Squire Throwleigh's Heir

by Michael Jecks

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Petronilla was up before daylight to do her morning chores. In the hall she found several other servants lying on benches above the rushes and garbage where the rats scurried, and she clicked her tongue irritably at the thought that she should be awake while they snored on. Making no effort to be quiet, she hauled a fresh pair of logs to the fire and dropped them near the still-warm ashes, setting small twigs and tinder above the hottest part and blowing on them until they caught, then setting more logs over the small flames. Soon the dry wood was glowing and spitting, and by then most of the other folk in the room were astir.

  Edgar, as Baldwin’s man, was first to his feet as usual; as soon as he had thrown his cloak from his shoulders he went out into the cold to shove his head under the water in the trough. Petronilla had no idea why he should do this - she thought it might be some kind of penance - but she did notice that he always returned looking a lot fresher.

  Next to rise was Hugh, but in his case it was because he had been kicked awake by Edgar on his way past. Hugh woke slowly, his head coming up, eyes bleared, grumpily swinging his legs down from the bench upon which he lay, to survey the world through a yawn.

  Normally, once Hugh was conscious, he would shake Wat into life, but today Hugh missed his morning routine, for Wat was absent from his patch on the floor next to Hugh’s bench. While Petronilla hauled the hangings from the windows and unbarred the shutters to pull them back, letting in fresh air and a little light, she saw Hugh shuffle out to the buttery in search of the boy, and was rewarded a few moments later by the sight of him dragging Wat out to the yard to rinse him off. He had been sick during the night.

  Edgar met them, shaking his head slowly. ‘God’s blood, Wat, you have to keep from trying to finish all the barrels at once. There will always be more to drink the next day. Why get yourself in this state each morning?’

  The thirteen-year-old grinned shamefacedly, a faint tinge of green lightening his features. ‘I didn’t realise how strong it was.’

  ‘Now you know,’ said Hugh not unkindly, ‘you can clear up the mess out there.’ He passed the boy a bucket and old cloth he had found lying in the yard.

  ‘He’s not a bad fellow,’ Edgar mused.

  ‘No, he’s going to be a fine lad. Likes his drink - but who doesn’t?’

  Edgar forbore to mention his own master’s ambivalence to alcohol. He ran his fingers through his hair, caught a short yawn, and stretched himself like a cat. ‘Time to go.’

  Hugh nodded, but before Edgar walked back indoors, he stood a few minutes and watched as the sun lit the eastern sky. It was impressive, with deep purples and golds lighting the country all about them. Hugh knew that Edgar never failed to enjoy this hour of the day; the knight’s servant was geared to early mornings. For Hugh himself, there was infinitely more pleasure in sleeping late and enjoying the night-time.

  Still, as he turned and made his way back to the hall, he had to admit to himself that the morning was almost perfect. The birds chattered and sang in the trees, the rooks chuckling and calling as they preened and readied themselves for the day’s excitement. A dog came out from the kennels, sniffed at a wall and cocked its leg before sauntering off to the kitchen, outside which it sat hopefully, scratching and throwing longing looks at the closed door every now and again.

  Another dog barked, and there was the sound of horses stamping in their stalls in the stables. Hearing a door slam, Hugh sighed. The place was alive now, and he should get on with helping the other servants. The guests and household would be heading for the vill soon, to witness the Dirige and the burial of the boy.

  ‘A fine morning, sir,’ came a voice at his side, and Hugh found that Godfrey had joined him.

  ‘Pleasant enough,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Your master still abed?’

  ‘If he could, I think he’d remain there all day. Had too much to drink last night.’

  Hugh nodded. The Fleming’s face had become very flushed as he drank the strong red wine last night, and when it was time for him to retire, he had required his guard’s help to negotiate the doorway. ‘You worked for him long?’

  Godfrey stretched his arms high over his head, then shook his head. He planted his feet a shoulder’s width apart and began to sway first one way then the other, twisting his torso to and fro. ‘He found me in town. Oh, good morning, Bailiff.’

  ‘Don’t stop on my account,’ said Simon.

  ‘Nay, Bailiff. I have work to be getting on with.’

  ‘Protecting your master? But why does he need you at his side all the time? Isn’t he safe enough in the hall?’

  Godfrey’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘You haven’t guessed, then? Ah, and I thought the Bailiff of Lydford was clever!’ Chuckling, he made his way back to the door.

  Hugh scowled after him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean, eh?’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Simon pensively. He was about to follow the man inside when a wholly ridiculous idea struck him, and he paused. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘That can’t be right. No.’ And still looking thoughtful, he went indoors.

  * * *

  Baldwin was sure he had never experienced a more doleful service than this. He stood with his wife and Simon and Margaret at the graveside, and watched the little shape being slowly lowered. Herbert’s grave was right next to his father’s, which made this morning’s service even more poignant. Roger’s grave was large, especially now it was filled, for the mound of soil at the top made it look even bigger, while the child’s was tiny by comparison. One could almost imagine that Squire Roger was already in Heaven, but his son’s dismal resting-place made Baldwin think of every story he had ever heard about Hell.

  The little form reached the bottom. There was no coffin. He lay, a small figure wrapped in a linen winding sheet, and Baldwin saw his mother wince as the first shovelfuls were tossed on top of him, one striking the boy full in the face. Sobbing, she turned from the scene and stumbled away.

  Daniel again was at one side of her, while Anney was at the other. Baldwin watched them walk the short distance to the churchyard gate, and thence to the road. When he turned, the priest was already slipping back inside his church. The knight was about to go after him when he decided to wait. It was too soon after the burial; surely it would be more considerate to leave the man with his thoughts for a while. He would be praying for the boy still.

  ‘Oi! Get out of here, you little sod!’

  Baldwin snapped around to see the furious Thomas hurling a stone at a lad a little taller than Wat. Fair-haired, and with that golden complexion so prevalent among the Saxons, Baldwin instantly registered his striking similarity to the servant, Anney. This must be Alan, her boy.

  The missile struck the lad’s chest with an audible thud, and Baldwin tutted to himself. He saw Thomas pick up another large stone, and called out, ‘Hold on, Thomas. The lad’s not here to make mischief, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘You don’t know him,’ Thomas shouted, taking aim.

  ‘I doubt whether you do, either,’ said Baldwin unruffled, as he took hold of Thomas’s arm and held it there. ‘You, boy. What are you doing here? Should I release my friend’s arm and let him assault you?’

  ‘I only wanted to see Herbert being buried, sir. I didn’t want to upset anyone.’

  ‘Come here.’

  Alan was even more like his mother close to. His countenance was that of a child, but one who has aged prematurely: his face was too thin for his age, his eyes too large for his face. Baldwin had seen that look of pinched hunger before, but not commonly here in Devon where even during the abject misery of the famine people generally had been able to produce enough to live.

  ‘You are Anney’s boy?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the boy said. Although he and Jordan had decided to tell all to this knight, Alan had expected Jordan to be with him. Now, alone with Baldwin, Alan was nervous of him. Baldwin held such high authority; he was a Keeper, and a man who could afford the best linen for his tableclo
th and the finest ‘paindemaigne’ - bread made from purest white flour - to go on it, instead of the heavy, rye-filled loaves that Alan and the villagers had to eat. Alan decided to hold his tongue until he could speak to Baldwin with Jordan to back up his tale.

  ‘Herbert was your friend, wasn’t he?’ Baldwin confirmed, and when Alan nodded, he glanced towards the gravedigger, who was assiduously filling the small hole. ‘It is a great shame that he should have died so young.’

  Alan felt his eyes brimming, and rubbed them on his sleeve, sniffing loudly. ‘It’s not fair,’ he declared.

  ‘This is ridiculous, talking to a villein’s son! What good will it do, eh? A waste of time,’ Thomas spat, hurling his stone aside and stamping off to join the congregation at the gate.

  Baldwin ignored him and walked with the boy to the wattle fence at the edge of the yard, leaning on it and staring out over the trees to the massive hill beyond. ‘What isn’t fair, Alan?’

  ‘Him being killed like that. Herbert was a good friend to me and Jordan.’

  ‘Jordan?’

  ‘He’s Edmund’s son.’

  ‘Oh, Edmund’s boy,’ said Baldwin thoughtfully. ‘Is he as old as you?’

  ‘No, he’s quite a lot younger,’ said Alan with the scathing contempt of a child for an adult making an obvious mistake. ‘He’s only nine: I’m nearly eleven.’

  ‘I see,’ said Baldwin, restraining a smile. ‘And he was playing with you and Herbert when Herbert was killed?’

  ‘We were all up on the hill playing hunters.’

  Baldwin smiled. ‘I used to play it myself when I was young.’

  Alan looked up at him doubtfully, wondering whether the tall, grave man was making a joke.

  ‘We used to play lots of games when I was a boy, before I was sent to be trained in warfare. Hunting was only one. I enjoyed all the shooting games -I used to be a good shot with a bow’

  ‘I haven’t got a bow,’ Alan said regretfully. ‘It broke.’

  ‘A sling is almost as useful.’

  ‘Oh, I’m pretty good with mine,’ Alan said complacently. ‘But…’ He was about to say more when Stephen of York came out of the church.

  After the ceremony the priest had gone inside to settle the account with the paid mourners and to exchange his garments for travelling robes ready for the walk back to the manor. Now he stood in the yard, blinking in the bright sunlight. As soon as his eye lit upon the boy talking to Baldwin, the knight saw his expression change from one of melancholy to wrath.

  Alan saw him too. With a noise that Baldwin could only describe as a bleat, Alan leaped the fence with a single bound and hared away. The knight watched the lad rush off until he was out of sight among some trees, a small frown wrinkling his brow.

  ‘Has that young scoundrel been troubling you?’ Stephen demanded.

  Baldwin turned and gave him a smile. ‘No, I was merely passing the time of day with him. He is very upset at his friend’s death.’

  ‘Him?’ Stephen said scornfully. ‘He’s the best actor in the whole parish. Don’t believe a word he says.’

  Baldwin nodded, keeping the smile fixed to his face, but he was conscious of one thing: Alan had been terrified by the sight of the priest. As Stephen strode off to rejoin the rest of the congregation, Baldwin stared after him musingly.

  Thomas was seething with fury as the procession began the journey back to the hall. It was plain stupid of Sir Baldwin to talk to that Alan! He was bound to lie, just like his father. The man had been a liar, a lecherous bigamist, and there was little doubt that the boy would follow in his father’s footsteps. And he might tell Baldwin where Thomas had been on the day Herbert died. Thomas could live without that complication and that was why he now boiled with impotent anger.

  ‘Are you recovered?’ The soft, insinuating voice broke in upon his thoughts, and he almost jumped.

  Van Relenghes gave a gentle laugh. ‘I know I am suffering -I drank far more than usual last night. I gather your men drank a lot as well. Especially after they had spoken to the bailiff and his friend the knight.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh,’ the Fleming chuckled. ‘They forgot to mention it, did they? Well, never mind. I am sure they didn’t tell the bailiff anything he didn’t already know.’

  ‘You bastard!’ Thomas blustered. He was feeling bitter: the little scene with the boy just now had reinforced his feelings of being ignored and treated like some kind of untrustworthy felon. He wanted to lash out and hurt someone, but there was no one suitable, apart from this tall, sarcastic Fleming. ‘You foreign buggers are all the same.’

  ‘Oh - in what way?’

  ‘You can’t lose gracefully, can you? You wanted my brother’s land, and now I won’t let you have it you’ll enjoy anything that discomforts me.’

  ‘I only enjoy scenes which I have myself created.’

  His calm words took a moment to sink in, but when he realised what the man had said, Thomas gasped and stopped dead in the road. ‘You told her that I’d been negotiating with you? Is that why she made that scene in the church?’

  Van Relenghes chuckled softly, then leaned forward until his face was only inches from Thomas’s. “Yes, fool! If you had a brain to think with, you’d have realised that immediately. And now I have ruined your chances of settling down here, because she will make your life miserable in any way she can! That will be most pleasant for me to reflect upon when I return to my own hall.‘

  ‘You turd! You think you’ll make it home? Why, I’ll—’

  Van Relenghes gave a massive yawn. ‘Godfrey, I think Thomas is about to threaten me. Do prepare yourself to look fearful, won’t you?’

  He walked on, his guard laughing, and Thomas was left alone, clenching and unclenching his fists in the road.

  ‘You whoreson bastard! I’ll see to it you regret that! I’ll make you bloody eat your words!’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Baldwin and Simon were walking with their wives a few yards in front of this hushed dispute, and thus saw nothing of Thomas’s rage or the Fleming’s delight.

  Simon could see that his friend was frustrated, but could think of no way to relieve his mood. Baldwin, he knew, would worry at the problem until a solution presented itself to him, and only then would he be able to relax.

  ‘Did you learn anything from that boy?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing - no. If I had been able to speak to him a little longer, I might have done, and yet perhaps I did find out something,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The lad is plainly terrified of the priest.’

  ‘Well, of course he is. Many people are,’ said Margaret. ‘The parish priest is the only man of any learning that a villein will ever meet. He’s the one who officiates at every critical ceremony in their lives.’

  ‘Especially in a small place like this,’ said Jeanne. ‘Here Stephen is the only man who can read: he’s the one who will tell them whether it is a fasting day or a meat one, which day of the week it is, and so on.’

  Baldwin smiled at her. ‘I know the people here are peasants, but even my own villeins know what the day is,’ he said in a tone of mild reproof. It was all too common for those in a higher station of life to assume that serfs were little more intelligent than the oxen which they used to pull their wagons.

  Jeanne shook her head, amused by his presumption. ‘I do not speak from idle foolishness, Baldwin. You forget that I have lived as Lady of a manor similar to this one. I know these people. They have no time for speculation, no time to play or enjoy leisure. Their lives are hard, geared to the weather and to the hours of daylight rather than some arbitrary notion such as a day’s name. It’s different for you and your peasants, living up at Cadbury, where the weather is warmer, and where the rain runs away rather than sinking into the ground to form mires, where trees grow straight and tall rather than bent and warped.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I do not know whether young Alan was scared of the figure of authority, or of Brother Stephen the
man.’

  Simon agreed. ‘In that case we need to find out more about this mysterious cleric, don’t we?’

  Nicholas was in the courtyard when the procession returned from the church. He had ordered the other men to remain in the stable out of the widow’s sight, from respect for her feelings; he himself stood quietly near a rain-butt. He had been sharpening his knife, but he set his whetstone and dagger aside when the mourning party slowly made their way to the hall.

  When the mistress was out of the way, he picked up his blade once more and tested it with the ball of his thumb. Still blunt - it was taking an age to put an edge on this one. He was about to bend to his task again when he became aware of his master hurrying towards him.

  ‘Nicholas? Come here. Listen to me, I have a job for you.’