Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

The thirteen-year-old grinned shamefacedly, a faint tinge of green lightening his features. ‘I didn’t realise how strong it was.’

‘Now you know,’ said Hugh not unkindly, ‘you can clear up the mess out there.’ He passed the boy a bucket and old cloth he had found lying in the yard.

‘He’s not a bad fellow,’ Edgar mused.

‘No, he’s going to be a fine lad. Likes his drink – but who doesn’t?’

Edgar forbore to mention his own master’s ambivalence to alcohol. He ran his fingers through his hair, caught a short yawn, and stretched himself like a cat. ‘Time to go.’

Hugh nodded, but before Edgar walked back indoors, he stood a few minutes and watched as the sun lit the eastern sky. It was impressive, with deep purples and golds lighting the country all about them. Hugh knew that Edgar never failed to enjoy this hour of the day; the knight’s servant was geared to early mornings. For Hugh himself, there was infinitely more pleasure in sleeping late and enjoying the night-time.

Still, as he turned and made his way back to the hall, he had to admit to himself that the morning was almost perfect. The birds chattered and sang in the trees, the rooks chuckling and calling as they preened and readied themselves for the day’s excitement. A dog came out from the kennels, sniffed at a wall and cocked its leg before sauntering off to the kitchen, outside which it sat hopefully, scratching and throwing longing looks at the closed door every now and again.

Another dog barked, and there was the sound of horses stamping in their stalls in the stables. Hearing a door slam, Hugh sighed. The place was alive now, and he should get on with helping the other servants. The guests and household would be heading for the vill soon, to witness the Dirige and the burial of the boy.

‘A fine morning, sir,’ came a voice at his side, and Hugh found that Godfrey had joined him.

‘Pleasant enough,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Your master still abed?’

‘If he could, I think he’d remain there all day. Had too much to drink last night.’

Hugh nodded. The Fleming’s face had become very flushed as he drank the strong red wine last night, and when it was time for him to retire, he had required his guard’s help to negotiate the doorway. ‘You worked for him long?’

Godfrey stretched his arms high over his head, then shook his head. He planted his feet a shoulder’s width apart and began to sway first one way then the other, twisting his torso to and fro. ‘He found me in town. Oh, good morning, Bailiff.’

‘Don’t stop on my account,’ said Simon.

‘Nay, Bailiff. I have work to be getting on with.’

‘Protecting your master? But why does he need you at his side all the time? Isn’t he safe enough in the hall?’

Godfrey’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘You haven’t guessed, then? Ah, and I thought the Bailiff of Lydford was clever!’ Chuckling, he made his way back to the door.

Hugh scowled after him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean, eh?’

‘I wonder,’ said Simon pensively. He was about to follow the man inside when a wholly ridiculous idea struck him, and he paused. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘That can’t be right. No.’ And still looking thoughtful, he went indoors.

Baldwin was sure he had never experienced a more doleful service than this. He stood with his wife and Simon and Margaret at the graveside, and watched the little shape being slowly lowered. Herbert’s grave was right next to his father’s, which made this morning’s service even more poignant. Roger’s grave was large, especially now it was filled, for the mound of soil at the top made it look even bigger, while the child’s was tiny by comparison. One could almost imagine that Squire Roger was already in Heaven, but his son’s dismal resting-place made Baldwin think of every story he had ever heard about Hell.

The little form reached the bottom. There was no coffin. He lay, a small figure wrapped in a linen winding sheet, and Baldwin saw his mother wince as the first shovelfuls were tossed on top of him, one striking the boy full in the face. Sobbing, she turned from the scene and stumbled away.

Daniel again was at one side of her, while Anney was at the other. Baldwin watched them walk the short distance to the churchyard gate, and thence to the road. When he turned, the priest was already slipping back inside his church. The knight was about to go after him when he decided to wait. It was too soon after the burial; surely it would be more considerate to leave the man with his thoughts for a while. He would be praying for the boy still.

‘Oi! Get out of here, you little sod!’

Baldwin snapped around to see the furious Thomas hurling a stone at a lad a little taller than Wat. Fair-haired, and with that golden complexion so prevalent among the Saxons, Baldwin instantly registered his striking similarity to the servant, Anney. This must be Alan, her boy.

The missile struck the lad’s chest with an audible thud, and Baldwin tutted to himself. He saw Thomas pick up another large stone, and called out, ‘Hold on, Thomas. The lad’s not here to make mischief, I’ll be bound.’

‘You don’t know him,’ Thomas shouted, taking aim.

‘I doubt whether you do, either,’ said Baldwin unruffled, as he took hold of Thomas’s arm and held it there. ‘You, boy. What are you doing here? Should I release my friend’s arm and let him assault you?’

‘I only wanted to see Herbert being buried, sir. I didn’t want to upset anyone.’

‘Come here.’

Alan was even more like his mother close to. His countenance was that of a child, but one who has aged prematurely: his face was too thin for his age, his eyes too large for his face. Baldwin had seen that look of pinched hunger before, but not commonly here in Devon where even during the abject misery of the famine people generally had been able to produce enough to live.

‘You are Anney’s boy?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the boy said. Although he and Jordan had decided to tell all to this knight, Alan had expected Jordan to be with him. Now, alone with Baldwin, Alan was nervous of him. Baldwin held such high authority; he was a Keeper, and a man who could afford the best linen for his tablecloth and the finest ‘paindemaigne’ – bread made from purest white flour – to go on it, instead of the heavy, rye-filled loaves that Alan and the villagers had to eat. Alan decided to hold his tongue until he could speak to Baldwin with Jordan to back up his tale.

‘Herbert was your friend, wasn’t he?’ Baldwin confirmed, and when Alan nodded, he glanced towards the gravedigger, who was assiduously filling the small hole. ‘It is a great shame that he should have died so young.’

Alan felt his eyes brimming, and rubbed them on his sleeve, sniffing loudly. ‘It’s not fair,’ he declared.

‘This is ridiculous, talking to a villein’s son! What good will it do, eh? A waste of time,’ Thomas spat, hurling his stone aside and stamping off to join the congregation at the gate.

Baldwin ignored him and walked with the boy to the wattle fence at the edge of the yard, leaning on it and staring out over the trees to the massive hill beyond. ‘What isn’t fair, Alan?’

‘Him being killed like that. Herbert was a good friend to me and Jordan.’

‘Jordan?’

‘He’s Edmund’s son.’

‘Oh, Edmund’s boy,’ said Baldwin thoughtfully. ‘Is he as old as you?’

‘No, he’s quite a lot younger,’ said Alan with the scathing contempt of a child for an adult making an obvious mistake. ‘He’s only nine: I’m nearly eleven.’

‘I see,’ said Baldwin, restraining a smile. ‘And he was playing with you and Herbert when Herbert was killed?’