When she saw Hugh, she put a hand to her back, rubbing slowly, allowing her face to take on an expression of patient suffering.
Hugh hadn’t seen her sudden collapse. As he approached, all he saw was a young girl with gleaming fair hair and slim body, who was in apparent pain.
Of the two servants, Edgar was more inclined to flirting. Hugh, a dour man at the best of times, was content with his own company. It was the way he had been brought up; the son of a farmer, as soon as he could fit stone to sling he had been sent out to protect the flocks from predators. By nature he was self-sufficient and comfortable; he admired women, and occasionally desired them, but the inns and alehouses could satisfy his needs, and he saw little point in the needless expense of a wife of his own.
His quietness in the presence of women was often construed as enormous shyness; it wasn’t. He simply saw no sense in engaging in flattery to no end. But his master had ensured that he had learned to be polite in order that he should not embarrass Simon or Margaret when they visited well-born households and, although his gruff, ‘Are you well, miss?’ could have been spoken in a softer voice, the words themselves were enough to assure Petronilla that she was safe from having to carry the rushes over to the manure-heap.
As compensation, she was prepared to be friendly with this morose-looking fellow.
‘You’re the bailiff’s servant, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘That’s right, miss,’ Hugh said, walking to the stable door where a large pitchfork rested. He returned and speared a large forkful of the rushes and walked to the manure-heap. I work for Master Simon Puttock, Bailiff of Lydford Castle under the Warden of the Stannaries, God bless him.‘
‘He must be keen to find poor Master Herbert’s murderer,’ Petronilla said sadly, thinking of the boy’s ruined body. A long tress of hair had escaped from her cap, and she twirled it round her finger. Hugh didn’t notice that she was able to stand upright with ease now, nor that she was able to follow him from rushes to dung-pile without pain. ‘It must be a lot of responsibility, having to seek killers.’
‘Yes, but he’s good at it. There’s never a murderer escapes my master,’ said Hugh inaccurately.
‘What, never a one?’ she asked, pleasingly impressed.
He shrugged, but even Hugh could have his head turned a little by such approving adulation, and he swaggered as he returned to the rushes. Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, he thought to himself that she was a remarkably attractive girl, with her open, fresh features and high, clear brow, unmarked by the pox or wrinkles. He shoved his fork into the rushes and grunted as he lifted it.
‘Never a one,’ he repeated with satisfaction. ‘Master and the knight always find their killers. It’s not always easy, and not always safe, but they catch ’em all right.‘
As he spoke Thomas emerged from the hall. At his side was Daniel, his staff of office under his arm, indignant and resentful at being ordered by Thomas, and ready to take out his pique on other servants. ‘Petronilla!’ he called bossily. ‘What are you doing out here? Get inside and see to the hall, it’s filthy!’
‘That’s what I am doing, Daniel.’
‘Don’t answer me back, wench!’ the steward snapped. Then, almost to himself, ‘Where are those damned stablemen?’
Hugh ignored the men as they stamped and bellowed, but when two grooms arrived, he leaned on his fork and listened. There was a quick bustle, horses were brought, saddled and made ready, and then with a shouting of orders, Thomas, Daniel and two others rode off furiously, heading towards the vill.
‘What’s their trouble?’ asked Petronilla, returning to the yard once the men had disappeared.
‘They think they’ve found the lad’s murderer,’ said Hugh conversationally.
She shot him a look.‘ “Think”? You don’t sound convinced.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Why?’
Hugh bent back to his task. ‘Because it’s easy for someone to guess who might have done something like this, and easy to arrest someone who’s poor. Until I hear my master say he thinks it was this man, I won’t worry about it.’
James van Relenghes saw them talking. He had heard the clatter of hooves and had walked back to the road in time to see Daniel and Thomas with their men disappearing on the road to Throwleigh, their horses throwing up large clouds of dust and sods of turf as they sped over the verge rather than take the longer way on the road. Their destination was obvious.
Van Relenghes was content with the turn events were taking. He strolled back to the house and nodded to Hugh. Seeing the girl loitering about, he paused. Like Hugh, he admired her face, the way the sun shone golden in her hair where it had drifted from her cap, the sheer happiness in her smile as Hugh made some comment. Van Relenghes wandered over and asked her politely, if a little shortly, whether she could fetch him a large pot of wine. He would wait for it in the hall, he said, and waited pointedly until she flounced off to the buttery.
The hall was empty when he entered, and he drew a chair up to the fire, sitting before it while he waited for the girl to return.
She had looked very attractive out there, he reflected. Of course the widow was infinitely more desirable, with her money and her aura of elegance and… and her sheer independence, modulated with the vulnerability which her bereavements had conferred upon her. Her self-possession made her incredibly attractive to van Relenghes. He had known wealthy widows in other countries – quite a number – but this one would be even more enjoyable. Others had been easier, it was true, but the very lack of a challenge had made those victories less complete somehow, less perfect.
With Lady Katharine, her self-possession would make her surrender all the more delightful, he reckoned, and smiled to himself. Her composure would make her eventual submission sweeter still. The certainty of his success was in no doubt, for van Relenghes knew that his tall, dark good looks were magnetic to women. The fact had been proved to him time and time again. No, he entertained no doubts of his abilities to entice Widow Throwleigh into his bed. It would take time, but eventually he would be able to enjoy ruining her.
But for now there was little opportunity, not at the earliest until she had put her brat into his grave, and had given him time to rot. Not until she had recovered a little from that misery and the weak, womanly failing of grieving for her man, could he hope to be able to win her affection.
As he arrived at this conclusion, Petronilla came in and poured his drink. He was so deep in thought he hardly noticed.
He was reflecting happily that now his revenge was almost complete. The squire was dead, his heir likewise, and once he had ruined Squire Roger’s widow, James van Relenghes’s curse would be fulfilled.
Petronilla left him, turning at the door and pulling a face at his back. She didn’t like having to obey the whim of a foreigner; especially when they didn’t even bother to acknowledge her when she put herself out to serve them.
Outside Hugh was still clearing her rushes, and she was about to go to him when Nicholas sauntered out from the stables. He glanced casually up and down the yard, and then smiled at her.
Petronilla wasn’t in a mood to be polite to strangers, but at least this one was another servant, like herself. When Nicholas pulled a sad grimace and made a dumbshow of drinking, winking to her, she at first tutted to herself, but then tossed her head and flung her arms up dramatically before returning to the buttery and fetching a fresh pair of jugs, carrying them on a tray out to the stable.