Squire Throwleigh's Heir

  Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

  Michael Jecks

  Chapter One

  If he’d known that this was the day he was going to die, Squire Roger of Throwleigh would have behaved more coolly, but lacking this prescience, he lost his temper instead.

  It wasn’t his little son Herbert’s sullenness so much as his denial of any knowledge of the matter that made Roger’s blood boil. Playing with friends in the orchard was so petty an offence that the squire wouldn’t usually have bothered to get to the bottom of it, but he knew Herbert had been there - he had seen him! - and even as the squire bellowed for the boys to stop, he had seen his own lad turn, the fear transforming his face.

  By then it was already too late. Had the squire’s horse been to hand, he might have been able to head them off before they could reach the concealment of the bushes, but his horse was in the yard with the rest of his hunting party, and so the miscreants had escaped, scurrying away through the long undergrowth and pelting for the riverbank.

  When the squire demanded the identities of the culprits, it wasn’t with a view to exacting punishment. He was a sporting man, and knew that he should long ago have secured this gap in the hedge. The hole would have to be plugged, and for now he had only a casual interest in which of the vill’s youngsters had dared trespass on his land.

  “I don’t know.‘

  At first the squire had been amused. The response was the instinctive answer of a small child to an enquiry by Authority, and Roger had almost been inclined to shrug it off, but when he followed up his query by promising not to mete out retribution, he became irritated by Herbert’s refusal to cooperate. It was honourable of him to try to protect his friends, but his refusal to admit to any knowledge of the crime was plain foolish - and intolerable.

  ‘Do you mean to say you will not tell me who the others were?’ he thundered.

  ‘I don’t know them, sir,’ Master Herbert stated stoutly, his small round face pale, his eyes downcast in trepidation.

  His father seized his arm. ‘Don’t lie to me! I saw you with them! I saw you there, shoving them out - do you think I’m blind and stupid? Now tell me who they were!’

  The boy shook his head stubbornly, and his father felt the familiar tension in his chest, like a band tightening around his heart, ‘You deny you were with them?’ he grated, all patience flown. ‘Then I’ll tell you who they were: Jordan and Alan! That’s who you’re protecting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Father, please don’t have them punished… It was my idea, not Alan’s; and Jordan gets such a dreadful beating when his father is angry.’

  The wan complexion and tone of near-desperation in the five-year-old’s voice almost made Squire Roger relent, but if he didn’t carry out his threat, his son might feel he would always back down in the face of a plea. ‘No. You lied. If you’d told me yourself who they were, I wouldn’t bother, but you lied to me. Now you’ll see what harvest your deceit yields. Brother Stephen!’

  ‘Father, please, I…’

  The squire strode towards the house, pulling his son after him. He had crossed half the distance when the priest came hurrying.

  ‘Brother, my son has lied to me: you’ll thrash him to teach him never to do it again,’ said the squire curtly. The tall, thin priest took Master Herbert’s arm, nodded silently, and took the boy away.

  Squire Roger watched his son being dragged from the court. The lad stared up at the priest with a look of sullen fear, and not for the first time the squire felt near-contempt for his boy. He’d been found in the wrong, and should accept his punishment, yet he always exhibited this feeble-spirited horror of any form of retribution.

  He had no idea it was the last time he would ever see his son.

  In Exeter, Godfrey of London finished the last of his hundred press-ups on his clenched fists and sprang lightly to his feet, breathing easily.

  It was essential to keep fit, and Godfrey despaired of those clients who ignored this, the single most vital element of one’s training. All too often youngsters professing a desire to learn his skills would swear to follow his strict regime, but they’d then go feasting and whoring, indulging their gluttonous whims. Their bellies would grow flabby, they’d develop double or - God’s blood! - treble chins, and all the time they’d say they were obeying his orders. It was pathetic.

  Godfrey was not sanguine about their prospects: they would suffer or die as a result of their shortsightedness. He was paid, and paid well, to teach them - and if they wished to learn he could instruct them in techniques which should, all things being equal, keep them alive. If they wanted him as their tutor without bothering to pick up anything from him, it was their loss. He got his money and that was all that mattered.

  He walked to the rack and selected a pair of cudgels, a man of middle height, with a square face and grizzled hair. His arms were not heavily muscled, nor were his shoulders over-wide, but he had a loose, controlled way of walking which to another fighter would be enough warning. His features held the proof of his history: one long scar cut across his nose, under his left eye, and then down below his cheekbone; a second swept from temple to beneath his thinning scalp; a third followed the line of his right jawbone. But those who had inflicted these injuries had all paid in kind.

  Hefting the clubs, he stood in the outside guard, his right hand forward, the club’s tip pointing up to protect his right flank, while holding the left one low to cover his belly. Slowly he began the measured sequence he rehearsed each morning. His right hand moved back to block an imaginary attack, his left advanced to parry a second; his right twisted and lunged forward for the opponent’s head. Retreating slowly, he twisted his torso to swing in hard with his left, then thrust with his right before reverting to the outside guard again.

  As he swung them in his slow dance of defence, his mind wandered, and he reviewed the potential of his clients -especially his most recent, and strangest, Sir James van Relenghes.

  It was common enough for Godfrey to be hired to show how different weapons could be used, but he was sure that in this case there was more to it than mere anxiety about felons. The mention of a single man’s name had made his client mad. Never before had Godfrey seen such powerful loathing on someone’s face.

  They had been walking in the court before Exeter Cathedral, and had stood aside to allow a priest to pass. The fellow had nodded politely to them in gratitude, but then, noticing another man ahead, about to duck into an alleyway, the cleric had called out, increasing his pace to overtake him, lifting his robe for greater speed: ‘Is that you, Master? Master Thomas Throwleigh!’

  Van Relenghes started as if he recognised the name, and swore in a venomous undertone. He spoke in Flemish, but Godfrey had fought in the Low Countries and understood the hoarse-sounding, guttural language.

  ‘Damn you, Squire Roger of Throwleigh, damn you, your poxy brother Thomas, and all your line. May you all burn in hellfire for eternity!’

  Squire Roger watched his son being dragged away with mixed feelings of guilt and irritation.

  It was high time Herbert grew up. He was five, old enough to be sent to a household to learn the twin crafts of courtesy and war. A place for him had been confirmed at the home of Sir Reginald of Hatherleigh, and there, Squire Roger was sure, the lad would mature well. Sir Reginald was known to be a firm disciplinarian.

  The squire strolled to his horse. His pack of harriers were ready, milling round the yard and making the horses whisk their tails irritably. His berner, the master of hounds, and his whipper-in were mounted and waiting. Squire Roger hesitated; when he’d seen the boys in the orchard he’d been about to set off hunting, yet now he must delay his sport to seek the culprits. It was frustrating: for a moment he was tempted
to forget the whole thing.

  His horse gave a skittish dance, and the squire bit back a curse, hauling the reins to cow the beast. The cause was his son’s shriek, coming from the chapel’s open shutters high overhead. In the court the cries were pitiable, each interspersed with the solid crack of a stiffened leather strap.

  Squire Roger peered up indecisively. Herbert’s suffering appeared to make further retribution unnecessary. He’d almost decided to leave the matter and ride for the chase when he caught a glimpse of a figure hurrying towards him and gave an inward groan. It was his wife, and he knew the line she would take.

  ‘Husband, the priest is beating Herbert again!’ she cried.

  ‘My dear, I told him to. Our boy lied to me.’

  Lady Katharine listened as he explained what had happened. ‘But he is so young still,’ she protested. ‘He’s only five.’

  ‘If he’s old enough to lie, he’s old enough to feel the strap.’

  ‘When all he did was try to protect others?’

  Her words made his doubts return. ‘What would you have me do, Lady? Ignore his lies?’ he demanded gruffly.

  ‘You could at least catch the boys who were with him, and make sure that every welt on our son’s backside is felt by those whom he defended,’ she pointed out.

  Squire Roger glanced at his berner, who studiously avoided meeting his look, and finally gave an exasperated grunt. ‘Oh, very well, woman! I’ll go to the vill and chastise the brats, but you realise this will ruin my morning? Why I should have to waste my time on trivial issues like this, I hardly know, but since you demand it, I suppose I must comply’

  He mounted, cocking an eye at the open window as another cry burst out, and whirled his horse round. His wife called to him, and he hesitated for a fraction of a moment, long enough to acknowledge her raised hand. Then, slowly, her mouth widened in a broad smile and over his irritation he felt his heart beat faster with love for her.

  He grinned in return, then trotted over to her, took her by the shoulder, and kissed her. Bowing from the waist, he made her a mock salute before pointing his horse’s head to the gate and setting off to the little vill.

  Alan stopped panting, swallowing hard as he tried to listen over his thudding heart. ‘Shut up!’

  His accomplice, Jordan, gave him a hurt look. ‘How can I stop breathing? You get me to run as fast as I can, it’s only normal to want to breathe afterwards.’

  ‘Shut up, or I’ll make you!’ Alan threatened, the light of battle shining in his eyes.

  Seeing his clenched fists, Jordan subsided, scuffing his bare toes in the dirt beside the road, mumbling to himself. He didn’t see why Alan should always try to lord it over him. There might be two years between them, but Jordan knew he was just as mature as his friend.

  ‘Shut up, I said!’ Alan hissed.

  Jordan would never forget this day, nor the terror of being chased by the squire. As soon as they’d heard his voice they’d taken to their heels. Squire Roger was a figure of immense awe. He owned the land and the people on it. Fabulously wealthy, he needed three shelves on his sideboard just to show all his plates and jugs. Whenever Jordan thought of the man, that was the first thing that sprang to mind, the stunning amount of money Squire Roger must have in order to acquire so many beautiful pieces. He’d heard it rumoured that some were silver as well - real, solid silver!

  He could just see the manor from here - a massive grey block on the side of the hill above them. Glancing towards it, Jordan felt a shudder pass down his back. It’d been very close that time. He’d been so sure he could hear the squire’s horse pounding after them as he pelted along behind Alan; he could imagine the rider, his arm raised, the whip in his hand, ready to bring it down on their heads.

  It was all Alan’s fault, Jordan thought moodily. Just because he was that little bit older, he thought he could get away with anything. Sometimes Jordan felt that although he was only nine, he was quicker to recognise potential danger than his friend. And now they were both in for a thrashing, thanks to Alan’s stupidity - Jordan had never wanted to see the lambs in the orchard in the first place.

  ‘I don’t think they’re following,’ Alan said hopefully.

  Jordan snorted in derision. ‘You reckon he didn’t see us? What - when he bellowed like that?’

  ‘He may not’ve realised who we were.’

  ‘How many boys are there in the village?’ Jordan asked scathingly.

  ‘Well, I don’t hear his horses, do you?’ Alan challenged.

  Jordan scowled with disgust, and he pointed. Alan spun around and saw the squire’s men leaving the gate. He gave a small sigh of resignation. ‘Oh. That’s that, then!’

  Anney, maidservant to Lady Katharine, quietly closed the door to the chapel and made her way down the spiral staircase. She had seen it all, the boy being dragged inside, his stubborn refusal to bend over the priest’s knee, the sudden slap Brother Stephen had aimed at his face to make him obey, the ripping of his shirt and hose while his hands were firmly gripped by the man of God, who stared at his altar with a kind of wondering fervour before wielding the heavy strap on the child’s bare buttocks.

  It was with the greatest difficulty that she managed to keep the grin of delight from her face.

  Any pain inflicted on the boy who had killed her son was welcome.

  Chapter Two

  The ride to Throwleigh was only short, but the squire was of a mind to dawdle. Although it was a trivial little incident, the recent scene had brought his son to the forefront of his mind, and the squire was growing anxious on his boy’s behalf.

  It wasn’t the lie in particular: his son was only young, and children had a different view of the world. No, Herbert was cause for concern because of the squire himself. He was old -almost fifty - and soon must be dead. Many heirs met with fatal accidents while still young, when those around them could sniff a potential profit from their death, and Roger knew there were several who might consider their lives enhanced by Herbert’s absence.

  The priest should be able to help defend the boy but there, too, was a problem. Stephen was reliable, and Sir Reginald’s letter introducing him had been glowing: Sir Reginald had used the tall, pale, ascetic priest as tutor for his own sons, and the cleric’s firm discipline had been enough even for that strict knight. In any case, once Sir Reginald had recommended Stephen, it was impossible for his squire to refuse the honour of being granted the same teacher who had taught the knight’s own sons.

  And yet there was a worrying enthusiasm in the way Stephen set about ‘chastising’ his charge; he seemed to take delight in beating any disobedience or misbehaviour out of Herbert and his friends. There was that story Roger had heard about him…

  With that Squire Roger shook his head. It must be a rumour. If it were true, someone would have proof. Rumours were always rife about men who wore the cloth; nobody believed a man could renounce the pleasures of the flesh. Ignorant peasants were prepared to believe the most lurid stories about the libidinous exploits of priests, rather than accept that they might be able to stick to their oaths of chastity. No, it had to be a rumour, and the squire wouldn’t give it any credence.

  Clattering into the village, he felt the pain clamping around his heart again, increasing with the prospect of the imminent confrontation. The tightness had been getting worse for some weeks now. He had known it when he was still a young man, back in the days of the French and Welsh wars, when he had boldly followed Sir Reginald behind the King’s banner. Then, excitement had led to a similar tautness within his breast as he spurred his horse on to battle.

  Of course, that was all many years ago now. King Edward was dead and in his grave, and his lacklustre son, Edward II, had taken the throne. The squire hawked and spat with contempt. Cocking his leg over his horse’s withers, he rested his elbow on his knee and cupped his chin as he considered his King with a sour revulsion.

  All the auguries were good for King Edward H’s reign: he had inherited subjects who were
at peace with each other, a well-filled Exchequer and a contented kingdom - and yet since 1307 when he became King he had squandered them all. His men he had thrown away in the ruinous battles with the Scots, especially at Bannockburn; his money had been frittered away in foolish company with actors, singers and labourers; and the contentment of his kingdom was destroyed by stories of his fondness for the men in his court.

  More rumours, Roger noted heavily. Lazy fools with nothing better to do would often slander their betters, and yet Roger himself didn’t doubt that much said about the King was true. He recalled how Edward had rewarded his very close friend Gaveston, creating him Earl of Cornwall, and since Gaveston’s death at the hand of the Earl of Warwick, the King had transferred his affections to young Hugh Despenser, another man whom Roger viewed askance. The Despenser family was keen to expand its influence and gain more land and power, and the ruthless, acquisitive young Hugh was even now imposing his will on the Welsh lords in an attempt to win for himself the title of Earl.

  This was the world his son had to survive in, Roger reflected sadly. If he could stay alive, perhaps he could protect his boy: employ a good master of weapons to show him how to physically defend himself; find a politically aware scholar to teach him how to keep himself safe from barons like the Despensers, who would otherwise steal his lands and property.