Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

‘I wanted to see who it…’

‘Shut up, woman! Hell’s fires! Haven’t you enough things to do?’ He lifted his fist threateningly.

Christiana quailed, and retreated towards the house. It was hard enough being married to a feckless man like him without having to endure his beatings whenever he was confused or disturbed.

She risked a glance over her shoulder and, seeing he was looking away again, she spat in his direction. Theirs had been a marriage of love at first. She and he had made their vows, without the knowledge or consent of her parents and she had joined his family immediately the priest had confirmed their right to remain together. They had needed to see him because her parents refused to believe that Edmund and she had made valid wedding vows; so, standing before the priest, they had repeated their oaths. On hearing what they said, he had declared that these had been spoken ‘in words of present consent’ and, although it was wrong for the two not to have had a nuptial Mass, their marriage was valid.

But they had both been young, not yet sixteen, and now she regretted her reckless decision. Edmund was weak, vacillating over any decision, and whenever he was upset about something he took it out on her. Touching the tender spots at her jaw and cheek, she mumbled a curse at her husband. That was where he had clouted her on the day he had taken the cart over to Oakhampton. The pottage she had cooked wasn’t ready yet, that was his excuse – yet why should it have been? He hadn’t told her when to expect him home, and their son wasn’t back yet, either. How could she be expected to know when he would return?

It was so unfair! She had welcomed him when he walked through the door, but when she had asked him why he was back so early, purely to make conversation, her words seemed to send him into a rage. He shouted at her for being a stupid, interfering bitch, and punched her, saying he didn’t know why he had ever agreed to take her off her father’s hands. Leaving her sobbing on the floor, he had stalked from the room, saying he would eat at the alehouse.

It wasn’t the first time he had hit her, and it wouldn’t be the last, she knew. Blinking tears away, she caught a glimpse of movement and shortly afterwards saw five men on horseback trotting round the bend in the road. Although she recognised Daniel, the manor’s steward, out in front, the other four were unknown to Christiana.

However, the men all had that grave, stern appearance which boded ill to a poor serf, and she felt her heart lurch within her breast. Her feelings toward Edmund would never return to the old level of affection, but if he was in trouble, she would be alone and unprotected: she would not be able to look after Molly and Jordan on her own. Slowly, she crept outside into the yard again, moving cautiously so as not to alert Edmund to her disobedience.

Baldwin motioned with his hand, and at his signal Edgar and Hugh stopped their horses while he approached the house with Simon and Daniel.

‘Godspeed, sirs,’ Edmund offered tentatively as the men reined in, lowering his axe.

The knight studied him. Edmund was one of a type he had found in towns and villages all over Christendom. He was a hard man, formed by the climate of the moors, weathered and beaten like the moorstone itself. His face was prematurely old, with cracks tracing paths all over it, each etched deeply by sun, wind and rain. His back was bowed with the struggle to produce food in a harsh, inclement land. Sparse brown hair framed his saturnine features, and although his beard was thick, dappled with reddish patches, his pate was bald, the flesh showing oddly pale compared with his face.

But it was not only his outward appearance that was so familiar to the knight. The man’s face held a kind of unfocused anger and bitterness. It was as if he knew that anyone he might meet was naturally formed to be an enemy, and that enemy would in the end destroy him. It was a look Baldwin had seen on the faces of men and women all over the world when confronted with their lords and rightful masters. His appearance was not improved by his flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes – proof, if Baldwin had needed any, that the man was drunk.

The knight looked about him at the little yard where this farmer tried to make his living. Before the house was a small plot, criss-crossed with narrow paths, where Edmund grew a sparse collection of weedy vegetables. This early in the year there was not much to show; only a few young bean and pea plants dared raise their heads above the soil, and a couple of cabbages, survivors of the previous year, with the inevitable worm-holes drilled through. The garlic had thrived during the freezing winter, and frail little stems were poking through the mud. His attention moved on. He could recognise the herbs set out further on: hyssop, marjoram, thyme, camomile and rue among others, and all appeared to be growing well in the fresh spring sun.

At the side of the house was a well, with a barn behind, and Baldwin could see the rails which had once contained a pig. Now there was neither sight nor sound of an animal, and the knight was struck with a sense of dilapidation and decay. It made him frown. If this had been one of his own tenants, he would have seen to it that Edgar had spoken to the man, telling him to pull himself together. People who suffered from misfortune were the responsibility of the parish, and the congregation would often look after them, but the village could only be expected to help those who tried their best. There was no reason for people to put themselves out and give up their own hard-earned food for the indolent or foolish.

There was a muted clucking from the opposite end of the house, and Baldwin saw the woman. She was standing under the eaves, her frightened gaze flying from one man to another, and then back to her husband. Baldwin had never seen her before, but her pinched, grey features and scrawny figure told him much. The large bruise at her chin told him even more – and any sympathy for the serf in front of him dissipated. The recently married knight had no time for a man who beat his wife.

‘Why do you keep on at me, Daniel?’ the farmer was whining. ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’

Baldwin saw Simon kick his horse forward. The bailiff cleared his throat. ‘You know your master, Squire Herbert, has died?’

‘Of course I do! Everyone knows he’s dead – the poor lad.’

‘And do you know how he died?’

Edmund shrugged. ‘I heard he was found at the side of the road. I suppose he was hit by a man on a horse or something.’

‘And what if he was hit by a man on a cart?’

‘It’s all the same, sir,’ the farmer said, but he looked pale, as if the blood had fled from his face. Baldwin wasn’t sure if Simon noticed, but the woman gave a start as if from fear.

Meanwhile Simon continued, his voice level and grave, his face impassive. ‘Where were you on that day?’

‘Me, sir? I was here.’

‘That’s a lie!’ snapped Daniel. ‘I saw you on your cart that afternoon. Where had you been?’

‘I didn’t kill the lad.’

‘I didn’t say you did – but the fact you make that connection is suspicious in its own right,’ the steward stated deliberately.

Baldwin watched the farmer. He was obviously very scared, but who wouldn’t be? Daniel was the sole representative of the power of the man’s master. The knight raised his hand to silence the steward, and dropped from his horse. ‘Can you fetch me a little ale or something else to drink?’

Edmund looked surprised, but nodded and shouted over his shoulder to Christiana before ungraciously motioning towards the log. ‘You wish to sit?’ he asked, letting his axe fall to the ground.

Looking at the mossy lump, Baldwin gave a thin smile and shook his head. ‘No, I am happy to stand, thank you.’