Baldwin, Simon and their wives walked close behind Thomas and his sister-in-law. Thomas appeared nervous of the bailiff and knight, stunned with a personal misfortune that had nothing to do with his nephew’s funeral. Baldwin would never wish to prematurely convict a man or make any false assumptions as to his guilt, but after all he had heard, he was growing ever more suspicious about the dead squire’s brother. Thomas clearly stood to gain most by the death of Master Herbert; he was nearby at about the time the boy had been killed; he could quite easily have struck his nephew down and left him in the road.
And yet Baldwin was not convinced. He chewed his moustache, recalling what Edmund had said: that his son Jordan had been playing with Herbert that afternoon, and suddenly a whole new series of fascinating speculations arose in his mind.
If there had been two children there that afternoon, Herbert’s friend might well have seen him being attacked by Thomas. Then Thomas would inevitably have tried to catch the other, to silence him. And if he was unable to lay hands on Jordan, what a perfect trap to lay for the boy’s father instead!
But that was impossible, Baldwin realised. There was no way that Thomas could have realised that Edmund would be the next rider on the road; that would presuppose that Thomas enjoyed the protection of an ally – someone who would wait with Herbert’s body, and as soon as he saw Edmund rattling along on his cart, could drop down into the road and position the corpse ready for the ‘accident’.
Then he considered Nicholas. The steward had been there too, according to Edmund. How large were his feet? It was an intriguing notion, and Baldwin pondered it a while before moving on to another suspect: James van Relenghes. What had the Fleming been doing out on the moors that day with his guard, Godfrey? He would definitely have to speak to the two men.
Now, the party of mourners were already dropping down the gentle slope that led to Throwleigh itself, and soon the massive bulk of the church ahead became visible.
Simon and his wife were fully aware of the solemnity of the occasion, having buried their own young son only two years before. Poor Peterkin had been struck down over the space of a few hours, and from being a strong, pink, healthy boy-child, had suddenly become a sickly, squalling baby in the throes of fever and convulsions. His death had been quick, once the disease had taken hold, but Margaret and Simon had never really got over it, and now Simon sought his wife’s hand and gripped it. She looked up at him and he could see the tears in her eyes, but she gave him a brave smile and squeezed his hand.
The service was no different from any other, and for Simon it went past in a meaningless series of tableaux: the incense wafting greasily as they entered the church, the boy lying now on the hearse, covered with its pall, the candles lighted, just as they had been for Herbert’s father only a few days before, the priest with his mournful voice intoning the words of the service of Evensong, beginning with the Placebo. Simon bowed his head and said his own prayers for the soul of the boy, and as he did so, he asked for the continued protection of their poor dead Peterkin. He heard Margaret sob quietly, which brought the prickling of tears to his own eyes.
All too soon it was over. The priest left to see to the mourners, for quite a large number were to be paid to sit up with the corpse overnight; all the poorest of the vill had offered themselves for the vigil. There was often good money to be earned by staying at the side of a corpse during its last service in church.
Lady Katharine remained outwardly calm throughout the Placebo, but as soon as she was touched on the arm by Thomas to indicate that it was time to return home, she recoiled, and then began to shake her head convulsively, as if in desperate denial of her son’s death.
Thomas’s face went red with embarrassment. He was nonplussed in the presence of such despair, unsure how to react. As he reached to help her up from the pew, she gave a high, keening wail, and in her disordered state of mind struck at him, in the process knocking her hat from her head. Thomas was transfixed at the sight of her hysterical face, wide-eyed with horror and revulsion as she slapped at him.
And then she screamed: ‘Murderer! Murderer! You killed him, didn’t you? You killed my son to win our estate!’
Hugh puffed and blew as he rolled on to the heavy barrel into the buttery. Once there, he hoisted it on the table and wedged it. Taking the heavy mallet, he held the tap over the bung, pausing while he worked up the courage for the one, solid blow. Then he brought the mallet down swiftly and slammed the tap into the barrel, losing not a drop of wine.
Satisfied, he used a blunted bodkin to knock the spile out of the top of the barrel so that the wine could flow, and then, determined to ensure that the wine was of a good enough quality for the funeral party on their return, he most assiduously tested three cups in rapid succession.
Wat entered as he was emptying the last. ‘Hugh, Edgar wants your help with setting out the tables in the hall.’
‘Shouldn’t Petronilla be doing that?’ demanded Hugh and belched loudly. He gave a long, satisfied sigh. ‘Aah! That’s good wine.’
Wat looked from him to the barrel, and moved imperceptibly towards it. Instantly Hugh slammed a fresh spile in place to stop the wine flowing, and glared at the boy.
‘Do you remember how you were on Sir Baldwin’s wedding day? Eh?’
‘That wasn’t my fault! I just had a bit too much strong ale. I’m so thirsty, Hugh, can’t I just have a small drop of-’
‘No, you can’t. You’ve had enough today already. Think what your master would say if we found you asleep under the barrels again. God’s teeth! You’re hardly ever sober these days.’
‘But I’m thirsty!’
‘The trough is outside,’ Hugh stated implacably.
‘Shouldn’t you go and help Edgar?’
Hugh eyed him suspiciously. He credited the lad with the same deviousness as he had himself exercised when he was a young whipper-snapper and wished for wine. ‘Why should he want me? Hasn’t he got enough others to help him?’
‘Like who? They’re all at the funeral,’ Wat said, sulkily surveying the barrels arrayed in their neat lines at the wall.
‘What about Petronilla and the other serving girls?’
‘She’s gone off somewhere. Don’t know where.’
‘Well, maybe you could find her. And if you manage it quickly,’ Hugh’s voice dropped conspiratorially, ‘you’ll get a pint of something to warm you later, all right?’
With a happy grin, Wat nodded and shot through the door. Hugh sighed and patted the barrel regretfully before making his way out to the hall.
Wat tried shouting for Petronilla at the door to Lady Katharine’s solar, but there was no answer. Outside in the yard he stopped, wondering where to search first. The orchard held the demesne’s main flock, and it was possible that the maid was there, milking ewes, or she might be in the byre collecting the cows’ milk – but then she might have completed both tasks and now be in the dairy, or maybe the kitchen. Choosing the dairy as the most likely place, he scampered off to the little building at the side of the byre, next to the stable.
He searched through all the farm buildings, and found no sign of the girl. In the dairy the cows were lowing mournfully; all, he noticed, had full udders. Obviously Petronilla hadn’t been here yet. At the kitchen there was a shriek from the harassed cook telling him to clear off or he would get such a clout over the head he’d see stars at noontime. It was as Wat left the orchard, glancing up towards the moors, that he saw her at last. She was hurrying back from the direction of the common where poor Herbert had been killed.