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 instrument 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-
