Squire Throwleigh's Heir

by Michael Jecks

‘I’ll go to the King’s court. I’ll fight you!’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Lady Katharine, and she stood up. To Edmund she radiated an unwholesome, evil power, and as she walked slowly towards him he felt himself recoil, his bowels turning to water in his sudden fear.

  ‘You can do nothing, Edmund Villein. Nothing! If you go to court I will declare you “unfree” and your case will fail. You are to lose your lands already, and I believe it was in part because of you that my husband died, so if you make it hard for me, I will see to it that you and your family have the harshest duties of all the villeins in Throwleigh. Think yourself lucky, Edmund. You were to lose everything. Now I will let you stay in a toft, a cottage without land, on my demesne - but I will keep my eye on you.’

  James van Relenghes considered the doorway with a soldier’s eye. It wasn’t particularly strong, but the squire had had few enemies to fear. The buildings were constructed with a view to defence against bands of outlaws, and men of that type would have been deterred by the thorn hedge. If they had won their way through to the court, the house, with its thick walls of solid, grey moorstone, would have been proof against them. For there to have been any expectation of success, an attacker would have required artillery, beating at the walls with missiles, or mining beneath them until the walls above collapsed. Nothing less could force the occupants to surrender. No incompetent vagrants armed with sticks and daggers would be able to take the place.

  He carried on towards it, Godfrey riding behind him on a pony.

  Van Relenghes had explained nothing of his reasons for visiting Throwleigh Manor. The Fleming had merely said that he was forced to visit this place because his old friend had recently died, and wished to have his bodyguard with him. It had been surprisingly easy to persuade Godfrey to accompany him. Van Relenghes thought it was the lure of the money he offered, yet in truth that had little to do with it; Godfrey earned enough already. His willingness was due to his interest in the Fleming. Ever since van Relenghes’s outburst in the Cathedral grounds, Godfrey had wanted to find out more about his strange client.

  While waiting for the Fleming to ready himself for the journey to Dartmoor, Godfrey had asked questions of his usual sources, but no one knew anything much about van Relenghes. He was staying at an inn near the Cathedral grounds, he was known to be foreign, and could have an evil, short temper - a description that covered half the men within the city’s walls.

  On the other hand, Godfrey had picked up quite a bit about the man who had occasioned van Relenghes’s outburst of swearing. He was Thomas of Throwleigh, brother to the squire who had so recently died. A merchant, Thomas had fallen on hard times of late - in part due to his habit of gambling at the bearpit. His fortunes had not prospered, and now he was in sore straits. There was no need for Godfrey to ask anyone about the squire himself. Godfrey was a fighting man - he knew of Squire Roger.

  The ride to Throwleigh had not given Godfrey any more information about his employer. The tall Fleming rode in silence, grunting when a question was directed to him, like a man deep in his own thoughts. By the time they reached the moors, van Relenghes was in a foul humour. It was lucky, Godfrey thought, that he had seen the lad before he could fire his sling at the two of them, for there was no telling how his employer would have reacted.

  The boy had been sitting in a tree near the river, idly spinning his sling. As soon as he caught sight of the two men, his eyes had narrowed, he had lowered himself on his branch, and the sling had begun to whirl faster and faster. It was common enough for brats to shoot at passing horses, trying to unseat their riders, or better, to see how well they could ride at speed, but fortunately Godfrey had spotted him, on the lookout as he was for ambush from outlaws. The master of arms had reached behind him and pulled his crossbow free from its retaining strap, not bothering to cock it, but letting it point casually at the tree. The boy had grinned, ducking his head, his sling slowing, sitting back to wait for the next, less observant, traveller.

  Godfrey could smile now, knowing that he had averted at least one attack, if only that of a child, and that they were here, safe at Throwleigh Manor.

  They waited at the entrance to the stable block. A groom was not long in arriving.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ van Relenghes asked the groom, a rheumy old man of almost fifty, who moved slowly, and with apparent misery.

  ‘My master is dead, sir. He died three days ago, and we only buried him this morning.’

  ‘You show him the proper respect, then. But this is terrible news. Surely you don’t mean that the good Squire Roger, famous throughout Christendom for his courage and his exploits on the battlefield… You don’t mean he has died?’

  Godfrey nonchalantly dismounted and leaned against the gatepost, listening with the greatest interest as his client lied.

  ‘Oh, sir! Did you know him?’ the groom exclaimed.

  ‘I fought with him in France under good King Edward, the King’s father. He was my friend.’

  ‘Then, sir, Squire Roger’s wife will be most happy to see you.’

  So saying, the ageing groom shouted for the steward, and in a few moments Daniel arrived. He bowed deeply, and led van Relenghes and his guard into the hall.

  Godfrey was not certain what lay behind this sudden conversion from a man who had apparently loathed the squire, but he intended to find out.

  * * *

  Just inside the stables, Nicholas, Thomas of Exeter’s steward, sat stitching at a new leather sheath for his knife. He had been safe enough so far. Even Daniel hadn’t recognised him with his beard, and he’d managed to avoid seeing Anney. Now he watched the two men as they crossed the courtyard to the hall, and as Godfrey walked inside behind the Fleming, Nick narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

  The steward turned to the man at his side, another member of Thomas’s retinue. ‘Those two - did you see the one at the rear, the shorter one?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes - what about him?’

  Nicholas wasn’t sure. The light was pretty bad here in the yard, and he hadn’t been able to study the man in detail. ‘He just reminded me of someone,’ he said, and went back to his work, but every so often he glanced at the hall as if troubled.

  It was a week later that the boy Alan scurried through the undergrowth. He only halted when he could hear voices close at hand, his every sense strained to breaking point while he scrutinised the land ahead, panting and wiping the sweat from his eyes.

  He was at the edge of the roadway, concealed by the bracken at the verge, and before him the land dropped away to the woods at the side of the stream. Four riders were conversing, or rather two were talking while their servants sat on their horses on either side.

  Alan knew who they were. The two chatting were the Fleming and the brother of the dead squire. The Fleming and his servant rode over this way often enough; there was nothing new in their being here, and Alan paid them little attention. Far off in the distance he could spy a wagon, but that meant nothing to him. He needed to know who was nearer to hand.

  His blood was up, and in his hand he gripped a small switch, which was now, in the eleven-year-old’s mind, a keen sword.

  Looking eastwards, back towards the manor, he studied the road carefully. There was no sign of the enemy there, and he peered westwards thoughtfully. They might have taken the longer route and tried to cut him off. He meditatively chewed a thumbnail while reviewing his options, then squirmed away, back up the hill until he was far enough distant from the riders for them not to be able to hear him.

  His heart was pounding with excitement. Their games tended to be unpredictable. Sometimes Jordan and Herbert would spring out at him from their hiding-places, and there was little he could do to defend himself. If he was pretending to be Scottish, and was bored, he might surrender in the most cowardly fashion, but on other occasions, when he was pretending to be an outlaw, he would snarl and rage, fighting to the last. He always enjoyed those encounters. Today he was a bear, hunted by the others.

&n
bsp; Hearing a new voice, he peeped through the furze back towards the road. It was a woman. Intrigued, he crawled down the slope a short way. From his new vantage he could see her: it was only Petronilla, the maid from the manor, talking to the riders, laughing and joking. There were only two men now, he saw; Thomas and his man had left. Alan shrugged and turned to continue on his way. Once he felt adequately concealed by the bushes of furze and clumps of heather, he ran back up the hill. Here, he knew, was a sheep track that led up to the immense pool and mire of Raybarrow. If he were to take that route, he would be safe from ambush…

  Suddenly a hand gripped his shoulder fiercely. He was yanked backwards, and a voice hissed in his ear: ‘What are you doing up here, boy? Spying?’

  Alan cried out with quick fear and surprise, for the sound of that particular voice warned him of punishment to come. He wriggled ineffectually, and gradually stilled, but even as he allowed his shoulders to sag, he gave a sudden, convulsive leap to the side. His assailant cursed, but his grip was broken, and he couldn’t reach round to capture the lad again. Alan made off at full pelt, up the hill away from the road, before dropping in among the bracken and hiding, panting with fear.

  In mid-sentence, Petronilla stopped and stared.

  Van Relenghes followed the line of her gaze. From here at the side of the rushing water, the hill rose to the moors. The stream had cut a steep-sided valley to the right. Near this the bemused van Relenghes saw Stephen of York slashing and stabbing with a stick at the bushes and heather all about him.

  With a muttered curse, Petronilla gathered up her skirts and ran to him. The Fleming was tempted to follow. ‘Do you think she might need our help?’ he asked his bodyguard.

  Godfrey shook his head. ‘I reckon she knows what she’s doing. If she wants help, she’ll call.’

  ‘But she might get lost. It wouldn’t make me look very good in her mistress’s eyes if I left her here and she got hurt,’ said van Relenghes doubtfully.

  His concern made Godfrey smile to himself. ‘How would her mistress look upon you chasing after a young maidservant, sir?’

  ‘You are quite right, old fellow! While I have designs on the beautiful widow, I shouldn’t allow myself to appear too interested in her maid, should I?’ And van Relenghes laughed.

  Further up the slope, Herbert and Jordan had witnessed Alan’s capture and escape. They stared at each other wide-eyed. Both recognised the priest, and both feared for their own safety. Down the hill they could see him slashing at the bracken where Alan had dropped into hiding. Without speaking, both crawled away, back up the hill towards the mire at the top.

  Thinking that Herbert was right behind him, Jordan scrabbled as fast as he could, anxious lest he should be grabbed and given a thrashing. There were few men who could instill such terror in him, but the priest was one such. As soon as he felt it was safe enough, he scrambled to his feet. There was no sign of Stephen now. He had disappeared, to Jordan’s relief.

  But then he realised that Herbert was no longer with him. Jordan felt chilled with fear. He knew what Brother Stephen was like. Sighing to himself, he turned, and slowly, with infinite care, he made his way back.

  The thick bracken muted the chattering of the stream, and deadened all sounds, for which Jordan was very grateful. Soon he came upon a foot protruding from the heather in front of him, and he grinned and touched it.

  Alan jerked round fearfully, breathing a gasp of relief when he saw who it was. He and Jordan remained in a good humour for some time. It was only later, when they heard Stephen roar, giving a bellow like that of an enraged bear, that their mood changed.

  And a few moments afterwards, they heard Herbert’s shrill scream.

  Chapter Six

  When the messenger arrived, Sir Baldwin and Simon were in Baldwin’s hall, pulling off their boots after a hot and dusty day’s hunting intended to take the knight’s mind off his coming nuptials. Baldwin was bellowing for Edgar to get drinks for them when the cattleman’s son Wat came in nervously, saying that Edgar had gone to Crediton to order more food.

  ‘Very well, then,’ Baldwin muttered irritably. ‘Fetch us wine, and be quick! We have had nothing to drink since before lunch.’

  The lad rushed off, his cheap boots slapping on the flagged passage, and Simon raised an eyebrow to his friend. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to let him serve us? You know what he’s like with drinks - if Edgar hears you let Wat loose in his buttery, he’ll leave your service!’

  Baldwin threw his overtunic on the ground and sat in his chair. ‘I don’t know what to do with the boy,’ he said wearily. ‘He is perfectly well-behaved when he’s sober, but if there’s a broached barrel of ale in the same room as him, he will empty it and fill himself. I dare not leave him alone with drink until he learns to moderate his thirst.’

  The two men were seated when the messenger was brought in. Baldwin recognised him as one of the servants from Throwleigh Manor, although it was not the same man who had brought the news of Squire Roger’s death, and the knight stood abruptly.

  The messenger’s legs looked as though they could hardly support him, he had ridden so far, so quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Baldwin,’ he gasped, ‘but I have been sent at utmost speed to ask you and the bailiff if you can help a poor widow in sore distress.’

  ‘Is it your mistress who asks this?’ asked Simon sharply. ‘Has she suffered some new calamity?’

  Even as his friend posed the question, Baldwin felt as if a steel fist was clenching around his belly and squeezing.

  ‘Bailiff, Sir Baldwin… my master, the mistress’s son Herbert, is dead.’

  It took little time to prepare for their departure the next day. It was appalling to hear of the Lady of Throwleigh’s terrible misfortune, losing her only son so short a time after the death of her husband, and Simon’s horror lent haste to his preparations.

  The bailiff was surprised at how his friend had taken the news of the lad’s death. From the moment the messenger had delivered his solemn request, the knight had sat quietly, deep in thought. He had left the table shortly after the meal the night before and gone out for a long walk, refusing any company, and this morning he had said little to anyone before they mounted their horses. Now he pressed Simon to greater speeds whenever the other man slowed.

  When they came to Hittisleigh, Simon spurred on to ride at his side. ‘Baldwin, what is it?’

  The knight did not turn his gaze from the horizon ahead. ‘It is my fault that the boy has died, Simon.’

  His friend blinked in surprise. ‘How can it be your fault? You weren’t there.’

  ‘I was too tied up in my own prospects, in my own happiness, to recognise the misery on that poor child’s face.’

  ‘Rubbish! I was there too, and I saw only grief for his father; a very proper sadness.’

  ‘I saw more, Simon. I saw an uncle who wanted to inherit his nephew’s lands and a mother who apparently had no love for her son. Two dangers to the child, and I ignored them both, being too bound up with my own delight.’

  ‘Even if you’re right and one of them truly did hold an evil design on young Herbert, there was nothing you could have done.’

  ‘At the very least I could have spoken to them and made my suspicions plain so that they would never have dared attack him. He was only a child, Simon. Just think of it, a little lad of only five years, snuffed out like a candle. How could someone do that?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘You know as well as I do that children die every day. They get lockjaw, they catch chills, they contract diarrhoea…’ His voice trembled as he recalled the death of his own infant son, Peterkin, from a fever two years ago.

  ‘Forgive me, old friend. I do not wish to cause you pain,’ Baldwin said gently, his face softening in compassion for Simon and Margaret’s loss. ‘However, those are natural deaths. They are different from deliberately ending a child’s life for reasons of personal greed, or…’ Baldwin recalled the expression on Stephen’s face at t
he graveside, ‘… or some darker motive.’

  ‘If you’d let me finish, I was also going to mention the girls who are allowed to die because their parents can’t afford to feed them.’

  ‘That is wrong, but one can comprehend the motives which might lead a parent to allow a girl to die,’ Baldwin said, with a troubled expression.

  Simon threw him a quick look. ‘Really? I could never leave my own little Edith out to die of cold on a winter’s night; nor can I understand how any other parent could.’

  ‘Simon, I am sorry if I have upset you again. All I was trying to say was, it seems understandable to me that a man who already suffers from the most terrible hardship because of his poverty, one who has little food because the harvest has been poor, who has other mouths to feed, who has no money because his lord takes all he can earn, who has too many daughters already and cannot even think of ever having enough money to dower them all - well, in that position I can understand someone allowing a baby to die. In that example it is not someone killing for cruelty or personal benefit, it is a patriarch taking action for the better safety and security of the other members of his family. I find that easier to swallow than the murder of a young lad simply to satisfy a man’s avarice.’