There were several witnesses: Stephen was there, as was Godfrey – for the first time without his master, Simon noted. Baldwin had called several workers from their duties in the vill or the house to come and observe his inquest, for he was no Coroner, and wanted as many witnesses as possible.
When he was satisfied enough people were present, Baldwin crouched down and hesitantly touched the little figure’s winding-cloth. It covered the boy’s whole body, reaching down to his feet, where it was tied up. ‘Poor fellow,’ he muttered, and took the knife Nicholas held out to him, quickly slicing through the cord and pulling the linen away.
Simon, who knew the fragility of his own stomach, had already withdrawn. From a safe distance, he saw one of the jurymen suddenly whip his hand over his mouth and stumble backwards to vomit at the stable’s wall. Another curled his lip at the smell, but the rest, evidently struck from a similar mould to Baldwin himself, craned their necks with fascination.
The child was flaccid and pale, except for the skin of his back, which had gone an odd, dark colour as if it was badly bruised, but Simon knew from long experience with Baldwin that this was normal, bearing in mind that the lad had been lying face uppermost for so long. Simon wasn’t surprised to see how the boy’s limbs moved so easily; he knew that after a day or more the stiffening of rigor mortis wore off. The sight of the body being rolled over and studied was all too familiar, and yet the fact that it was so small brought a lump to his throat, reminding him of his own beloved Peterkin.
Peterkin had been even younger than Herbert when he died. Simon swallowed, recalling the sense of frantic despair as he watched his only son slipping away so slowly. The boy had been fractious for a few days, but then he caught a fever, and for a day and night he wouldn’t eat or drink, while his bowels ran with diarrhoea. When at last the pitiable squalling became more feeble, and was finally stilled, Simon had almost felt relief to see that his boy’s suffering was over – and yet that brought with it a huge feeling of guilt, as if he knew he was glad to have lost the constant irritation of a crying child.
Standing here now and witnessing another man’s heir being subjected to this intense scrutiny filled Simon with shame, as if he was himself abusing the dead boy by his presence.
But Baldwin knew no such qualms as he touched the boy’s chill flesh. His total concentration was on the body and the wounds; he had no time for sentiment. He removed the small wooden burial cross from the boy’s chest and studied the figure, then began to look over each limb in turn. As his hands probed and prodded he kept up a continual commentary, speaking in a fast, low undertone.
‘Ribs crushed. A long mark passes over them, just as if an iron-shod cartwheel had rolled over him – although spine appears whole. Left leg badly broken…’ He peered closer. ‘Could have been done by a sharp horseshoe. The skin looks as if it has been cut open cleanly. The other leg is whole, although well scratched…’
Daniel murmured, ‘He was playing hide-and-seek up on the moorside with some of the lads from the village. Crawling around up there, the boys always get scratched by furze and brambles.’
‘Thank you, Daniel. The left arm is fine: elbow is grazed, but it has had time to heal and form a scab – I think we can discount this, it is an honourable wound of the type that all boys wear. Right arm also undamaged. Face a little scratched, and left cheek has taken a glancing blow which has partly slashed the skin. At the boy’s back we find…’
Suddenly Baldwin was silent, his hands moving over Herbert’s head, touching the cranium softly, then he bent and stared more closely, pulling apart the scalp like a man searching for lice or fleas. Finally pulling away, the knight wiped his hands on a damp cloth and stood a while staring down at the corpse. Then he looked up with a firm resolution, and raised his hand. The crowd was silent, waiting expectantly.
‘This boy has been run over by a wagon, but he was already dead. He was beaten about the head until there was scarcely a bone unbroken, probably with a lump of stone or a piece of wood. Whoever did this murdered the lad. He was not hit so harshly that the skin was greatly broken, but just enough to shatter the skull. The scratches and marks are there under his hair if you look.’
As he finished the jury shuffled unhappily. A murder meant a fine to be paid for breaking the King’s Peace, and all in the vill would have to find the money.
While the men digested this unwelcome news, Thomas appeared in the doorway, and now he stared out, his lip curled in revulsion. ‘Are you done yet?’
Simon stiffened. He glanced at Baldwin and gave a shrug as he accepted responsibility. This was Dartmoor, his territory. ‘Yes, we have finished now, Thomas. Thank you all for coming to witness Sir Baldwin’s examination of the corpse. I fear there is no doubt that Herbert of Throwleigh was murdered, and everyone in the manor must be attached. No one can leave the place until we have gained sureties from them and everyone must prepare to be questioned.’
There was a gasp from the small group, then Thomas spoke again. ‘You can’t! We’re to hold the funeral today!’
Simon felt his belly churn as the wind altered, bringing to his nostrils the faint odour of putrefaction. ‘Um, perhaps you’re right. The Coroner can order an exhumation if he wants, but we’ve already examined the body. Provided Stephen writes down the details, I think the Coroner will be satisfied.’ There was no point keeping the boy from his grave: he would soon become painfully odorous. ‘Wrap him up again.’
Thomas stomped off to give his orders, and Simon rubbed his temples. ‘What a mess!’
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin, but now he stared down at the body with a puzzled expression. ‘Why should the killer have ruined his head like that?’
It was apparent that the other diners had awaited their return, and after Baldwin’s announcement, the meal was a muted affair.
The table was set out up on the dais. There was no need for a second table; there were not enough mourners to justify more. Lady Katharine sat at the middle, with Stephen on her right, and Thomas on her left. Baldwin was installed with his wife at the end, where he would not even be able to meet Lady Katharine’s eye, let alone talk to her. Simon and his wife were at the other end. James van Relenghes and his guard took their places opposite the lady.
With the fire roaring in the hearth, the atmosphere on this spring day was stifling. Simon was well aware that Baldwin was firmly opposed to the drinking of strong ale or wine too early in the day – he generally drank fruit juices and water -and yet this morning he gratefully polished off a pint and a half of weak ale. Simon ate heartily enough, as he usually did, but every so often he cast a glance at his friend. The knight occasionally spoke to his wife, and showed her the same courteous respect as always, but he seemed preoccupied, which was natural enough.
All had expected the day to be depressing, but this new turn, the suggestion that young Herbert’s death was no accident, had affected the people there differently; from his vantage point at the end of the table, Baldwin found he could observe all their reactions.
Brother Stephen sat as though in deep shock, or perhaps, Baldwin thought, in guilty reflections on his unkind comments earlier that morning. At the other side of the large table, Thomas of Exeter ate with a furious speed, as though forcing food into himself was a means of displacing unpleasant musings. He hardly spoke a word, grunting at comments addressed to him, and rose from the table before anyone else, muttering about seeing to his horse.
In direct contrast, James van Relenghes was almost embarrassingly talkative. In different circumstances Baldwin would have thought he was trying to impress Lady Katharine. He was most attentive to her, talking of the courage and prowess of her dead husband, assuring his hostess that her son would have been no less brave. He went so far as to assert that Herbert could have felt nothing, that his death was swift, saying that he had seen so many dead men and children during his term as a soldier that he was personally convinced of the fact.
His words had no impact on the grieving woman. If anything, she was driven into a deeper despair by his constant chatter, and at last she raised a feeble hand to her temple and, pleading a severe headache, begged to be permitted to leave the company. Daniel leaped to her side and helped her to her feet.
It was almost a relief when she walked from the room with her maid Anney. All at once the others began to hurl questions at Baldwin, who deflected many, but couldn’t hide the main facts.
‘If he was killed, I am surprised I noticed nothing,’ James van Relenghes said. ‘I was out that way.’
‘On your own?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Oh no, Godfrey was with me, as usual,’ the Fleming said smoothly. ‘I fear you must look for another suspect. Perhaps the priest here.’
‘You were out there as well, Brother Stephen?’
The cleric gave an unhappy nod. ‘Yes, but I was further up the hill. I had gone out for solitude – I had no wish
