Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

‘What do you think? What do boys usually do? Herbert had his sling in his hand and probably fired a bullet from it at the priest’s arse, just in jest – and no more would have been said or done if Stephen was an ordinary man.’

Baldwin leaned back with an exasperated sigh. ‘Anney, you like to hint at things, but please come to the point. You say he’s no ordinary man, but what do you mean by it?’

She sat up exultantly. ‘You ask me what sort of man he is, and I’ll tell you: he’s a sodomite, a pederast! He likes little boys, he likes to…’

Simon held up his hand and talked over her even as her face became flushed with a fierce kind of joy at relating the accusation she had heard with such horror such a short time ago.

‘Anney, be silent! This is a very serious allegation indeed, you realise? If you are inventing this, if you have no proof, you could be in very grave danger for accusing a man in holy orders. Think, woman! If this is mere villainous gossip, hold your tongue! Don’t force us to record your thoughts if they are based on nothing more than speculation.’

‘Speculation! ’ she spat. ‘Do you think it is speculation when your own son comes home crying because a cleric has beaten him black and blue in the street? Is it guesswork when you witness the man thrashing a five-year-old in his chapel? I saw him – the day the squire died, I saw Stephen beating Herbert in his chapel, before his altar! This priest is evil! He has unnatural lusts, and tries to force the boys of the vill to give themselves to him. He beats them because it satisfies a wicked desire in him!’

There was no doubting the sincerity of her tone. She had leaned forward in her desperate desire to convince, and her eyes met Baldwin’s with an almost frightening intensity.

He didn’t know what to believe. That the woman was quite sure in her own mind that this was true he had no doubt, but that was different from knowing that her apparently wild denunciations were correct. She was picking at the sleeves of her tunic, worrying at the hems, trying to pull a thread free, and when it was, tugging at another. Her face looked careworn, he thought, and her body, although wide and strong-looking, was too thin. In her face the eyes stood out with unnatural brightness, as if all the power of the body were held within them.

It was the face of a woman pursuing her enemy: a man who had threatened her remaining child. She would accuse Brother Stephen of anything to protect her boy. Baldwin hadn’t noticed her singlemindedness before, and he blamed himself for that. The two deaths in Lady Katharine’s family had forced him to concentrate on the poor woman who sat in front of Anney now rather than the maid herself.

He concentrated on Anney, and was not reassured by what he saw. Her eagerness to see the priest ruined before his whole congregation, and her desire to convince Simon and him of the priest’s guilt, were quite hideous.

Seeing his musing stare, she suddenly stood and faced him.

‘Don’t trust to my word: ask him! Make him swear on his Bible, make him come and question him,’ she demanded. ‘Let him try to preserve his reputation! Make the pervert stand up to someone who dares confront him with his evil sins!’

The object of their enquiry was at that moment kneeling solemnly before the altar in his little chapel. He finished praying, rose, kissed the cross which adorned his stole, and removed it. He was filled with a feeling of melancholy.

His despondency had started on the day that the master had died. It had begun badly, when that young devil Herbert had so wilfully misbehaved, but from then things had grown steadily worse. Petronilla had been waiting for him after he had beaten the boy here in the chapel, and he had been surprised at the expression of horror on her face, and of course he hadn’t the faintest idea why at the time. He’d explained that he had been instructed to thrash the child, but that hadn’t helped.

And when Anney with her pinched, suspicious face had appeared, leading Herbert away and demanding Stephen’s presence in the hall, Petronilla had quietly insisted on arranging a tryst. Her doggedness had first alarmed, and then positively scared him. God knew what the bitch might get up to if he didn’t, so he’d agreed, and they had arranged a day to meet up near the stream where they had gone so often before. That was the day Master Herbert had died…

Stephen thrust his alb and stole into his chest and shut the lid, his lips pursed. He knew it was wrong of him to have felt such loathing for the boy, even if he only acknowledged it in the privacy of his own mind, but he couldn’t help but despise Herbert. Especially after what he’d done to the priest that day.

Just because the boy had died, Stephen was prepared to pray for him, as his mother desired, but he had no intention of keeping his own feelings hidden from his God. The child had caused the death of his father – of that Stephen was quite convinced – and had deserved his end, the barbarous little villain!

Squire Roger may not have been the ideal, God-fearing, learned and cultured lord that Stephen could have wished for, but for all his faults he was a kindly and generous man. Now, all because of that mendacious little swine, he was dead, and it was unlikely, from what Stephen had seen of Thomas, that his services would be required for much longer. Soon he would be forced to move to Exeter, or perhaps further afield.

He closed his eyes, and slowly sank onto his wooden chest, breathing deeply to control the anxiety he felt at this reflection. It was so hard, to be forced to find a new situation at his age. God only knew how far he would have to travel to find himself somewhere to live. And it was all because of that damned Herbert!

He was about to go to his private chamber and sit in quiet meditation when he heard a light tapping at his door. On opening it, he was surprised to see the knight’s servant.

‘Sir, would you come with me to the hall, please?’

Alan was as scared as Jordan, but he swallowed hard and carried on walking towards the hall. The bustle all about them was unnerving, especially when men leading horses walked past swearing at them, or riders cursed at them for wandering so slowly. This was a busy, working manor, and people had too much to do to want to stand aside for youngsters.

Jordan saw one groom staring at them suspiciously, and was glad that he’d left his sling behind. He was sure he recognised the man as one of his targets from the week before, and averted his gaze quickly. It would be humiliating to be captured and beaten now, just when they were trying to hand in the evidence that would destroy their enemy.

There was no doubt in either of their minds as to where they must go. They had to see the bailiff and give him their evidence, and that meant going to the hall. They had been there often enough; it was the place where their master, Squire Roger, had held all his celebrations, as well as his courts. Their lord had given feasts for Christmas, for harvest, for sheep-shearing, and all the other festivals, religious and otherwise, which punctuated the year.

On their way to the hall they had to pass a large gathering of workers who lounged at the door to the kitchen. Here another face caught Jordan’s attention. It was an ageing farmer, a freeman, but one of those who rented land from the manor and who had to pay his annual due of labour to the demesne. Like the others, he was here to collect his wages in food and ale.

‘Ho, there, young Jordan! What are you doing here? And you, Alan, you little devil. Have you both been called to the lord’s court?’

His friends all laughed at his sally. Alan in particular was well known to all the men in the area, and though some could laugh at his mischief, several eyed him sourly, recalling times when they had caught him running through their gardens or trying to shoot squirrels on their land.