‘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.
Chapter Seven
When Sir Baldwin de Furnshill walked from his house, he didn’t even notice the bright spring sunshine. The Keeper of the King’s Peace was an intrepid fighter, a man who had survived wars and persecution, yet he had to pause on his threshold, staring at the throng before him with nervous trepidation, quelling the cowardly urge to turn and flee indoors. Only when his friend Simon joined him could he take a deep breath and set off.
The road to the church was packed. All his servants were there at either side of the path: the men grinning and bowing, one or two still holding the tools they had been using that morning, one man with a billhook dangling from his belt, another resting on his fork, a shepherd leaning on his crook, his dogs panting at his feet as if they too were laughing at the knight’s expense.
All the womenfolk chattered and giggled to themselves as they kept up a lewd commentary on Sir Baldwin from behind their hands. Urchins and beggar-children scampered along in his wake, calling out for alms and catching at the money tossed by Simon, who walked at his side.
‘Why in God’s name did I agree to go through with this?’ Baldwin muttered to his friend.
Simon struggled to keep his face blank, but failed. ‘It was your choice, old friend.’
‘My choice? She forced me into it.’
‘Aha! Do you mean that? A frank confession would add zest to the betting.’
Baldwin stopped dead and stared at Simon, his pale features reddening. ‘You mean they are betting on whether I have already… already…’
‘No,’ said Simon gravely.
Baldwin breathed a sigh of relief.
‘They are gambling on the sex of the child, that’s all. They’re sure it’ll be born in July or August.’
Baldwin groaned, ‘The bastards! ’ and eyed his tenants with a fresh suspicion. It felt as if he was seeing them all for the first time. On any other day they would treat him with respect – and a degree of caution – but today the normal rule of law had been inverted: today he was a figure of fun, a source of amusement to even the lowest of his serfs. They lined his route from his house at Furnshill all along the track to the church at Cadbury, and there, he knew, they would all stand about to witness his betrothal, chuckling or giggling at every stumble he made. He murmured gloomily, ‘I wish I were a mere serf. Then Jeanne and I could exchange vows without the need for all this.’
Simon laughed aloud. If Baldwin truly believed that, he also knew it was surely the only advantage in a life of utter poverty. For a marriage to be recognised it was necessary that a man and woman should be seen to give their promises, but there was no legal requirement for them to be made in the church’s grounds – that was merely a custom that had grown up. Often poorer people would swear their oaths in the presence of friends, and only at some later stage, when the wedding had long been consummated, would they go to the priest for his blessing. But the rich felt the urge to go to the church door, even if only on the practical ground that all their servants should be able to see their new mistress.
‘And miss out on your feast? How would Jeanne feel about that?’
‘Have you seen how many people she has invited?’
Simon clapped his friend on the back. It was many years since his own marriage, but he hadn’t forgotten the gut-churning embarrassment of standing before all his contemporaries and other hecklers at the church door. He knew how his friend felt – and took a cynical pleasure in maximising his suffering.
‘All your good money going to waste on wine and ale for comparative strangers, eh?’
‘I grudge no one my drink. If anyone will regret his thirst, it will be the drinker himself, tomorrow morning,’ Baldwin retaliated, casting a sidelong look at his friend. Simon had more than once been seen looking faintly green about the face, quiet and introspective, the morning after an evening of Baldwin’s hospitality.
The knight secretly studied his friend as they approached the church. The bailiff’s grey eyes gazed out at the world with a calm self-confidence, and Baldwin knew that in part his strength of spirit came from his wife, Margaret. Theirs had not been a marriage of estates, a contract between wealthy families designed to seal a business transaction or guarantee an inheritance; their vows had been willingly exchanged.
Baldwin was pleased that his own wedding had likewise sprung from mutual affection and friendship, but it was the other aspect of the ceremony which gave him a strong sense of unease, for Baldwin had been a Poor
