Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

Chapter Six

When the messenger arrived, Sir Baldwin and Simon were in Baldwin’s hall, pulling off their boots after a hot and dusty day’s hunting intended to take the knight’s mind off his coming nuptials. Baldwin was bellowing for Edgar to get drinks for them when the cattleman’s son Wat came in nervously, saying that Edgar had gone to Crediton to order more food.

‘Very well, then,’ Baldwin muttered irritably. ‘Fetch us wine, and be quick! We have had nothing to drink since before lunch.’

The lad rushed off, his cheap boots slapping on the flagged passage, and Simon raised an eyebrow to his friend. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to let him serve us? You know what he’s like with drinks – if Edgar hears you let Wat loose in his buttery, he’ll leave your service!’

Baldwin threw his overtunic on the ground and sat in his chair. ‘I don’t know what to do with the boy,’ he said wearily. ‘He is perfectly well-behaved when he’s sober, but if there’s a broached barrel of ale in the same room as him, he will empty it and fill himself. I dare not leave him alone with drink until he learns to moderate his thirst.’

The two men were seated when the messenger was brought in. Baldwin recognised him as one of the servants from Throwleigh Manor, although it was not the same man who had brought the news of Squire Roger’s death, and the knight stood abruptly.

The messenger’s legs looked as though they could hardly support him, he had ridden so far, so quickly.

‘I’m sorry, Sir Baldwin,’ he gasped, ‘but I have been sent at utmost speed to ask you and the bailiff if you can help a poor widow in sore distress.’

‘Is it your mistress who asks this?’ asked Simon sharply. ‘Has she suffered some new calamity?’

Even as his friend posed the question, Baldwin felt as if a steel fist was clenching around his belly and squeezing.

‘Bailiff, Sir Baldwin… my master, the mistress’s son Herbert, is dead.’

It took little time to prepare for their departure the next day. It was appalling to hear of the Lady of Throwleigh’s terrible misfortune, losing her only son so short a time after the death of her husband, and Simon’s horror lent haste to his preparations.

The bailiff was surprised at how his friend had taken the news of the lad’s death. From the moment the messenger had delivered his solemn request, the knight had sat quietly, deep in thought. He had left the table shortly after the meal the night before and gone out for a long walk, refusing any company, and this morning he had said little to anyone before they mounted their horses. Now he pressed Simon to greater speeds whenever the other man slowed.

When they came to Hittisleigh, Simon spurred on to ride at his side. ‘Baldwin, what is it?’

The knight did not turn his gaze from the horizon ahead. ‘It is my fault that the boy has died, Simon.’

His friend blinked in surprise. ‘How can it be your fault? You weren’t there.’

‘I was too tied up in my own prospects, in my own happiness, to recognise the misery on that poor child’s face.’

‘Rubbish! I was there too, and I saw only grief for his father; a very proper sadness.’

‘I saw more, Simon. I saw an uncle who wanted to inherit his nephew’s lands and a mother who apparently had no love for her son. Two dangers to the child, and I ignored them both, being too bound up with my own delight.’

‘Even if you’re right and one of them truly did hold an evil design on young Herbert, there was nothing you could have done.’

‘At the very least I could have spoken to them and made my suspicions plain so that they would never have dared attack him. He was only a child, Simon. Just think of it, a little lad of only five years, snuffed out like a candle. How could someone do that?’

Simon shrugged. ‘You know as well as I do that children die every day. They get lockjaw, they catch chills, they contract diarrhoea…’ His voice trembled as he recalled the death of his own infant son, Peterkin, from a fever two years ago.

‘Forgive me, old friend. I do not wish to cause you pain,’ Baldwin said gently, his face softening in compassion for Simon and Margaret’s loss. ‘However, those are natural deaths. They are different from deliberately ending a child’s life for reasons of personal greed, or…’ Baldwin recalled the expression on Stephen’s face at the graveside, ‘… or some darker motive.’

‘If you’d let me finish, I was also going to mention the girls who are allowed to die because their parents can’t afford to feed them.’

‘That is wrong, but one can comprehend the motives which might lead a parent to allow a girl to die,’ Baldwin said, with a troubled expression.

Simon threw him a quick look. ‘Really? I could never leave my own little Edith out to die of cold on a winter’s night; nor can I understand how any other parent could.’

‘Simon, I am sorry if I have upset you again. All I was trying to say was, it seems understandable to me that a man who already suffers from the most terrible hardship because of his poverty, one who has little food because the harvest has been poor, who has other mouths to feed, who has no money because his lord takes all he can earn, who has too many daughters already and cannot even think of ever having enough money to dower them all – well, in that position I can understand someone allowing a baby to die. In that example it is not someone killing for cruelty or personal benefit, it is a patriarch taking action for the better safety and security of the other members of his family. I find that easier to swallow than the murder of a young lad simply to satisfy a man’s avarice.’

‘I fail to see the distinction. And what is more, I still fail to see how you can blame yourself in any way for Herbert’s death. Are you seriously saying that you would have gone to Lady Katharine and accused her of planning her son’s murder?’

‘Simon, I don’t know,’ Baldwin said despairingly. He sighed, head bowed for a moment. ‘And yet I feel quite certain that if I had not been so tied up with my own pleasure and thoughts of my marriage, that young fellow would still be running around over the moors now. I cannot help it; I am convinced that if I had been more vigilant and thoughtful, Herbert, the heir of Squire Throwleigh, would still be alive.’

Night was falling as Baldwin and Simon clattered into the yard behind the house. The knight dropped from his horse as soon as he entered under the low gateway, shouting for a groom. When his horse was taken, Sir Baldwin impatiently tapped his foot until his friend joined him, and the two men made their way to the door.

Daniel, the steward, appeared in the doorway as they approached, and servants saw to their baggage.

The hall looked just as he recalled it from their previous visit, only a few days before, but now Baldwin was struck by how few were present. Whereas many of the local magnates and lesser nobles had turned out for the dead squire, only those from Throwleigh itself, Stephen of York, the servants, and van Relenghes – whom Baldwin did not recognise – were present. The knight felt outraged that so few had come to witness the burial of the boy. Perhaps it was because there was still a day to pass before the interment, but that was hardly an excuse! There was one other face he recognised, that of Thomas, the boy’s uncle. Thomas raised his glass in a vaguely convivial gesture that disgusted Baldwin, and he turned from him quickly, hoping that Lady Katharine hadn’t noticed.

Anger, frustration and a sense of his own guilt made his voice harsh as he bowed to the lady of the manor, saying, ‘I am sorry to be here again, my Lady, so soon after your other dreadful loss.’

Lady Katharine lifted her eyes to him. In her hand was a swatch of pale linen, with which she wiped at the constant tears. ‘I could have wished a happier occasion for your visit, too, Sir Baldwin.’

Her maid patted her back as she dropped her head in misery, sobbing silently. Lady Katharine’s whole body shuddered with her grief, and the maid looked at Baldwin with a quick frown and shake of her head. He nodded curtly and gestured to Daniel. While the lady wept, Simon and Baldwin went out to see the body.

The maid left her mistress and fetched wine. She poured a goodly portion and passed it to Lady Katharine, watching with a kind of weary disinterest as she sipped. To the maid’s mind there was no cure which could ease the loss of a much-loved son. She, Anney, knew that only too well.

Perhaps now her mistress would understand it, too.

Simon and Baldwin marched with the steward to the storehouse beneath the hall. Thomas followed them, overtaking the group as they arrived at the door.

‘Here, Sir Baldwin,’ Daniel said sadly, throwing open the door.

‘Fetch lights, man. I can’t see my hand before my face in this gloom,’ Baldwin snarled, and Daniel hurried out, shocked, as if he had never been bellowed at before.

Baldwin strode to the little table on which the boy’s body lay. He could just make out the features of the child, and his own face hardened. ‘If I find your murderer, child, I shall see him or her hanged,’ he swore.

‘You think the boy was murdered?’ Thomas asked. He had a stupid, befuddled look, and Baldwin ignored him. The steward finally returned with a pair of stands in which thick, yellow candles gave off a good light, but a foul odour as well, reeking of tallow and burning animal flesh as they guttered in the draught.

‘Here!’ Baldwin commanded, and the steward immediately complied, setting the candles on either side of the knight.

The boy was covered in a shroud, and before the knight could put out his hand to pull the cloth aside, Simon was already turning away, wincing. It wasn’t only the thought of the wounds he was about to witness, it was the smell – the poor lad had clearly been stored in the coolest undercroft, but decomposition had set in swiftly.

Baldwin hardly noticed his movement. He snatched the shroud away with a determined air, as if fearing what he might discover, and studied the tiny figure. ‘Gracious God! This is awful – he has great wounds, as if he has been beaten and crushed,’ he said, his voice dropping in awed horror.

‘Yes, and we still don’t know who did it,’ said Thomas, staring down at the little figure.

‘Then you should have acted more damned swiftly to find the killer!’ Baldwin snapped.

Thomas gave him a faintly baffled look. ‘It isn’t easy. That road’s busy, Sir Baldwin.’

The knight opened his mouth to roar at him, but then stopped and peered down at the child, his face filled with a kind of relieved wonder. ‘You mean he was killed on the road?’

‘I thought you knew, sir. Yes, the Coroner has been here and confirmed it. Poor Herbert was run down on the road above the house. It’s quite likely the killer didn’t even realise he’d hit the child.’

Out in the yard, Nicholas brushed Sir Baldwin’s horse and saw it had hay and water. When he was sure it was well catered for, he went back to the door and lounged against the post.

His master Thomas was a crooked bastard, as Nicholas knew only too well, but he hadn’t expected such cold cunning from him. Thomas’s appalled shock on discovering that he was five years too late to take over the manor, that he had a nephew who was already in possession, would have been hilarious if the news wasn’t so dire. If their master was bankrupted, then they would all be in the same boat. There weren’t many places for men like them to go. Each had his own problems. Especially Nicholas; especially here; especially since the death of Anney’s first child. So far he had managed to avoid seeing her, and his master knew why he had to skulk in the stables and not take his place at Thomas’s side like any other steward. It was the only sure way to avoid a disastrous meeting.

Still, their business here would soon be over, Nicholas thought to himself as he watched the knight and the bailiff stroll back from the storeroom towards the lighted door of the hall, and then they could leave Throwleigh for ever, take their money and get back to Exeter, where they belonged.

He glanced behind him, towards the moors, and shivered. There was no way he wanted to live out here.

Not again.

Sir Baldwin felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Since hearing of Herbert’s death he had tormented himself with the thought that the lad had been murdered; thank God his assumption was plainly wrong. In his relief he overruled the quiet voice at the back of his mind which questioned how a lively, healthy boy could have been run down by a cart. Perhaps he had fallen; maybe Herbert had already been unconscious. All Baldwin knew was that the lad must surely have had an accident, and with that thought the sense of guilt, almost of complicity, had sloughed from his body, leaving him feeling fresh and clean.

As soon as he entered the hall again and saw Lady Katharine, Baldwin strode over and took her hand, offering her his sincerest and most heartfelt condolences.

The woman seemed comforted by his words and sympathy, and asked him: ‘Will you remain for the funeral, Sir Baldwin? It will take place in four days’ time.’

‘I am sorry, but I fear I must return home. My wedding is the day after tomorrow.’

‘I remember,’ she murmured. ‘We were to have been there. I can only hope that you will bring your wife to visit me here when you can. It would be a great pleasure to meet your lady.’

‘Lady Katharine, you are very kind. I swear I shall bring her here as soon as I can – when you are over the worst of your grief.’

When Baldwin joined Simon near the fire, the knight couldn’t help but sigh with relief.

‘Oh, I thank God! I had expected a murder, and instead I find a simple – although tragic – accident,’ he murmured, his attention returning to the grieving woman sitting on her chair while the servants moved about her. ‘It’s awful. I can hardly believe I was prepared to accuse even her, if I found evidence that her boy had been murdered.’

Simon nodded. ‘And there’s no doubt?’

‘Oh, the lad met with an awful accident. His ribs are broken, and there is the track of an iron-shod wheel over his breast, as well as what look like hoofmarks. There are several scars, all probably caused by a scared horse. You know how beasts react when they are startled – and any but a warhorse will avoid a dead or injured body. The poor devil probably ran out into the path of a carter and was struck before the horse could stop; perhaps the animal tried to, but the weight of the cart forced it on. The boy was knocked over, and maybe the horse reared, hitting him again. Anyway, a wheel definitely went over him. He would probably have known little if anything about it; unconscious as soon as the hoof struck his head, and the life crushed from his frail little body as he was run over. Poor fellow! But I was foolish. Who would want to kill a lad like him?’

And on his journey home the next day he was able to smile and whistle, all thoughts of Herbert driven from his mind by the prospect of his wedding.

Daniel walked slowly from the hall and out to the sanctuary of his buttery, where he sank down on a stool, gripping his staff in both hands as an old man might clasp a prop.

It was deeply upsetting to see how the lady had taken the death of her son. Daniel was confused. His mistress had appeared so cold towards her boy when the squire had died, Daniel had half-expected her to show little emotion on hearing of Herbert’s death – and yet she had been distraught to the point of losing her mind.

The steward gazed unseeing at the far wall. Jugs lay on the shelf, pots above, with taps and spiles jumbled among them ready for the next barrel to be broached. The Coroner had come in here to pocket his fee before viewing the body out in the storeroom and riding off again. He had recorded the death as an accident but that still left the question of how it could have happened. How could someone have killed the boy and made off without leaving evidence? It seemed too remarkable for it to have been an accident.

Daniel shook his head. It was hard to conceive of anyone knowingly committing such a hideous crime. It wasn’t only evil, it was cowardly. Suddenly the steward’s face stiffened as he recalled an interview.

It was at the last assessment of the manor’s men, when he had stood before all the villeins in the hall, Stephen noting all the details down in his great roll at the table behind him. Despite the clean rushes strewn everywhere by Petronilla, the atmosphere had been foul, which was why the squire himself had left it to Daniel. There was a sour smell of unwashed bodies, which mingled unpleasantly with that of the ill-cured skins brought by the warrener.

The meeting was much like any other, except this time there was a piece of unwelcome news for the tenant named Edmund. Throwleigh was never profitable, and the squire had chosen to take on some of the newer ideas being tried in the Cornish estates. He had made his villeins conventionary tenants. No more did they have the right to remain on their land by virtue of paying their taxes; now they must agree to better any other offers. And this year a baker from Oakhampton had offered to take up the seven-year tenancy on Edmund’s property, promising more than the other man could hope to.

Poor Edmund had appeared unable to comprehend the blow. He had stood shaking his head, refusing to accept that he could be forced to lose his whole property; a broken man.

Daniel could easily recall the second meeting, at which his lady had pushed Edmund still further, denying that he was free, rejecting his right to take his case to the King’s court. At the time Daniel had thought she was pushing the man too far, but she was determined. In her mind the death of her husband was linked to the man in whose yard he had died. She held some kind of vindictive grudge against him. But Daniel had seen Edmund’s face harden during that meeting, as if he felt he had nothing to lose.

An insidious thought crept into his mind: Daniel had seen him the day Herbert died. Edmund had been there, on his cart.