Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

‘But I’m thirsty!’

‘The trough is outside,’ Hugh stated implacably.

‘Shouldn’t you go and help Edgar?’

Hugh eyed him suspiciously. He credited the lad with the same deviousness as he had himself exercised when he was a young whipper-snapper and wished for wine. ‘Why should he want me? Hasn’t he got enough others to help him?’

‘Like who? They’re all at the funeral,’ Wat said, sulkily surveying the barrels arrayed in their neat lines at the wall.

‘What about Petronilla and the other serving girls?’

‘She’s gone off somewhere. Don’t know where.’

‘Well, maybe you could find her. And if you manage it quickly,’ Hugh’s voice dropped conspiratorially, ‘you’ll get a pint of something to warm you later, all right?’

With a happy grin, Wat nodded and shot through the door. Hugh sighed and patted the barrel regretfully before making his way out to the hall.

Wat tried shouting for Petronilla at the door to Lady Katharine’s solar, but there was no answer. Outside in the yard he stopped, wondering where to search first. The orchard held the demesne’s main flock, and it was possible that the maid was there, milking ewes, or she might be in the byre collecting the cows’ milk – but then she might have completed both tasks and now be in the dairy, or maybe the kitchen. Choosing the dairy as the most likely place, he scampered off to the little building at the side of the byre, next to the stable.

He searched through all the farm buildings, and found no sign of the girl. In the dairy the cows were lowing mournfully; all, he noticed, had full udders. Obviously Petronilla hadn’t been here yet. At the kitchen there was a shriek from the harassed cook telling him to clear off or he would get such a clout over the head he’d see stars at noontime. It was as Wat left the orchard, glancing up towards the moors, that he saw her at last. She was hurrying back from the direction of the common where poor Herbert had been killed.

Wat tutted to himself after wasting so much time, and trotted to the gate to intercept her.

He was waiting patiently as she approached. ‘Miss, the servants are in the hall, and would like your help to set out the tables for the party’

Her face, he saw, was troubled, and she looked at him as though she didn’t recognise him. ‘The servants? Oh, they’ll be setting out the hall, of course.’

‘Edgar wasn’t sure where your mistress would like the tables set,’ Wat said helpfully.

‘I can show him. Oh, but the cattle,’ she said distractedly, and struck her forehead with her hand. ‘I haven’t milked them yet.’

‘Miss? Miss, your hand’s all dirty’

She glanced down, and automatically wiped her hands on her apron. Her face was full of confusion. She kept glancing back the way she had come, then at the hall, then the byre, with a look so filled with worry that Wat felt quite anxious for her.

‘Miss Petronilla, don’t worry,’ he said with a mature decision. ‘You go and rinse your hands in the trough, and I shall milk the cows.’

‘Can you?’

Her evident gratitude made him swagger as he led the way through the gate. ‘I’m the son of Sir Baldwin’s cattleman; I was almost born in a byre,’ he boasted, then reflected a moment. ‘In fact, my mother said I should have been born in the pigsty, but I think she meant the byre.’

Petronilla gave a laugh and ruffled his hair. ‘Oh Wat, you make me laugh, you clot! If you’re sure, then I’d be very thankful if you could milk the cows and let them out to the field. It would give me some time to help your master’s servant. Do that for me and I’ll give you a pint of my mistress’s best ale.’

He nodded happily and scuttled off, and Petronilla went hastily to the trough to wash, carefully scooping water over her face and rubbing away any sign of the peat from the moors.

She didn’t want anyone to realise where she had been.

The mourners stood in a huddle at the church porch, united by their sense of guilt, as if their unintentional witnessing of the sudden lunacy of the lady of the manor conferred some form of complicity upon them. Jeanne and Margaret had gone to Katharine and sent Thomas packing into the churchyard. Now he stood in a corner at some distance from everyone else, staring out over the fields towards the manor house itself, lost in thought.

That look of hatred on his sister-in-law’s face had shaken him to the core. Her features had been twisted with emotion so that she was almost unrecognisable. The recollection made him shudder.

He felt the weight of people’s eyes on him, and their silent wonder. No one could have missed Katharine’s words. In the secret fastness of his mind, he cursed her, the bitch, for denouncing him like that before all the others.

‘Thomas?’

‘Oh, it’s you,’ the fat man spat. ‘I should’ve guessed you’d want to question me again, Sir Baldwin. I suppose you want to accuse me of Herbert’s murder now, is that right?’

‘Hardly. I wanted to make quite sure that you were all right,’ Baldwin said gently. ‘It must have been a great shock.’

Thomas gave him a searching look. The knight did have all quietly compassionate look about him. Feeling slightly mollified, the other gave a grunt. ‘What does it matter? I am perfectly fine. The stupid bitch doesn’t realise what a help I have been to her, but there’s nothing new in a woman not appreciating a man’s assistance.’

‘Do you have any idea why she should have made such an accusation?’ Baldwin probed. ‘She had been fine until just now – why should she suddenly turn on you like that?’

‘Damned woman. I wish I knew,’ Thomas sighed. ‘God’s blood! Why did she have to have her fit in there – in public? The rumour of it will be all over Throwleigh and up as far as Oakhampton by morning, for God’s sake. Christ’s bones! It’ll be all the news in Exeter by tomorrow night. What have I done to deserve this?’

‘She must have heard something from someone,’ said Simon. He had walked up quietly while the two were talking. ‘Somebody must have made some allegation about you. Why else should she come out with this?’

‘You could be right, Simon,’ Baldwin said, and threw a glance over his shoulder at the crowd waiting near the door. Most of them were the people from the procession from the house: van Relenghes and Godfrey, Daniel, the four labourers who had acted as pall-bearers, and some of the poor who had been hoping for money. ‘But when could they have spoken to her?’

Thomas sneered. ‘Those two were alone with her almost all morning, and most of the afternoon. No doubt it suits Sir James to slander me to her, the bastard! I’ll get even with him, somehow. I don’t care how long it takes me, but I’ll make him regret saying things about me behind my back.’

‘What could he have said?’ Baldwin asked mildly.

Thomas shot him a look. ‘Never you mind, Sir Baldwin! Just remember this, that slimy bastard is after one thing, and one thing only: her! He says he was a friend of my brother’s, yet none of the people here ever heard Roger mention him.’

‘You think he is an impostor?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Did you see him up on the moors when Herbert was killed?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! Why must you keep asking me about that!’ Thomas cried, thrusting his arms out on either side as if in despair. Then, as though accepting that the knight had little choice after the display in the church: ‘Oh, very well – what do you want to know?’

‘Was van Relenghes out on the moor when you were up there and saw Edmund ride by?’

‘Yes. I passed him when I was on my way out. He was there on horseback with that damned guard of his.’