Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

‘Oh, of course,’ said Thomas, shaking his head dejectedly and taking Wat’s remaining wine pot. ‘So sad to see a young whipper-snapper like him cut down in so meaningless a manner. Did you – er – find out anything?’

There was an odd look in his eye, and Baldwin hesitated before answering. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘We spoke to some villeins, but there was nothing to be learned from them.’

‘Very sad. Still,’ continued Thomas, glancing along the road towards Throwleigh, ‘I daresay I shall be able to clear it all up when I begin to make my own enquiries. As lord of the manor, it is my responsibility.’

‘Lord of the manor?’ Simon echoed. He had tethered his horse to a large ring in the courtyard wall, and now stood near Baldwin.

‘Well, of course, Bailiff – but I suppose you didn’t know. The manor is entailed, and may only be passed to a male member of the family’ He smiled smugly up at the building behind them. ‘This all belongs to me now.’

It was in order to leave the presence of the gloating man that Baldwin announced his wish to visit the chapel. The knight was revolted by the self-satisfied smile Thomas of Exeter wore as he surveyed what was now his property. Baldwin felt only disgust for him, and his leave-taking was so short that his rudeness penetrated even Thomas’s thick skin, and he stood staring after Baldwin with a degree of surprise as the knight stalked away.

Baldwin stomped along the yard, through the hall, and into the peace of the little room. He stared at the altar for a moment, then genuflected automatically and walked to sit on a bench by the wall.

The naked greed in Thomas’s eyes was repellent. It was as if the knight had been granted an insight to the man’s soul, and he shuddered at the sheer avarice that flamed there. Herbert’s death meant nothing to him: oh, he would make the right sad noises, he would declare himself desolated, he would offer every sympathy to the poor mother left alone to survive her husband and only child, but that was the limit of his compassion. His true feelings were limited to a desire to get his hands on the house and demesne of Throwleigh.

Hearing steps, Baldwin sighed to himself. It seemed there was nowhere to gain a few moments’ peace in this household.

The door opened, and Baldwin saw the slightly flushed features of Stephen.

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ he said immediately, ‘if I am intruding on you…’

‘Not at all, my son. Can I help you, or are you seeking solitude?’

Baldwin looked away. Setting aside Herbert’s death, he did have that other, private, concern: his feelings towards his wife. He loved her, but he always felt the restraint of the vows he had given as a Templar monk: poverty, obedience, and chastity. It was wrong, he was sure, that he should feel guilty about making love to his wife, but the sense that by doing so he was breaking his oath was too strong to ignore. It was not a matter he could discuss with anyone who knew him well, but he would be enormously comforted to share his anxiety, even though he could not explain the full details. He licked his lips in sudden indecision.

‘Brother,’ he began tentatively, ‘could I speak to you about a matter… It is rather embarrassing… er… in the strictest confidence?’

The form of words was a matter of politeness, and no more. Both men knew that the confessional was sacrosanct, but Baldwin also knew that, if ordered, a worldly monk could be prevailed upon to divulge his secrets to a senior monk or bishop. Even as Stephen nodded silently and sat at his side, Baldwin was considering how best to ask the question he needed answered.

‘Brother, I am afraid that in my life I have sinned.’

‘We all sin.’

Baldwin gave a faint smile. ‘Yes – but I mean intentionally. Brother, if a man takes an oath and then is betrayed, does that mean the oath itself is null and void?’

Stephen looked at him, surprised. ‘What do you mean?’

Baldwin took a deep breath. He couldn’t confess to his membership of the Knights Templar, for since their destruction many priests would look askance on one of that fraternity – especially bearing in mind the nature of some of the accusations. ‘Well, suppose I were a man of the cloth, and had taken the vow of chastity, and yet was tempted into… um… into lust for…’

He stopped. The priest had gone as white as the plaster on the whitewashed wall, then as red as Baldwin’s crimson tunic. Standing, he stared down at the knight with an expression of sheer fury. ‘You dare to try and trick me into… You bastard! You try to accuse me – no, don’t! Don’t touch me!’

Alan saw another pigeon, a tempting, plump target. It swooped over the tree high above him, flew across the field and on, but even as he held his breath, it made a wide circle, and returned in a leisurely manner. At last it dropped down towards the field.

His decoy, a live pigeon tethered by the leg to a stick, which kept flapping and cooing, showing that there was food here, was working well. Alan pursed his lips as the new bird came down, beating its wings wildly as it landed, and as it ruffled its feathers and tucked its wings away, Alan was already whirling his long-stringed sling over his head, behind the cover of his hedge. Still spinning, he let go of the cord.

The bullet was released. It slipped from the leather patch and flew true. The boy stood, eyes glued to the bird, motionless, and saw the pebble strike the wing, feathers flying. Instantly he was up and over his hedge, haring towards the pigeon, which hopped and tried to escape, but to no avail. The boy grabbed its head between finger and thumb. One flick, up and down, and the weight of the body cracked the neck.

While it shivered and fluttered in its death throes, Alan hummed quietly to himself and broke up a small stick. It was forked, and he snapped the two twigs away before thrusting the long stem into the ground. The pigeon was still now, and he laid it down with its neck resting in the fork to make it appear to be standing, before wandering back to his hiding-place. He enjoyed luring pigeons like this. One bird flapping on the ground was guaranteed to attract the attention of others flying past, which would be certain to investigate, thinking there must be food. And as each was shot and killed, then laid out as if pecking at the ground, still more would be tempted to join those enjoying such apparently rich pickings.

It was a good day. He’d seen seven birds so far, and this was the third he’d hit. If he carried on like this, he and his mother would be able to have a decent meal – and profit from the ones he would sell. He only wished he was more accurate with his sling.

When Jordan found him, Alan had increased his total by one, and he was crouched low waiting for another to come and land. It gently glided down, and Alan cautiously rose. He released the bullet, but his aim was poor, and the bird took off at speed. Alan grimaced, twirling the cords of his sling around his forefinger.

‘How did you catch the lure?’ Jordan asked.

‘Birdlime,’ answered Alan shortly. ‘Made from the holm tree in the churchyard. I spread it on the elm one evening, and the next morning there was this pretty pigeon!’

‘Will you keep it?’

‘No, she’s trapped enough others,’ Alan said, and quickly wrung her neck, gathering up the other bodies happily. ‘A good morning.’

Jordan nodded, staring at the birds hungrily. Each one was more meat than he and his family would usually eat in a fortnight. The rabbit his father had brought back the day that Herbert died had been unique, and delicious for that very reason, although there was some pleasure in knowing that he himself had shot it. He was going to take it home, and it was simply luck that Edmund had happened along the road at that moment.