‘I’ll get a lawyer.’
Daniel shook his head sadly. ‘You can’t. You are stated to be a villein, Edmund. The only court you can appeal to is the manor’s, and Mistress Katharine will not allow you to waste the court’s time on such a silly matter.’
‘I’ll go to the King’s court. I’ll fight you!’
‘You can’t,’ said Lady Katharine, and she stood up. To Edmund she radiated an unwholesome, evil power, and as she walked slowly towards him he felt himself recoil, his bowels turning to water in his sudden fear.
‘You can do nothing, Edmund Villein. Nothing! If you go to court I will declare you “unfree” and your case will fail. You are to lose your lands already, and I believe it was in part because of you that my husband died, so if you make it hard for me, I will see to it that you and your family have the harshest duties of all the villeins in Throwleigh. Think yourself lucky, Edmund. You were to lose everything. Now I will let you stay in a toft, a cottage without land, on my demesne – but I will keep my eye on you.’
James van Relenghes considered the doorway with a soldier’s eye. It wasn’t particularly strong, but the squire had had few enemies to fear. The buildings were constructed with a view to defence against bands of outlaws, and men of that type would have been deterred by the thorn hedge. If they had won their way through to the court, the house, with its thick walls of solid, grey moorstone, would have been proof against them. For there to have been any expectation of success, an attacker would have required artillery, beating at the walls with missiles, or mining beneath them until the walls above collapsed. Nothing less could force the occupants to surrender. No incompetent vagrants armed with sticks and daggers would be able to take the place.
He carried on towards it, Godfrey riding behind him on a pony.
Van Relenghes had explained nothing of his reasons for visiting Throwleigh Manor. The Fleming had merely said that he was forced to visit this place because his old friend had recently died, and wished to have his bodyguard with him. It had been surprisingly easy to persuade Godfrey to accompany him. Van Relenghes thought it was the lure of the money he offered, yet in truth that had little to do with it; Godfrey earned enough already. His willingness was due to his interest in the Fleming. Ever since van Relenghes’s outburst in the Cathedral grounds, Godfrey had wanted to find out more about his strange client.
While waiting for the Fleming to ready himself for the journey to Dartmoor, Godfrey had asked questions of his usual sources, but no one knew anything much about van Relenghes. He was staying at an inn near the Cathedral grounds, he was known to be foreign, and could have an evil, short temper – a description that covered half the men within the city’s walls.
On the other hand, Godfrey had picked up quite a bit about the man who had occasioned van Relenghes’s outburst of swearing. He was Thomas of Throwleigh, brother to the squire who had so recently died. A merchant, Thomas had fallen on hard times of late – in part due to his habit of gambling at the bearpit. His fortunes had not prospered, and now he was in sore straits. There was no need for Godfrey to ask anyone about the squire himself. Godfrey was a fighting man – he knew of Squire Roger.
The ride to Throwleigh had not given Godfrey any more information about his employer. The tall Fleming rode in silence, grunting when a question was directed to him, like a man deep in his own thoughts. By the time they reached the moors, van Relenghes was in a foul humour. It was lucky, Godfrey thought, that he had seen the lad before he could fire his sling at the two of them, for there was no telling how his employer would have reacted.
The boy had been sitting in a tree near the river, idly spinning his sling. As soon as he caught sight of the two men, his eyes had narrowed, he had lowered himself on his branch, and the sling had begun to whirl faster and faster. It was common enough for brats to shoot at passing horses, trying to unseat their riders, or better, to see how well they could ride at speed, but fortunately Godfrey had spotted him, on the lookout as he was for ambush from outlaws. The master of arms had reached behind him and pulled his crossbow free from its retaining strap, not bothering to cock it, but letting it point casually at the tree. The boy had grinned, ducking his head, his sling slowing, sitting back to wait for the next, less observant, traveller.
Godfrey could smile now, knowing that he had averted at least one attack, if only that of a child, and that they were here, safe at Throwleigh Manor.
They waited at the entrance to the stable block. A groom was not long in arriving.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ van Relenghes asked the groom, a rheumy old man of almost fifty, who moved slowly, and with apparent misery.
‘My master is dead, sir. He died three days ago, and we only buried him this morning.’
‘You show him the proper respect, then. But this is terrible news. Surely you don’t mean that the good Squire Roger, famous throughout Christendom for his courage and his exploits on the battlefield… You don’t mean he has died?’
Godfrey nonchalantly dismounted and leaned against the gatepost, listening with the greatest interest as his client lied.
‘Oh, sir! Did you know him?’ the groom exclaimed.
‘I fought with him in France under good King Edward, the King’s father. He was my friend.’
‘Then, sir, Squire Roger’s wife will be most happy to see you.’
So saying, the ageing groom shouted for the steward, and in a few moments Daniel arrived. He bowed deeply, and led van Relenghes and his guard into the hall.
Godfrey was not certain what lay behind this sudden conversion from a man who had apparently loathed the squire, but he intended to find out.
Just inside the stables, Nicholas, Thomas of Exeter’s steward, sat stitching at a new leather sheath for his knife. He had been safe enough so far. Even Daniel hadn’t recognised him with his beard, and he’d managed to avoid seeing Anney. Now he watched the two men as they crossed the courtyard to the hall, and as Godfrey walked inside behind the Fleming, Nick narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
The steward turned to the man at his side, another member of Thomas’s retinue. ‘Those two – did you see the one at the rear, the shorter one?’ he asked.
‘Yes – what about him?’
Nicholas wasn’t sure. The light was pretty bad here in the yard, and he hadn’t been able to study the man in detail. ‘He just reminded me of someone,’ he said, and went back to his work, but every so often he glanced at the hall as if troubled.
It was a week later that the boy Alan scurried through the undergrowth. He only halted when he could hear voices close at hand, his every sense strained to breaking point while he scrutinised the land ahead, panting and wiping the sweat from his eyes.
He was at the edge of the roadway, concealed by the bracken at the verge, and before him the land dropped away to the woods at the side of the stream. Four riders were conversing, or rather two were talking while their servants sat on their horses on either side.
Alan knew who they were. The two chatting were the Fleming and the brother of the dead squire. The Fleming and his servant rode over this way often enough; there was nothing new in their being here, and Alan paid them little attention. Far off in the distance he could spy a wagon, but that meant nothing to him. He needed to know who was nearer to hand.
His blood was up, and in his hand he gripped a small switch, which was now, in the eleven-year-old’s mind, a keen sword.
Looking eastwards, back towards the manor, he studied the road carefully. There was no sign of the enemy there, and he peered westwards thoughtfully. They might have taken the longer route and tried to cut him off. He meditatively chewed a thumbnail while reviewing his options, then squirmed away, back up the hill until he was far enough distant from the riders for them not to be able to hear him.
His heart was pounding with excitement. Their games tended to be unpredictable. Sometimes Jordan and Herbert would spring out at him from their hiding-places, and there was little he could do to defend himself. If he was pretending to be Scottish, and was bored, he might surrender in the most cowardly fashion, but on other occasions, when he was pretending to be an outlaw, he would snarl and rage, fighting to the last. He always enjoyed those encounters. Today he was a bear, hunted by the others.
Hearing a new voice, he peeped through the furze back towards the road. It was a woman. Intrigued, he
