Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

But Baldwin now had a great doubt. He had been prepared to accept every piece of evidence as pointing to the guilt of the cleric because he had wanted it to. It would satisfy his own desire for a personal form of revenge: visiting justice on one priest as the surrogate of the Church itself. And yet what if, by so doing, he was duplicating the injustice? A bitter irony, that: in trying to avenge the unfairness of his own treatment, he might himself be guilty of prejudice against another innocent party.

To reassure himself, he enumerated the indications of guilt to himself. There were many signs, from all that the witnesses had said. Anney, Godfrey, van Relenghes and Thomas had all seen the priest up on the hill. There was no doubt of his presence, and he did not deny being there. He admitted to grabbing Alan, and clearly he was already angry at that stage.

It would hardly be surprising if, on being used as a target once more, he should really lose his temper.

But enough to engage in the homosexual rape – of a young child? Such things were not unknown, Baldwin knew that well enough. There had been cases in Cyprus, where the Eastern ways held some sway, and it had been hinted at within the Templars. Sometimes particular knights would disappear from preceptories; likewise priests were often suspected. Baldwin sourly accepted that he could all too easily believe it of the slender, feminine cleric.

The boy’s death would surely have been accidental; perhaps the priest was as horrified as anyone else would have been when Herbert fell dead. Maybe that was it, the knight thought: Stephen swung a blow, not with the intention of killing, but with the aim of showing his anger. When he realised the boy was dead, he didn’t know what to do.

What then? Of course he dragged the body down towards the road, and dropped it over the edge of the bank… after the fishman’s cart had passed, but before Edmund came by.

Baldwin scratched at his beard. It seemed a little curious to him, but that was the evidence so far. There were the footprints, of course, and they showed that the priest must have been furious: not many men would have run up the hill with one foot bare. He must have been almost mad with anger.

No, there was definitely something wrong. Baldwin sucked at his moustache, his forehead creased with effort as he considered, but for the life of him he could not see where the chain of evidence, so strongly forged, could break down.

Wat was pleased to see Petronilla when she wandered into the buttery, glancing about her, picking up an earthenware jug with a man’s face moulded to its front, and a glazed drinking horn, then filling the jug from the wine barrel. The two boys had been left in the hall with Hugh and Edgar, and Wat was lonely. Petronilla was fun – she treated him like an adult, unlike the others.

‘How is the Fleming?’ Wat asked.

Petronilla sighed, shaking her head. ‘He’s very quiet, but he’ll live. The cut went deep, though, and he’ll be in a lot of pain for some time to come.’ She ran a hand over her brow, tucking a few hairs under her cap, feeling her exhaustion. Van Relenghes was deeply shocked by his attack. She had a shrewd suspicion that for all his tales of warfare and the life of a soldier, he had never been in danger of his life before, and being gripped and stabbed by Nicholas had terrified him. That, she thought, was why he had collapsed after the first slashing cut, not because he was so badly hurt, but because he was so petrified.

‘Where is everyone?’ she asked. ‘I heard them riding off.’

‘They’ve gone back to see where the boy was found,’ Wat said off-handedly.

‘Why? They’ve been there before, haven’t they? That day when they got so wet.’

‘Oh yes, but now they’ve been told what happened, and they’re going to see the footprints.’

‘Told what happened? What do you mean? Have they discovered something new?’

‘Yes, miss. They’ve found the priest’s shoe.’

Petronilla set the jug down carefully, concealing her horror as best she could. ‘Where did they find it?’

‘Two boys found it, and the bailiff and Sir Baldwin have gone to match it to the prints in the mud up there.’

She nodded, trying to control the pounding of her heart. It felt so strong she was surprised the lad couldn’t hear it. Thank God she’d been up there and raked the soil clear, so at least the men wouldn’t be able to fit the shoe to the print.

But Petronilla had to know what the knight and the bailiff had been told. There was no one else to question, for if she were to go into the hall, surely the two men there would become suspicious as to why she was so interested.

She fixed a smile to her face, and winked at Wat. ‘I’ll tell you what, I could do with some wine after all the things that have happened today – would you like some too?’

The track was as distinct as before, although sheep had begun to use it, and they had cut through from one place to another, so that the trail which had been so precise now had the appearance of a tree, with branches spreading in all directions.

Baldwin and Simon led the way, riding to the left side of the path. It stood out in the late afternoon sun, the light striking the top of the bushes and leaving the track in shadow, and the knight walked his horse up, the feeling that he had missed something still niggling at him.

The boys’ explanation had covered most aspects of the matter which had confused him before: the strange paths, meeting and diverging up on the hill, were obviously where the lads had been wont to play. Likewise, the trail leading back to the road was clearly where Herbert’s body had been dragged.

They dismounted and tethered their beasts to a bush near the spot where they had found the marks.

Simon stared, then paced further down towards the stream. ‘Some bastard’s raked the place over!’

Baldwin climbed from his horse and gazed about him, baffled. ‘But why? Did the priest come here to do this? When did he have the time? He’s been busy conducting Herbert’s funeral. And if he didn’t – who in God’s name did?’

‘Do you know what Hugh told me about Petronilla?’ Simon rasped.

Petronilla left the room with her belly churning. In the screens she stopped, uncertain where to go, staring about her with confusion. Only when Stephen called a second time did she hear him. Even with the revulsion she felt for him now, she couldn’t refuse his pleading expression.

‘They’ve gone to see the footprints, haven’t they?’ he asked.

She nodded. His gaunt features were almost corpselike. ‘You’re safe. They won’t find anything. I cleared it all.’

‘Pet, you’re an angel,’ he said, taking her hand. She instinctively drew away. ‘Come, forgive me! You know the truth. I may not be a good priest, but I am not a bad man. Ah, well, God will give me strength. Petronilla, you have to tell the bailiff that you left me. Don’t worry about protecting me, because I am safe already. I have immunity from the bailiff or the Warden. You must tell them you left me before I went down to the stream – that way you will be safe as well.’

‘Safe?’ she demanded, the tears springing back to her eyes.

‘You will live, girl!’

‘Petronilla?’

She turned at the voice of one of the grooms. Stephen stepped back to conceal himself in the doorway to the pantry. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

‘That damned Fleming needs his cut stitched, but no one’s about to help. Would you come?’

‘Give me a moment.’

He turned and wandered back to the kitchen, and Petronilla was about to follow him when Stephen grabbed her arm.

‘Don’t forget, Pet! If anyone asks you, tell them you left me before I went to the stream. You’re safe enough then.’