Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

‘I doubt whether that’s his aim. More likely he just fancies a tumble with her.’

Thomas nodded, and seeing the Fleming at the hall’s door, he sent Nicholas away. Now he thought about it, van Relenghes’s behaviour was easily explained away by this simple inference, and Thomas felt oddly put out, as though he had been slighted. There was a principle at stake here, and Thomas was Lady Katharine’s legal guardian now that he was master of the lands. If this Low Country adventurer wanted to roll in the grass with her, he could cause plenty of embarrassment for Thomas.

Making a snap decision, Thomas crossed the yard.

James van Relenghes smiled and nodded his head with mild courtesy as Thomas approached, but Thomas barely acknowledged him, stating immediately: ‘Sir, I am afraid I must decline your offer to buy the land north of here.’

‘But I had hoped…’

‘I know what you’d hoped. It has to do with my sister-in-law, and I tell you now, sir, it won’t do! Not in my house. You would demean her and my family? I say, not in my house!’

Van Relenghes’s face froze. ‘Of what exactly am I being accused?’

Thomas opened his mouth, but before he could speak, he was aware of Godfrey standing behind his master. There was no weapon in his hand, yet he radiated preparedness. His master had lowered his brows until they were an unbroken line of frowning malice above his eyes.

‘You don’t scare me, Sir James!’ Thomas lied. ‘I’m aware of the advances you are attempting with my brother’s widow, and it won’t do! I won’t sell you my land, so your business here is done.’

Like many cowardly men, van Relenghes enjoyed seeing fear in others, and bullying those weaker than himself. To him Thomas looked like a frightened little mouse, and he had to restrain the urge to laugh. Little mouse; little man. He was pathetic. ‘I am here at the invitation of your sister-in-law, not you. You could, naturally, try to throw me from the premises, but then I would be within my rights to defend myself,’ he said, and tapped his sword hilt meaningfully.

Thomas recoiled, almost tripping over the bottom step. ‘You draw that, and I’ll have you cut into pieces, you bastard!’

‘You threaten me again, Thomas, and I’ll challenge you. Would you like that?’ van Relenghes said, slowly pacing after him as Thomas retreated. ‘Well – would you? I was a soldier while you were still puking at your mother’s breast; I fought for your King in France with your brother while you cried at scratching your knee; I could draw now and take off your head before you saw my sword leave its scabbard. I shall say this only once, Thomas: I am here to pay my respects to your sister, not you. I shall stay here as long as that lady requires my presence, as a matter of honour and courtesy, and if you or anyone else tries to evict me, I will – I will – protect myself and her.’

He watched as the merchant scuttled past and darted into the hall. Godfrey hadn’t moved, and the Fleming walked past him, his face carefully blank, and into the hall after the manor’s new master.

Only then did Godfrey shake his head, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Neatly done, Sir James. Now you’ve upset your host. What can that achieve?’

Baldwin’s thumb did not hurt, it was completely dead to all sensation, but as he surveyed the land ahead, he meditatively sucked at it, certain that it would start to throb before long.

They had gone all the way up to the top of the hill following this track, and now both were carefully studying the ground.

‘Well, Baldwin?’ Simon asked at last.

‘I have no idea,’ admitted the knight frankly. ‘It looks like three separate paths through the ferns, which have met here, at this larger patch.’

The rain was now only a feeble reminder of the recent downpour, but it still trickled unmercifully down Baldwin’s face from his soaked hair. He gave the heavens a black look. ‘It’s ridiculous to remain here guessing. Let’s make our way back.’

He motioned down to the stream, and Simon nodded.

‘And on the way,’ Baldwin continued, waving his hand, ‘I’ll clean this up in the stream.’

Their path to the water was slippery down the steep slope, but at least it wasn’t far. Soon they were at the bottom, and Baldwin saw that they had arrived back at the same plateau they had seen earlier.

‘What are you doing here?’ Brother Stephen demanded, getting up from his seat on a rock.

‘Brother, I am glad to see you,’ Baldwin said disingenuously. ‘We were walking about here when the rain set in, and weren’t sure which way to go, and then I fell and did this.’

The priest stared at him, and Baldwin was struck by his expression. The long, regular, feminine features were twisted, the brilliant eyes red and raw, while the cheeks were pale and scratched in places. He looked like a man who had peered into the pits of hell. However, as his gaze fell on Baldwin’s thumb, a semblance of his normal self took over as he helped Baldwin to the bank of the stream and made him dip the thumb deep in the cool water.

Baldwin was grateful for his care, but couldn’t help glancing speculatively down while the priest helped him, and then he found it very hard to drag his attention away from the two prints lying side-by-side on the damp soil: the prints of his shoe next to the nearly identical ones of the monk.

Alan and Jordan skirted round the outer wall of the orchard before they could at last stand up straight once more. They trotted off towards their village, and spoke not a word until they came to Edmund’s house. Here Alan took the small bundle from the younger boy.

‘I’ll keep this at home in case he tries anything.’

Jordan nodded. His friend’s face was pale in the gloomy light, and after what had happened to them over the last few days, that was no surprise. Now, with this evidence to prove the cleric’s crime, at least they should be safe from his vengeance. Jordan had suffered beatings from many in the vill before, but no one had assaulted him with the same violence as Brother Stephen.

Jordan watched Alan scuff his way slowly through the dirt to the door of his cottage. It was late morning now, and Jordan’s belly was rumbling.

Christiana would have his pottage ready: a bowl of cabbage and onion, garlic and leek, boiled with a few of the remaining dried peas from the last year’s crop. Apart from the rabbit he’d shot, there had been no meat since Candlemas.

He had been fortunate – God, he was lucky! – on the day that the squire had dropped from his horse. Everyone had been so busy rushing around wondering what to do, no one had had time to execute Squire Roger’s last expressed wish to see Jordan beaten.

At the time he had been out in the shaw behind the house trying to clean some of the mud from his knees and feet. He’d heard the noise of horses, then the rasping voice of the squire, and he’d quickly sneaked round to the front of the house. He’d immediately thought that his father was in trouble – about to be arrested.

The altercation that followed was terrifying. Here was the man whom the whole village went in fear of, the most powerful man any of them was ever likely to meet, and he was calling for him, Jordan, to be punished. Yet the boy could cope with that. A thrashing was only a momentary thing; a few rubs and the pain dissipated. No, worse was seeing his father struck senseless as the whipper-in obeyed the squire’s command.

The boy did not idolise his father, but Edmund was his liege. It had been oddly galling to see him resorting to pleading with the squire, and worse to see him collapse as he was knocked aside.

Now Jordan was home. He paused at the door. His father had been drinking sulkily ever since that day, and the more he drank, the more the family suffered. Since the news of their pending eviction, he had taken to thrashing Christiana or the children at the slightest provocation.