Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

‘I thought you knew, sir. Yes, the Coroner has been here and confirmed it. Poor Herbert was run down on the road above the house. It’s quite likely the killer didn’t even realise he’d hit the child.’

Out in the yard, Nicholas brushed Sir Baldwin’s horse and saw it had hay and water. When he was sure it was well catered for, he went back to the door and lounged against the post.

His master Thomas was a crooked bastard, as Nicholas knew only too well, but he hadn’t expected such cold cunning from him. Thomas’s appalled shock on discovering that he was five years too late to take over the manor, that he had a nephew who was already in possession, would have been hilarious if the news wasn’t so dire. If their master was bankrupted, then they would all be in the same boat. There weren’t many places for men like them to go. Each had his own problems. Especially Nicholas; especially here; especially since the death of Anney’s first child. So far he had managed to avoid seeing her, and his master knew why he had to skulk in the stables and not take his place at Thomas’s side like any other steward. It was the only sure way to avoid a disastrous meeting.

Still, their business here would soon be over, Nicholas thought to himself as he watched the knight and the bailiff stroll back from the storeroom towards the lighted door of the hall, and then they could leave Throwleigh for ever, take their money and get back to Exeter, where they belonged.

He glanced behind him, towards the moors, and shivered. There was no way he wanted to live out here.

Not again.

Sir Baldwin felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Since hearing of Herbert’s death he had tormented himself with the thought that the lad had been murdered; thank God his assumption was plainly wrong. In his relief he overruled the quiet voice at the back of his mind which questioned how a lively, healthy boy could have been run down by a cart. Perhaps he had fallen; maybe Herbert had already been unconscious. All Baldwin knew was that the lad must surely have had an accident, and with that thought the sense of guilt, almost of complicity, had sloughed from his body, leaving him feeling fresh and clean.

As soon as he entered the hall again and saw Lady Katharine, Baldwin strode over and took her hand, offering her his sincerest and most heartfelt condolences.

The woman seemed comforted by his words and sympathy, and asked him: ‘Will you remain for the funeral, Sir Baldwin? It will take place in four days’ time.’

‘I am sorry, but I fear I must return home. My wedding is the day after tomorrow.’

‘I remember,’ she murmured. ‘We were to have been there. I can only hope that you will bring your wife to visit me here when you can. It would be a great pleasure to meet your lady.’

‘Lady Katharine, you are very kind. I swear I shall bring her here as soon as I can – when you are over the worst of your grief.’

When Baldwin joined Simon near the fire, the knight couldn’t help but sigh with relief.

‘Oh, I thank God! I had expected a murder, and instead I find a simple – although tragic – accident,’ he murmured, his attention returning to the grieving woman sitting on her chair while the servants moved about her. ‘It’s awful. I can hardly believe I was prepared to accuse even her, if I found evidence that her boy had been murdered.’

Simon nodded. ‘And there’s no doubt?’

‘Oh, the lad met with an awful accident. His ribs are broken, and there is the track of an iron-shod wheel over his breast, as well as what look like hoofmarks. There are several scars, all probably caused by a scared horse. You know how beasts react when they are startled – and any but a warhorse will avoid a dead or injured body. The poor devil probably ran out into the path of a carter and was struck before the horse could stop; perhaps the animal tried to, but the weight of the cart forced it on. The boy was knocked over, and maybe the horse reared, hitting him again. Anyway, a wheel definitely went over him. He would probably have known little if anything about it; unconscious as soon as the hoof struck his head, and the life crushed from his frail little body as he was run over. Poor fellow! But I was foolish. Who would want to kill a lad like him?’

And on his journey home the next day he was able to smile and whistle, all thoughts of Herbert driven from his mind by the prospect of his wedding.

Daniel walked slowly from the hall and out to the sanctuary of his buttery, where he sank down on a stool, gripping his staff in both hands as an old man might clasp a prop.

It was deeply upsetting to see how the lady had taken the death of her son. Daniel was confused. His mistress had appeared so cold towards her boy when the squire had died, Daniel had half-expected her to show little emotion on hearing of Herbert’s death – and yet she had been distraught to the point of losing her mind.

The steward gazed unseeing at the far wall. Jugs lay on the shelf, pots above, with taps and spiles jumbled among them ready for the next barrel to be broached. The Coroner had come in here to pocket his fee before viewing the body out in the storeroom and riding off again. He had recorded the death as an accident but that still left the question of how it could have happened. How could someone have killed the boy and made off without leaving evidence? It seemed too remarkable for it to have been an accident.

Daniel shook his head. It was hard to conceive of anyone knowingly committing such a hideous crime. It wasn’t only evil, it was cowardly. Suddenly the steward’s face stiffened as he recalled an interview.

It was at the last assessment of the manor’s men, when he had stood before all the villeins in the hall, Stephen noting all the details down in his great roll at the table behind him. Despite the clean rushes strewn everywhere by Petronilla, the atmosphere had been foul, which was why the squire himself had left it to Daniel. There was a sour smell of unwashed bodies, which mingled unpleasantly with that of the ill-cured skins brought by the warrener.

The meeting was much like any other, except this time there was a piece of unwelcome news for the tenant named Edmund. Throwleigh was never profitable, and the squire had chosen to take on some of the newer ideas being tried in the Cornish estates. He had made his villeins conventionary tenants. No more did they have the right to remain on their land by virtue of paying their taxes; now they must agree to better any other offers. And this year a baker from Oakhampton had offered to take up the seven-year tenancy on Edmund’s property, promising more than the other man could hope to.

Poor Edmund had appeared unable to comprehend the blow. He had stood shaking his head, refusing to accept that he could be forced to lose his whole property; a broken man.

Daniel could easily recall the second meeting, at which his lady had pushed Edmund still further, denying that he was free, rejecting his right to take his case to the King’s court. At the time Daniel had thought she was pushing the man too far, but she was determined. In her mind the death of her husband was linked to the man in whose yard he had died. She held some kind of vindictive grudge against him. But Daniel had seen Edmund’s face harden during that meeting, as if he felt he had nothing to lose.

An insidious thought crept into his mind: Daniel had seen him the day Herbert died. Edmund had been there, on his cart.

When Sir Baldwin de Furnshill walked from his house, he didn’t even notice the bright spring sunshine. The Keeper of the King’s Peace was an intrepid fighter, a man who had survived wars and persecution, yet he had to pause on his threshold, staring at the throng before him with nervous trepidation, quelling the cowardly urge to turn and flee indoors. Only when his friend Simon joined him could he take a deep breath and set off.