Michael JECKS - Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

Simon wasn’t sure what chord the knight had struck with the girl, but it was clear that she was scared, and that led the bailiff to the obvious conclusion. ‘Petronilla, did you see Stephen murder your young master?’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘No! ’

Baldwin leaned back. ‘But do you think he murdered Herbert, Petronilla? Because I am sure you do.’

‘No, sir, oh, no!’ she declared, and the tears sprang from her eyes at last.

It had been so hard, so terribly hard, to keep it hidden all this time. To think that any man could stoop to so heinous a crime as the murder of a little child was revolting, but that it should have been done only a few yards from her, was awful! She saw that none of them believed her. Condemnation was on every face ranged before her; they had all, she could tell, convicted her in their own minds for keeping quiet about the murder of her own master.

‘No, sir, it’s not that!’ she said with a sudden passion, her head shaking from side to side. ‘He couldn’t have; really, he couldn’t!’

But it was obvious that, however impassioned, her denial was of no use. Baldwin and Simon conferred quietly, occasionally nodding towards Petronilla. She longed to tell them the truth, but daren’t. Stephen had explained to her so many times, hadn’t he? She must remain silent about their love. There was no danger to him, for even a full ecclesiastical court could only force a cleric to abjure the realm, banishing him for life – and that, Stephen had said, would only be for the most heinous of crimes… but Petronilla could be in real danger. She would be looked upon as a prostitute: no more than a common whore. But that was before Herbert had been murdered.

‘Bring Brother Stephen here,’ Simon said, and Hugh went quickly from the room.

Petronilla felt Jeanne touch her arm, and the maid followed her to a bench where she was given a space to seat herself. She wiped her nose and eyes on her apron, and then gave herself up to her grief, weeping quietly as they awaited the arrival of the priest.

‘What is all this, Sir Baldwin? If you are prosecuting someone for the murder of my Lady’s son, I think she has the right to be present.’

Anney stood in the doorway, her mistress behind her. Lady Katharine looked as if she would be happier to have remained in her room, especially after the scene earlier with Thomas, but her maid was filled with indignation at the very idea that her lady might have been deprived of hearing any of the details of her son’s death.

Simon stood. ‘My apologies, Lady Katharine. I saw no need to distress you further, and I had thought that when you left us here, it was so that you could be spared the details.’

‘Have you found my son’s murderer?’

The bailiff motioned to a seat. ‘Perhaps you should sit while we talk to your priest, my Lady.’

‘Why? What possible help could that fool of a preacher be to you?’ Lady Katharine asked in genuine surprise. She had never had much regard for Stephen of York. His skills as an orator were those of a man who had never learned his letters.

‘Perhaps Stephen himself can let us know,’ Baldwin said, and as he spoke, Stephen walked in, but this was a very different man from the solemn and confident priest who had so recently buried his master in the churchyard. He strode in with Edgar and Hugh behind him, wrathfully staring around him at all the people in the room.

‘Under whose orders am I detained here?’ he burst out. ‘I nave services to conduct in the church, and am being kept here against my will and against the teachings of Christ! Who dares to think he has the right to hold me here?’

Baldwin nodded to Edgar, and his man swung a chair forward, putting it down behind the priest.

Stephen turned and kicked it over, shouting, ‘Don’t set out chairs for me as if I am some kind of invalid! Answer my question: who is responsible for delaying me from the service in Throwleigh? Whoever it is shall be reported to the Bishop of Exeter.’

‘Be silent!’ Simon roared. His sudden bellow made even Stephen gape.

‘That is better,’ he continued, but with a controlled aggression lying beneath his words, and he stood and walked slowly towards the priest. ‘Because we want to keep our tempers, don’t we? Otherwise, when we lose our tempers, we can forget ourselves, can’t we? And then we can strike out at whoever is nearest, isn’t that so? Even a young lad of eleven whose only offence was shooting his sling at you. You nearly killed Alan, didn’t you? He thought he was about to die, and so did others, like Petronilla here. That was why she ran up towards you so swiftly, so that she could protect Anney’s child. And Anney herself had followed you up the hill, because she was worried about you.

‘But even though Petronilla calmed you, after she went away another boy did the same thing, didn’t he? He fired another bullet at you, and that meant you were brought to the boiling point again. You were wild as an angry boar! You had to find the brat, and teach him a lesson he would never forget. So up the hill you went, and you didn’t stop until you’d caught the perpetrator – and when you had, by God you laid into him, didn’t you?’

‘No! Look – I couldn’t have killed him.’

Baldwin observed all this with interest. A man’s reaction to the impact of an accusation was often more revealing and gave him more of a clue about their guilt than what they might say.

This priest showed no hint of shame; he didn’t have the appearance of a man who feared any form of conviction. He was simply filled with wrath. Stephen radiated blind passion, as if he might even leap over the floor and strike Simon where he stood.

His attitude made Baldwin reflect again on the evidence he had heard so far. Surely there was little chance that he could truly be innocent, not after the words of all the witnesses? And there was the matter of the footprints in the mud: those of a woman and a half-shod man.

‘Stephen, please take off your right shoe.’

The priest turned to him and drew in a deep breath to blast him, but as he did so, Edgar went to his side. ‘What in God’s name for?’ he managed.

‘At the scene of the murder a shoe was found,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘We think it was yours. If you refuse to try it on and let us see how it matches your other ones, we shall have to wonder why.’

But the priest’s face had fallen. ‘You found it?’ he repeated. ‘Where?’

‘Where you had been looking for it,’ Simon told him. ‘Down near the stream.’

‘I knew it must be there,’ Stephen said, and slowly he sighed, picked up his chair, and sat in it. ‘Very well. I admit the shoe is mine.’

‘You confess to the murder?’ Simon asked.

‘Good God, no! I caught Herbert all right, and gave him a good thrashing, but that was all. He ran off crying.’

‘Why did you beat him yet again?’ Lady Katharine asked, her voice strained.

‘He attacked me with a sling, Lady’

‘And you killed him,’ Simon said.

‘Of course not!’

‘You were the last person to be seen with the boy, and you were alone.’

‘I deny killing him.’

‘Why did you take off your shoe?’

‘Bailiff, I was making love,’ he admitted quietly, shamefacedly avoiding the faces ranged about him which stared at him with such disgust. There was no sympathy in any of their eyes, only contempt, unutterable contempt. The priest began to feel a creeping anxiety.

It was Thomas who broke the silence. ‘Bailiff, he admits his guilt. You don’t have jurisdiction, but the victim was my nephew. I demand the right to seek justice my own way. Why do you not leave us? I will see to his punishment, and no one need ever know.’