Michael JECKS: Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

But Edgar refused to let anyone else take over the supervision of the wedding. In any case, while the bailiff was at his side, Baldwin was content. It would be a very hardy outlaw who would dare attack a knight and a sturdy fighter like Simon, especially seeing the quality of their weapons. Baldwin touched the hilt of his new riding sword with a feeling of smugness.

It was short, the blade only twenty-one inches long, but it was made of the most beautiful, bright, peacock-blue steel he had ever seen, with grey steel quillons that curved gently from the leather-covered hilt, and a pommel that balanced the whole weapon perfectly. When he first picked it up, it felt almost alive in his hand.

Sir Baldwin had bought it only a month before, and it was so much lighter than his old war sword that he hardly felt it at his hip, but that wasn’t the only reason why he was already so fond of it; he liked the writing – and the motif on the reverse. Baldwin had found a good jeweller who had used a burin to carve the four letters carefully into the long fuller of the blade, filling each with silver wire and hammering it tight: BOAC. They stood for Beati Omnipotensque Angeli Christi – Blessed and Omnipotent are the Angels of Christ. But on the other side of the blade was a simple sign: the cross of the Knights Templar, his old Order.

Baldwin felt his mood lighten as the trackway narrowed, went into a dip. Soon they were out from under the trees and paused at a ford. The two men rested their horses again, letting the beasts dip their heads thankfully into the brackish brown water that ran from the moors.

‘Not far now,’ Simon commented as his horse puffed and snorted, shaking its mane, before stooping for more.

Baldwin patted his rounsey’s neck. ‘You knew the squire, didn’t you?’

‘A little. I had some dealings with him. The usual petty stuff: he had his villeins run away and declare themselves miners. And miners dammed his streams and diverted his water for their leats. Didn’t you know him?’

‘Yes,’ said Baldwin. He had a recollection of a heavy-set man with a red face and hoarse, bellowing laugh. ‘He was invited to the wedding with his wife. Poor devil!’

‘He had a good life,’ Simon said disinterestedly. ‘Fought many battles, won his lord’s thanks and respect – and a pleasant estate.’

‘True.’ The knight knew as well as any that the easiest way for a man-at-arms to make money was to capture an enemy knight or lord and sell him. Squire Roger had been thoroughly successful at this, taking prisoners of such importance that he had been able to sell them, for a share in their profits, to his King. Without the cost of keeping them, but with a significant share of their worth, he had become wealthy. ‘He always struck me as a generous, capable man,’ Baldwin continued. ‘How did you find him?’

Simon considered a moment. ‘A gentleman: always courteous, keen to avoid disputes. It’s not often you meet someone like him. His wife was much the same – bright and intelligent. She and my wife got on well.’

‘I suppose the funeral will be in the village?’ Baldwin asked, his mind moving on to the sombre event they must witness the next day.

‘Yes. The church lies west of the hamlet. It’s a lovely place, the Church of St Mary the Virgin, very peaceful. His body will rest there happily enough.’

Baldwin nodded, and they clattered along together.

‘I believe the priest was the squire’s own man,’ Baldwin observed as he kicked his horse on. ‘Doesn’t he live at the hall?’

‘Yes, I think so. The squire employed him as a tutor. I can’t imagine too many priests who would be prepared to come to a quiet backwater like this.’

‘Godforsaken little vill would be nearer the mark, wouldn’t it?’ Baldwin said lightly. ‘Still, some like the desolation.’

‘Some of us do, yes,’ Simon chuckled. ‘But you don’t have to search for motives here, Baldwin. There’s nothing suspicious about Roger’s death.’

‘No,’ Baldwin agreed, grinning. He and Simon had investigated many murders together, but he had no concerns about the sudden death of the squire. There was no suggestion of violence: he’d simply fallen dead from his horse. It was sad, but there was not much to regret in a swift and painless death.

The only issue that could cause difficulties was the will, but Baldwin felt sure that a man like Squire Throwleigh would have ensured all was in order. No doubt his wife would control the estate until the heir was of age.

A slow smile broke out over his features as he considered that word ‘wife’. It was a curious title. A woman who was prepared to become the possession of another. Not that Baldwin would ever think of his Jeanne as a chattel. She was too precious to him.

‘Are you thinking of her again?’

‘Well? What of it?’

‘Nothing, Baldwin,’ Simon laughed, ‘but try to keep your feelings away from your face, all right? Don’t forget we’re here to witness a burial. If you keep that inane grin on your face, Roger’s widow will be within her rights to have you flogged around the churchyard!’

Baldwin hurriedly brought his mind back to the present. There was one topic which he knew Simon would treat seriously.

‘What is the name of the heir?’

‘Herbert. He’ll inherit his third.’

‘Until his mother does the decent thing,’ Baldwin observed.

‘That’ll be a long time,’ Simon said shortly.

‘She won’t give her son her share?’

‘Not for some time. The boy’s only five or six – I expect she’ll stay and protect it, and him, until he is old enough to look after himself.’

Baldwin nodded. A man’s will divided his possessions into three, after paying off debts. One third, the dower, would go to his wife; a second third would go to good causes so that his soul would be well received; only the last of the three parts would go to his heir. In cases where the heir was too young to look after himself, his mother would remain at home and act as guardian, but normally she would leave as soon as her son was old enough to fend for himself, retiring to a convent, or taking the vows and living as a recluse in a small property and not interfering in her son’s life, giving him her dower to protect the estate, and living on whatever portion her son chose to send to her.

As the knight mused, their road took them due east. Here they were sheltered under great trees forming an avenue. It was like the road up to Cadbury, and Baldwin found himself comparing this remote manor to his own lush demesne. Looking about him, he felt that if he possessed so barren a site he would feel guilty asking a woman to marry him. He could never have brought Jeanne here. It would be cruel to ask a woman to live so far from a city or civilised people. The thought made his face twist in a sardonic grin, for Jeanne’s old home wasn’t far from here.

It led Baldwin to wonder how the squire’s heir would survive. Lads of that age were resilient, he knew, but losing a father was a traumatic experience at any age. He could still recall the feeling of emptiness when his own father had died, even though he was almost a man by then, being eleven years old. His mother had died five years before, giving birth to his fourth brother who, like the third, had not survived a single year. Now Baldwin could hardly remember what she looked like. All he was sure of was her auburn hair. At least the squire’s lad still has his mother, he thought.

The trees thinned and suddenly fell away as they came closer to the vill. Now they could see its extent: a few houses on the left, a pound on the right where stray cattle and sheep could be collected, and ahead lay the church, an imposing building in heavy grey stone. Beyond, on the northern road, was a small cluster of additional houses, but Simon took the other track, heading round the southernmost point of the church grounds, and then trotting off towards the moors.