Michael JECKS: Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

His clerk entered.

‘Sit down, man. I want you to write a letter for me, to Sir Reginald of Hatherleigh. Something along the lines of, “Sir, you will know that my brother’s house has sadly been destroyed in a great fire. It is impossible for me to be able to pay the usual tallage because all the taxes I impose on my villeins must be used to rebuild the house. However, I think it may be possible to pay the normal dues if you would consider permitting me to hold a small fair at my village of Throwleigh…” ’

Godfrey winced at the sight of the fellow’s stance. ‘No, you hold the swordpoint up like this, for the outside guard. When it is held directly before you, the weapon is in the medium guard, like this. Have you never been in a fight?’

It was always the same, he sighed. Modern folk had no interest in learning real and effective methods of self-defence; they were too keen on chasing women and drinking all night. Especially those who fancied themselves as ladies’ men.

That was the problem with James van Relenghes, he thought. The man was a fool, with his brain in his hose. He believed he could pull the wool over a man’s eyes and could cuckold any husband, just because he sometimes had a certain charm, and there was nothing anyone could do to persuade him that he was wrong. Since the foolish attempt on the squire’s wife, he had tried to win the affection of another woman, this time one who was still unfortunately in possession of a husband. As far as Godfrey’s informants went, she had not refused his advances, not by any means! However, the husband had heard of secret assignations, and even now was searching for van Relenghes.

Godfrey stepped back, held his sword out once more, and allowed his opponent to swing at his head; ducking, Godfrey moved under his arm, gripped his wrist, and yanked backwards, pulling the arm up until the other had to drop his sword.

It was quite funny, really, he mused. Even those who disliked him intensely were sometimes forced to make use of his services.

‘Now do you believe me?’ he asked politely. ‘If you want to learn how to use your sword properly, you have to learn the basic positions; if you get the stance wrong, anyone can get in underneath and get straight to you.’

‘Very well,’ said Sir James van Relenghes. ‘I believe you. Er, could you release my arm now?’

As she walked into her house, Anney stood a moment and stared. The packed earth of the floor had been swept clean, and where the dismal remains of the previous night’s ashes had been there was now a cheerful fire, which lighted the whole room with red-gold flickering warmth.

‘Where are you?’ she called, and hearing a voice behind the cottage, walked through to the yard. There she found Nicholas resting happily on his axe contemplating a stack of logs under the eaves.

‘That elm was about to fall anyway,’ he said defensively. ‘I just helped it. And then I thought I might as well tidy up a bit; and then I thought the tree looked a mess, so I cut it up.’

She stood looking at him, then at the garden. He was right, the elm had menaced the cottage with the threat of collapse, but she’d never been able to get the help to bring it down safely and didn’t dare attempt it on her own. There would be enough logs to keep them warm all though the winter with that lot.

‘I thought you might like some help about the place,’ he said off-handedly. ‘You know, just for a while. Especially now you’re alone.’

‘Maybe. I don’t know how I’ll be able to feed the pair of us, though.’

‘I spoke to the innkeeper. He’s all alone there, and could do with some help. Usually he’d look to a girl, but he’s getting old, and he fears being robbed. He reckoned I could help him, being able to protect him as well as serve.’

‘What of your wife?’ she demanded caustically.

He grinned. ‘Ah. One is gone, but there’s this other I know who gave me her vows.’

She stared at him without speaking while the thoughts whirled in her head. He was untrustworthy, dishonest, a bigamist, liar and bully. But he had always liked her, could keep a house clean, and already had a job to bring in money, which was more than she had now.

‘Come here,’ she said.

Later, in bed, when she had drawn their cloaks and some skins over them for warmth, she found herself weeping, but this time, and for the first time since Tom had died, it was from pleasure.

Less than a quarter of a mile away, Edmund sat before his fire and stared at the small flames while he moodily drank from his large pot. Standing, he stumbled to the barrel, lifted it and poured the contents into his mug. Only a small dribble remained, and he looked down in disbelief: he had only just bought this barrel from the alewife in the village, it couldn’t be empty yet.

Filled with a sudden wrath, he hefted the barrel and hurled it across the room. It bounced against the wall, then fell back, smashing an earthenware pot.

It was one of Christiana’s favourites, but that hardly mattered any more. She had gone, almost as soon as the news of their son’s crime had become common knowledge, simply disappearing one day while he was out trying to sell his services to a farmer at Week. When Edmund had got home, there was no food, no fire, no daughter Molly, and no wife. All were gone. He’d run from the place, shouting for her, and hared off up the road to the north, desperately seeking her. She didn’t have a horse, so she must be easy to find, but he’d seen no sign of her.

A passing tranter had found him asleep in the ditch at the side of the road the next day, and although it was several miles out of his way, the man had kindly taken him home, lighting his fire and warming him in front of it, wrapping him in an old cloak before leaving.

He had seen no one from the village since she had gone. Folks here seemed to want to avoid him, ever since the tales of his lad’s horrible act had circulated.

But Edmund was happy; he didn’t need anyone. There was nobody he could really trust, not even his own boy. He’d tried to raise the lad properly, but he’d gone to the bad; his wife was probably the reason, she would mollycoddle the sod.

At least the estate had agreed that his certificate of manumission was valid. That evil witch, Lady Katharine, had gone and Thomas had no need of Edmund’s services. That was what the bailiff had said, wasn’t it? That Edmund was free now, to seek his own employment and find a new life.

New life? Edmund’s thoughts fractured like the smashed jug as he gazed about the empty, noisome room with dull, miserable eyes.

This was his life.

Baldwin walked from his front door and sat on the bench he had installed overlooking the view. From this point he could see the sweep of the south of Devonshire, and in the clear, bright sunshine of a late spring morning, the low sun lent an almost golden glow to the verdant lands. Small clouds floated past, their shadows giving texture to the scenery.

‘Are you all right, my husband?’

Baldwin smiled. Jeanne came to sit at his side. She called and Edgar brought a tray on which were two pots and a jug. When she nodded, he left them, and Jeanne herself poured.

‘It’s a beautiful morning,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She glanced up at the sound of a hound baying.

‘She’ll live,’ Baldwin said. His mastiff was still wounded that Baldwin should have deserted him for so long while he was at Throwleigh, and was still more anxious to see him for every minute of every day as a result.

Jeanne passed him his wine, and he gratefully drank half of it at a single gulp. ‘That’s good!’

‘What do you think will happen to her?’

Baldwin sadly shook his head. ‘I wish I knew, Jeanne. The Lady Katharine always looked so strong and independent, but I fear that the shock of losing her family, and then hearing her most favoured maid, the one in whom she had always placed her trust, assert that she herself had murdered the lady’s son, toppled her reason. She will be well looked after in the nuns’ convent, but whether she will ever truly recover, or will remain there, bound up for the rest of her days like a wild beast, is hard to tell. All I can say is, after so many horrors, perhaps it would be better if she never regained her faculties, for all that would mean is that she could once more appreciate her misery.’