Michael JECKS: Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

For those who wish to learn more about ancient English fighting techniques, I heartily recommend Terry Brown’s English Martial Arts, published by Anglo-Saxon Books. This fascinating book tracks the development of the ‘Master of Defence’ through history, and because Terry himself is a modern martial-arts expert, he can bring to life some of the methods of fighting with broadsword, sword and buckler, sword and dagger, and especially quarter- and half-staff.

Even so, in Squire Throwleigh’s Heir the way in which fights are presented, the types of weapons used and the methods of using them, are all drawn from my imagination, and any errors are entirely my own responsibility.

Michael Jecks

Dartmoor

October 1998

If he’d known that this was the day he was going to die, Squire Roger of Throwleigh would have behaved more coolly, but lacking this prescience, he lost his temper instead.

It wasn’t his little son Herbert’s sullenness so much as his denial of any knowledge of the matter that made Roger’s blood boil. Playing with friends in the orchard was so petty an offence that the squire wouldn’t usually have bothered to get to the bottom of it, but he knew Herbert had been there – he had seen him! – and even as the squire bellowed for the boys to stop, he had seen his own lad turn, the fear transforming his face.

By then it was already too late. Had the squire’s horse been to hand, he might have been able to head them off before they could reach the concealment of the bushes, but his horse was in the yard with the rest of his hunting party, and so the miscreants had escaped, scurrying away through the long undergrowth and pelting for the riverbank.

When the squire demanded the identities of the culprits, it wasn’t with a view to exacting punishment. He was a sporting man, and knew that he should long ago have secured this gap in the hedge. The hole would have to be plugged, and for now he had only a casual interest in which of the vill’s youngsters had dared trespass on his land.

‘I don’t know.‘

At first the squire had been amused. The response was the instinctive answer of a small child to an enquiry by Authority, and Roger had almost been inclined to shrug it off, but when he followed up his query by promising not to mete out retribution, he became irritated by Herbert’s refusal to cooperate. It was honourable of him to try to protect his friends, but his refusal to admit to any knowledge of the crime was plain foolish – and intolerable.

‘Do you mean to say you will not tell me who the others were?’ he thundered.

‘I don’t know them, sir,’ Master Herbert stated stoutly, his small round face pale, his eyes downcast in trepidation.

His father seized his arm. ‘Don’t lie to me! I saw you with them! I saw you there, shoving them out – do you think I’m blind and stupid? Now tell me who they were!’

The boy shook his head stubbornly, and his father felt the familiar tension in his chest, like a band tightening around his heart, ‘You deny you were with them?’ he grated, all patience flown. ‘Then I’ll tell you who they were: Jordan and Alan! That’s who you’re protecting, isn’t it?’

‘Father, please don’t have them punished… It was my idea, not Alan’s; and Jordan gets such a dreadful beating when his father is angry.’

The wan complexion and tone of near-desperation in the five-year-old’s voice almost made Squire Roger relent, but if he didn’t carry out his threat, his son might feel he would always back down in the face of a plea. ‘No. You lied. If you’d told me yourself who they were, I wouldn’t bother, but you lied to me. Now you’ll see what harvest your deceit yields. Brother Stephen!’

‘Father, please, I…’

The squire strode towards the house, pulling his son after him. He had crossed half the distance when the priest came hurrying.

‘Brother, my son has lied to me: you’ll thrash him to teach him never to do it again,’ said the squire curtly. The tall, thin priest took Master Herbert’s arm, nodded silently, and took the boy away.

Squire Roger watched his son being dragged from the court. The lad stared up at the priest with a look of sullen fear, and not for the first time the squire felt near-contempt for his boy. He’d been found in the wrong, and should accept his punishment, yet he always exhibited this feeble-spirited horror of any form of retribution.

He had no idea it was the last time he would ever see his son.

In Exeter, Godfrey of London finished the last of his hundred press-ups on his clenched fists and sprang lightly to his feet, breathing easily.

It was essential to keep fit, and Godfrey despaired of those clients who ignored this, the single most vital element of one’s training. All too often youngsters professing a desire to learn his skills would swear to follow his strict regime, but they’d then go feasting and whoring, indulging their gluttonous whims. Their bellies would grow flabby, they’d develop double or – God’s blood! – treble chins, and all the time they’d say they were obeying his orders. It was pathetic.

Godfrey was not sanguine about their prospects: they would suffer or die as a result of their shortsightedness. He was paid, and paid well, to teach them – and if they wished to learn he could instruct them in techniques which should, all things being equal, keep them alive. If they wanted him as their tutor without bothering to pick up anything from him, it was their loss. He got his money and that was all that mattered.

He walked to the rack and selected a pair of cudgels, a man of middle height, with a square face and grizzled hair. His arms were not heavily muscled, nor were his shoulders over-wide, but he had a loose, controlled way of walking which to another fighter would be enough warning. His features held the proof of his history: one long scar cut across his nose, under his left eye, and then down below his cheekbone; a second swept from temple to beneath his thinning scalp; a third followed the line of his right jawbone. But those who had inflicted these injuries had all paid in kind.

Hefting the clubs, he stood in the outside guard, his right hand forward, the club’s tip pointing up to protect his right flank, while holding the left one low to cover his belly. Slowly he began the measured sequence he rehearsed each morning. His right hand moved back to block an imaginary attack, his left advanced to parry a second; his right twisted and lunged forward for the opponent’s head. Retreating slowly, he twisted his torso to swing in hard with his left, then thrust with his right before reverting to the outside guard again.

As he swung them in his slow dance of defence, his mind wandered, and he reviewed the potential of his clients – especially his most recent, and strangest, Sir James van Relenghes.

It was common enough for Godfrey to be hired to show how different weapons could be used, but he was sure that in this case there was more to it than mere anxiety about felons. The mention of a single man’s name had made his client mad. Never before had Godfrey seen such powerful loathing on someone’s face.

They had been walking in the court before Exeter Cathedral, and had stood aside to allow a priest to pass. The fellow had nodded politely to them in gratitude, but then, noticing another man ahead, about to duck into an alleyway, the cleric had called out, increasing his pace to overtake him, lifting his robe for greater speed: ‘Is that you, Master? Master Thomas Throwleigh!’

Van Relenghes started as if he recognised the name, and swore in a venomous undertone. He spoke in Flemish, but Godfrey had fought in the Low Countries and understood the hoarse-sounding, guttural language.