It was one of Christiana’s favourites, but that hardly mattered any more. She had gone, almost as soon as the news of their son’s crime had become common knowledge, simply disappearing one day while he was out trying to sell his services to a farmer at Week. When Edmund had got home, there was no food, no fire, no daughter Molly, and no wife. All were gone. He’d run from the place, shouting for her, and hared off up the road to the north, desperately seeking her. She didn’t have a horse, so she must be easy to find, but he’d seen no sign of her.
A passing tranter had found him asleep in the ditch at the side of the road the next day, and although it was several miles out of his way, the man had kindly taken him home, lighting his fire and warming him in front of it, wrapping him in an old cloak before leaving.
He had seen no one from the village since she had gone. Folks here seemed to want to avoid him, ever since the tales of his lad’s horrible act had circulated.
But Edmund was happy; he didn’t need anyone. There was nobody he could really trust, not even his own boy. He’d tried to raise the lad properly, but he’d gone to the bad; his wife was probably the reason, she would mollycoddle the sod.
At least the estate had agreed that his certificate of manumission was valid. That evil witch, Lady Katharine, had gone and Thomas had no need of Edmund’s services. That was what the bailiff had said, wasn’t it? That Edmund was free now, to seek his own employment and find a new life.
New life? Edmund’s thoughts fractured like the smashed jug as he gazed about the empty, noisome room with dull, miserable eyes.
This was his life.
Baldwin walked from his front door and sat on the bench he had installed overlooking the view. From this point he could see the sweep of the south of Devonshire, and in the clear, bright sunshine of a late spring morning, the low sun lent an almost golden glow to the verdant lands. Small clouds floated past, their shadows giving texture to the scenery.
‘Are you all right, my husband?’
Baldwin smiled. Jeanne came to sit at his side. She called and Edgar brought a tray on which were two pots and a jug. When she nodded, he left them, and Jeanne herself poured.
‘It’s a beautiful morning,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She glanced up at the sound of a hound baying.
‘She’ll live,’ Baldwin said. His mastiff was still wounded that Baldwin should have deserted him for so long while he was at Throwleigh, and was still more anxious to see him for every minute of every day as a result.
Jeanne passed him his wine, and he gratefully drank half of it at a single gulp. ‘That’s good!’
‘What do you think will happen to her?’
Baldwin sadly shook his head. ‘I wish I knew, Jeanne. The Lady Katharine always looked so strong and independent, but I fear that the shock of losing her family, and then hearing her most favoured maid, the one in whom she had always placed her trust, assert that she herself had murdered the lady’s son, toppled her reason. She will be well looked after in the nuns’ convent, but whether she will ever truly recover, or will remain there, bound up for the rest of her days like a wild beast, is hard to tell. All I can say is, after so many horrors, perhaps it would be better if she never regained her faculties, for all that would mean is that she could once more appreciate her misery.’
It was an appalling state for the young woman to have fallen into. Baldwin and Jeanne had seen Lady Katharine before they returned to Furnshill, and the sight was awful. She had lain on her palliasse, dribbling and moaning, gazing about her with unseeing eyes and for all the world dead. It was a hideous scene.
‘Ah well,’ Jeanne said with a sigh. ‘At least there will soon be the pattering of little feet to help us forget all about the incident.’
‘Wonderful!’ Baldwin agreed sarcastically. ‘We’ll have another drunken brat about the place, just like Wat. Another puling, mewling sod determined to eat up everything in sight and then bringing it all back.’
‘Don’t be so scathing, Baldwin. Wasn’t it always you who said you wanted a baby?’
Baldwin gave her a long look. ‘You know perfectly well that I meant one of my own. I didn’t mean another man’s.’
‘At least he was a priest.’
‘I don’t honestly feel that is any compensation, Jeanne.’
‘We couldn’t have left her there all on her own, my love.’
‘I suppose not, but I must confess that when you demanded your own maid, I didn’t realise you meant you wanted a page as well. We could have bought one – there was no need to hire a maid with her own brood ready to pod!’
‘Keep your voice down, Baldwin! I don’t want Petronilla to overhear you saying things like that; she might get upset, and that’s not good for a mother.’
‘Oh, very well, but all I can say is, I hope she will find time to look after you between feeds.’
Glancing around, Baldwin saw that there was no one watching them. He grabbed Jeanne, picked her up, squeaking, and set her on his lap before kissing her thoroughly. The priest Stephen had not managed to settle his mind about his vow to chastity, but in a strange way, the death of Herbert himself had. Somehow Baldwin felt sure that it was right that he should love this woman, almost as if he had a duty to replace the lad.
He was content.
It was warm in the hall, and the boy had to pause before he could enter, it was so hot compared with the relative cool of the air outside. Also the sight of his master’s guest made him hesitate.
‘Hah! Jordan! Bring the wine here.’
Sir Reginald wasn’t unkind, as Jordan had been led to expect, but he did require his servants to obey him speedily. The first thrashing Jordan had received after arriving here at Hatherleigh was caused purely by his being a little too slow in bringing the jug of wine when called. It had been a painful experience, and now he was prone to leap forward with alacrity when summoned, and as a result Sir Reginald appeared to have taken to him with a degree of fondness.
The work wasn’t too arduous either. Jordan was expected to help about the hall, assisting the steward with whatever he thought needed doing, tidying the buttery, restocking the storerooms, fetching and carrying trays and jugs and pots.
He brought the wine to his master and set it on the table silently.
Simon watched him with a curious smile twisting the edge of his mouth. ‘How do you find your new home, Jordan?’
‘It’s fine, sir. I’m very happy here.’
‘You wouldn’t want to go home to your father?’
‘To him, sir?’ Jordan asked, his face blank.
‘Your mother has left him, lad. I thought if you were to go home again, you might be able to help him keep his land going.’
Jordan sniffed and wiped his eye. ‘I don’t think so, sir. I don’t think I could help him. He never listens to anyone – not Mum, not me, not anyone. If I went back, he’d beat me for no reason, just like he always used to.’
Simon smiled understandingly, and Sir Reginald waved the boy away.
When he had left the hall, the knight glanced at the bailiff. ‘Well? He gave you a good enough answer, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes, Sir Reginald. I never doubted he would. He’s filling out nicely, too. You’re feeding him too much.’
‘Not me, bailiff, it’s the damned women of the place. They all insist on giving him candy and extra portions of ale. Daft buggers! When I was a boy, servants were lucky if they were allowed maslin. Rye and wheat was good enough for the animals, my old father used to say, so it was damned well good enough for the slaves as well!’
Simon smiled thinly. ‘Yes, I have no doubt. The main thing is, he appears happy enough, and I am sure he will flourish under your benevolent eye. What of the other one?’
‘Alan? He appears to have an excellent aim with a sling and bullet, so I’ve sent him off to help watch the flocks north of here. I’m sure he’ll “flourish” too! Hah!’ The knight began to laugh rustily, like an old man who was dry of throat.
Jordan heard the men moving on to talk about the knight’s lands nearer the moors, and this held no interest
