‘What is the name of the heir?’
‘Herbert. He’ll inherit his third.’
‘Until his mother does the decent thing,’ Baldwin observed.
‘That’ll be a long time,’ Simon said shortly.
‘She won’t give her son her share?’
‘Not for some time. The boy’s only five or six – I expect she’ll stay and protect it, and him, until he is old enough to look after himself.’
Baldwin nodded. A man’s will divided his possessions into three, after paying off debts. One third, the dower, would go to his wife; a second third would go to good causes so that his soul would be well received; only the last of the three parts would go to his heir. In cases where the heir was too young to look after himself, his mother would remain at home and act as guardian, but normally she would leave as soon as her son was old enough to fend for himself, retiring to a convent, or taking the vows and living as a recluse in a small property and not interfering in her son’s life, giving him her dower to protect the estate, and living on whatever portion her son chose to send to her.
As the knight mused, their road took them due east. Here they were sheltered under great trees forming an avenue. It was like the road up to Cadbury, and Baldwin found himself comparing this remote manor to his own lush demesne. Looking about him, he felt that if he possessed so barren a site he would feel guilty asking a woman to marry him. He could never have brought Jeanne here. It would be cruel to ask a woman to live so far from a city or civilised people. The thought made his face twist in a sardonic grin, for Jeanne’s old home wasn’t far from here.
It led Baldwin to wonder how the squire’s heir would survive. Lads of that age were resilient, he knew, but losing a father was a traumatic experience at any age. He could still recall the feeling of emptiness when his own father had died, even though he was almost a man by then, being eleven years old. His mother had died five years before, giving birth to his fourth brother who, like the third, had not survived a single year. Now Baldwin could hardly remember what she looked like. All he was sure of was her auburn hair. At least the squire’s lad still has his mother, he thought.
The trees thinned and suddenly fell away as they came closer to the vill. Now they could see its extent: a few houses on the left, a pound on the right where stray cattle and sheep could be collected, and ahead lay the church, an imposing building in heavy grey stone. Beyond, on the northern road, was a small cluster of additional houses, but Simon took the other track, heading round the southernmost point of the church grounds, and then trotting off towards the moors.
‘That’s Cosdon,’ the bailiff said, pointing to the massive hill to their right. ‘From the top you can see for miles. Wonderful views all around. I was up there once, and could swear I could see the sea both to the north-west and south-east. I wouldn’t be surprised if you could see your house from up there.’
Baldwin said nothing. Simon adored the moors, but to his mind the hill felt threatening, like a monstrous creature that was even now preparing to spring down and crush them. On its rounded back a heavy-looking grey cloud hung as if tethered there. He gave a shudder. It was something to do with this place, he was sure. There was an aura of cruelty – or perhaps just a simple lack of compassion – here, in this landscape. He had a sense of the unforgiving nature of the moors. The land gave the impression that it was aware of the beings who strove and struggled in the small village at the hill’s feet, but watched them without sympathy or tolerance. It would destroy them with as little feeling as a child stamping on a beetle.
The road began to rise, and when they had travelled another half-mile from the vill, they came to long strips of fields, a meadow, and at last an orchard with a stream bounding its easternmost edge. Simon pointed with his chin. ‘There it is. Welcome to Throwleigh Manor.’
It was a great, low, squat building – long, and to Baldwin’s eye, gloomy. There was no curtain wall; the outer defence consisted merely of a hedge of thorny bushes, closely planted and layered. Behind the house was the rising mass of yet another hill, its flanks smothered in heather, while to his left Baldwin saw a broad expanse of marshland. On his right, a clitter of heavy grey stones lay haphazardly, like rubble from a ruined building.
Simon spurred his horse and they rode on over a wide verge to the house itself. The sun had disappeared behind the moor before them, and the day had taken on the dingy hues of twilight. In this aspect the house took on an alarming appearance: dark and menacing.
Baldwin had to remind himself that it was Simon, not he, who was prone to superstitious fears, but as they trotted towards the buildings he felt a powerful sense of sadness which was almost palpable about this house of mourning.
Chapter Four
The serving girl covered her face again as soon as the priest left the chapel, and she went back to the security of her kitchen. Shoulders heaving, she crossed to the little three-legged stool near the fire, and collapsed on it in a fit of powerless misery.
‘Petronilla? Come on, foolish chit, this’ll never do!’ Daniel, the household’s steward, patted her shoulder. Her paroxysms of grief began to fade, and he fetched her a pint of wine, holding it under her nose until she wiped her eyes one last time, and looked up at him with bleary-eyed gratitude. ‘Come on, drink up. You can’t go to serve your mistress looking like this. You don’t want to make her feel even worse, do you?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but it was, was…’
‘I know. We all loved him. He was kind and generous. The squire can never be replaced for us, Petronilla. He can’t be.’
She saw that his eyes were becoming misty too. Daniel, she recalled, had been a footsoldier alongside the old squire in many battles in France and Wales, and suddenly she realised that he was trying to cope with his own grief while ensuring that all the servants of the hall performed their duties. His courage in the face of his own loss was enough to make her feel almost ashamed.
‘Daniel, I am so sorry, I never thought about you.’
He replied with an unsteady smile, but then gave a loud sniff and glanced through the open door. ‘Don’t worry about me, dear. I am old enough to have buried almost all my friends and, although I don’t like it, I’m at least used to it. Save your sympathy for the squire’s widow. And for his son,’ he added heavily, with an emphasis that made the girl look up.
‘Herbert? Why do you sound so sad when you mention him, Daniel?’
‘Because he’s the squire now, girl. He has the full weight of the manor resting on his young shoulders, whether he wishes it or no. And there are many who’d like to deprive him of his inheritance.’
With this gloomy observation, he saw Simon and Baldwin entering the yard. Muttering a curse, he shouted for grooms and ran out. Had he looked back, he would have seen Petronilla’s eyes fill with tears again.
She bit her lip as she placed a hand on her belly, touching the new life beginning there, before sobbing afresh.
Baldwin and Simon dropped thankfully from their horses, rubbing sore buttocks and stretching their aching thighs. It was a relief to see the steward hurrying towards them.
Daniel was a tall, cadaverous man with thinning, grizzled hair. His eyes were dark and shrewd, with laughter-lines to prove that he was a happy enough fellow normally, but today their gleam was muted in deference to the occasion.
‘Bailiff, I am glad to see you again. If you and Sir Baldwin would follow me?’ They were led over the threshold into the screens. Here Daniel stood aside and motioned them into the hall.
Simon was struck by the cheerful atmosphere. If he had not known that they were met here to bury a man, he would have thought a celebration was in full flow. There was a thick crowd, all well-to-do, standing away from the great fireplace, talking loudly, all grasping drinking cups. As he entered, the noise was deafening.
He glanced over the group, but it was the woman he noticed almost immediately.
She sat on a small chair at the fireside, a sombre young boy whom Simon took to be the heir standing near to hand, his head downcast. Lady Katharine of Throwleigh was a slender woman in her middle twenties, tall and elegant in her green velvet and linen coif. She watched the men as they entered with an intense stillness.
