uttered no sound and his body exhibited only the most subtle signs of grief, the tears poured down his cheeks in an unending stream. Yet Baldwin noticed that there was no contact between mother and son, and he wondered at that. It was surely only natural that she should provide her son with, and receive in return, a little comfort at such a harrowing time, but both stood alone, close to each other, but utterly apart.
Simon and he waited with the mourning guests on one side while the priest intoned the prayers and scattered earth on the face of the shrouded corpse at the bottom of the grave. Only then did the boy give a loud gulp, but his mother snapped at him to be silent.
Stephen appeared to be labouring under a great emotion. Although he was the kind of man who would always have a pasty complexion, today Baldwin thought he looked positively ill, with an unhealthy waxen sheen. His voice was hushed, less with apparent grief for the departed squire, more with a kind of nervous anxiety. Baldwin wondered fleetingly whether there was any justification for that impression: perhaps the cleric had been told he was no longer needed now that the squire was dead.
The only time Stephen’s face softened and he appeared to think of anyone other than himself was when he glanced at the fatherless boy. Baldwin thought at first that it was proof of compassion for the child, but then he began to wonder. Baldwin would have expected sympathy, but Stephen had an odd, wistful look about him. It made Baldwin wonder what the priest was thinking.
Thomas stood with his eyes downcast, but never on the body, only on the ground at his feet. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bloodshot and sore-looking. Baldwin thought he looked like a man who has spent the whole night in prayer, a man who has begged God for the forgiveness of any sins his brother might have committed… and yet the knight reminded himself that the symptoms exhibited by the dead man’s brother were identical to those of an oaf who has over-indulged himself with wine the previous night.
The service over, the mourning group walked slowly to the church gate and prepared to ride back to the house. Simon and Baldwin went to the widow’s side and made their farewells.
‘You are going so soon?’ she asked, her face still shrouded by her hood. ‘We have food and drink waiting at the hall, gentlemen.’
‘We have far to go; I fear we must return,’ said Baldwin. ‘And although I am sorry to have met you under these circumstances, I hope you will consider me a friend. If there is anything I can do for you while you suffer from your loss, please send me a message.’
‘Thank you for your kindness, Sir Baldwin. And of course you must go – I had forgotten your happiness in the midst of my despair. I had the best husband in the world: a good friend, a gentle husband, an honourable soldier and a noble and honest man. Perhaps I should consider myself fortunate to have had him for my own… yet I can only feel grief, and no gratitude. Our time together was all too short. But you must go back to your lady, Sir Baldwin, and my blessings go with you. I hope your marriage will bring you as much joy as mine did me.’
‘I am grateful, Lady Katharine. I need hardly say that my thoughts and prayers will be with you.’
‘Thank you again, and Godspeed.’
Taking their leave, Baldwin and Simon mounted their horses and set off back the way they had come the day before, riding up the slope to return to Crediton. Before they passed into the trees once more, Baldwin turned in his saddle to wave, and caught a glimpse of the widow. She was standing straight and still, an honourable lady refusing to bend to her despair in her loneliness. As Baldwin gestured in farewell, he saw Herbert walk falteringly to his mother and take her hand. She glanced down, as if surprised at the touch, but when she saw it was her child, she snatched her hand away.
Baldwin shook his head as the trees cut off his view. In all the world there was nothing he wished for more fervently than a son of his own, a lad to inherit his demesne and who could protect his villeins, and yet Herbert, Master of Throwleigh, appeared to have lost the love of his own mother. There were some women, Baldwin knew, who were unable to give affection to their children, who as speedily as they gave birth handed their offspring to wetnurses and then to tutors, but he was surprised that Lady Katharine should feel that way towards her son. She looked to him the sort of woman who would delight in children.
He put the matter from his mind with the thought that it must have been caused by her mourning. It was surely only a transient state, and her love for the boy to whom she had given life would be bound to return when she had recovered from the shock of her loss. No doubt then it would be reinforced by their mutual dependence.
With that conviction to comfort him, Baldwin spurred his horse. No mother could hate her own flesh and blood – not for long. He knew he himself would adore any child he fathered, and he was confident that his new wife would too. Jeanne had a special, soft smile for children. It was plain to Baldwin that she would feel a keen delight in giving him a son, and the sense of wholeness, of belonging, which he had felt on taking her hand when they had become engaged returned to his memory and made him smile. There could surely be nothing so wonderful as creating another life. It was his own most fervent desire. No, he put the widow’s behaviour down to depression. All considerations other than his wife-to-be’s pleasure on seeing him home once more fell from his mind, and he was taken up with happy musings about her.
Later, when he recalled that scene, he would blame himself for what happened.
Chapter Five
Edmund entered the hall nervously, his old felt hat gripped submissively in his hand. It was a relief to see that, although the steward Daniel was standing beside the table and the priest was seated behind him with a great ledger resting on his lap, the squire’s widow was also present, in her chair on the dais near the fire. At least she would champion the son of her husband’s most loyal retainer, he thought with relief.
‘Edmund…’ the steward began, and glanced at his mistress as if for support. She gave an irritable flap of her hand, and he hurriedly carried on. ‘Edmund, it has been brought to the attention of my Lady of Throwleigh that you have been talking in the village about hiring a lawyer to work for you.’
‘I don’t want to, Mistress,’ Edmund blurted. ‘It’s only that…’
‘Your mistress would like to point out that as a villein, you have no rights in any court other than her own.’
Edmund stood gaping. At last he found his voice again, and ducking his head respectfully, he spoke directly to her. ‘I’m sorry, Mistress, but there must be some mistake. Your husband granted my father his freedom, gave him his paper to show he was free. That means I’m no villein, I’m free as well. Otherwise I’d not have been able to inherit Father’s lands.’
‘That was an error. You have to pay the heriot now,’ the steward said, and swallowed loudly.
Edmund ignored him. The heriot was the fine paid by a serf in order that the oldest son could take over his father’s duties, but Edmund was free, so he owed no heriot. He ducked his head again to Lady Katharine, who sat listening carefully. ‘Mistress? There must be a mistake. I still have the bit of paper back at my house, and-’
She cut him off with a graceful wave of her hand. ‘It is possible you made a mistake, yes. Your father was given a certificate of manumission from serfdom by my husband, but that was only to last for my husband’s life.’
‘No, Mistress,’ Edmund said firmly. ‘It proved that he was free, and so were all his children and his children’s children for ever. I am free, Mistress.’
She gave him a long, cold stare, then nodded to Stephen.
The priest sighed and slowly opened his ledger. ‘This confirms the entail under which the manor was held by Squire Roger, God bless him.’ He tapped the page, avoiding Edmund’s stare. ‘Under the terms of the entail, the squire could not alienate any property except for his lifetime. His lifetime having expired, any property he gave away must be returned.’ He slammed the covers together and bowed his head.
‘You understand?’ Lady Katharine snapped and gave Edmund an unpleasant smile. ‘It is very easy, villein: your father was born a serf. My husband gave him his freedom, but any papers my husband signed which gave away anything from the manor became null and void as soon as he died. Your freedom is ended with the death of Squire Throwleigh. As soon as he died, you became a villein again.’
‘Mistress, that can’t be right!’
‘It is the law.’
