Michael JECKS: Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

‘I will see to it, sir, but first can I ask you about my tenancy?’

‘What?’ The squire cast him an irritable look. ‘You need to speak to Daniel about that.’

‘But he says I must go if I can’t pay, sir! Where can we go if you throw us off our land?’

The squire looked meaningfully at the pot by the stool. ‘Perhaps if you worked harder, you’d earn enough to keep the place, Edmund. Why should I help a family of trespassers? If you can’t keep your damned son under control, don’t expect me to help you!’

‘But, sir, think of my father and the service he gave you!’ Edmund had dropped to his knees, and now he touched the squire’s stirrup. ‘Please, sir, give me a little longer to pay’

Squire Roger glowered down at his tenant with contempt. ‘Get up, man! Your father wouldn’t have begged like a leper.’

The squire was struck with a sudden anger. This feebleminded dolt was behaving like a fool, pleading while his son was no doubt laughing behind the squire’s back, knowing he could go and play in the orchard any time the squire’s own son gave him warning. Herbert was proved to be a liar; his berner was God knew where, seeking the other brat, so Squire Roger couldn’t go hunting as he wanted – and now this wretch was clinging to his stirrup like a lovesick woman stopping her lover from riding to war.

‘Get up, I said!’ Tension was gripping his whole chest now as his rage built. Around his heart he could feel the growing tightness.

‘Please, Squire.’

‘Let go of my foot, you bastard!’

His whipper-in came forward and idly, with as little emotion as if he were flicking a fly away, brought the heavy stock of his whip down on Edmund’s head. The farmer collapsed, calling, ‘Squire, please!’

A sharp pain suddenly exploded in the squire’s head, and there was a simultaneous bursting in his chest. He couldn’t breathe: his mouth opened once, twice, but he could make no sound. There was a chill sweat springing from his forehead, and he wanted to wipe it away, but his hand was numb, while his arm was full of shooting agony; pain stabbing up and down like raking thrusts from a heavy knife. Through the horror of his sudden paralysis, he saw Edmund fall back, a gash on his forehead welling thick blood. The squire wanted to tell the whipper-in to stop, even as he saw the stock rise a second time.

For Edmund, lying stunned as the horses danced around, the sight of the weighted whip’s handle looked like the instrument of his death. A hoof caught his forehead a glancing blow, and he felt nausea rising, but before he lost consciousness, he saw Squire Roger.

The squire had gone an ashen colour – the colour of a corpse. His eyes were walled and blank, his lips blue. As Edmund watched, the squire gave a short gasp, as of infinite suffering, and toppled slowly from the saddle.

He was dead before his head struck the roadway.

‘He’s what?’ Thomas cried, and dropped his goblet. His brother, Squire Roger of Throwleigh – dead! Blood-red wine spread out in a puddle by his foot, while the gaudy gilt cup rolled off the dais and came to rest against the messenger’s foot.

‘Sir, Daniel the steward sent me to warn you. The funeral will be…’

‘Yes, yes, I heard you the first time,’ Thomas broke in impatiently, his face serious, demonstrating the correct sadness on hearing of his sibling’s death. ‘It’s awful! Poor Roger, dying like that – the manor must be in a turmoil. Well, it’s plain I must go back. You’ll need wine and food: there’s plenty in my kitchen. See my cook and get yourself vittles. I shall speak to you again before you leave. Poor Roger!’

He dismissed the man with a wave of his hand, and sat staring at the door for several minutes, hardly moving. ‘Dead!’ he exclaimed once, shaking his head, but then slapped his thigh and gave a low, wheezing laugh. ‘Dead!’

Standing, he retrieved his goblet, filled it, and held it up in a silent toast. Drinking deeply, he smacked his lips, and laughed again. ‘Oh, and here’s to my brother’s poor grieving widow, dear little Katharine, lady of the hall – but not for much longer!’ Pausing, he bellowed, ‘Nick! ’

‘Sir?’

The voice of his steward came from the screens passage, and Thomas jerked his head. ‘Come in here!’

Nicholas was a little older than his master. Short, with a leather jack stretched tightly over his broad shoulders and a face marked heavily with the pox, he looked more a man-at-arms than a bottler, which was the case. He had been a soldier for a period, until his master had taken him on as a servant, and ever since he had served Thomas loyally. He glanced at his master curiously from shrewd brown eyes.

‘Tomorrow we leave for my brother’s house in Dartmoor. Pack clothing and essentials for four weeks,’ Thomas instructed self-importantly.

‘Your brother’s? But I thought you and he hated each other,’ Nick said, his spirits falling. In his mind’s eye he could see the moors again – cold, bleak lands in which a man could die without anyone realising.

‘Ah, but my brother, the skinflint with the heart of frozen lead, has died, Nicholas. That means we may have a solution to our problems – for a nice, fat, juicy inheritance may well be flying our way. Now make haste and pack, and with any luck when we return it’ll be with my brother’s money in our purses.’

Godfrey swore under his breath and let the point of his rebated sword drop an inch or two. ‘I said hold your hand here, at the belly.’

His student, a sulky youth brought up in Italy, sneered at him: ‘It’s hardly an elegant posture, is it? My teacher in Venice told me to hold my arm out behind because it balances the body. It puts the attacker at a disadvantage, too, because he can’t see so much of the body to hit.’

‘Really? Show me, then. I’m not too old to learn.’

Godfrey returned to the outside guard, his sword hand well out to his right, blade angled upwards, so that he was peering just under the middle of the blade at his opponent, while he held his left hand out flat, low before his belly. The young man, little more than a boy, smirked happily, danced on the balls of his feet for a moment or two to ease his calves, then sprang into his imitation of the outside guard, his arm held out behind him.

It was a pose Godfrey had seen often enough with those who had stayed a while on the continent. There men preferred to look fashionable rather than fight effectively. Godfrey’s attitude was entirely pragmatic and English: if he was forced into a fight, he had one aim, and that was to win! If his left hand was dangling out behind his body, it might well give some benefit in terms of balance, but that advantage was outweighed by the fact that it left his whole left side unprotected. While he concentrated on the lad before him, Godfrey decided how to teach this simple lesson.

There was a flash. Godfrey saw the attack not so much in the movement of the blade itself, but in the sudden narrowing of the lad’s eyes as he moved his sword arm, lunging forwards with his whole body. Godfrey gave an inward sigh as he saw his pupil shift foot, hand and body in one united movement, and brought his own blade down to block it easily. He made no other move, unsure whether the stabbing manoeuvre could be a part of a feint, but his attacker pulled back, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead, and Godfrey had to suppress a groan. He had hoped that there might be a second blow concealed beneath the obvious one.

When the second stamp, lunge, stab came, Godfrey blocked the sword, then stepped quickly to his left, grabbing his opponent’s sword arm as he went. He put his foot on the boy’s forward boot and pulled. The lad was already off-balance, and this dragged him over. As he fell, Godfrey held his blade at his belly.