Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

Chapter Sixteen

Petronilla brushed the rushes from the hall’s floor, moving them into the screens, and thence out to the stableyard. They had not rotted yet, and with the bones, half-gnawed by the dogs and rats, and the damp patches where dogs and cats had defecated or pissed, they were heavy. It was hard work moving them to the yard, and once there she leaned and rested on her besom, staring drearily at the manure-heap so far away, over at the other side of the stables.

When she saw Hugh, she put a hand to her back, rubbing slowly, allowing her face to take on an expression of patient suffering.

Hugh hadn’t seen her sudden collapse. As he approached, all he saw was a young girl with gleaming fair hair and slim body, who was in apparent pain.

Of the two servants, Edgar was more inclined to flirting. Hugh, a dour man at the best of times, was content with his own company. It was the way he had been brought up; the son of a farmer, as soon as he could fit stone to sling he had been sent out to protect the flocks from predators. By nature he was self-sufficient and comfortable; he admired women, and occasionally desired them, but the inns and alehouses could satisfy his needs, and he saw little point in the needless expense of a wife of his own.

His quietness in the presence of women was often construed as enormous shyness; it wasn’t. He simply saw no sense in engaging in flattery to no end. But his master had ensured that he had learned to be polite in order that he should not embarrass Simon or Margaret when they visited well-born households and, although his gruff, ‘Are you well, miss?’ could have been spoken in a softer voice, the words themselves were enough to assure Petronilla that she was safe from having to carry the rushes over to the manure-heap.

As compensation, she was prepared to be friendly with this morose-looking fellow.

‘You’re the bailiff’s servant, aren’t you?’ she asked.

‘That’s right, miss,’ Hugh said, walking to the stable door where a large pitchfork rested. He returned and speared a large forkful of the rushes and walked to the manure-heap. ‘I work for Master Simon Puttock, Bailiff of Lydford Castle under the Warden of the Stannaries, God bless him.’

‘He must be keen to find poor Master Herbert’s murderer,’ Petronilla said sadly, thinking of the boy’s ruined body. A long tress of hair had escaped from her cap, and she twirled it round her finger. Hugh didn’t notice that she was able to stand upright with ease now, nor that she was able to follow him from rushes to dung-pile without pain. ‘It must be a lot of responsibility, having to seek killers.’

‘Yes, but he’s good at it. There’s never a murderer escapes my master,’ said Hugh inaccurately.

‘What, never a one?’ she asked, pleasingly impressed.

He shrugged, but even Hugh could have his head turned a little by such approving adulation, and he swaggered as he returned to the rushes. Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, he thought to himself that she was a remarkably attractive girl, with her open, fresh features and high, clear brow, unmarked by the pox or wrinkles. He shoved his fork into the rushes and grunted as he lifted it.

‘Never a one,’ he repeated with satisfaction. ‘Master and the knight always find their killers. It’s not always easy, and not always safe, but they catch ’em all right.’

As he spoke Thomas emerged from the hall. At his side was Daniel, his staff of office under his arm, indignant and resentful at being ordered by Thomas, and ready to take out his pique on other servants. ‘Petronilla!’ he called bossily. ‘What are you doing out here? Get inside and see to the hall, it’s filthy!’

‘That’s what I am doing, Daniel.’

‘Don’t answer me back, wench!’ the steward snapped. Then, almost to himself, ‘Where are those damned stablemen?’

Hugh ignored the men as they stamped and bellowed, but when two grooms arrived, he leaned on his fork and listened. There was a quick bustle, horses were brought, saddled and made ready, and then with a shouting of orders, Thomas, Daniel and two others rode off furiously, heading towards the vill.

‘What’s their trouble?’ asked Petronilla, returning to the yard once the men had disappeared.

‘They think they’ve found the lad’s murderer,’ said Hugh conversationally.

She shot him a look. ‘“Think”? You don’t sound convinced.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Why?’

Hugh bent back to his task. ‘Because it’s easy for someone to guess who might have done something like this, and easy to arrest someone who’s poor. Until I hear my master say he thinks it was this man, I won’t worry about it.’

James van Relenghes saw them talking. He had heard the clatter of hooves and had walked back to the road in time to see Daniel and Thomas with their men disappearing on the road to Throwleigh, their horses throwing up large clouds of dust and sods of turf as they sped over the verge rather than take the longer way on the road. Their destination was obvious.

Van Relenghes was content with the turn events were taking. He strolled back to the house and nodded to Hugh. Seeing the girl loitering about, he paused. Like Hugh, he admired her face, the way the sun shone golden in her hair where it had drifted from her cap, the sheer happiness in her smile as Hugh made some comment. Van Relenghes wandered over and asked her politely, if a little shortly, whether she could fetch him a large pot of wine. He would wait for it in the hall, he said, and waited pointedly until she flounced off to the buttery.

The hall was empty when he entered, and he drew a chair up to the fire, sitting before it while he waited for the girl to return.

She had looked very attractive out there, he reflected. Of course the widow was infinitely more desirable, with her money and her aura of elegance and… and her sheer independence, modulated with the vulnerability which her bereavements had conferred upon her. Her self-possession made her incredibly attractive to van Relenghes. He had known wealthy widows in other countries – quite a number – but this one would be even more enjoyable. Others had been easier, it was true, but the very lack of a challenge had made those victories less complete somehow, less perfect.

With Lady Katharine, her self-possession would make her surrender all the more delightful, he reckoned, and smiled to himself. Her composure would make her eventual submission sweeter still. The certainty of his success was in no doubt, for van Relenghes knew that his tall, dark good looks were magnetic to women. The fact had been proved to him time and time again. No, he entertained no doubts of his abilities to entice Widow Throwleigh into his bed. It would take time, but eventually he would be able to enjoy ruining her.

But for now there was little opportunity, not at the earliest until she had put her brat into his grave, and had given him time to rot. Not until she had recovered a little from that misery and the weak, womanly failing of grieving for her man, could he hope to be able to win her affection.

As he arrived at this conclusion, Petronilla came in and poured his drink. He was so deep in thought he hardly noticed.

He was reflecting happily that now his revenge was almost complete. The squire was dead, his heir likewise, and once he had ruined Squire Roger’s widow, James van Relenghes’s curse would be fulfilled.

Petronilla left him, turning at the door and pulling a face at his back. She didn’t like having to obey the whim of a foreigner; especially when they didn’t even bother to acknowledge her when she put herself out to serve them.

Outside Hugh was still clearing her rushes, and she was about to go to him when Nicholas sauntered out from the stables. He glanced casually up and down the yard, and then smiled at her.

Petronilla wasn’t in a mood to be polite to strangers, but at least this one was another servant, like herself. When Nicholas pulled a sad grimace and made a dumbshow of drinking, winking to her, she at first tutted to herself, but then tossed her head and flung her arms up dramatically before returning to the buttery and fetching a fresh pair of jugs, carrying them on a tray out to the stable.

Nicholas was sitting on a bale of hay, playing dice with a groom, and he looked up as she stood over him, pouring his wine.

He was edgy, as he should be after coming back to this place so far from civilisation. Although he had his men about him, he was anxious lest he should be discovered. Surely it was only luck so far that had saved him from discovery by Anney, but if that situation should change, he knew he was in danger unless his master should protect him.

Like many, Nicholas was a man of simple desires and urges. He was lonely and a little afraid, and at such times he turned to comfort from a woman, but the nearest tavern he dared use was a long way from here. It would be madness to try the one near Anney’s home. He might still be recognised.

Looking up, he noticed that Petronilla, although she wore an air of bored sulkiness, from this angle bending over him, looked intensely desirable. She was frowning with concentration, ringlets of hair framing her pretty face. She had behaved quite coolly towards him since he arrived with Thomas, but he was sure that was only a front, after what he’d seen. He met her eye and gave her a broad, wolfish smile, his hand cupping her breast.

‘Little maid, would you like to earn a silver piece?’

The sound of the jug smashing, the hissed curse and patter of feet made Hugh start. Godfrey had been resting at the door with a quart of ale, and the two men stared as Petronilla hurtled past, her cap awry, hair flying loose, tunic lifted to allow her to run, face red as a russet cloth. The men watched her shoot through the door and out of sight.

‘What happened to her?’ Godfrey asked with bemusement.

Hugh scowled as he caught sight of Nicholas standing in the doorway to the stable. ‘I reckon he tried his luck.’

Godfrey nodded slowly, keeping his face fixed on Nicholas. ‘He’d better be careful or his luck might run out.’

The trail led them straight up the hill. Every few yards Baldwin peered in among the ferns and furze at either side, looking for footprints, hoofprints, anything. Each time he had to shake his head with bafflement and carry on.

There was still only the one track, travelling in one direction. That was an easy inference: all the plants had been pushed or dragged over one way, down towards the road. Baldwin was puzzled. He would have expected to find a wide, trampled space where the boy had been caught and murdered; he would also have expected whoever had gone down here one way to have scurried back up again after the deed, but there was no sign of footprints, demonstrating that the killer, or killers, had kept concealed by crawling away after leaving the body at the roadside, and after a suitable pause had taken to their heels. The lack of any such evidence made him resolve to search the vegetation at the roadside again once they had completed this search.

Even as he cast about them, he could feel his aggravation growing.

‘Simon, can you remember when the last rains fell?’

‘Feeling a bit damp?’ Simon laughed.

‘Damp! My tunic is soaked from the hips down, my hose are wet through, and I am growing quite cold – and all this in the bright sunlight! Why hasn’t the sun dried all these blasted plants?’

It wasn’t only the damp that was getting on his nerves; he was also being assaulted by prickles from the gorse-bushes, which were penetrating his hose and shirt. The spines of these moorland shrubs appeared able to stab through even coarse material, and he muttered a curse against them as Simon spoke.

‘The sun hardly reaches here; the top of the hill keeps all of this side in the shade at this time of year – and I expect you didn’t notice it, you being recently wedded, but last night there was a heavy shower of rain.’

Baldwin ignored the comment; there were too many opportunities for coarse jokes at his expense now he was married, and the bailiff tried not to miss a single one. To change the subject, Baldwin pointed ahead with his chin. ‘Will this hill never end? It feels as if we have been climbing for miles.’

‘That,’ said Simon, puffing as he stopped at Baldwin’s side, ‘is the trouble with the moors. Whichever direction you wish to take, you tend to have to go uphill.’

Baldwin gave a dry chuckle and set off once more. Now they were walking up the edge of a small valley. Below them, mostly hidden by the ubiquitous gorse and ferns, they could hear a fast-flowing stream. In the valley there were a few stunted trees, but here on the moors all was low-growing and dull, apart from the sweet, almond-smelling, bright yellow gorse. The hillside rose up before them, menacing in its height. Baldwin glanced behind them and whistled. The scene was spectacular, with a view over many miles. Southwards he could see more hills rising one after the other in succession, their flanks unspoiled by towns or villages, only a few stone walls and enclosures marking the smooth green plains. East the land was lower, and he could see gaps in the trees where farmsteads and bartons lay. Their smoke rose up calmly in the clear air.

‘It is very peaceful here,’ he murmured.

‘It looks it, doesn’t it?’ Simon said glumly, sitting down on a lump of moorstone. ‘Trouble is, that’s just an illusion. The miners over the other side of this hill cause enough grief for me, God Himself only knows. Then the farmers are always coming to blows with everyone else, especially with the tin miners when the buggers move streams and leave whole areas completely dry while flooding others. Miners come and cut peat – well, they have the right to it, so that they can smelt their ore – but they always have to take chunks from prime pasture to upset the farmers, don’t they?’

‘Stop your moaning, and let’s carry on.’

Simon eyed his friend surreptitiously as they climbed. The knight was still deeply troubled by what he viewed as his lapse, not that Simon looked at it in the same light. To the bailiff it was as plain as the nose on his face that occasionally boys would die. His own lad was not that long in his grave. It was possible that Herbert had died, as Baldwin suspected, because of a jealous adult seeking an inheritance, and if that was Herbert’s fate, they had a duty to avenge him, but that was an end to the matter.

But Baldwin appeared to take this murder as a personal challenge, as if he were engaged in a private feud with the killer.

The bailiff knew his friend too well. Baldwin was inflexibly determined to see justice prevail. He had suffered at the hands of bigots and knew how it felt to be persecuted for no reason. It was because of this that he could be stubborn, pig-headed even, in his pursuit of criminals. Simon hoped that marriage would erode some of this obduracy, but it was a little much to expect that Baldwin would be cured so soon.

This case had gripped Baldwin more forcibly than previous ones. It was something to do with the knight’s fervent desire for an heir of his own, Simon felt. The bailiff himself had much the same urge, although in his case, having buried one boy already, he was more committed to ensuring that his daughter was able to produce the family and grandchildren he and Margaret desired. In Baldwin’s case there were no children.

Baldwin was losing heart. He still hoped to find some physical proof that the boy had been dragged down here – or some proof that a man had subsequently run back up here, trying to keep hidden from the road… but he was beginning to feel the first twinges of doubt. Could he be, literally, on the wrong track?

What was more, it was several days since poor Herbert’s death, and with the rain which had fallen since then, there was no real likelihood of finding traces or clear evidence.

The track they were following was like a scar in the vegetation, circumventing the gorse, but going straight on through ferns. The direction of the path made little sense to Baldwin. It never appeared to take a straight line, like that made by a man walking, but rather it took an odd, curving route, broader than a sheep or a man.

‘Here,’ Simon said suddenly, ‘what’s this?’

Baldwin went to his side. There, off to the right, was another mud track, leading down into the valley of the river. A sheep or two had been along it, for their spoor could be clearly discerned, but their prints had not hidden the others – the human footprints.

The knight crouched and stared, trying to control his excitement. This trail was subtly different from that which they had so far followed. This second one was considerably thinner, and the brown fern fronds, where they had been broken off, were fresher, with fewer trampled into the mud. More important to him, though, were the four pairs of prints.

One was of a small pair of shoes or boots, and the owner had been walking away from the valley, moving towards the track Baldwin and Simon were following. The knight carefully stood and made a firm impression of his own boot alongside the path to gauge the size. His foot was considerably larger than the smaller prints by a good two inches, maybe two and a half in length, and wider by almost an inch, so it could have been the footprint of a woman.

The others looked more on a par with his own: the second set appeared recent, and headed away from Baldwin and Simon down into the valley ahead, while the third seemed identical with the second, and headed in the same direction.

But these were not the only ones. A fourth pair of footprints returned from the valley, and these were the oddest by far, because although the left foot was shod, the right was bare. The mark was smudged a little where animals had crossed the track, and every now and again it had been obliterated because of another footprint being superimposed upon it, but there were many images perfectly delineated of the whole foot, with each toe clearly displayed.

While he considered this, Simon touched his shoulder and pointed silently. Baldwin followed the bailiff’s finger. The path down to the river took an easy line along the contours of the hill, dropping at a very shallow rate, but gradually going to the water itself, some forty yards or so below. At the bottom was a plateau of flat ground, with the broad curve of the stream sweeping around it. Standing in the middle of the grassy plain Baldwin saw the man who had caught his friend’s attention.

At the base of the cliff was Stephen of York, but this was a very different man from the urbane cleric. He was kicking at ferns as if in a rage, pulling apart clumps of heather, peering beneath bushes of gorse. Now that the knight was aware of him, he could hear the priest’s voice over the pleasant murmur of the water, and his eye went to the sets of prints. If one pair belonged to the priest, Baldwin was comfortably convinced that two others did as well. But why should the priest have returned from the water half-shod?

Stephen’s voice was a continuous, low curse. It was as if he was damning the whole land, uttering impassioned oaths at every bush and blade of grass. At last he kicked at a low shrub, and missing it, overbalanced and fell hard on his rump, where he sat weeping.

‘Should we go and see if we can help?’ Simon asked.

Baldwin was silent for a moment, lost in thought. It was tempting to go and question the priest – they would have to at some stage – but something held him back. Stephen was a priest, and deserved cautious treatment. If he was guilty of anything, Baldwin and Simon had no jurisdiction over him, for Stephen, like any ecclesiastic, was not answerable to the secular authorities. He was responsible only to Canon Law.

If Stephen had anything to do with Herbert’s death, questioning him now might only warn him of the need for an alibi. No, Baldwin reasoned, it would be better to see what they could find on the track, and then, if there were any solid facts to present to Stephen, they could gauge his reaction unwarned.

‘God knows what he’s up to there, but I want to see where this track goes,’ he said, and ducking low, they made their way back over the brow of the hill before the wailing priest could see them.