Michael JECKS: Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

‘Damn you, Squire Roger of Throwleigh, damn you, your poxy brother Thomas, and all your line. May you all burn in hellfire for eternity!’

Squire Roger watched his son being dragged away with mixed feelings of guilt and irritation.

It was high time Herbert grew up. He was five, old enough to be sent to a household to learn the twin crafts of courtesy and war. A place for him had been confirmed at the home of Sir Reginald of Hatherleigh, and there, Squire Roger was sure, the lad would mature well. Sir Reginald was known to be a firm disciplinarian.

The squire strolled to his horse. His pack of harriers were ready, milling round the yard and making the horses whisk their tails irritably. His berner, the master of hounds, and his whipper-in were mounted and waiting. Squire Roger hesitated; when he’d seen the boys in the orchard he’d been about to set off hunting, yet now he must delay his sport to seek the culprits. It was frustrating: for a moment he was tempted to forget the whole thing.

His horse gave a skittish dance, and the squire bit back a curse, hauling the reins to cow the beast. The cause was his son’s shriek, coming from the chapel’s open shutters high overhead. In the court the cries were pitiable, each interspersed with the solid crack of a stiffened leather strap.

Squire Roger peered up indecisively. Herbert’s suffering appeared to make further retribution unnecessary. He’d almost decided to leave the matter and ride for the chase when he caught a glimpse of a figure hurrying towards him and gave an inward groan. It was his wife, and he knew the line she would take.

‘Husband, the priest is beating Herbert again!’ she cried.

‘My dear, I told him to. Our boy lied to me.’

Lady Katharine listened as he explained what had happened. ‘But he is so young still,’ she protested. ‘He’s only five.’

‘If he’s old enough to lie, he’s old enough to feel the strap.’

‘When all he did was try to protect others?’

Her words made his doubts return. ‘What would you have me do, Lady? Ignore his lies?’ he demanded gruffly.

‘You could at least catch the boys who were with him, and make sure that every welt on our son’s backside is felt by those whom he defended,’ she pointed out.

Squire Roger glanced at his berner, who studiously avoided meeting his look, and finally gave an exasperated grunt. ‘Oh, very well, woman! I’ll go to the vill and chastise the brats, but you realise this will ruin my morning? Why I should have to waste my time on trivial issues like this, I hardly know, but since you demand it, I suppose I must comply’

He mounted, cocking an eye at the open window as another cry burst out, and whirled his horse round. His wife called to him, and he hesitated for a fraction of a moment, long enough to acknowledge her raised hand. Then, slowly, her mouth widened in a broad smile and over his irritation he felt his heart beat faster with love for her.

He grinned in return, then trotted over to her, took her by the shoulder, and kissed her. Bowing from the waist, he made her a mock salute before pointing his horse’s head to the gate and setting off to the little vill.

Alan stopped panting, swallowing hard as he tried to listen over his thudding heart. ‘Shut up!’

His accomplice, Jordan, gave him a hurt look. ‘How can I stop breathing? You get me to run as fast as I can, it’s only normal to want to breathe afterwards.’

‘Shut up, or I’ll make you!’ Alan threatened, the light of battle shining in his eyes.

Seeing his clenched fists, Jordan subsided, scuffing his bare toes in the dirt beside the road, mumbling to himself. He didn’t see why Alan should always try to lord it over him. There might be two years between them, but Jordan knew he was just as mature as his friend.

‘Shut up, I said!’ Alan hissed.

Jordan would never forget this day, nor the terror of being chased by the squire. As soon as they’d heard his voice they’d taken to their heels. Squire Roger was a figure of immense awe. He owned the land and the people on it. Fabulously wealthy, he needed three shelves on his sideboard just to show all his plates and jugs. Whenever Jordan thought of the man, that was the first thing that sprang to mind, the stunning amount of money Squire Roger must have in order to acquire so many beautiful pieces. He’d heard it rumoured that some were silver as well – real, solid silver!

He could just see the manor from here – a massive grey block on the side of the hill above them. Glancing towards it, Jordan felt a shudder pass down his back. It’d been very close that time. He’d been so sure he could hear the squire’s horse pounding after them as he pelted along behind Alan; he could imagine the rider, his arm raised, the whip in his hand, ready to bring it down on their heads.

It was all Alan’s fault, Jordan thought moodily. Just because he was that little bit older, he thought he could get away with anything. Sometimes Jordan felt that although he was only nine, he was quicker to recognise potential danger than his friend. And now they were both in for a thrashing, thanks to Alan’s stupidity – Jordan had never wanted to see the lambs in the orchard in the first place.

‘I don’t think they’re following,’ Alan said hopefully.

Jordan snorted in derision. ‘You reckon he didn’t see us? What – when he bellowed like that?’

‘He may not’ve realised who we were.’

‘How many boys are there in the village?’ Jordan asked scathingly.

‘Well, I don’t hear his horses, do you?’ Alan challenged.

Jordan scowled with disgust, and he pointed. Alan spun around and saw the squire’s men leaving the gate. He gave a small sigh of resignation. ‘Oh. That’s that, then!’

Anney, maidservant to Lady Katharine, quietly closed the door to the chapel and made her way down the spiral staircase. She had seen it all, the boy being dragged inside, his stubborn refusal to bend over the priest’s knee, the sudden slap Brother Stephen had aimed at his face to make him obey, the ripping of his shirt and hose while his hands were firmly gripped by the man of God, who stared at his altar with a kind of wondering fervour before wielding the heavy strap on the child’s bare buttocks.

It was with the greatest difficulty that she managed to keep the grin of delight from her face.

Any pain inflicted on the boy who had killed her son was welcome.

The ride to Throwleigh was only short, but the squire was of a mind to dawdle. Although it was a trivial little incident, the recent scene had brought his son to the forefront of his mind, and the squire was growing anxious on his boy’s behalf.

It wasn’t the lie in particular: his son was only young, and children had a different view of the world. No, Herbert was cause for concern because of the squire himself. He was old – almost fifty – and soon must be dead. Many heirs met with fatal accidents while still young, when those around them could sniff a potential profit from their death, and Roger knew there were several who might consider their lives enhanced by Herbert’s absence.

The priest should be able to help defend the boy but there, too, was a problem. Stephen was reliable, and Sir Reginald’s letter introducing him had been glowing: Sir Reginald had used the tall, pale, ascetic priest as tutor for his own sons, and the cleric’s firm discipline had been enough even for that strict knight. In any case, once Sir Reginald had recommended Stephen, it was impossible for his squire to refuse the honour of being granted the same teacher who had taught the knight’s own sons.

And yet there was a worrying enthusiasm in the way Stephen set about ‘chastising’ his charge; he seemed to take delight in beating any disobedience or misbehaviour out of Herbert and his friends. There was that story Roger had heard about him…