Michael JECKS: Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

With that Squire Roger shook his head. It must be a rumour. If it were true, someone would have proof. Rumours were always rife about men who wore the cloth; nobody believed a man could renounce the pleasures of the flesh. Ignorant peasants were prepared to believe the most lurid stories about the libidinous exploits of priests, rather than accept that they might be able to stick to their oaths of chastity. No, it had to be a rumour, and the squire wouldn’t give it any credence.

Clattering into the village, he felt the pain clamping around his heart again, increasing with the prospect of the imminent confrontation. The tightness had been getting worse for some weeks now. He had known it when he was still a young man, back in the days of the French and Welsh wars, when he had boldly followed Sir Reginald behind the King’s banner. Then, excitement had led to a similar tautness within his breast as he spurred his horse on to battle.

Of course, that was all many years ago now. King Edward was dead and in his grave, and his lacklustre son, Edward II, had taken the throne. The squire hawked and spat with contempt. Cocking his leg over his horse’s withers, he rested his elbow on his knee and cupped his chin as he considered his King with a sour revulsion.

All the auguries were good for King Edward II’s reign: he had inherited subjects who were at peace with each other, a well-filled Exchequer and a contented kingdom – and yet since 1307 when he became King he had squandered them all. His men he had thrown away in the ruinous battles with the Scots, especially at Bannockburn; his money had been frittered away in foolish company with actors, singers and labourers; and the contentment of his kingdom was destroyed by stories of his fondness for the men in his court.

More rumours, Roger noted heavily. Lazy fools with nothing better to do would often slander their betters, and yet Roger himself didn’t doubt that much said about the King was true. He recalled how Edward had rewarded his very close friend Gaveston, creating him Earl of Cornwall, and since Gaveston’s death at the hand of the Earl of Warwick, the King had transferred his affections to young Hugh Despenser, another man whom Roger viewed askance. The Despenser family was keen to expand its influence and gain more land and power, and the ruthless, acquisitive young Hugh was even now imposing his will on the Welsh lords in an attempt to win for himself the title of Earl.

This was the world his son had to survive in, Roger reflected sadly. If he could stay alive, perhaps he could protect his boy: employ a good master of weapons to show him how to physically defend himself; find a politically aware scholar to teach him how to keep himself safe from barons like the Despensers, who would otherwise steal his lands and property.

But the squire knew he wouldn’t be around for much longer. All he could do was try to ensure that his son was shielded from some of the most obvious dangers.

At least his wife would be able to advise their boy, he reminded himself. Katharine was capable of protecting herself and Herbert. Thinking of her brought a smile to his face. To him, their marriage still seemed little short of a miracle. His sole regret was knowing that he must leave her alone to fend for herself and their son. The certainty of their separation, until they could meet again in Heaven, made his spirits fall whenever his thoughts turned that way.

Reaching the vill, he forced himself to throw off his dejection. The church stood alone under the looming height of the hills, while the houses and cottages huddled below it as if seeking some warmth from each other, like a pack of hounds curling up together against the cold. Some of the places had drifts of smoke wisping from them, all magically swept away with each fresh gust of wind. The road was thick with mud and dung from horse and cattle, and the squire swore as a gobbet of green-brown cow’s muck splattered on his tunic. He brought his leg back down to his stirrup and spurred to a slow canter.

The first of the houses he must visit was out at the northern edge, and he knew his way there only too well. He had been there often enough before.

It was little more than a shack. The whitewash had worn away from the walls, exposing the cob to the elements, and the mud mixture had been washed off it in large runnels. Without a man, it was hard for her to keep the cottage maintained, Roger reflected. He could see the dilapidation all around. The thatch was thin, sunken, moss-covered and holed by nesting birds; the door was crooked, and dragged on the ground, scraping an arc in the dirt; one shutter was almost off its hinges. Anney, the serf who lived here, was fortunate in having work at the squire’s hall, for without it, since her man’s dereliction, she would be reliant solely on the generosity of her neighbours.

‘Alan,’ he bellowed as he stopped outside her door, ‘where are you, boy? Alan!’ There was no reply, and the squire scowled. ‘Where is the little devil?’

The berner gave a quiet cough. ‘I think he’s in the fields, scaring the birds.’

‘Well, Berner, you go and find the bastard and give him four lashes from your whip, all right? We’ll go and see the other lad.’

The squire jerked his horse’s head round and set off unwillingly to Edmund’s farm. He didn’t want to see Edmund; not now he’d told the fellow he was to be thrown off his land.

Edmund was drunk. There was nothing new in that, but today he was less bitter in his cups than usual; today he was maudlin, more keen on bemoaning his fate than blaming others for it. His wife was relieved because it meant she was less likely to suffer a beating, but their problems weren’t going to go away. Edmund sat on his three-legged stool at the door, his pot in his hand, drinking slowly. There was much to consider, for Edmund was about to be evicted from his home and his lands. Another man had offered money for the tenancy of his little parcel of land, and Edmund couldn’t better the offer, not after the last few years.

If he had been a philosopher, Edmund would have blamed fate, but as it was he had no doubt about who was responsible for this disaster: his lord, Squire Roger.

Hearing yelping, he stared down the road in a lacklustre manner. Soon he realised it must be a large pack of hounds – and there was only one man in many miles who could have such a number of beasts for hunting. Suddenly Edmund’s mouth went dry: the squire must be coming already to throw him from the land!

He stood, spilling ale, and gazed up the road with a quick fear, expecting to see an army of retainers, but a moment’s reflection made him calm down, and he shakily set his pot on the ground. It wasn’t the quarter day, that wasn’t for two more weeks, and Steward Daniel had promised he had until then to find the money. Still, as the noise came closer, he was convinced that this must be his squire. Braced with a new resolution, Edmund stepped forward until he was in the roadway. He would beg.

He had no choice. There was no way he could find the extra money. He had nothing to sell, neither produce from his land nor goods he had made, and any money he had saved had already gone on essentials. The squire was a kindly man – Edmund’s father had often said so – so surely Squire Roger would look favourably on him, the son of his favourite man-at-arms?

Licking his lips nervously, Edmund glanced longingly at his pot, but before he could fill it, Squire Roger cantered into view, his hounds at his horse’s hooves.

‘Where’s your boy, Edmund?’

Edmund blinked. ‘Jordan? He’s off playing somewhere, I think – with Alan, I expect. Squire, may I speak to you? I have a favour to beg, and…’

‘Silence! Just tell me where he is,’ Roger snapped. ‘He was in my orchard this morning and I want him punished.’