Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

But all the time his attention was fixed on Nicholas. Hugh walked around the fallen men, his staff pointing at the wary survivor, who gripped his sword with both hands, staring in fascination at the point of the stave as it moved slowly, from side to side, then up and down, at no time more than a few feet from his own neck.

Nicholas had been in many fights, but never had he been foolish enough to stand against a man with a staff when he only had a sword. A wooden pole was of little use in the hands of someone who had no idea how to use it, but a man who was skilled with a pole was always at an advantage against a man with a sword. As the iron-shod point of the thick oaken stick darted to his left, Nicholas instinctively moved the blade to guard his side. The jarring shock of the two weapons colliding was enough to make him wince.

All at once the point swung low, aiming at his knees, and he had to leap back, away from his men. He had hoped that one would get up and help him, or that this furious little servant would stumble on one of them, but now even that vain hope was taken from him. Nicholas knew he was going to lose, and when he did, he would have no defence unless his master admitted ordering him to attack.

‘It was my master!’ he shouted. ‘I was ordered to wound the Fleming because of what he said about my master.’

‘So what?’ demanded Hugh, and poked the stick forward again, this time aiming at Nicholas’s chest. The blow was badly timed, and easily blocked, but with a weapon of little more than two feet long, Nicholas couldn’t take the advantage, not against a staff of nearly six feet. It was hopeless.

Hugh had his measure, and he began to strike faster: first at his left, then his right; up towards Nicholas’s head, down at his ankles; back towards his shoulders, down to thrust at his belly, all the time pressing forward, never allowing Nicholas time to relax from a blow before the next was in motion, never allowing him a moment to catch his breath, constantly seeking an opening, shoving forward.

It wasn’t that Hugh had a desire to hurt the man, but since he had become involved in a fight which was not of his making, Hugh was determined to win it.

The end was not long in coming. Nicholas saw the attack at his head, saw the pole move from right to left as if Hugh was going to swing at the other side of his head at the last moment, moved his sword, and then, just too late, saw that the staff wasn’t where it should have been: instead it was coming straight towards his face.

As the stave struck Nicholas’s nose and the man jerked backwards to lie unconscious on the ground, Simon gave a loud guffaw and applauded vigorously. He strode to his servant’s side, clapping him on the back as he stood glowering breathlessly at his victims. ‘Well done, Hugh!’

The bailiff and Baldwin had been among the first to rush from the hall to see what Hugh meant by his seizure of the staff, and they had witnessed almost the whole fight. When Baldwin had put his hand to his own sword, Simon had shaken his head; he had seen Hugh fighting against larger numbers before now, and the sight of his man knocking over all the fellows from Thomas’s entourage was no surprise to him. An English farmer’s son soon learned to protect himself from all predators.

Baldwin glanced about him at the men lying all around, one or two groaning, Nicholas snuffling and shaking his head, still stupefied by his broken nose. ‘Yes, you fought well – but what was it all about?’

Hugh leaned on his borrowed staff, trying to catch his breath. ‘They were holding the Fleming so he couldn’t fight back, and that’s not right, sir. When I tried to get them to free him, they threatened me, and shoved me away, so I got angry.’ He gazed about him, his spirits sinking a little as he realised how many witnesses there had been to his fight. At Sir Baldwin’s side was his wife, and Hugh saw Jeanne was staring at him with open-eyed astonishment. ‘Well, they shouldn’t have pushed me,’ he said grumpily.

‘The steward said his master had ordered him to attack van Relenghes, didn’t he?’ said Simon.

Thomas stood listening at the step to the hall, his features strained and pale. His face told the story only too well: he had never conceived that the Fleming could have survived. Of course, van Relenghes had his guard, but Godfrey was a mercenary, not someone who’d risk his neck against overwhelming odds like this. Thomas had assumed the Fleming would lose.

‘It was nothing to do with me. The man was lying.’

‘Your servant, Thomas?’ Simon said disbelievingly. ‘He’d tell such a lie against you?’

‘Of course he did! Probably wanted to rob the Fleming,’ said Thomas.

‘What did you tell your man to do?’ Simon asked him. He had walked nearer, and now stood staring down at the Fleming. Van Relenghes’s face was covered in gore, and Simon glanced at Petronilla, who gave a shiver, but nodded, and went to the trough to fill a bucket. She began cleaning his wound, a long gash from ear to nostril.

Thomas felt a stab of satisfaction. Nicholas had done his job well, no matter that he had given the game away afterwards. Thomas had insisted that his man should ruin the Fleming’s good looks, and that scar alone would succeed. Many women like their men to have marks on their faces, but this one would permanently damage his handsome features. Thomas heard the bailiff speak again, and glanced up.

‘I said, what did you order your man to do?’ Simon demanded. ‘Look at him! Why did you order him to wound a guest in this house?’

‘I can answer that, I think, Bailiff.’ Lady Katharine descended the steps, her finger pointed accusingly at her brother-in-law.

‘This was how Thomas, my dear brother, tried to honour the memory of my husband and my son. He ordered the punishment of this man on the day of my son’s funeral just so he could have his revenge on the one who betrayed his secret to me.’

Thomas made a feeble little gesture, which vaguely indicated the people about him. ‘My lady, surely – um – we should talk about this in private. There’s no need to discuss family affairs in the open with servants and villeins to witness it all.’

‘Why should we not discuss it here? This is my home, Thomas!’ she snapped.

‘No, Lady. It is mine! And I choose not to speak of such matters in the court like a serf begging alms. If you wish to talk to me, I shall be inside.’

So saying, Thomas gathered his pride to him like a man trying to wrap himself up in a tattered and shredded cloak. He gave Simon a cold glance, up and down, and strode up the stairs, past the lady and into the hall. A second or two later Godfrey appeared, blinking and rubbing an ugly bruise on his temple.

As if in general agreement that the entertainment was over, the crowd began to disperse, some laughing, many winking and grinning at Hugh, who suddenly realised he was still gripping Daniel’s staff of office. He shamefacedly lowered his head, walked to the steward and passed it to him with a mumbled word of regret for taking it so rudely.

‘Don’t dare to apologise,’ Daniel said, struggling not to laugh. ‘After what I’ve seen today, you’re welcome to it whenever you need it. What a fight! I swear I haven’t seen such a staff-fight since the Welsh wars!’ He clapped Hugh on the back. ‘And for protecting the manor’s guest, whatever the greasy little bugger may be like, you deserve the thanks of all of us here. Come inside and drink wine with me, friend. I’d hate to think you were my enemy, after all!’

But before returning to the hall, Hugh went to Petronilla, still squatting at the side of the Fleming. Godfrey was assisting her, holding a damp cloth to the bloody cut, while the girl gently wiped at the clots on the man’s face. He lay quite still, his face a perfect mask of pain.