Where she sat the room was in comparative darkness. The candles and sconces were all set away from the fire, and here the only light came from the burning logs themselves. When Simon was some few feet from her, he could see the immensity of her despair and sadness in her drawn features and red-rimmed grey eyes. The boy didn’t raise his head to look at the guests; he appeared to be absorbed in his own private misery. Behind him, almost hidden in the shadows, was a quiet maidservant, but Simon had no interest in her. He had eyes only for the lady of the house.
He bowed, offering his respects on his own behalf as well as his master, the Warden of the Stannaries. Baldwin stepped to his side and bowed in his turn.
‘My Lady. I have come, as you asked, to witness the funeral of your husband, not only so that I can pay my own respects to him, but also in order that I can represent the Sheriff, for your husband was a good and loyal subject to the King’s father. I can only say how deeply sorry I am.’
‘Thank you, Sir Baldwin. It is kind of you to come, and I am grateful to you for your words.’ She was stiffly formal, but her voice, although hoarse with crying, was warm, and her manner courteous as she thanked him and Simon. ‘Of course I remember your last visit, Bailiff.’
‘Yes, my Lady,’ smiled Simon. I helped your husband with the peat-cutters.‘
It was a common enough dispute on the moors, and boringly familiar to Simon. A group of men had wandered onto Squire Roger’s land, cutting turves for their fires, and when he had demanded that they should stop, they said they were miners. A tin miner had the right to fuel for his workings, but these men were nothing to do with the mines, and Simon had evicted them.
‘My husband was always grateful to you for your help,’ she said, and suddenly her eyes brimmed with tears, and Simon had to lean forward to catch her words. ‘He would have been pleased that you had time enough to come and make your farewell, Bailiff.’
A short while afterwards, Lady Katharine pleaded a headache and left her guests to go up to her room, calling her maidservant Anney to join her. The men in the hall appeared to think that her departure was a signal for merry-making, calling for more wine or ale, one or two demanding food, and many shouting for ‘Petronilla!’
Soon she came in, a tall, attractive, fair-haired girl of some twenty summers. It was obvious that she, like her mistress, was deeply sorrowful. Although she served those who called to her, as soon as she could she put her tray down and went to the young boy, putting her arms around him.
Baldwin cocked an eye at his friend, and the two took their place by the fire, a little away from the others, where they could talk without interruption. They weren’t to be left alone for long, however.
A priest entered and, noticing the young servant, he called to her. She regretfully left the child, who slipped out through the door to the solar. The priest spoke to the maidservant quietly, and she took on a still more sombre mien before hurrying out in her turn. When she had gone, the cleric gazed distastefully at the rowdier of the guests, before crossing the room to Baldwin and Simon.
‘Bailiff? Surely I remember you from when you were last here?’
‘Of course, Brother Stephen,’ Simon said, raising a smile as the cleric joined them.
Baldwin was struck not only by the man’s strong, flat-sounding accent, but also by his effeminacy. He was tall and slim, with an oval face of pale complexion, and curiously full and fleshy lips. His looks would have suited a woman, and Baldwin was reminded of some of the rumours about the clergy, which suggested that priests were often caught in compromising situations with women. There were always stories in circulation of how priests broke their vows. At least, Baldwin thought privately, women would be safe from this man!
‘You are to conduct the funeral tomorrow?’ the knight asked.
‘Yes, not that the other guests seem to realise that is why we are all here.’
‘You must forgive them, Brother – they’re celebrating their own lives. It’s not that they intend to demean Squire Roger’s memory, just that they are making merry while they still can,’ Simon said.
‘It is disrespectful to a man who was uniformly loved and honoured,’ said the priest primly.
Simon sought to distract him from the behaviour of the other guests. ‘The service will be tomorrow?’
‘We performed the Placebo this afternoon, and the body is lying in the church tonight with the parish poor standing vigil over him,’ Stephen agreed. ‘Tomorrow morning we shall sing the Dirige and celebrate the Requiem Mass, then inter the body.’
‘And then I hope Lady Katharine will be able to get over her pain,’ said Simon.
‘Oh, I doubt it!’ said a voice behind him.
Simon turned to meet the alcohol-bleared smile of a man in his late thirties. He had a short, thickset body, with a barrel of a chest and almost non-existent neck, on top of which sat a large, square face. He looked as though he would be happier wielding a weapon than a jug and drinking horn, but for now his expression was one of drunken vacuity, and he waved his wine in a broad gesture that splashed red droplets against the wall.
‘There’s many of us won’t forget the squire in a hurry, eh, Stephen?’ he said. The words came out playfully, and the man prodded the monk with his jug, splashing a quantity of wine on Stephen’s robe, but Simon, looking into the drunk’s eyes, saw the anger and jealousy burning there. ‘No, poor Lady Katharine will never be able to get over her shock, I expect. My brother was too kindly and generous for her to forget him, so I fear you’ll not be able to wed her for her money, sir!’
Baldwin drew in his breath at this insult to his friend, and Simon stiffened, but the man gave a rasping laugh, drank a little more, and almost in an instant was serious. ‘Your pardon -I jest. My brother was good to the villeins on his land, as well as to his friends. No one will be able to forget him quickly. And his wife won’t want to wed again, I expect, not after living with my poor brother.’
‘You are Thomas of Exeter?’
Baldwin’s question made the man shoot him a glance. ‘Yes, Thomas of Exeter, they call me now. Surprising how speedily you lose your name when you live away for a short while, isn’t it, eh? In the city I’m always Thomas of Throwleigh, son of the Knight of Throwleigh, younger brother of Roger – but here I’m only Thomas of Exeter, like a damned serf, or a plain barber. There was a time when I could have been a knight, you know!’
‘I am sorry your brother has died,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘But it is good that you are here to comfort the squire’s widow, and help her execute her duties towards their child.’
The man had raised his horn to his lips, but now he let it fall away, staring with open-mouthed astonishment at the knight. He gave a half-giggle, as if absorbing a joke. ‘Me? Here to help her and him?“
‘Sir, be silent!’ The priest’s words were uttered in so menacing a tone that the room fell quiet for a moment, all the guests glancing towards them. Thomas curled his lip but said no more, turning and stumbling from me room.
Stephen sighed and shook his head. ‘My apologies for that, Sir Baldwin, Bailiff. I deemed it better to silence him rather than allow him the opportunity to disgrace himself in front of so many people. The trouble is, gentlemen, Thomas and the squire were never comfortable in each other’s company, and I fear… That is, I am sad to say that Thomas of Exeter came rushing here as soon as he was told of his brother’s death less from affection or a desire to help his sister-in-law than from the keen anticipation of his own advancement.’
‘Ah!’ Baldwin said, his eyes going to the doorway once more.
Simon stared from one to the other. ‘What?’
Stephen gave him a long, sad look. ‘Thomas had no idea that his brother had an heir, Bailiff. He thought he was about to inherit the Throwleigh estates.’
The next day was cold and drear: suitable weather for a miserable occasion like this, thought Baldwin. He stood pensively, his cloak wrapped warmly about him, watching as the body was lifted from the hearse before the altar and carried, draped in its magnificent pall of cloth of gold, out to the graveyard.
At other funerals Baldwin had been aware of sadness, regret, even occasionally happiness in the knowledge that a loved one was on his or her way to Heaven, but never had he experienced one where there appeared to be so many undercurrents.
The widow, Lady Katharine, stood with her glorious hair and face covered by a veil and hood, her hands fidgeting with the enamelled brooch at the neck of her cloak, while her frame shook with sobs. At her side was the tall and lugubrious Daniel, her steward, who leaned on his staff, keeping his distance from his mistress, and whose face was wrenched with grief. Baldwin noticed on two occasions that he lifted a hand as if to touch his Lady’s shoulder to offer her comfort – although both times he thought better of his presumption.
Before her was the child – a small and rather feeble-looking boy, with tow-coloured hair and livid features in which the dark eyes seemed to glow with an unnatural fire. His eyes were fixed upon the grave, and while he
