Lady, I am so sorry. You should not have heard this. But I fear these boys are at last telling the truth of it. They murdered your son.’

  Lady Katharine nodded once. She bowed her head, turned, and left.

  ‘Go with her, Daniel,’ said Baldwin gruffly and the steward hurried from the room.

  Baldwin glanced at Edmund. The farmer stood staring at his boy, an expression of complete disbelief on his face. ‘You killed the boy?’

  ‘Dad, we didn’t mean to! We were just punishing him. It was like a game at first, but then I made him bleed, and he kept going on at us, saying he’d tell his mother. We wanted him to shut up, that was all, and then he tried to get away, and we had to stop him, and he tried to shout, so I held him, and…’ Under the appalled stare of his father, Jordan slowly ground to a halt. Crying, he covered his face with both hands.

  ‘It was mainly me, sir,’ Alan said, after giving his friend an ugly look. ‘If you want to hang me, I am ready.’

  Baldwin snapped, ‘Oh, be silent, boy! You’ve done enough damage for a lifetime.’

  ‘What will happen to them?’ Edmund managed after a few minutes.

  ‘They are too young to be accused. They don’t know the meaning of good or bad, right or wrong,’ Baldwin said. ‘They cannot be treated like adults. They will have to be taken away to be looked after by someone else. Either the Church or a lord will have to take responsibility for them both. But not together, I fear – they should not be left together in case they lead each other to new felonies.’

  ‘Sir Baldwin!’

  ‘What is it, Daniel?’ the knight demanded irritably.

  The steward pointed with a shaking finger. ‘It’s Lady Katharine, sir. She has locked herself in her solar, and I can’t get her to speak to me. Oh God, I think she may try to kill herself!’

  It was evil, this whole place. Only a few weeks ago she would have thought that it was blessed, because then she had her husband and her child, but now she knew it was cursed. How else could a boy, another mere child, have murdered her son? She glanced up at the tapestries lining the walls, at the magnificent bed with its straw mattress lying on its mesh of ropes. In that bed she had lain with her husband; beside it she had given birth to her son. Yet now everything about this hall, even this room, was hateful; defiled by the ending of her son’s life.

  With a kind of wonder she stared at the guttering candle in her hand. It flickered and shone, bright and beautiful. Fire! Fire could cleanse the most evil of spirits; that was why witches were burned, so that their malevolence died with them. Fire destroyed and left only wholesome, fresh emptiness. Burned stubble left clean fields; burned trees left soil ready for ploughing; burned wood warmed the soul and the body together. Fire was good.

  Lady Katharine slowly stared about her, then lifted the flame to the hanging serge curtains that draped the bed. They took light in an instant, and soon the bedding too was ablaze.

  Thick, greenish-yellow smoke from the straw of the mattress began to fill the room, mixed with repellent fumes as the uncarded wool in the pillows smouldered, and all at once Lady Katharine felt an awful fear rise in her.

  Heat gushed, and she staggered backwards as if in a trance. The bedcurtains had become sheets of flame, and now they released themselves, the thin material converted into fine ash that danced in the fire like demons. When a gust of air blew in through the window, the flames glowed white for an instant.

  Suddenly she wanted to be free from here. She no longer wanted to see this house ruined and laid waste; she simply wished to escape. But there was no door any more, only a ring of flaming cloth all about her as the tapestries burned. She could feel the skin on her face and hands beginning to scorch; the hair of her brows and the tiny, fine ones on her cheeks were curling.

  She turned this way and that, but the door was hidden. With a scream of terror, she felt the flames climb higher.

  When Simon reached the window, she had collapsed, and he clambered inside as quickly as he could, grabbing her and throwing her over his shoulder before hurrying out once more.

  The manor was destroyed in a matter of hours.

  The magnificent hall in which the squire had entertained his numerous friends was gutted, a mere blackened, smoking shell. Stray cinders had lodged in the straw roofing of the stables and the kitchen, and it was only the diligence of the grooms that had saved the animals from burning alive. Fortunately they were all released in time, but not a single building escaped from the devastating effect of the fire. Daniel had attempted to rescue some of the stores, but had been forced to give up when barrels began to explode, and he had sent the men to the lines of those trying to douse the flames with buckets of water.

  In one way, Daniel thought, as he stared at the ruin of his home, it was the death of Anney’s young Tom which had led to the end of it all. Until he had fallen into it, the manor had possessed a well in the yard, a good, deep one, which would have made ferrying water that much easier and quicker; since his death, the well had been filled in, for a well that killed was destroyed, just as was a man, and the squire had never got around to digging a new one, so all the water had had to be brought up from the stream, away down the hill.

  He glanced about him again, taking in the men and women standing in little groups. One figure stood out: the knight, Sir Baldwin.

  Baldwin walked up to meet the steward. ‘It must be the first time I have seen you without your staff, apart from when Hugh snatched it from you,’ he said gently.

  ‘It was in the hall,’ Daniel told him sadly. ‘There seemed little point in grabbing it – not when there were more important things to rescue.’

  ‘Was anyone killed?’ Baldwin asked, gazing at the people all about.

  ‘I don’t think so. Even van Relenghes was saved. A couple of grooms got him out before the flames took hold of the kitchen. Oh, God’s teeth, what a mess!’

  Baldwin eyed him sympathetically. ‘You cannot blame your mistress. She was under a great deal of pressure, poor woman.’

  ‘Oh, I know. And I am glad in a way, too, for I don’t think I would have been able to bear serving Thomas of Exeter,’ Daniel confided. ‘But to think that the manor that my squire built and established is gone! It’s terrible.’

  And he clearly felt the misery. His eyes couldn’t meet Baldwin’s, but instead ranged over the wrecked area with a fevered misery, as if he couldn’t quite take it all in. Baldwin shook his head sadly, but he had a question he must ask. ‘Daniel, tell me, why did you demand that Simon and I s
hould return to investigate the boy’s death? Everyone was content that it had been an accident.’

  ‘I never thought it was. The lad could have outrun most carts, so why should he suddenly fall before one like that? I was convinced his death was murder.’

  ‘So you really believed that Edmund was the killer, because of his treatment by the squire and your lady?’

  ‘Ed? God’s bowels, no! He’s too weak and brainless to think of something of that nature. No, but he did give me a pretext to call you back. For her.’

  ‘I see,’ said Baldwin, and he really did, at last. It was not uncommon for a widowed woman to later remarry the man who had been her dead husband’s steward, and the reason was all too prosaic: while knights and squires must spend time traveling from estate to estate, or going to war, their steward would remain at home – as would the wife. Often an understanding could spring up between them. Proximity could lead to affection. In Daniel’s case he wanted to do all he could to alleviate his lady’s suffering, and to his mind that included having her son’s death properly investigated.

  ‘My Lady – where is she?’ he asked now.

  ‘I will show you,’ Baldwin said, and picked his way down the slope.

  A few sheets and blankets had been saved, and these had been strung together over poles to create a shelter and give some protection from the cold and rain. Baldwin led the way there, and through the open side they saw Jeanne and Margaret tending to Katharine. Daniel hurried to her, and knelt at her side, burying his head in the sheets that covered her.

  ‘How is she?’ Baldwin asked his wife.

  ‘She’ll be fine. She got quite warm when the room went up, of course, but she received few burns, mercifully, and the coughing should go soon. The main thing is, we have to get her to a house so that she doesn’t catch a chill.’

  Baldwin glanced enquiringly at Daniel, who said: ‘There’s a farm not far from here. I’ll send a man to tell the farmer we’re on our way.’

  The knight nodded and left the makeshift tent, walking slowly to the hill where Simon waited, standing guard over the two boys with Hugh.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’ll live. But God knows if her mind will recover,’ Baldwin sighed.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said a voice behind him, and he spun around to face Thomas.

  The master of the ruins waved a large jug. ‘I’d offer you some wine, gentlemen, but this is all I have remaining, and I think I’d like to enjoy what I can.’

  ‘You still have your life,’ said Baldwin.

  ‘My life? I depended on this,’ said the other, gesturing at the smoking remains, ‘to fund my business. Now, even if the land brings in fifteen or sixteen pounds a year, I am still left with nothing right now. I’m ruined. I’ll lose my house.’

  ‘Return down here and rebuild, then,’ said Simon. ‘It wouldn’t take long to put up a good-sized house; maybe not as large as your brother’s place, but enough to support you and a family.’

  ‘Here? Never!’ Thomas declared, staring about him scornfully. ‘What should I want with a place like this?’

  Simon speculatively eyed the village nestling in the valley before them. ‘Well, nothing I can say will change your mind, of course, but there are many places around here where the owners of villages have set up markets and fairs; they take a good toll of all goods for sale, and make money from taxing the villagers for the rooms they rent out.’

  ‘Fairs! Markets!’ Thomas said scornfully. He sneered and sipped his wine, but slowly, and he glanced towards Throwleigh with a pensive frown. ‘Mind you, the roads here are quite good, aren’t they…?’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  When it began to drizzle, Baldwin called Edgar to his side; between them, the two bullied and threatened the traumatised victims of the fire into some semblance of order, organising a stretcher for Lady Katharine, who appeared unable to think for herself; kicking James van Relenghes to his feet; setting Hugh and others to guard the two boys.

  Anney stood weeping. She had been rescued from her cell by Edgar, but she seemed to have no will left. Baldwin was surprised to see Thomas’s man Nicholas go to her side and put his arm about her slim shoulders while he offered her comforting words. The knight was about to pull the man away, thinking he was merely trying to take advantage of the woman for his sexual gratification, when he saw how Anney reacted. She was gripping the man’s hand and leaning on his shoulder like a lover, and the confused knight was left with the distinct impression that Anney was greatly soothed by Nicholas’s presence.

  He left her and went to make sure that the horses and cattle were being kept together before they could wander and be lost. Luckily Wat had recovered a little from his excesses of three or four hours before, and had been enlisted to assist the cattleman and stablehands. He saw his master, and waved cheerfully, preparing to set off with the animals to an enclosed field between the manor and the village.

  All in all Baldwin was reasonably happy that things were as well as could be expected after such a disastrous day, and as the cavalcade began to make its way to the village to commandeer stables and buildings for all the people, he felt that all which could be done had been. He strode along the line to the front of the procession.

  Seeing him, Jeanne glanced up at the door on which Lady Katharine lay, carried by four stalwarts from the stableyard. Jeanne had set out beside the stretcher thinking that she might be able to offer some companionship and help soothe the woman, but Lady Katharine was unable to speak coherently. She rambled, talking now as though her little son were at her side, now as if her husband were there; there was no sense to be had from her, and although Jeanne felt appalled for the lady, it was obvious that she served no useful purpose in being there, so she lifted her skirts and hurried to join her husband.

  As they left the moors and followed the road down between tall trees on either side, he was talking quietly to Simon; behind them walked Alan and Jordan, heads hanging low, hands loosely bound and attached to a long thong onto which Hugh grimly held.

  ‘What will happen to them?’ she asked softly.

  ‘That will be in the hands of Sir Reginald of Hatherleigh,’ Baldwin replied. ‘He may take them into his own household where he can keep an eye on them, but it’s more likely he’ll send them to a decent monastery, one where they can be taught how evil their act was. They’ll need to pay a severe price for their crime, but at least they won’t be hanged. They are saved that by virtue of their age.’

  ‘You are sure it was them?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘I mean, what with Anney claiming she’d done it, and then there’s the priest as well…’

  ‘Stephen?’ Baldwin asked, and grinned. ‘No, that daft bugger didn’t lie. I think he even admitted his bad behaviour to Thomas – maybe he thought Thomas would keep him on if the priest showed he had the same sensibilities, those of a rake. No, Stephen only had the one sin to worry him: his behaviour with Petronilla. I should have realised it before, especially since I managed to offend him so much when I spoke to him in the chapel… but it’s so easy to think the worst of someone like him. He looks so effeminate, so thin and womanly; I thought that the first time I saw him, and because I didn’t want to be prejudiced, I refused to see any bad in him. That was stupid, and not a mistake I shall make again.’

  ‘But he used to beat the boys so badly.’

  ‘Yes, I am afraid that some men will; but a beating never made a child turn into a murderer, any more than it made the man who performed it become some sort of monster. I was beaten when I was young, and it never affected me; nor did my father turn into an ogre because he clouted me when I misbehaved.’

  ‘That’s fair enough, but what of Anney?’

  ‘Anney, I think, realised before any of us who was responsible for Herbert’s death. She is no fool, that woman; although she wanted to make quite sure that she wasn’t wrong, and waited until the last possible moment, I think she knew that her boy was involved. Of course, it could have been a woman…’
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  ‘What makes you say that?’ she asked.

  Baldwin smiled. ‘It was one of the first things I found puzzling when Thomas suggested that Edmund had been the murderer: a farmer like him, even one who looks fairly unfit and badly nourished, can lift much greater weights than a light boy like Herbert. If Edmund had killed Herbert, he’d have thrown the lad over his shoulder and carried him to the road; in the same way, the priest would have been able to pick up Herbert’s corpse – if Petronilla had been an accomplice, so much the better, and easier, for him. But the body was dragged. That meant it had surely to be someone who was not strong – either a particularly feeble man, a light-framed woman – or perhaps a child.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you arrest them immediately?’

  ‘Because all these things occur to me now I can look at the case retrospectively, but it’s only when the whole matter is tied up and complete that I realise how each individual aspect relates.’

  ‘And it was hard to believe that children could have been responsible,’ said Simon soberly.

  ‘True,’ said Baldwin. ‘It was the last thing I expected. I came to this matter with a conviction that I was myself culpable for not seeing Herbert’s danger, and I burned with the desire to see him avenged, but having seen one innocent child harmed, I didn’t want to believe that another boy could have been responsible.’

  ‘And there were so many people with motives, let alone the ability,’ commented Simon. ‘Almost everyone on the hill had time and the opportunity to murder the boy.’

  ‘But what I don’t understand,’ said Jeanne more quietly, casting a look at the two woebegone killers, ‘is why. They both claim that Herbert was their friend, and yet they murdered him. Why?’

  Baldwin was silent, and it was left to Simon to answer. ‘Boys this young can’t always understand what is right and wrong. Neither of these lads is stupid, but they don’t necessarily comprehend what death is, or perhaps more important, how precious life is. One of them said something about Herbert complaining, threatening them with exposure, because he hadn’t fired the bullet that hit the priest. I daresay that was the crucial comment. Herbert was the son of Alan and Jordan’s master, and now he himself was their master – and he knew it. If he felt hard done by, maybe he felt justified in exposing them – after all, he had suffered on the day his father died, hadn’t he? All because the boys had been playing together. Maybe he was sick of taking the blame for everything they did as a trio and wanted to see them pay as well.’