Squire Throwleigh’s Heir aktm-7 Read online

  ‘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 II’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 re
warded 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.

  But the squire knew he wouldn’t be around for much longer. All he could do was try to ensure that his son was shielded from some of the most obvious dangers.

  At least his wife would be able to advise their boy, he reminded himself. Katharine was capable of protecting herself and Herbert. Thinking of her brought a smile to his face. To him, their marriage still seemed little short of a miracle. His sole regret was knowing that he must leave her alone to fend for herself and their son. The certainty of their separation, until they could meet again in Heaven, made his spirits fall whenever his thoughts turned that way.

  Reaching the vill, he forced himself to throw off his dejection. The church stood alone under the looming height of the hills, while the houses and cottages huddled below it as if seeking some warmth from each other, like a pack of hounds curling up together against the cold. Some of the places had drifts of smoke wisping from them, all magically swept away with each fresh gust of wind. The road was thick with mud and dung from horse and cattle, and the squire swore as a gobbet of green-brown cow’s muck splattered on his tunic. He brought his leg back down to his stirrup and spurred to a slow canter.

  The first of the houses he must visit was out at the northern edge, and he knew his way there only too well. He had been there often enough before.

  It was little more than a shack. The whitewash had worn away from the walls, exposing the cob to the elements, and the mud mixture had been washed off it in large runnels. Without a man, it was hard for her to keep the cottage maintained, Roger reflected. He could see the dilapidation all around. The thatch was thin, sunken, moss-covered and holed by nesting birds; the door was crooked, and dragged on the ground, scraping an arc in the dirt; one shutter was almost off its hinges. Anney, the serf who lived here, was fortunate in having work at the squire’s hall, for without it, since her man’s dereliction, she would be reliant solely on the generosity of her neighbours.

  ‘Alan,’ he bellowed as he stopped outside her door, ‘where are you, boy? Alan!’ There was no reply, and the squire scowled. ‘Where is the little devil?’

  The berner gave a quiet cough. ‘I think he’s in the fields, scaring the birds.’

  ‘Well, Berner, you go and find the bastard and give him four lashes from your whip, all right? We’ll go and see the other lad.’

  The squire jerked his horse’s head round and set off unwillingly to Edmund’s farm. He didn’t want to see Edmund; not now he’d told the fellow he was to be thrown off his land.

  Edmund was drunk. There was nothing new in that, but today he was less bitter in his cups than usual; today he was maudlin, more keen on bemoaning his fate than blaming others for it. His wife was relieved because it meant she was less likely to suffer a beating, but their problems weren’t going to go away. Edmund sat on his three-legged stool at the door, his pot in his hand, drinking slowly. There was much to consider, for Edmund was about to be evicted from his home and his lands. Another man had offered money for the tenancy of his little parcel of land, and Edmund couldn’t better the offer, not after the last few years.

  If he had been a philosopher, Edmund would have blamed fate, but as it was he had no doubt about who was responsible for this disaster: his lord, Squire Roger.

  Hearing yelping, he stared down the road in a lacklustre manner. Soon he realised it must be a large pack of hounds – and there was only one man in many miles who could have such a number of beasts for hunting. Suddenly Edmund’s mouth went dry: the squire must be coming already to throw him from the land!

  He stood, spilling ale, and gazed up the road with a quick fear, expecting to see an army of retainers, but a moment’s reflection made him calm down, and he shakily set his pot on the ground. It wasn’t the quarter day, that wasn’t for two more weeks, and Steward Daniel had promised he had until then to find the money. Still, as the noise came closer, he was convinced that this must be his squire. Braced with a new resolution, Edmund stepped forward until he was in the roadway. He would beg.

  He had no choice. There was no way he could find the extra money. He had nothing to sell, neither produce from his land nor goods he had made, and any money he had saved had already gone on essentials. The squire was a kindly man – Edmund’s father had often said so – so surely Squire Roger would look favourably on him, the son of his favourite man-at-arms?

  Licking his lips nervously, Edmund glanced longingly at his pot, but before he could fill it, Squire Roger cantered into view, his hounds at his horse’s hooves.

  ‘Where’s your boy, Edmund?’

  Edmund blinked. ‘Jordan? He’s off playing somewhere, I think – with Alan, I expect. Squire, may I speak to you? I have a favour to beg, and…’

  ‘Silence! Just tell me where he is,’ Roger snapped. ‘He was in my orchard this morning and I want him punished.’

  ‘I will see to it, sir, but first can I ask you about my tenancy?’

  ‘What?’ The squire cast him an irritable look. ‘You need to speak to Daniel about that.’

  ‘But he says I must go if I can’t pay, sir! Where can we go if you throw us off our land?’

  The squire looked meaningfully at the pot by the stool. ‘Perhaps if you worked harder, you’d earn enough to keep the place, Edmund. Why should I help a family of trespassers? If you can’t keep your damned son under control, don’t expect me to help you!’

  ‘But, sir, think of my father and the service he gave you!’ Edmund had dropped to his knees, and now he touched the squire’s stirrup. ‘Please, sir, give me a little longer to pay’

  Squire Roger glowered down at his tenant with contempt. ‘Get up, man! Your father wouldn’t have begged like a leper.’

  The squire was struck with a sudden anger. This feebleminded dolt was behaving like a fool, pleading while his son was no doubt laughing behind the squire’s back, knowing he could go and play in the orchard any time the squire’s own son gave him warning. Herbert was proved to be a liar; his berner was God knew where, seeking the other brat, so Squire Roger couldn’t go hunting as he wanted – and now this wretch was clinging to his stirrup like a lovesick woman stopping her lover from riding to war.

  ‘Get up, I said!’ Tension was gripping his whole chest now as his rage built. Around his heart he could feel the growing tightness.

  ‘Please, Squire.’

  ‘Let go of my foot, you bastard!’

  His whipper-in came forward and idly, with as little emotion as if he were flicking a fly away, brought the heavy stock of his whip down on Edmund’s head. The farmer collapsed, calling, ‘Squire, please!’

  A sharp pain suddenly exploded in the squire’s head, and there was a simultaneous bursting in his chest. He couldn’t breathe: his mouth opened once, twice, but he could make no sound. There was a chill sweat springing from his forehead, and he wanted to wipe it away, but his hand was numb, while his arm was full of shooting agony; pain stabbing up and down like raking thrusts from a heavy knife. Through the horror of his sudden paralysis, he saw Edmund fall back, a gash on his forehead welling thick blood. The squire wanted to tell the whipper-in to stop, even as he saw the stock rise a second time.

  For Edmund, lying stunned as the horses danced around, the sight of the weighted whip’s handle looked like the ins
trument of his death. A hoof caught his forehead a glancing blow, and he felt nausea rising, but before he lost consciousness, he saw Squire Roger.

  The squire had gone an ashen colour – the colour of a corpse. His eyes were walled and blank, his lips blue. As Edmund watched, the squire gave a short gasp, as of infinite suffering, and toppled slowly from the saddle.

  He was dead before his head struck the roadway.

  ‘He’s what?’ Thomas cried, and dropped his goblet. His brother, Squire Roger of Throwleigh – dead! Blood-red wine spread out in a puddle by his foot, while the gaudy gilt cup rolled off the dais and came to rest against the messenger’s foot.

  ‘Sir, Daniel the steward sent me to warn you. The funeral will be…’

  ‘Yes, yes, I heard you the first time,’ Thomas broke in impatiently, his face serious, demonstrating the correct sadness on hearing of his sibling’s death. ‘It’s awful! Poor Roger, dying like that – the manor must be in a turmoil. Well, it’s plain I must go back. You’ll need wine and food: there’s plenty in my kitchen. See my cook and get yourself vittles. I shall speak to you again before you leave. Poor Roger!’

  He dismissed the man with a wave of his hand, and sat staring at the door for several minutes, hardly moving. ‘Dead!’ he exclaimed once, shaking his head, but then slapped his thigh and gave a low, wheezing laugh. ‘Dead!’

  Standing, he retrieved his goblet, filled it, and held it up in a silent toast. Drinking deeply, he smacked his lips, and laughed again. ‘Oh, and here’s to my brother’s poor grieving widow, dear little Katharine, lady of the hall – but not for much longer!’ Pausing, he bellowed, ‘Nick! ’

  ‘Sir?’

  The voice of his steward came from the screens passage, and Thomas jerked his head. ‘Come in here!’