know what to do.’
‘So you threw him in front of the first cart that came by?’
Jordan scowled angrily. ‘It wasn’t fair! We were just too late to throw him in front of the fishmonger’s wagon. I’d not have shoved him in front of Dad if I’d known he was coming, but we left Herbert there once we’d chucked him down. We didn’t want to be seen, not on the road with his dead body.’
‘So what did you do? Wait to see what would happen?’ Simon demanded.
Alan glanced at Jordan. ‘No, sir, we went back along the road to see if anyone was coming, and then we saw Jordan’s dad. And he saw us, too. The Fleming and his man had already ridden away, and Edmund turned back to the road ahead and saw Jordan. Bellowed what the hell was he doing up on the moor so late, and jumped down and grabbed him, catching him a right ding over the ear, so we both ran off before he could do anything else. That was why he rode over Herbert, I suppose, because he was still looking for us and not at the road.’
‘It makes sense,’ Baldwin said. ‘But didn’t you realise you shouldn’t kill another boy?’
‘Of course we did, but we didn’t mean to!’ Jordan protested. ‘We never wanted to hurt him, we only wanted to make him stop threatening us, but when we hit him he kept crying that he’d tell his mother, and then we’d suffer. All we wanted to do was shut him up.’
At home in Exeter once more, Thomas of Throwleigh dropped from his horse and threw the reins at the groom, then stood glowering at the men unloading the packhorses, shouting occasionally at the ones who seemed least careful about their cargo.
Not that there was much, he reflected gloomily. Since that mad bitch had burned his inheritance to the ground, there was little enough to bring home to Exeter. He shook his head, a small gesture of dissatisfied acceptance, and made his way inside.
The shutters were all wide, and the din from the street outside was deafening. Thomas filled a pint tankard with wine and wandered to the window, staring out with a bemused eye. Why did the noise irritate him so? It hadn’t bothered him before. Perhaps it was the contrast between the countryside about Throwleigh compared to Exeter, he thought, and kicked the nearest shutter closed.
‘Nick! I…’ He stopped. There was no point calling for him. Thomas found his resentment increasing. No hall, no money, and now no Nicholas; his whole life had been turned upside-down, on the promise of a manor with its huge hall and vast lands. Instead, here he was with his old place, mortgaged to the hilt and beyond, and without his best servant.
He fell backwards into his chair and drummed his fingers on the arm while he glared about the room with the embittered conviction that he had lost everything. There was nothing to be retrieved; no way to make an income.
‘Bring me my secretary!’
Unless, of course, he could make Throwleigh pay for itself…
His clerk entered.
‘Sit down, man. I want you to write a letter for me, to Sir Reginald of Hatherleigh. Something along the lines of, “Sir, you will know that my brother’s house has sadly been destroyed in a great fire. It is impossible for me to be able to pay the usual tallage because all the taxes I impose on my villeins must be used to rebuild the house. However, I think it may be possible to pay the normal dues if you would consider permitting me to hold a small fair at my village of Throwleigh…” ’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Godfrey winced at the sight of the fellow’s stance. ‘No, you hold the swordpoint up like this, for the outside guard. When it is held directly before you, the weapon is in the medium guard, like this. Have you never been in a fight?’
It was always the same, he sighed. Modern folk had no interest in learning real and effective methods of self-defence; they were too keen on chasing women and drinking all night. Especially those who fancied themselves as ladies’ men.
That was the problem with James van Relenghes, he thought. The man was a fool, with his brain in his hose. He believed he could pull the wool over a man’s eyes and could cuckold any husband, just because he sometimes had a certain charm, and there was nothing anyone could do to persuade him that he was wrong. Since the foolish attempt on the squire’s wife, he had tried to win the affection of another woman, this time one who was still unfortunately in possession of a husband. As far as Godfrey’s informants went, she had not refused his advances, not by any means! However, the husband had heard of secret assignations, and even now was searching for van Relenghes.
Godfrey stepped back, held his sword out once more, and allowed his opponent to swing at his head; ducking, Godfrey moved under his arm, gripped his wrist, and yanked backwards, pulling the arm up until the other had to drop his sword.
It was quite funny, really, he mused. Even those who disliked him intensely were sometimes forced to make use of his services.
‘Now do you believe me?’ he asked politely. ‘If you want to learn how to use your sword properly, you have to learn the basic positions; if you get the stance wrong, anyone can get in underneath and get straight to you.’
‘Very well,’ said Sir James van Relenghes. ‘I believe you. Er, could you release my arm now?’
As she walked into her house, Anney stood a moment and stared. The packed earth of the floor had been swept clean, and where the dismal remains of the previous night’s ashes had been there was now a cheerful fire, which lighted the whole room with red-gold flickering warmth.
‘Where are you?’ she called, and hearing a voice behind the cottage, walked through to the yard. There she found Nicholas resting happily on his axe contemplating a stack of logs under the eaves.
‘That elm was about to fall anyway,’ he said defensively. ‘I just helped it. And then I thought I might as well tidy up a bit; and then I thought the tree looked a mess, so I cut it up.’
She stood looking at him, then at the garden. He was right, the elm had menaced the cottage with the threat of collapse, but she’d never been able to get the help to bring it down safely and didn’t dare attempt it on her own. There would be enough logs to keep them warm all though the winter with that lot.
‘I thought you might like some help about the place,’ he said off-handedly. ‘You know, just for a while. Especially now you’re alone.’
‘Maybe. I don’t know how I’ll be able to feed the pair of us, though.’
‘I spoke to the innkeeper. He’s all alone there, and could do with some help. Usually he’d look to a girl, but he’s getting old, and he fears being robbed. He reckoned I could help him, being able to protect him as well as serve.’
‘What of your wife?’ she demanded caustically.
He grinned. ‘Ah. One is gone, but there’s this other I know who gave me her vows.’
She stared at him without speaking while the thoughts whirled in her head. He was untrustworthy, dishonest, a bigamist, liar and bully. But he had always liked her, could keep a house clean, and already had a job to bring in money, which was more than she had now.
‘Come here,’ she said.
Later, in bed, when she had drawn their cloaks and some skins over them for warmth, she found herself weeping, but this time, and for the first time since Tom had died, it was from pleasure.
Less than a quarter of a mile away, Edmund sat before his fire and stared at the small flames while he moodily drank from his large pot. Standing, he stumbled to the barrel, lifted it and poured the contents into his mug. Only a small dribble remained, and he looked down in disbelief: he had only just bought this barrel from the alewife in the village, it couldn’t be empty yet.
Filled with a sudden wrath, he hefted the barrel and hurled it across the room. It bounced against the wall, then fell back, smashing an earthenware pot.
