Squire Throwleigh’s Heir aktm-7

by Michael Jecks

  The trees thinned and suddenly fell away as they came closer to the vill. Now they could see its extent: a few houses on the left, a pound on the right where stray cattle and sheep could be collected, and ahead lay the church, an imposing building in heavy grey stone. Beyond, on the northern road, was a small cluster of additional houses, but Simon took the other track, heading round the southernmost point of the church grounds, and then trotting off towards the moors.

  ‘That’s Cosdon,’ the bailiff said, pointing to the massive hill to their right. ‘From the top you can see for miles. Wonderful views all around. I was up there once, and could swear I could see the sea both to the north-west and south-east. I wouldn’t be surprised if you could see your house from up there.’

  Baldwin said nothing. Simon adored the moors, but to his mind the hill felt threatening, like a monstrous creature that was even now preparing to spring down and crush them. On its rounded back a heavy-looking grey cloud hung as if tethered there. He gave a shudder. It was something to do with this place, he was sure. There was an aura of cruelty – or perhaps just a simple lack of compassion – here, in this landscape. He had a sense of the unforgiving nature of the moors. The land gave the impression that it was aware of the beings who strove and struggled in the small village at the hill’s feet, but watched them without sympathy or tolerance. It would destroy them with as little feeling as a child stamping on a beetle.

  The road began to rise, and when they had travelled another half-mile from the vill, they came to long strips of fields, a meadow, and at last an orchard with a stream bounding its easternmost edge. Simon pointed with his chin. ‘There it is. Welcome to Throwleigh Manor.’

  It was a great, low, squat building – long, and to Baldwin’s eye, gloomy. There was no curtain wall; the outer defence consisted merely of a hedge of thorny bushes, closely planted and layered. Behind the house was the rising mass of yet another hill, its flanks smothered in heather, while to his left Baldwin saw a broad expanse of marshland. On his right, a clitter of heavy grey stones lay haphazardly, like rubble from a ruined building.

  Simon spurred his horse and they rode on over a wide verge to the house itself. The sun had disappeared behind the moor before them, and the day had taken on the dingy hues of twilight. In this aspect the house took on an alarming appearance: dark and menacing.

  Baldwin had to remind himself that it was Simon, not he, who was prone to superstitious fears, but as they trotted towards the buildings he felt a powerful sense of sadness which was almost palpable about this house of mourning.

  Chapter Four

  The serving girl covered her face again as soon as the priest left the chapel, and she went back to the security of her kitchen. Shoulders heaving, she crossed to the little three-legged stool near the fire, and collapsed on it in a fit of powerless misery.

  ‘Petronilla? Come on, foolish chit, this’ll never do!’ Daniel, the household’s steward, patted her shoulder. Her paroxysms of grief began to fade, and he fetched her a pint of wine, holding it under her nose until she wiped her eyes one last time, and looked up at him with bleary-eyed gratitude. ‘Come on, drink up. You can’t go to serve your mistress looking like this. You don’t want to make her feel even worse, do you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it was, was…’

  ‘I know. We all loved him. He was kind and generous. The squire can never be replaced for us, Petronilla. He can’t be.’

  She saw that his eyes were becoming misty too. Daniel, she recalled, had been a footsoldier alongside the old squire in many battles in France and Wales, and suddenly she realised that he was trying to cope with his own grief while ensuring that all the servants of the hall performed their duties. His courage in the face of his own loss was enough to make her feel almost ashamed.

  ‘Daniel, I am so sorry, I never thought about you.’

  He replied with an unsteady smile, but then gave a loud sniff and glanced through the open door. ‘Don’t worry about me, dear. I am old enough to have buried almost all my friends and, although I don’t like it, I’m at least used to it. Save your sympathy for the squire’s widow. And for his son,’ he added heavily, with an emphasis that made the girl look up.

  ‘Herbert? Why do you sound so sad when you mention him, Daniel?’

  ‘Because he’s the squire now, girl. He has the full weight of the manor resting on his young shoulders, whether he wishes it or no. And there are many who’d like to deprive him of his inheritance.’

  With this gloomy observation, he saw Simon and Baldwin entering the yard. Muttering a curse, he shouted for grooms and ran out. Had he looked back, he would have seen Petronilla’s eyes fill with tears again.

  She bit her lip as she placed a hand on her belly, touching the new life beginning there, before sobbing afresh.

  Baldwin and Simon dropped thankfully from their horses, rubbing sore buttocks and stretching their aching thighs. It was a relief to see the steward hurrying towards them.

  Daniel was a tall, cadaverous man with thinning, grizzled hair. His eyes were dark and shrewd, with laughter-lines to prove that he was a happy enough fellow normally, but today their gleam was muted in deference to the occasion.

  ‘Bailiff, I am glad to see you again. If you and Sir Baldwin would follow me?’ They were led over the threshold into the screens. Here Daniel stood aside and motioned them into the hall.

  Simon was struck by the cheerful atmosphere. If he had not known that they were met here to bury a man, he would have thought a celebration was in full flow. There was a thick crowd, all well-to-do, standing away from the great fireplace, talking loudly, all grasping drinking cups. As he entered, the noise was deafening.

  He glanced over the group, but it was the woman he noticed almost immediately.

  She sat on a small chair at the fireside, a sombre young boy whom Simon took to be the heir standing near to hand, his head downcast. Lady Katharine of Throwleigh was a slender woman in her middle twenties, tall and elegant in her green velvet and linen coif. She watched the men as they entered with an intense stillness.

  Where she sat the room was in comparative darkness. The candles and sconces were all set away from the fire, and here the only light came from the burning logs themselves. When Simon was some few feet from her, he could see the immensity of her despair and sadness in her drawn features and red-rimmed grey eyes. The boy didn’t raise his head to look at the guests; he appeared to be absorbed in his own private misery. Behind him, almost hidden in the shadows, was a quiet maidservant, but Simon had no interest in her. He had eyes only for the lady of the house.

  He bowed, offering his respects on his own behalf as well as his master, the Warden of the Stannaries. Baldwin stepped to his side and bowed in his turn.

  ‘My Lady. I have come, as you asked, to witness the funeral of your husband, not only so that I can pay my own respects to him, but also in order that I can represent the Sheriff, for your husband was a good and loyal subject to the King’s father. I can only say how deeply sorry I am.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Baldwin. It is kind of you to come, and I am grateful to you for your words.’ She was stiffly formal, but her voice, although hoarse with crying, was warm, and her manner courteous as she thanked him and Simon. ‘Of course I remember your last visit, Bailiff.’

  ‘Yes, my Lady,’ smiled Simon. I helped your husband with the peat-cutters.‘

  It was a common enough dispute on the moors, and boringly familiar to Simon. A group of men had wandered onto Squire Roger’s land, cutting turves for their fires, and when he had demanded that they should stop, they said they were miners. A tin miner had the right to fuel for his workings, but these men were nothing to do with the mines, and Simon had evicted them.

  ‘My husband was always grateful to you for your help,’ she said, and suddenly her eyes brimmed with tears, and Simon had to lean forward to catch her words. ‘He would have been pleased that you had time enough to come and make your farewell, Bailiff.’

  A short wh
ile afterwards, Lady Katharine pleaded a headache and left her guests to go up to her room, calling her maidservant Anney to join her. The men in the hall appeared to think that her departure was a signal for merry-making, calling for more wine or ale, one or two demanding food, and many shouting for ‘Petronilla!’

  Soon she came in, a tall, attractive, fair-haired girl of some twenty summers. It was obvious that she, like her mistress, was deeply sorrowful. Although she served those who called to her, as soon as she could she put her tray down and went to the young boy, putting her arms around him.

  Baldwin cocked an eye at his friend, and the two took their place by the fire, a little away from the others, where they could talk without interruption. They weren’t to be left alone for long, however.

  A priest entered and, noticing the young servant, he called to her. She regretfully left the child, who slipped out through the door to the solar. The priest spoke to the maidservant quietly, and she took on a still more sombre mien before hurrying out in her turn. When she had gone, the cleric gazed distastefully at the rowdier of the guests, before crossing the room to Baldwin and Simon.

  ‘Bailiff? Surely I remember you from when you were last here?’

  ‘Of course, Brother Stephen,’ Simon said, raising a smile as the cleric joined them.

  Baldwin was struck not only by the man’s strong, flat-sounding accent, but also by his effeminacy. He was tall and slim, with an oval face of pale complexion, and curiously full and fleshy lips. His looks would have suited a woman, and Baldwin was reminded of some of the rumours about the clergy, which suggested that priests were often caught in compromising situations with women. There were always stories in circulation of how priests broke their vows. At least, Baldwin thought privately, women would be safe from this man!

  ‘You are to conduct the funeral tomorrow?’ the knight asked.

  ‘Yes, not that the other guests seem to realise that is why we are all here.’

  ‘You must forgive them, Brother – they’re celebrating their own lives. It’s not that they intend to demean Squire Roger’s memory, just that they are making merry while they still can,’ Simon said.

  ‘It is disrespectful to a man who was uniformly loved and honoured,’ said the priest primly.

  Simon sought to distract him from the behaviour of the other guests. ‘The service will be tomorrow?’

  ‘We performed the Placebo this afternoon, and the body is lying in the church tonight with the parish poor standing vigil over him,’ Stephen agreed. ‘Tomorrow morning we shall sing the Dirige and celebrate the Requiem Mass, then inter the body.’

  ‘And then I hope Lady Katharine will be able to get over her pain,’ said Simon.

  ‘Oh, I doubt it!’ said a voice behind him.

  Simon turned to meet the alcohol-bleared smile of a man in his late thirties. He had a short, thickset body, with a barrel of a chest and almost non-existent neck, on top of which sat a large, square face. He looked as though he would be happier wielding a weapon than a jug and drinking horn, but for now his expression was one of drunken vacuity, and he waved his wine in a broad gesture that splashed red droplets against the wall.

  ‘There’s many of us won’t forget the squire in a hurry, eh, Stephen?’ he said. The words came out playfully, and the man prodded the monk with his jug, splashing a quantity of wine on Stephen’s robe, but Simon, looking into the drunk’s eyes, saw the anger and jealousy burning there. ‘No, poor Lady Katharine will never be able to get over her shock, I expect. My brother was too kindly and generous for her to forget him, so I fear you’ll not be able to wed her for her money, sir!’

  Baldwin drew in his breath at this insult to his friend, and Simon stiffened, but the man gave a rasping laugh, drank a little more, and almost in an instant was serious. ‘Your pardon – I jest. My brother was good to the villeins on his land, as well as to his friends. No one will be able to forget him quickly. And his wife won’t want to wed again, I expect, not after living with my poor brother.’

  ‘You are Thomas of Exeter?’

  Baldwin’s question made the man shoot him a glance. ‘Yes, Thomas of Exeter, they call me now. Surprising how speedily you lose your name when you live away for a short while, isn’t it, eh? In the city I’m always Thomas of Throwleigh, son of the Knight of Throwleigh, younger brother of Roger – but here I’m only Thomas of Exeter, like a damned serf, or a plain barber. There was a time when I could have been a knight, you know!’

  ‘I am sorry your brother has died,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘But it is good that you are here to comfort the squire’s widow, and help her execute her duties towards their child.’

  The man had raised his horn to his lips, but now he let it fall away, staring with open-mouthed astonishment at the knight. He gave a half-giggle, as if absorbing a joke. ‘Me? Here to help her and him?’

  ‘Sir, be silent!’ The priest’s words were uttered in so menacing a tone that the room fell quiet for a moment, all the guests glancing towards them. Thomas curled his lip but said no more, turning and stumbling from me room.

  Stephen sighed and shook his head. ‘My apologies for that, Sir Baldwin, Bailiff. I deemed it better to silence him rather than allow him the opportunity to disgrace himself in front of so many people. The trouble is, gentlemen, Thomas and the squire were never comfortable in each other’s company, and I fear… That is, I am sad to say that Thomas of Exeter came rushing here as soon as he was told of his brother’s death less from affection or a desire to help his sister-in-law than from the keen anticipation of his own advancement.’

  ‘Ah!’ Baldwin said, his eyes going to the doorway once more.

  Simon stared from one to the other. ‘What?’

  Stephen gave him a long, sad look. ‘Thomas had no idea that his brother had an heir, Bailiff. He thought he was about to inherit the Throwleigh estates.’

  The next day was cold and drear: suitable weather for a miserable occasion like this, thought Baldwin. He stood pensively, his cloak wrapped warmly about him, watching as the body was lifted from the hearse before the altar and carried, draped in its magnificent pall of cloth of gold, out to the graveyard.

  At other funerals Baldwin had been aware of sadness, regret, even occasionally happiness in the knowledge that a loved one was on his or her way to Heaven, but never had he experienced one where there appeared to be so many undercurrents.

  The widow, Lady Katharine, stood with her glorious hair and face covered by a veil and hood, her hands fidgeting with the enamelled brooch at the neck of her cloak, while her frame shook with sobs. At her side was the tall and lugubrious Daniel, her steward, who leaned on his staff, keeping his distance from his mistress, and whose face was wrenched with grief. Baldwin noticed on two occasions that he lifted a hand as if to touch his Lady’s shoulder to offer her comfort – although both times he thought better of his presumption.

  Before her was the child – a small and rather feeble-looking boy, with tow-coloured hair and livid features in which the dark eyes seemed to glow with an unnatural fire. His eyes were fixed upon the grave, and while he uttered no sound and his body exhibited only the most subtle signs of grief, the tears poured down his cheeks in an unending stream. Yet Baldwin noticed that there was no contact between mother and son, and he wondered at that. It was surely only natural that she should provide her son with, and receive in return, a little comfort at such a harrowing time, but both stood alone, close to each other, but utterly apart.

  Simon and he waited with the mourning guests on one side while the priest intoned the prayers and scattered earth on the face of the shrouded corpse at the bottom of the grave. Only then did the boy give a loud gulp, but his mother snapped at him to be silent.

  Stephen appeared to be labouring under a great emotion. Although he was the kind of man who would always have a pasty complexion, today Baldwin thought he looked positively ill, with an unhealthy waxen sheen. His voice was hushed, less with apparent grief for the departed squire, more with a kind of
nervous anxiety. Baldwin wondered fleetingly whether there was any justification for that impression: perhaps the cleric had been told he was no longer needed now that the squire was dead.

  The only time Stephen’s face softened and he appeared to think of anyone other than himself was when he glanced at the fatherless boy. Baldwin thought at first that it was proof of compassion for the child, but then he began to wonder. Baldwin would have expected sympathy, but Stephen had an odd, wistful look about him. It made Baldwin wonder what the priest was thinking.

  Thomas stood with his eyes downcast, but never on the body, only on the ground at his feet. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bloodshot and sore-looking. Baldwin thought he looked like a man who has spent the whole night in prayer, a man who has begged God for the forgiveness of any sins his brother might have committed… and yet the knight reminded himself that the symptoms exhibited by the dead man’s brother were identical to those of an oaf who has over-indulged himself with wine the previous night.

  The service over, the mourning group walked slowly to the church gate and prepared to ride back to the house. Simon and Baldwin went to the widow’s side and made their farewells.

  ‘You are going so soon?’ she asked, her face still shrouded by her hood. ‘We have food and drink waiting at the hall, gentlemen.’

  ‘We have far to go; I fear we must return,’ said Baldwin. ‘And although I am sorry to have met you under these circumstances, I hope you will consider me a friend. If there is anything I can do for you while you suffer from your loss, please send me a message.’

  ‘Thank you for your kindness, Sir Baldwin. And of course you must go – I had forgotten your happiness in the midst of my despair. I had the best husband in the world: a good friend, a gentle husband, an honourable soldier and a noble and honest man. Perhaps I should consider myself fortunate to have had him for my own… yet I can only feel grief, and no gratitude. Our time together was all too short. But you must go back to your lady, Sir Baldwin, and my blessings go with you. I hope your marriage will bring you as much joy as mine did me.’