Squire Throwleigh’s Heir aktm-7

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Sir,’ Alan began, his eyes fixed on Baldwin, ‘I haven’t known what to do since the day our friend died. We were playing with him up on the hill, and I don’t know, but we thought it would be better if we kept quiet about what we saw up there.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Anney demanded on seeing her son.

  Baldwin cast her a look. He was not content with her evidence, nor with her behaviour. Something rang false to him. For now he curtly ordered her to be silent, before turning to the boys.

  Baldwin smiled encouragingly and motioned to him to continue.

  ‘Well, sir. We were up there that day. I’d got my sling, and so had Herbert, and we tried to get some birds, but we got bored, and all three of us started playing. Usually we play wars or something else, like hunting a wolf. That day I was the wolf, anyway, and Herbert and Jordan were trying to find me. Before they could, the priest caught me, and tried to beat me, but I got away.’

  ‘Do you know why he wanted to hit you?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Alan with a shrug. ‘He often thrashes me for no reason. This time, I ran and ran because he looked so angry, and I went down the hill and over the road. And while I was there, I…’

  ‘Shot me, you little sod!’ snarled Thomas.

  Alan spun round and stared. He hadn’t seen Thomas sitting over near the fire.

  Baldwin smiled at the almost comical expression of fear on the lad’s face. ‘You are safe in here, and I am sure that Master Thomas will not harm you. He wishes us to find out who killed your friend.’

  ‘Well, then yes, I admit it, sir,’ Alan said courageously. ‘Master Thomas was riding past, and I didn’t think he’d know where the stone came from.’

  ‘I used to be a boy, you know! I can tell where a stone comes from. I myself have fired…’ Thomas realised that confessing to shooting adults when he was a boy might not be fitting, and he suddenly shut his mouth with an almost audible snap.

  Baldwin made no effort to conceal his smile. ‘So, Alan, after that, you went back up the hill again, and what then?’

  ‘I met Jordan and told him what had happened. Jordan and Herbert had been together up at the stream, and I asked where Herbert was. Jordan told me Herbert had gone to see what the priest was doing up there.’

  Alan sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. ‘Sir, Herbert was very brave, he always had been, and never minded shooting the priest. I used to try to stop him, because I was scared of Brother Stephen, but he just laughed and carried on. Me and Jordan were worried, though, so we decided we’d go and get Herbert back before he could do something silly. We went up the hill.’

  Simon looked at Baldwin. ‘This would be after Thomas had chased the lad who shot him.’‘

  ‘Oh, he tried to catch me,’ said Alan dismissively, ‘but I left him far behind. We got to the top of a bit of the hill, and down there by the stream, I saw the Brother. He was standing, staring into the water. Then I spotted Herbert. He was hiding behind a bush, his sling ready, and then he let it fly! He caught the priest right on the arse, and my, didn’t he jump! But when he turned, Herbert hadn’t hidden fast enough, sir, and the priest saw him, and ran after him. Well, I can outrun him, see, but Herbert wasn’t as quick as me. He was caught, and the priest pulled him down and began beating him with his stick, and when he broke that, with his hand.’

  To Simon’s ears the boy was slowing in his speech. The bailiff thought at first that it was because he was coming to the end of his tale, but then he realised that Alan had more to say, but didn’t relish the telling.

  ‘Sir, then I saw the priest cuddle Herbert.’

  ‘Cuddle him?’ Baldwin narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  Alan’s face had grown pale as he blinked at Baldwin. ‘I know what happens, sir. I’ve seen men from the village with their girls down in the meadows often enough. And at the inn I’ve seen men with women. It’s the same as a stallion covering a mare, or a dog with a bitch. The priest had taken off his shoes and robe, but to do that to Herbert…’

  The knight swallowed, nodded, and said harshly, ‘What then, Alan?’

  ‘Poor Herbert was crying. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I could say to him. Me and Jordan came away, thinking we’d go home. It wasn’t right, sir! Only as we went back up the hill, we heard Herbert give a sort of cry, and I thought he must have fallen. Jordan and me went back, sir, but we couldn’t see either of them. They’d gone. All that was left was this, sir.’

  And so saying, he brought out Brother Stephen’s missing shoe.

  Simon and Baldwin ordered their horses to be saddled, as well as mounts for Godfrey and Thomas. Simon felt it was only sensible for them to have as many witnesses as possible. While outside Simon told the grooms not to allow Stephen to have a horse. On foot the man wouldn’t be able to get far if he attempted to escape. The bailiff almost wished the cleric would commit suicide before they could return.

  He carried the shoe carefully, wrapped up in a cloth and thrust beneath his tunic. He was unhappy about this journey – it seemed to him as though he was participating in a peculiarly unwholesome enquiry, and it was one he would be glad to finish. Simon had been raised in the shadow of the growing Crediton Canonical church as it was being built, and he had an awe for men of the cloth. He rarely allowed it to alter his feelings towards clerics as men – he didn’t like some, while others he counted as particular friends, such as Peter Clifford, Dean of Crediton – and yet he could not help but revere them because of their unique position as God’s own representatives.

  And now, he mused, as they trotted gently off towards the stream where the footprints lay, here he was trying to confirm the guilt of a priest, a man who was supposed to be their spiritual leader.

  Baldwin’s thoughts ran along the same lines, but he was less concerned with proving the cleric’s guilt, and more with his own feelings. He was aware of a growing sense of the rightness of the matter as everything pointed more and more steadily towards the priest. It was almost as if he wanted the priest to be guilty of the murder, and that, he felt instinctively, was wrong.

  He thought about his feelings for some while. It all stemmed from his treatment while he was a Templar, he knew, and that experience of injustice had influenced all his life from that point. He had trusted in the Pope and the Church, and both had betrayed him, the first from motives of personal greed, the second from an unthinking allegiance, assuming that whatever the Pontiff might decide had the force of a decision from God.

  But Baldwin now had a great doubt. He had been prepared to accept every piece of evidence as pointing to the guilt of the cleric because he had wanted it to. It would satisfy his own desire for a personal form of revenge: visiting justice on one priest as the surrogate of the Church itself. And yet what if, by so doing, he was duplicating the injustice? A bitter irony, that: in trying to avenge the unfairness of his own treatment, he might himself be guilty of prejudice against another innocent party.

  To reassure himself, he enumerated the indications of guilt to himself. There were many signs, from all that the witnesses had said. Anney, Godfrey, van Relenghes and Thomas had all seen the priest up on the hill. There was no doubt of his presence, and he did not deny being there. He admitted to grabbing Alan, and clearly he was already angry at that stage.

  It would hardly be surprising if, on being used as a target once more, he should really lose his temper.

  But enough to engage in the homosexual rape – of a young child? Such things were not unknown, Baldwin knew that well enough. There had been cases in Cyprus, where the Eastern ways held some sway, and it had been hinted at within the Templars. Sometimes particular knights would disappear from preceptories; likewise priests were often suspected. Baldwin sourly accepted that he could all too easily believe it of the slender, feminine cleric.

  The boy’s death would surely have been accidental; perhaps the priest was as horrified as anyone else would have been when H
erbert fell dead. Maybe that was it, the knight thought: Stephen swung a blow, not with the intention of killing, but with the aim of showing his anger. When he realised the boy was dead, he didn’t know what to do.

  What then? Of course he dragged the body down towards the road, and dropped it over the edge of the bank… after the fishman’s cart had passed, but before Edmund came by.

  Baldwin scratched at his beard. It seemed a little curious to him, but that was the evidence so far. There were the footprints, of course, and they showed that the priest must have been furious: not many men would have run up the hill with one foot bare. He must have been almost mad with anger.

  No, there was definitely something wrong. Baldwin sucked at his moustache, his forehead creased with effort as he considered, but for the life of him he could not see where the chain of evidence, so strongly forged, could break down.

  Wat was pleased to see Petronilla when she wandered into the buttery, glancing about her, picking up an earthenware jug with a man’s face moulded to its front, and a glazed drinking horn, then filling the jug from the wine barrel. The two boys had been left in the hall with Hugh and Edgar, and Wat was lonely. Petronilla was fun – she treated him like an adult, unlike the others.

  ‘How is the Fleming?’ Wat asked.

  Petronilla sighed, shaking her head. ‘He’s very quiet, but he’ll live. The cut went deep, though, and he’ll be in a lot of pain for some time to come.’ She ran a hand over her brow, tucking a few hairs under her cap, feeling her exhaustion. Van Relenghes was deeply shocked by his attack. She had a shrewd suspicion that for all his tales of warfare and the life of a soldier, he had never been in danger of his life before, and being gripped and stabbed by Nicholas had terrified him. That, she thought, was why he had collapsed after the first slashing cut, not because he was so badly hurt, but because he was so petrified.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked. ‘I heard them riding off.’

  ‘They’ve gone back to see where the boy was found,’ Wat said off-handedly.

  ‘Why? They’ve been there before, haven’t they? That day when they got so wet.’

  ‘Oh yes, but now they’ve been told what happened, and they’re going to see the footprints.’

  ‘Told what happened? What do you mean? Have they discovered something new?’

  ‘Yes, miss. They’ve found the priest’s shoe.’

  Petronilla set the jug down carefully, concealing her horror as best she could. ‘Where did they find it?’

  ‘Two boys found it, and the bailiff and Sir Baldwin have gone to match it to the prints in the mud up there.’

  She nodded, trying to control the pounding of her heart. It felt so strong she was surprised the lad couldn’t hear it. Thank God she’d been up there and raked the soil clear, so at least the men wouldn’t be able to fit the shoe to the print.

  But Petronilla had to know what the knight and the bailiff had been told. There was no one else to question, for if she were to go into the hall, surely the two men there would become suspicious as to why she was so interested.

  She fixed a smile to her face, and winked at Wat. ‘I’ll tell you what, I could do with some wine after all the things that have happened today – would you like some too?’

  The track was as distinct as before, although sheep had begun to use it, and they had cut through from one place to another, so that the trail which had been so precise now had the appearance of a tree, with branches spreading in all directions.

  Baldwin and Simon led the way, riding to the left side of the path. It stood out in the late afternoon sun, the light striking the top of the bushes and leaving the track in shadow, and the knight walked his horse up, the feeling that he had missed something still niggling at him.

  The boys’ explanation had covered most aspects of the matter which had confused him before: the strange paths, meeting and diverging up on the hill, were obviously where the lads had been wont to play. Likewise, the trail leading back to the road was clearly where Herbert’s body had been dragged.

  They dismounted and tethered their beasts to a bush near the spot where they had found the marks.

  Simon stared, then paced further down towards the stream. ‘Some bastard’s raked the place over!’

  Baldwin climbed from his horse and gazed about him, baffled. ‘But why? Did the priest come here to do this? When did he have the time? He’s been busy conducting Herbert’s funeral. And if he didn’t – who in God’s name did?’

  ‘Do you know what Hugh told me about Petronilla?’ Simon rasped.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Petronilla left the room with her belly churning. In the screens she stopped, uncertain where to go, staring about her with confusion. Only when Stephen called a second time did she hear him. Even with the revulsion she felt for him now, she couldn’t refuse his pleading expression.

  ‘They’ve gone to see the footprints, haven’t they?’ he asked.

  She nodded. His gaunt features were almost corpselike. ‘You’re safe. They won’t find anything. I cleared it all.’

  ‘Pet, you’re an angel,’ he said, taking her hand. She instinctively drew away. ‘Come, forgive me! You know the truth. I may not be a good priest, but I am not a bad man. Ah, well, God will give me strength. Petronilla, you have to tell the bailiff that you left me. Don’t worry about protecting me, because I am safe already. I have immunity from the bailiff or the Warden. You must tell them you left me before I went down to the stream – that way you will be safe as well.’

  ‘Safe?’ she demanded, the tears springing back to her eyes.

  ‘You will live, girl!’

  ‘Petronilla?’

  She turned at the voice of one of the grooms. Stephen stepped back to conceal himself in the doorway to the pantry. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  ‘That damned Fleming needs his cut stitched, but no one’s about to help. Would you come?’

  ‘Give me a moment.’

  He turned and wandered back to the kitchen, and Petronilla was about to follow him when Stephen grabbed her arm.

  ‘Don’t forget, Pet! If anyone asks you, tell them you left me before I went to the stream. You’re safe enough then.’

  Hugh grew bored with answering questions from the two boys about his fighting skills and where he had learned to use half- and quarter-staffs. The lads were keen to know all about him at first, but the taciturn servant fitted no boy’s dream of the ideal soldier, especially since he didn’t even own a sword, a fact they ascertained early on, and soon they were demanding details of Edgar’s life and weapons training, a fact for which Hugh’s gratitude was roughly matched by Edgar’s annoyance.

  It was in an attempt to get some peace that Edgar went to the buttery. Petronilla had left some minutes before, and now Wat sat alone on an empty ale barrel. Edgar didn’t notice that Wat’s face was a little flushed, nor that his smile was slightly fixed. To the servant’s mind, he had found a young boy, someone who would be the perfect playmate for the two pests in the hall. Nodding to himself, he went back to the hall, and smiled thinly at the boys as they began to bombard him with even more questions.

  ‘I have to prepare my master’s room now, so I shall leave you two with Wat,’ he said, leading them through to the buttery. ‘Don’t wander. My master will probably want to speak to you again when he comes back.’

  Wat beamed at them. He felt wonderful again. The half pint of wine which Petronilla had given him was coursing through his veins like liquid fire, and he felt more alive and awake now than he had all day. He wanted to run and laugh and tell jokes and play – but no one else was about to enjoy the sport with him. Petronilla was fun: he should go and find her, maybe persuade her to drink some more wine with him. But he wasn’t sure where she had gone. It was sad, especially since he was expected to sit with these two children and look after them when he wanted to go and find other adults like himself.

  Alan sat quietly on a stool near the door. Jordan remained standing by the door, staring awkwardly
down at the paved floor. To Wat, both looked filled with trepidation, and he felt sorry for them. It wasn’t fair that he should be complaining about having to entertain them, not when they had obviously been through so much.

  Wat was a generous lad. He felt much better after trying the best wine in the buttery: it had cheered him no end, and he was filled with the conviction that the same cure could be worked on the two boys. He glanced at them, wondering, and swiftly arrived at the conclusion that the only means of testing his hypothesis was to try it out.

  He let himself down from his barrel and went to the door. Peeping out, he could see no one, and grinned to himself.

  ‘Feeling thirsty?’ he asked the two visitors.

  Baldwin dropped lightly from his horse as a groom took the bridle. ‘Simon, something about all we have heard rings false. I want to speak to the girl Petronilla.’

  In the kitchen, Petronilla cleaned the weeping fluid from the wound, while a groom threaded a borrowed needle. Kneeling at van Relenghes’s side, he gave the Fleming a grin to try to reassure him, but as he stood poised, van Relenghes looked over at Petronilla.

  ‘Pretty maid, I beg that you do me this service. Your touch must be softer than a groom’s, and I hope your hand will be steadier.’

  The groom gave her the needle, and she stood indecisively, staring down at him. Then, with a little sigh, and while the groom resignedly took hold of van Relenghes’s legs to stop him thrashing around too much, she knelt and pinched the two flaps of skin together, stabbing the needle through and tying the thread.

  It was hideous. She could feel the glittering, almost insane stare of his eyes, fixed on her with an awful concentration; each time she jabbed through his flesh, she saw his fists tighten at his side, although he made no sound and no other movement. The only sign of his torment was the sweat which appeared first like a fine dew on his brow, and then ran together into small streams that flowed over his temples; it was reflected by her own, which she had to keep wiping away with her sleeve.