Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

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.

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.

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.’