Squire Throwleigh's Heir

by Michael Jecks

  While he considered this, Simon touched his shoulder and pointed silently. Baldwin followed the bailiff’s finger. The path down to the river took an easy line along the contours of the hill, dropping at a very shallow rate, but gradually going to the water itself, some forty yards or so below. At the bottom was a plateau of flat ground, with the broad curve of the stream sweeping around it. Standing in the middle of the grassy plain Baldwin saw the man who had caught his friend’s attention.

  At the base of the cliff was Stephen of York, but this was a very different man from the urbane cleric. He was kicking at ferns as if in a rage, pulling apart clumps of heather, peering beneath bushes of gorse. Now that the knight was aware of him, he could hear the priest’s voice over the pleasant murmur of the water, and his eye went to the sets of prints. If one pair belonged to the priest, Baldwin was comfortably convinced that two others did as well. But why should the priest have returned from the water half-shod?

  Stephen’s voice was a continuous, low curse. It was as if he was damning the whole land, uttering impassioned oaths at every bush and blade of grass. At last he kicked at a low shrub, and missing it, overbalanced and fell hard on his rump, where he sat weeping.

  ‘Should we go and see if we can help?’ Simon asked.

  Baldwin was silent for a moment, lost in thought. It was tempting to go and question the priest - they would have to at some stage - but something held him back. Stephen was a priest, and deserved cautious treatment. If he was guilty of anything, Baldwin and Simon had no jurisdiction over him, for Stephen, like any ecclesiastic, was not answerable to the secular authorities. He was responsible only to Canon Law.

  If Stephen had anything to do with Herbert’s death, questioning him now might only warn him of the need for an alibi. No, Baldwin reasoned, it would be better to see what they could find on the track, and then, if there were any solid facts to present to Stephen, they could gauge his reaction unwarned.

  ‘God knows what he’s up to there, but I want to see where this track goes,’ he said, and ducking low, they made their way back over the brow of the hill before the wailing priest could see them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The two men had finally gone. Jordan squirmed along until he reached the lip of the cliff, from where he could look down on the plateau. Stephen had rolled over in the foetal position now, hands covering his face while he gave great shuddering sobs.

  Feeling a tug at his heel, Jordan carefully pushed himself away and returned to Alan.

  ‘Is he still searching for it?’ Alan asked urgently.

  ‘No, he’s just blubbering,’ Jordan said with contempt.

  ‘That’s good. We’d better get back then. The monk won’t know we’ve got it, and we can keep it hidden until we want to use it.’

  ‘But how can we use it?’

  ‘We’ll see. Maybe we won’t need to. But if we do, and we show it, and say where we got it from, they’ll realise what he did.’

  Jordan glanced back doubtfully as Alan began to ascend the shallow incline. Stephen was a priest, a man who was supposed to be beyond any misbehaviour. He was appointed by God, supposed to be perfect and good. And yet Alan was right - they had seen through his front. Jordan had been taught that a man like Stephen was above any evil act, but that must have been wrong.

  The man should have been incapable of sin, but Jordan and Alan had witnessed it.

  Simon was dismayed when he looked up and saw how the clouds had gathered. ‘Baldwin, we have to get back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s going to rain.’

  ‘Simon, if you think I’m going to run back to the manor because of a slight drizzle, you are mistaken. Those clouds hardly look as if they could fill a small bucket.’

  ‘You remain, then. I am going to get back to the house.’

  Baldwin gave him a blank stare. ‘But why?’

  ‘You don’t know the moors like I do. We’re here with no cloaks or jacks. When that rain hits us, we’ll be soaked in moments.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’

  Now Baldwin regretted his rashness. ‘I am sorry, Simon. I thought you were simply picking on a pretext to go back. I had no idea how this rain could get through to the skin.’

  Simon grunted, mopping his forehead with the hem of his tunic, then wringing it out again. They had made for home as soon as the downpour had set in in earnest, but by then, as the bailiff knew, it was too late. This Dartmoor rain had a curiously pervasive quality: it appeared only a thin mizzle yet it swiftly permeated all their clothing. The drops were flying almost horizontally. The only compensation for the bailiff was the expression of horrified disgust on Sir Baldwin’s face as he felt the drips slithering down his skin.

  The wind blew from behind them, but it whirled and howled in their ears, and Simon had to speak loudly for Baldwin to hear him. ‘If we keep to the riverbank, we’ll soon make it down to the road, and then all we have to do is turn right to follow it back to the manor.’

  The knight nodded, and the two set off again, slithering in the black, peaty mud. Baldwin looked down with dismay. The track was a quagmire now, and every step he took thrust his ankle under the surface. His feet were wallowing in the stuff. He looked up, narrowing his eyes against the wind, and it was here that he fell.

  He was some feet behind his friend; he placed his boot on what looked like a solid enough rock, but when he put his weight on it, it slid away. Suddenly he was off-balance and toppling backwards; he put out both hands, but his right thumb caught awkwardly on another stone, and the nail was ripped off.

  At first he didn’t notice. He sat, his backside throbbing where it had connected with another lump of rock, staring bleakly ahead, swearing quietly but with feeling. Then he stood up, furious with himself for his clumsiness, trying to brush off the worst of the mud and assorted plants, and generally besmearing the whole of his tunic. Glancing at the stone on which he had landed he was about to kick at it when he stopped dead.

  The rock stood out in the peaty mud all about, but near where he had fallen there was a clear smudge next to the track, roughly circular in shape. It appeared to connect Simon and Baldwin’s path to another trail, a narrower one this time, that curled away up the hill. Baldwin gave it little attention, thinking it was merely a sheep-path. However, he noticed a cord sticking up from the mud, and he prodded at it with a foot. He suddenly realised it was a piece of leather, and knelt down to pull it free. Then, frowning, he studied the ground round about at closer quarters.

  Simon returned, puffing and blowing up the hill on realising his friend had disappeared.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s time we got back to a cup of wine and a warm fire? What are you up to now?’ he demanded irascibly. But then a look of concern came to his face. Baldwin followed the direction of his eyes and swore when he saw the blood dripping from his thumbnail.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Simon, this is where the boy was killed!’

  The bailiff stared down, then back at his friend. ‘What on earth makes you say that?’

  ‘Look,’ said Baldwin, pointing carefully at the smeared patch of mud. ‘I think this is where the boy must have been killed. He crawled up here, for some reason, but someone met him and brought a stone down on his head. Perhaps the stone I just fell over was the very one that killed him.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit over-imaginative?’ Simon asked disbelievingly. ‘There’s nothing to show he ever came near here.’

  ‘We followed the track all the way from the road, so it is fair to reason that he might have come this way,’ Baldwin said. ‘But this is what makes me believe he was here. See this? He held out what he had found: two narrow thongs tied to a stout patch of leather.

  ‘A sling?’ Simon said doubtfully.

  ‘A typical boy’s toy,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘I’d be prepared to gamble that he had it in his hand and let it fall when he was struck.’

  ‘Farfetched!’ Simon scoffed.

 
; ‘Perhaps. But let’s consider it as a possibility.’

  ‘You say he crawled here. Why should he do that?’

  ‘Perhaps he was playing up here, pretending to be a hunter or a man-at-arms.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Simon asked sarcastically. ‘And on what do you base that? It looks like a sheep-track to me.’

  ‘Oh, Simon! Look at the way it curves round - when have you ever seen a sheep wander like that? Sheep go to great efforts to follow the contours of the hills they traverse, while this is descending steadily, down from that ledge…’

  ‘You want to follow it, don’t you?’ Simon sighed. He glanced up at the sky. The rain had slowed now to a gentle drizzle, and the bailiff reminded himself that he was unlikely to get any wetter. He gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Oh, Christ’s bones!

  Very well! Come on, then.‘

  * * *

  ‘Shove the bastard in the storeroom!’ Thomas said as he drew his mount to a halt in the court. He watched his grooms lead the dejected figure of Edmund away before he dropped from his horse, feeling that he had at least shown he could make decisions, which was more than that damned fool from Furnshill.

  He left his horse standing and walked towards the stables. Nicholas stood in the dark a short way from the door.

  ‘Well?’ Thomas demanded.

  ‘The Fleming went inside a while back, sir. I’ve not seen him since.’ Nicholas forbore to mention his attempt at finding solace. Petronilla was unlikely to complain - she was only a servant. Not that his master would mind overmuch. The wench had better make up her mind to be more friendly in future. After all, Nicholas was his master’s trusted steward and, now Thomas owned the Throwleigh demesne, if Petronilla wanted to keep her job she would have to look after Nicholas too.

  The reflection made him grin, and he promised himself that he would renew his acquaintance with the maid as soon as he could.

  Thomas kicked idly at a stone, sending it skipping over the dirt of the yard. ‘What will he want now?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘That sodding Fleming. He’s after something, but whatV Thomas was no fool, no matter how indiscreet he might be in a tavern. He knew men, and at this moment he was perturbed by James van Relenghes. ’He’s banging on about purchasing a plot of land from me, but I don’t believe he’s really that bothered. If I had to guess, I’d say he was more interested in Lady Katharine than in any of my territory.‘

  ‘Maybe he wants a plot to settle on.’

  ‘It’s stupid - as if I’d sell some of the estate! I need every penny it brings. Even if there weren’t an entail, I wouldn’t sell to some foreigner with smarmy manners.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s after your sister-in-law. She’s not bad-looking.’

  ‘Be sensible, fool! The bitch isn’t out of her widow’s weeds, for God’s sake.’

  Nicholas said nothing, but gave his master a meaningful look.

  ‘You think…’ Thomas thrust his hands into his belt and stared thoughtfully out into the yard. His servant was better acquainted with the ways of women. Hadn’t he been married twice himself? ‘You really think he might be considering an attempt on her?’

  ‘Look at the way he is with her: I’ve only seen them together out here in the yard, but he seems to be all over her like a cheap tunic. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d say he was showing all the classic signs of trying to get inside her drawers. He hangs on her every word, praises her work, defends her husband’s memory…’

  ‘Would a man after her do that?’ Thomas asked doubtfully.

  ‘Sir, if you want a woman to trust you, first you have to show you approve of her and her choices. Since she married your brother for love, only a complete idiot would suggest to her that the squire was a cretin with more brain between his legs than over his neck.’

  ‘Hmm. And you think this foreigner’s driven by what’s between his legs? I can’t see why. She doesn’t possess much -her dower won’t be a lot.’

  ‘I doubt whether that’s his aim. More likely he just fancies a tumble with her.’

  Thomas nodded, and seeing the Fleming at the hall’s door, he sent Nicholas away. Now he thought about it, van Relenghes’s behaviour was easily explained away by this simple inference, and Thomas felt oddly put out, as though he had been slighted. There was a principle at stake here, and Thomas was Lady Katharine’s legal guardian now that he was master of the lands. If this Low Country adventurer wanted to roll in the grass with her, he could cause plenty of embarrassment for Thomas.

  Making a snap decision, Thomas crossed the yard.

  James van Relenghes smiled and nodded his head with mild courtesy as Thomas approached, but Thomas barely acknowledged him, stating immediately: ‘Sir, I am afraid I must decline your offer to buy the land north of here.’

  ‘But I had hoped…’

  ‘I know what you’d hoped. It has to do with my sister-in-law, and I tell you now, sir, it won’t do! Not in my house. You would demean her and my family? I say, not in my house!’

  Van Relenghes’s face froze. ‘Of what exactly am I being accused?’

  Thomas opened his mouth, but before he could speak, he was aware of Godfrey standing behind his master. There was no weapon in his hand, yet he radiated preparedness. His master had lowered his brows until they were an unbroken line of frowning malice above his eyes.

  ‘You don’t scare me, Sir James!’ Thomas lied. ‘I’m aware of the advances you are attempting with my brother’s widow, and it won’t do! I won’t sell you my land, so your business here is done.’

  Like many cowardly men, van Relenghes enjoyed seeing fear in others, and bullying those weaker than himself. To him Thomas looked like a frightened little mouse, and he had to restrain the urge to laugh. Little mouse; little man. He was pathetic. I am here at the invitation of your sister-in-law, not you. You could, naturally, try to throw me from the premises, but then I would be within my rights to defend myself,‘ he said, and tapped his sword hilt meaningfully.

  Thomas recoiled, almost tripping over the bottom step. ‘You draw that, and I’ll have you cut into pieces, you bastard!’

  ‘You threaten me again, Thomas, and I’ll challenge you.

  Would you like that?‘ van Relenghes said, slowly pacing after him as Thomas retreated. ’Well - would you? I was a soldier while you were still puking at your mother’s breast; I fought for your King in France with your brother while you cried at scratching your knee; I could draw now and take off your head before you saw my sword leave its scabbard. I shall say this only once, Thomas: I am here to pay my respects to your sister, not you. I shall stay here as long as that lady requires my presence, as a matter of honour and courtesy, and if you or anyone else tries to evict me, I will -I will - protect myself and her.‘

  He watched as the merchant scuttled past and darted into the hall. Godfrey hadn’t moved, and the Fleming walked past him, his face carefully blank, and into the hall after the manor’s new master.

  Only then did Godfrey shake his head, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Neatly done, Sir James. Now you’ve upset your host. What can that achieve?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Baldwin’s thumb did not hurt, it was completely dead to all sensation, but as he surveyed the land ahead, he meditatively sucked at it, certain that it would start to throb before long.

  They had gone all the way up to the top of the hill following this track, and now both were carefully studying the ground.

  ‘Well, Baldwin?’ Simon asked at last.

  ‘I have no idea,’ admitted the knight frankly. ‘It looks like three separate paths through the ferns, which have met here, at this larger patch.’

  The rain was now only a feeble reminder of the recent downpour, but it still trickled unmercifully down Baldwin’s face from his soaked hair. He gave the heavens a black look. ‘It’s ridiculous to remain here guessing. Let’s make our way back.’

  He motioned down to the stream, and Simon nodded.

  ‘And on the way,’ Baldwin
continued, waving his hand, ‘I’ll clean this up in the stream.’

  Their path to the water was slippery down the steep slope, but at least it wasn’t far. Soon they were at the bottom, and Baldwin saw that they had arrived back at the same plateau they had seen earlier.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Brother Stephen demanded, getting up from his seat on a rock.

  ‘Brother, I am glad to see you,’ Baldwin said disingenuously. ‘We were walking about here when the rain set in, and weren’t sure which way to go, and then I fell and did this.’

  The priest stared at him, and Baldwin was struck by his expression. The long, regular, feminine features were twisted, the brilliant eyes red and raw, while the cheeks were pale and scratched in places. He looked like a man who had peered into the pits of hell. However, as his gaze fell on Baldwin’s thumb, a semblance of his normal self took over as he helped Baldwin to the bank of the stream and made him dip the thumb deep in the cool water.