Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

Chapter Twenty-Six

Inside, Baldwin was still digesting Anney’s words about Brother Stephen’s hatred of children when he once more found himself being addressed. He apologised automatically. ‘I am sincerely sorry, but I was miles away.’

‘So I could see,’ Thomas said, smiling thinly. ‘I thought you looked lonely over here, and decided I would come and make sure you weren’t upset or over-full of wine, eh?’ And with that remark he would have prodded the knight’s belly, had he not caught a glimpse of Baldwin’s expression.

Thomas was feeling more at ease with himself now. He was still unhappy about his sister-in-law’s denunciation in the church, in the midst of all their friends – and before the altar, in Christ’s name! – but that was mere indignation compared with his blind fury at the man who had caused the outburst: the Fleming. However, Nicholas would soon make the slimy git regret his remarks to Lady Katharine, whatever they may have been.

‘Have you heard whether Edmund’s hose were damp?’ Baldwin asked unkindly.

‘No one appears to have seen him that evening,’ Thomas replied warily.

‘No matter. I trust you will shortly be releasing Edmund. It was kind of you to seek me out to tell me,’ Baldwin said distantly, eyeing the pot in Thomas’s hand. The new master of the manor had evidently made himself free with the wine.

‘No trouble, none at all,’ Thomas said, and belched. ‘And you enjoyed your chat to Anney? She’s a good enough woman, I daresay, though her son Alan is an unholy terror.’

‘I have found that if you treat a dog like a wild beast, it will reward your patience by behaving like one.’

‘Eh? Oh, I daresay. But her brat really is a pest. Of course, his mother can’t see it, or won’t. As far as she’s concerned, the sun shines out of his arse.’

Baldwin was annoyed that the man should demean the woman while he was drunk. ‘I found her intelligent and quickwitted, unlike some. If a woman finds little fault with her offspring, that is hardly cause for censure. Especially if she has already lost one boy, as Anney has.’

‘Oh, I see she’s convinced you. She’s a clever spark, I’ll give her that, but as for her lad, he’ll end up on the gallows, you mark my words.’

‘Why do you say so? I spoke to him, and found him sharp, but not villainous, just as I would expect from his mother.’

‘Be careful of what he says to you. If you don’t believe me, ask the priest.’

Baldwin felt his interest stirring again. ‘I saw Stephen talking to you just now,’ he said. ‘Was that something to do with this young Master Alan?’

‘Oh, no. No, he wanted to ask my advice on a private matter, that was all,’ said Thomas, but he could not help looking complacent. It was quite an honour to have been confided in by the priest. He still didn’t like Stephen, but at least the man had confessed, and that made a lot of difference to Thomas. He was the respected master of a big hall now, as Stephen had proved. If a cleric could feel so sure of his integrity that he would dare confess such a thing, then Thomas must be wonderfully important in the eyes of those around him.

To Baldwin’s mind he looked puffed up with his own pride.

‘May I ask what the matter was?’ he enquired, carefully setting his voice at a low, flattering level, as though he was keen to know why Thomas’s advice had been sought instead of his own.

‘It was a matter of some delicacy, I fear, and I couldn’t possibly tell you what it concerned, Sir Baldwin. Under confidence, you understand. Strictest confidence.’

As the man tapped his nose knowingly, Baldwin was tempted to laugh at his blundering stupidity, but managed to keep a straight face. ‘Ah, of course.’

‘But these boys,’ Thomas added solemnly with a grimace and shake of his head, ‘they’re the most unholy nuisances. They shout and run when they shouldn’t, they play practical jokes in the churchyard and carry on as if there were no authority that could hold them.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘They shoot their damned slings at anything that takes their fancy. Often out poaching, so I’m told. And they fire at people when they want to, knowing they can run off and hide. That’s what… Anyway, they shoot at folks for no reason, just to make them jump or fall from their horse. They have no respect for anyone. I’ll tell you this, if they’re not taught a lesson soon, they’ll be fodder for the gibbet, and nothing more.’

Baldwin wasn’t listening, and missed his lapse. The knight was quite certain that he could never learn anything of any use from the bone-headed Master of Throwleigh, so he merely nodded and made understanding noises while watching the rest of the guests. He could see that Simon and their wives were enjoying a story from Edgar, who had a store of jokes and tales suitable for occasions even as sad as this. Behind them, sitting on her large chair, was Lady Katharine.

The knight watched her for a moment. At her side was the maid Anney, holding her mistress’s drinking vessel, and even as Baldwin watched, she passed it to her lady, hardly glancing at her as she put it into Katharine’s hand. Baldwin was convinced there was a lingering resentment between maid and mistress, but he was not convinced that it could have sparked the fuse that led to the murder.

The mother herself was an enigma. Had Baldwin only seen her reaction at her husband’s funeral, when the woman had recoiled from her own son as if in revulsion, he would have believed her more than capable of hating Herbert enough to kill him. And yet now, having witnessed her despair at the funeral, he found it hard to dispute Simon’s outrage at the suggestion. It was unthinkable that a woman should knowingly murder her own boy.

As he considered her, Daniel touched her shoulder and bent to whisper in her ear.

There it was again, he thought. Glancing at Jeanne, he saw her quick nod, and he grinned to himself. She had seen it too – the hand resting on the shoulder just a moment too long, with that hint of a certain special affinity accepted by both sides.

It was then that he noticed van Relenghes again. The Fleming was standing unconcernedly sipping at his wine, alone for a moment; his servant had gone to refill a jug.

Baldwin studied him dispassionately, recalling the way Anney had described him. James van Relenghes had the look of someone set apart from the group within the hall. It was not because he was foreign, because that would imply isolation caused by incomprehension, either of language or customs; no, this was a different sort of otherness. He was aloof, separate. He smiled pleasantly enough at people who spoke to him or passed by, yet Baldwin watched the eyes, as he had been commanded by Anney, and sure enough, they reflected an inner coldness. The eyes displayed calculation; the potential for shallow deceit.

As if aware he was the subject of a close scrutiny, van Relenghes glanced up and met Baldwin’s gaze boldly. He raised his goblet cheerily, then bowed slightly and sauntered from the room.

‘I think someone needs to teach you a lesson,’ Baldwin murmured, his attention flitting to Lady Katharine. ‘Whatever your game is, I hope you get your come-uppance.’

Godfrey had not noticed his master’s departure. A moment later he returned to where van Relenghes had been standing, his jug in his hand, and looked round casually, expecting to see his master. Soon his search became more keen, and he walked around the room, earnestly seeking van Relenghes, before stopping dead, head cocked to one side, listening to something outside. He ran from the room with every appearance of agitation.

Baldwin had no idea his wish was already being granted.

Hugh was dozing on his stool of moorland stone when van Relenghes came out.

‘You – fetch me a horse,’ he commanded. ‘I wish to ride.’

‘You need a groom for that, sir,’ Hugh yawned. ‘They’re over there.’

‘Fetch me a horse, drunken sot!’ van Relenghes hissed, kicking Hugh’s pot, which shattered into a hundred pieces.

Hugh looked at the shards, then leaned back.

‘Did you hear me? I want a horse, now!’ van Relenghes said.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ Hugh said, insolently closing his eyes.

‘You had better do as you are bid, serf, or…’

Suddenly van Relenghes became aware that they weren’t alone. The men who had been waiting at the other side of the yard had silently walked up and now formed a close circle about them.

Nicholas smiled. ‘We’ve been asked to have a word with you, Fleming.’

Van Relenghes went pale as he realised he was trapped. He kept his hand from his sword – he would have had three men grab his arm before he could pull it two inches from its scabbard – and tried to be calm. ‘What do you want?’

‘You’ve wronged our master, haven’t you? He wants us to explain that he doesn’t like people telling villainous lies about him.’

‘This is something I should discuss with your master. Now, if you…’

‘Oh no, sir. He asked us to speak to you, most particular like,’ said Nicholas, and moved to stand directly in front of the Fleming as he attempted to sidle away.

‘I have to speak to the Lady Katharine.’

‘No need. This is my master’s hall, isn’t it?’ said Nicholas conversationally. He nodded, and one of his companions, a heavy man with a wall-eye, took hold of van Relenghes’s sleeve.

‘Keep away from me! Leave go, scum, or I’ll…’

Hugh watched impassively as Nicholas reached for his dagger. A second man grabbed the Fleming’s free arm, and he was held still. With that Hugh’s expression changed.

‘Here, you can’t do that! Give him room to swing his blade.’

Nicholas pushed him away with his free hand. ‘Go back inside if you don’t want to see a man punished.’

‘Fight him fairly, or leave him alone,’ Hugh stated. ‘This is no better than an outlaw’s trick. Let him get his sword out.’

‘Piss off, serf, unless you want to join him!’ hissed the walleyed man, and Hugh stood stock-still a moment.

He gazed at their faces. Mostly bearded, two of them scarred, one with a single eye and a damp, empty socket where the other should have been. All had the same animal lust to inflict pain. They would attack Hugh too, unarmed as he was, if they had the slightest provocation. Resigned, he took a cautious step backwards, then another.

‘Now, Master Fleming,’ said Nicholas comfortably.

‘Godfrey!’ van Relenghes screamed, wide-eyed with terror, as the blade moved towards his face.

Hugh bolted inside, colliding with someone running out. It was Godfrey. The master-of-arms tripped over Hugh’s foot, and fell headlong into the wall, striking it with a dull thud and collapsing. Hugh had stumbled as well, but he went over Godfrey, who cushioned his fall. Rising quickly, he hurried into the hall, making straight for Daniel.

‘Thanks,’ he said, and before the astonished steward could stop him, he snatched Daniel’s staff of office and sped back outside.

The Fleming’s face was a bloody mask, and Nicholas, laughing, was about to make a second long slash, when Hugh exploded into their midst.

His first blow caught the man on van Relenghes’s left, and he crumpled without a sound. Before he had fallen, Hugh had whipped his weapon into the quarter-staff fighting position, and swept it down on Nicholas’s knife hand. The man gave a shriek, more of surprise than actual pain, dropping his blade, and while the group remained frozen with surprise, Hugh had time to thrust at wall-eye: the point of the stave hit him high in the belly, and he fell, gasping loudly as he tried to catch his breath. Then Hugh could face the others.

There were three remaining, and Hugh was comfortable with the odds. Nicholas had drawn his sword, a single-edge falchion which had seen better days; one of the others had a heavy Danish axe, while the third had a bill. He was Hugh’s main problem: a man with a weapon of the same length and reach.

He saw the bill move to his left, and dropped the point of the staff to parry, immediately trying a stab to the gut which was knocked aside with ease. The man knew how to handle his weapon, Hugh noted glumly. The bill swung low, aiming at his legs, and Hugh withdrew his left foot as the blade passed, immediately stepping forward to attack the man’s open flank, out as he did so, Nicholas slashed at him, and Hugh had to swing away, retreating before the sword. The axe swung in a mean arc, and Hugh took another pace back.

There were voices now, people shouting, one man egging on Hugh’s opponents, the rest calling for peace, but Hugh kept his eyes on the three men before him. They had sorted themselves out now: the sword was on Hugh’s left, axe right, and bill before him.

Making a quick decision, Hugh sprang to his right, feinted with his staff, making the axeman swing to defend his right, and then reversed his grip, sending the butt smashing into the side of the man’s head.

As the axeman grunted and fell, his axe hit the bill of the man behind. Hugh quickly took advantage, and swung the top of the staff into his throat. With a hideous gurgling scream that sent a hot thrill of excitement into Hugh’s blood, he dropped his bill and fell to his knees, grabbing at his throat as he fought for air. Hugh sent the pole’s point at his head above the ear and he fell without another sound. Wall-eye was breathing stertorously, resting on all fours, so Hugh casually dropped him with a short cut of the staff at the back of his neck.

But all the time his attention was fixed on Nicholas. Hugh walked around the fallen men, his staff pointing at the wary survivor, who gripped his sword with both hands, staring in fascination at the point of the stave as it moved slowly, from side to side, then up and down, at no time more than a few feet from his own neck.

Nicholas had been in many fights, but never had he been foolish enough to stand against a man with a staff when he only had a sword. A wooden pole was of little use in the hands of someone who had no idea how to use it, but a man who was skilled with a pole was always at an advantage against a man with a sword. As the iron-shod point of the thick oaken stick darted to his left, Nicholas instinctively moved the blade to guard his side. The jarring shock of the two weapons colliding was enough to make him wince.

All at once the point swung low, aiming at his knees, and he had to leap back, away from his men. He had hoped that one would get up and help him, or that this furious little servant would stumble on one of them, but now even that vain hope was taken from him. Nicholas knew he was going to lose, and when he did, he would have no defence unless his master admitted ordering him to attack.

‘It was my master!’ he shouted. ‘I was ordered to wound the Fleming because of what he said about my master.’

‘So what?’ demanded Hugh, and poked the stick forward again, this time aiming at Nicholas’s chest. The blow was badly timed, and easily blocked, but with a weapon of little more than two feet long, Nicholas couldn’t take the advantage, not against a staff of nearly six feet. It was hopeless.

Hugh had his measure, and he began to strike faster: first at his left, then his right; up towards Nicholas’s head, down at his ankles; back towards his shoulders, down to thrust at his belly, all the time pressing forward, never allowing Nicholas time to relax from a blow before the next was in motion, never allowing him a moment to catch his breath, constantly seeking an opening, shoving forward.

It wasn’t that Hugh had a desire to hurt the man, but since he had become involved in a fight which was not of his making, Hugh was determined to win it.

The end was not long in coming. Nicholas saw the attack at his head, saw the pole move from right to left as if Hugh was going to swing at the other side of his head at the last moment, moved his sword, and then, just too late, saw that the staff wasn’t where it should have been: instead it was coming straight towards his face.