Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

Chapter Nineteen

‘Well, what of it?’ Thomas demanded. ‘I am lord of my own manor, you know!’ He was walking up and down in the yard, and with every word he spoke, his fists clenched, as if expecting the knight to try to attack him.

Baldwin was surprised by his truculence but held up a hand soothingly. ‘Thomas, I am not disputing your right. All I asked was, has he confessed to anything?’

‘No, but I have spoken to his neighbours, and they are all agreed that he is an habitual criminal. He’s been suspected of stealing food and chickens before now. He has a common fame in the vill.’

‘It is a large leap from that to murder, surely?’

‘Oh, these villeins stop at nothing. This one in particular is known to be lazy and a drunk – and beats his wife regularly. It could hardly be anybody else.’

Simon avoided Baldwin’s eye as the knight gave an exasperated ‘Pah!’ of contempt. The bailiff knew how his friend felt about such statements. It was a simple fact that members of a village would often find a man guilty if he had been described as ‘common’ or ‘notorious’ in the indictment. If they had the slightest doubt as to the man’s true honesty and integrity, they would convict him because otherwise they would all be held responsible for the supposed thief’s good behaviour; if they had a shred of doubt as to whether he was guilty or not, this threat, of having a massive fine imposed should the man later get arrested for another crime, often made them find their neighbour guilty just so as not to run that risk!

However, instead of exploding, the knight merely said, ‘Did anyone see him return to the village on the afternoon Herbert died?’

Thomas blinked, and for a moment stopped his restless pacing. ‘How should I know? What a question! Who cares whether anyone saw him? He was on the road and killed the boy – that’s all we need to know.’

‘I suggest you ask people in the village whether they recall seeing him, and if they did, what was the state of his hose,’ said Baldwin imperturbably.

‘His hose?’ Thomas gaped.

‘If he walked up through all those ferns and furze, he’d have got his legs soaked, wouldn’t he? It would be the final proof you need.’

Thomas gave him a cold look. First the damned Fleming, now this man telling him how to run his own affairs! ‘I have all the proof I need.’

‘Then that is fine. But I would suggest you send someone to check. You wouldn’t want the bailiff here to demand that the man be freed just for want of one question, would you? Why not ask at the houses next to his, and at the tavern, in case he dropped in before going home. And then, if you have no objection, I would like to speak to your prisoner.’

Thomas gave his agreement grudgingly and walked to the stables. Shortly afterwards they could hear him bellowing for a groom.

‘I suppose you’ll want to go back up to the moors later when it’s dry?’ Simon asked reluctantly.

‘It would seem the right thing to do,’ Baldwin agreed. He had not yet had a chance to tell his friend about the similarity between the cleric’s footprint and the one up on the track, but he did so now.

Simon was dismissive. ‘It’s probably coincidence. How many men around here have feet the same size?’

In answer, Baldwin set his foot into a patch of dark mud. Grinning, Simon copied him, making his own mark alongside it. The two prints were similar, but there was a significant difference in width. The bailiff shrugged.

‘See? I expect if you check the prints of the Fleming and his guard, not to mention the stablemen and gardeners, steward, Thomas, and others, you’ll find that they’ll all be about the same. That proves nothing.’

‘You are probably right – still, it does suggest that two people might have been up there, and that together they might have been responsible for Herbert’s death. And for the strangest possible reason, one of them was shod with only one shoe.’

‘What I don’t understand is why the prints disappeared,’ Simon mused.

‘Ah, that’s the easiest part to explain,’ Baldwin said. ‘Think about it. Two people walk up that path – they meet the boy, kill him, and drag him to the road; as they walk, the body they are dragging will sweep away all their tracks. What baffles me is where they then disappeared to.’

Simon gave him a serious stare. ‘You really believe the priest killed Herbert?’

‘Not necessarily. Whoever dragged the body back did wipe out Stephen’s prints, but that only tells us that the priest didn’t go down that path after the body had passed by.’

‘And those who dragged it down clearly didn’t go back up the hill,’ Simon agreed. They were standing at the gate, and they passed through and out to the clitter beyond, each selecting a rock on which to sit.

The bailiff narrowed his eyes and gazed along the road northwards, continuing slowly: ‘Why should anyone want to hurry back up the hill? It would only lead them to the moor, and that’d be lunacy. There are miles of moor between here and the next household: surely whoever did kill the boy had reason to do so, and that means it was someone who knew him, not some wandering vagabond.’

‘Absolutely. The killer was someone from the household, or from Throwleigh. A destitute outlaw will sometimes waylay a man for his purse, but would hardly think a five-year-old worth the risk of a rope. Whoever killed Herbert definitely had a motive.’

‘Thomas would say that this farmer, Edmund, had motive enough.’

Baldwin grimaced. ‘Yes, he probably would, but I still think Edmund is the least likely suspect. A drunk is rarely capable of killing and concealing his crime.’

‘I have known alcoholics commit murder, especially when intoxicated,’ Simon pointed out.

‘Of course you have, but what we have here is a careful attempt to conceal the murder, to make it look like an accident – and a drunken man would find it hard to do that. For instance, could the farmer have dragged the body so far without leaving some trace to show he was there? A footprint, a…’ His voice faded as he considered.

Simon picked up a handful of stones and began throwing them at a large black slug at the foot of a rock. ‘I wonder how large Thomas’s feet are.’

‘A good question. Our new squire is the man with the best motive for killing the lad. He wanted the money and estate – he’s never made any bones about that. But I also have to wonder about the length and shape of my Lady’s feet.’

‘Baldwin, for God’s sake! Herbert was Lady Katharine’s only son!’

‘But she blamed him for causing the death of the squire. You didn’t see the hatred on her face at her husband’s graveside.’

‘She’s a woman, in Christ’s name!’

‘Forget chivalry for a moment, Simon, forget courtesy. Lady Katharine is an intelligent woman, one with a long life ahead of her – she can only be some five-and-twenty years old. Any man marrying her would always know that the main part of her dowry would be his only until her son grew to be of age – and any son of his own would be without an inheritance. Tell me, if you were in her shoes, wouldn’t you wonder how much better your future prospects would be, without the burden of a readymade son?’

Simon stared aghast. ‘You’re asking me to believe that she adored her husband, but in the same breath you propose that she killed the only fruit of that union: I say that is unlikely. You suggest that she could not only plan to destroy her own son, but that she could participate in his end: I consider that improbable in the extreme. You then say she might be considering her future with another man, that she is already considering her next husband, yet that would presuppose that a suitable husband would wait for a year so that she could avoid any accusation of infamy for marrying before the end of her period of mourning. That is far too speculative.’

‘Perhaps, but it is possible. Look at the way that the Fleming is trying to insinuate himself into her favour.’

‘You think he is?’ Simon asked doubtfully, then smiled with delight as he hit the slug. It fell from the stone leaving a yellow stain. ‘Even if he were, surely it’s unlikely that she’d countenance his advances. You can’t doubt her feelings about her husband, can you?’

‘No-o,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘No, her misery was all too plain after Roger’s death. And yet van Relenghes appears to think he can win her over.’

‘I reckon it’s more likely that a band of marauding outlaws came past here, murdered the child, went up to the moors and were swallowed up by a mire, than that she could have been involved.’

Baldwin gave a grin at his friend’s exasperated tone. ‘Very well, then, Simon. So we have more to discover about the whole affair.’ He looked up to see Nicholas cantering past on a pony, heading for the Throwleigh road. ‘It seems Thomas has sent to check on Edmund’s hose. Perhaps we should begin by questioning the man whom everyone assumes is guilty.’

When they arrived at the locked door of the small cell beneath the chapel, they found a sulky Wat waiting with Daniel and Thomas. The boy carried a tray of food, Baldwin was relieved to see: at least the farmer wasn’t going to be starved while he awaited his appearance in the manor’s court. The new lord of the manor said nothing, but gave a sharp gesture, and the steward shoved a massive key into the lock. It made a grinding noise as it turned, but then opened, and the men all entered. Baldwin was last, and when Simon turned, he saw the knight speak quietly to Wat before slipping inside.

The knight found himself in a simple cell some twelve feet square. It was not so terrible as some he had seen – his own little gaol in Crediton was worse, a mere hole in the ground – but this was dark and gloomy. The only light came through a grating high in the wall. To Baldwin the sunlight looked as if it had expended all its energy in breaking in, and having achieved that it was so enfeebled it had no ability to warm.

Edmund was seated on a bench in the corner. A toilet bucket had been provided, and from the stench he had already used it. Baldwin winced. Ever since his time in the Knights Templar, when he had spent many months in the Kingdom of Cyprus, he had appreciated cleanliness and fresh odours. Edmund was quite obviously terrified; he equated his arrest with his death – and not, as Baldwin thought privately, without good reason. It was evident that Thomas viewed him as the perfect scapegoat.

Baldwin took his seat on an old barrel and studied the farmer. Edmund had lost his previous swagger. Now he sat as one crushed by events too monstrous to defy. Every so often he gave a brief shiver, as if the cold had eaten into his bones, and he refused to look at his visitors.

Thomas swung a riding switch, which caught the farmer on his shoulder. He flinched and drew back as the new squire cried, ‘Tell us what happened, fool, or you’ll get worse than that!’

Simon said curtly, ‘We want to know what happened on the day that Master Herbert died, Edmund. Don’t worry that you’ll get punished if you are innocent. I’ll ensure you’re safe.’

‘Sir, I’ve done nothing – it wasn’t my fault,’ Edmund said, and for that moment his voice was strong and clear, but immediately his tone dropped and he began to snivel. ‘He was dead when I got there. I didn’t do anything that could have hurt him, he was beyond that already.’

‘Tell us what happened.’

Edmund sniffed, his attention apparently fixed on his worn-out boots. ‘I told you I’d been up to Oakhampton, and after I’d sold what I could, I’d gone to the tavern. God only knows, there wasn’t much money, not from the few eggs and chickens I could sell, but I needed something to refresh me. The last few months have been so hard, sir, and what with being told that we were to be evicted, and then that I’m to be servile again… well, I needed a drink.

‘I was there a while, long enough to swallow two quarts of strong ale, before setting off for home. I came down past the Sticklepath, and out onto the moor road, then cut through the woods to the lane where I could turn off to Throwleigh. That was when I saw Master Thomas on the road, and chose to walk this way instead.’

Simon glanced up at Thomas. The Master of Throwleigh gripped his switch tightly and took a short step forward. ‘You dare to try to implicate me? By God’s blood, I’ll see you flayed for this!’

Baldwin took hold of his arm, remonstrating gently. ‘There’s little point in asking questions if you’re going to thrash him when he gives you an answer. All right, Edmund – why did you decide to pass by the manor?’

Edmund looked exhausted. ‘I told you the truth before, Sir Baldwin. I found a small cony, and wasn’t going to leave it to the rooks, so I picked it up, but when I came to the fork, I saw Master Thomas on the road to Throwleigh, and thought I’d better not go past him; he might realise I had something with me.’

Thomas gave him a filthy look and spat at his foot. ‘Liar!’

Simon and Baldwin ignored him. There was a silence for some moments, and then Thomas threw out his hand passionately. ‘Look at him! I ask you! What would I have been doing down there, eh?’ Emboldened by his own rhetoric, Thomas spun round to face Edmund. ‘Well? What was I doing, then?’

Edmund sighed, and glanced hopelessly up at the grille in the window far above, paying no heed to Thomas, who hurled his crop away from him and began pacing up and down.

It was not the first time Baldwin had seen such a look on a man’s face: it showed complete despair, the realisation that whatever Edmund might attempt, he was already doomed. That look of complete submission to fate was commonplace on the faces of men and women whom Baldwin had been forced to accuse in the past, especially when a Coroner was present and the court could demand the highest penalty; that of death. It invariably meant that the prisoner knew that the forces of authority had already decreed his end. Baldwin knew that he must remove Thomas if they were to discover more.

‘You want food?’ he asked, and when Edmund gave a surly shrug, he called Wat inside. Wat passed the tray to the prisoner, and then glanced at the knight.

Simon could have sworn that as Wat met his master’s eye, Baldwin gave a fleeting wink. Wat nodded, and hurried from the room while Baldwin leaned both elbows on his knees and surveyed the farmer.

For his part, Edmund lifted the jug of ale and sniffed at the contents, then prodded his bread and dipped a finger into the bowl of pottage – but nothing excited his appetite.

‘If you don’t want to eat, put the tray aside,’ Thomas snarled, and was about to kick it away when there came a loud shout from outside. ‘What’s that?’

Baldwin cocked an ear, an expression of vague surprise on his face. ‘It sounds as if someone is calling for you, Thomas. It’s all right – you go and we’ll remain for a little longer.’

‘I’m staying right here.’

Simon grinned broadly, but there was steel in his voice. ‘Why’s that, Master Thomas? Don’t you trust us alone with your prisoner? I shouldn’t worry – I am Bailiff for the Stannaries, after all.’

Thomas considered him irresolutely before glancing at Baldwin; he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he loathed all knights. That damned Fleming had dared to stand against him and continued to pay court to Lady Katharine, and now Sir Baldwin was forcing him away so that Edmund could be questioned without him. This conjecture was reinforced by Thomas’s certainty that the voice calling so loudly for him was that of Edgar, Baldwin’s servant. ‘Of course I trust you, Bailiff,’ he growled untruthfully. ‘But I’m not happy that a serf of mine should be interrogated in my absence.’

‘I assure you I will not harm him,’ Baldwin said, in a tone that made Thomas blanch with anger.

Meanwhile Simon had crossed his arms and leaned against the wall well within Thomas’s field of vision. He was not close enough for Thomas to consider him threatening, but he was closer than was necessary, or strictly polite.

The knight sighed and held up both hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘Do you wish us to leave our questioning and follow you? We may be able to discover something here which could have some bearing on the murder of your nephew, but if you really insist…’

‘No… no, you remain here,’ Thomas said, his manners returning at last. Casting a last suspicious glance at Simon, he walked from the room.

Instantly Baldwin was on his feet. He took the tray from the farmer’s lap and passed it to Simon. ‘Now listen very carefully, Edmund,’ he said urgently. ‘You are to be accused of murdering Master Herbert – you understand me? If that happens, you will be tried as a felon, and will almost certainly be found guilty. You comprehend your problem? You are a villein under the court of the Master of Throwleigh…’

‘I’m no villein, I’m a free man,’ Edmund declared, and there was real anger in his eyes, undimmed by fear of retribution.

It was true, he thought. He was a free man, with a certificate to prove it. His mistress might try to assert that she owned his body, but his father had been given that crucial document by her husband – what right did she have to rescind it?

The response was enough to satisfy Baldwin, and he slapped the farmer’s shoulder. ‘Then behave like one! Now – did you see Thomas on the road that day?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘He was searching for something – I don’t know what.’

‘Was he on his horse?’

‘No, his mare was held by that man of his. Thomas was on his feet, prodding and poking with a stick in among the ferns and furze.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘So you took this road, up past the manor?’

‘Yes. I didn’t want to meet up with that fat bastard again. He’s never liked me, and I didn’t fancy any more of his insults.’

Daniel stirred himself at last. ‘Edmund, you be careful what you…’

‘Be quiet, Steward!’ Baldwin thundered. ‘Hold your tongue or leave this room. I’ll not have you prejudicing this man’s evidence! Now, Edmund, Thomas wasn’t yet your master, was he? You thought that your Lady Katharine was still the executor of Squire Roger’s will, and the legal guardian of Master Herbert, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, sir, but there were rumours.’ He leaned back, and his face took on a sneer. ‘Like how Master Thomas was keen to be the next squire, like he wasn’t happy to find that there was another one, Master Herbert, between him and his inheritance.’

Baldwin heard a gasp and swift intake of breath. Without turning, he knew from the expression on Daniel’s face that Thomas was back. He made no sign that he had heard anything, but instead held Edmund’s attention. The farmer looked back with a kind of arrogance. He had witnessed Thomas’s return, Baldwin realised, and had made his statement with the intention of denouncing his new master.

There was a new courage flashing in his features. Baldwin had heard that some of his comrades, brother Templars, had been the same: they had accepted the most appalling accusations for a period, but when still more hideous allegations were added, they were finally stirred into defiance. Even the most broken, tortured men preferred to declare the truth; those who could have saved themselves by simply pronouncing one single lie chose to damn their tormentors instead.

‘Did he see you?’

‘Yes, Sir Baldwin. Both did. They looked up as I came near. I saw Master Thomas recognise me. He just stood there, while I took the right-hand fork to avoid him. Never said anything, just watched me until the bend of the road took me out of his sight.’

‘What then?’

Edmund’s gaze dropped, and Baldwin knew instinctively that this was the core of his evidence.

‘I rode on for a few hundred yards, under the shade of the trees, and then came to the open moor again. I saw the other two men, the foreigners…’

‘He means van Relenghes and his guard,’ Daniel murmured.

‘… and they both stared at me like I was some sort of outlaw or something,’ Edmund continued bitterly. ‘I’d never seen them before. I was worried; they both looked warlike, and the way they kept their eyes on me, I thought they might attack… and then, well…’

‘The boy?’

‘Yes, sir.’ His eyes dropped, and his voice fell as if the matter was too grave to be spoken of loudly. ‘I felt it more than anything. There was a crack, and the cart gave a sort of jump, and…’

Baldwin interrupted him. ‘You saw nothing in the road before you hit him?’

‘No, but I was looking over my shoulder. At those men.’

‘And you did not hear Master Herbert cry out?’

Edmund shook his head with conviction, and Baldwin tried to envisage the scene in his mind. Having been to the place, it was easier to picture how it might have happened. The farmer, nervous on seeing the brother of his dead lord, rode on quickly, only to find himself confronted with two intimidating strangers a long way from any help. Would it be any wonder that the farmer would keep his eye on them rather more than on the road ahead? The horse could see where the potholes were, and it would be better for Edmund to make sure he was not about to be attacked from behind and robbed. Especially as he was about to pass under that slight bank, Baldwin reminded himself. The bank, only three or so feet high, but standing just at the corner of that curve in the road…

‘When you had passed, was he on his face or his back?’ he asked.

‘His back, sir,’ whispered Edmund, closing his eyes at the memory. It was a sight he would never be able to forget. ‘He looked like my own lad, sir. I thought I’d killed Jordan.’ A tear trickled down his face.

The prone figure had been so like his own son, he had scarcely been able to move, so great was his feeling of dread. Then he’d stopped the horse, taken several deep breaths before clambering shakily down from the cart and walking the few paces to the still body. Only then did he recognise who it was.

‘I see,’ Baldwin said, but he looked puzzled. ‘To reiterate: you drove round the corner, out of sight of the two men, and over the child’s body. There was no sound of him calling out, so far as you heard – and you definitely found him lying on his back?’

‘That’s right, sir. As God is my witness.’

‘Did you run over his head?’ Simon asked.

Edmund shuddered. ‘His head? God’s teeth, no, sir! The wheel went over his chest. The mud showed that plain enough.’

‘Now, Edmund,’ Simon continued, ‘did you see anyone else on the moor that day?’

‘Yes, sir. There was a carter who passed me a while before I got to the fork in the road.’

‘That’d be the fishmonger?’ Simon asked, glancing back at Daniel. And when the steward shrugged: ‘Thomas, send someone to find this itinerant fish-seller and bring him to us as soon as possible.’

‘I also saw Petronilla up on the hillside above the stream just before I saw the two men,’ Edmund recalled, his face screwed up with concentration.

‘The maid?’ Simon asked. ‘What would she have been doing up there?’

Daniel grunted. ‘She often goes up that way to fetch eggs from the ducks. There are several up towards the big pool, and her mistress likes fresh duck-eggs sometimes.’

‘Anybody else?’

‘No,’ lied Edmund stoutly.

‘The very first question that’ll occur to everyone will be, “So why didn’t you immediately go to the manor and fetch help”?’ Baldwin asked.

Edmund gave him a strange look, as if doubting the grave, dark-featured knight’s intelligence. ‘Why, sir? Because the manor knows me only too well, and I’d just been told I was to become a villein again. Would you have gone running back to a place where they’d be as likely to string you up as thank you?’

‘Why should they?’ Baldwin asked quietly.

‘Because they’d think I’d run down the boy on purpose, of course! Wouldn’t you?’

Baldwin considered him, head on one side. ‘No, I wouldn’t. You’re a fool often enough, you brag about things when you’re drunk, I have no doubt, and I can tell that you beat your wife, but as to killing a child for revenge – I doubt it. Especially since… How old is your horse?’

‘Eh?’ The man’s face registered his surprise at the sudden question. ‘Fifteen, I suppose, but so what?’

‘How fast can he haul your cart?’

‘I don’t know, he gets me from Oakhampton fast enough.’

‘Could he overtake a running dog?’

‘Well, not with the cart, of course…’

‘Could he overtake a running boy?’

Thomas thrust himself past Simon and went to stand between Baldwin and the prisoner. ‘What in God’s name has all this to do with anything? Are you making fun of my hospitality, Sir Knight?’

‘Out of my way, Thomas!’ Baldwin roared. Thomas blenched and fell back before the knight’s enraged glare. Baldwin stood, glowering.

‘You know perfectly well that this poor fool had nothing to do with the death of your nephew; he couldn’t have run down a child on a cart pulled by a broken-down nag. This whole affair is a farce, and you have contrived to have an innocent man arrested – someone who couldn’t possibly defend himself. You selected him carefully, didn’t you?’

‘He might have run over Herbert without the boy seeing him,’ Thomas said.

Simon had no idea what the two men were talking about, but two factors weighed heavily with him: he had faith in Baldwin’s judgement, and Thomas was showing signs of extreme anxiety.

‘You know as well as I do that that’s rubbish,’ Baldwin said sharply. ‘A lad lying on his back, and you suggest that he couldn’t see what was coming towards him? Or perhaps you believe that he wished to remain there, and wanted to be run down?’

‘Perhaps he was unconscious?’ Thomas suggested with a slight frown, as if putting forward a novel new concept.

‘Yes, and perhaps he was lying there because someone else had already killed him, eh? Master Thomas, you had your horse with you that afternoon, I believe?’

‘Do you dare to suggest that…’

‘I suggest you should exercise your brain as to how to release this man without leaving a smear of any sort on his character – and at the earliest possible moment,’ said Baldwin, and glanced towards the baffled farmer. ‘Edmund, you said the body reminded you of your son. Why was that? Was the boy wearing clothing like young Jordan’s?’

The shaken farmer took a moment to consider the question. ‘No, sir, it’s only that my lad often used to play with Master Herbert. The last time I saw Squire Roger was when he came to complain about my son playing with Master Herbert in the orchard, I remembered Jordan saying he was going to play up at the manor, and automatically thought to myself that it must be him. That was all.’

‘Well, all I can say is, I think you ran over a dead boy, farmer. Herbert was dead long before you hit him.’

‘He might have been alive,’ Thomas protested.

‘If he was alive, he was unconscious and unaware of the cart heading towards him, which means the farmer was not responsible. The man who knocked the child down in the first place was responsible. Wasn’t he?’