‘Oh, I think they were merely getting a breath of air.’ His face took on a shrewd, keen expression. ‘Why – do you think they might have had something to do with Herbert’s death, then?’
Baldwin refrained from commenting, but thanked Thomas just as the chattering of the people before the porch was suddenly stilled.
Lady Katharine came out, assisted by Jeanne and Margaret. The crowd was struck dumb by her tragic appearance. Quietly the congregation parted to allow her to pass, and the three women moved down the line, Katharine with her head bowed, stumbling slightly as if she was unconscious of the lumps and bumps in the path. Margaret caught Simon’s eye as the bailiff moved forward to assist, and gave him a faint shake of her head. He remained where he was, grateful to be relieved of the duty of aiding the woman in her grief – and wondering what could have ignited her misery. He could only assume that seeing her son’s little body on the hearse had made her reason falter.
Van Relenghes and his man strode along behind as if prepared to guard Lady Katharine from any importunate guests.
One man did not hold back. As the three women passed, Daniel, the steward of Squire Roger’s household for many years before Lady Katharine had arrived, stepped forward, and ignoring Margaret and Jeanne’s quick frowns, he took his lady’s arm. She glanced up at him once, and then seemed almost to melt into his embrace, grateful for a face she could recognise even through her misery.
Simon felt the pain of her suffering, but knew he could do nothing to help her. He glanced at his friend, but Baldwin wasn’t watching Lady Katharine. As she passed by, his attention was fixed with a terrible concentration on the face of the Fleming.
James van Relenghes was watching Daniel with an expression of deep animosity, almost as if he was preparing to draw his knife and strike the steward down there and then.
Simon’s eyes went automatically to Daniel and his lady. With his arm about her shoulder, holding her hand in his, resolutely keeping his attention fixed on the road before him and ignoring all about them, Daniel helped Lady Katharine back towards the manor.
Hugh upended his pot and held it out to Petronilla, belching softly. ‘Thanks,’ he said gruffly.
Petronilla chuckled to herself. She was comfortable in his company. Hugh was the sort of man she liked, strong and stolid, not the kind who would try to take liberties either, she thought with an angry toss of her head as she recalled that damned Nicholas. If he tried those tricks again, she would teach him a lesson he would never forget.
‘It’s good ale,’ Hugh said, giving her an approving nod. ‘Did you make it yourself?’
‘Yes. I help with the brewing.’
‘You do it well.’
She smiled, and at that moment Wat returned, happily announcing that the cows were all milked and the milk was in the dairy with the maid in charge.
‘What have you been doing all that for?’ Hugh asked.
‘To help me,’ Petronilla told him, and filled a good-sized pot with ale, handing it to the boy.
‘Thanks,’ he said, sitting and taking a goodly gulp. ‘Ah! That’s better.’
‘Don’t go drinking too much tonight,’ Hugh grumbled. ‘You know what strong ale does to you.’
‘Oh, I’m all right usually. It’s only when I have a bit too much…’
‘You always have a bit too much – and then you snore and puke,’ Hugh said.
‘Well, after all he’s done for me today, I don’t mind,’ Petronilla said with decision. ‘He can sleep in here if he wishes, and if he’s sick, I will clean up after him.’
‘Don’t encourage him,’ said Hugh. ‘He could vomit in his sleep and choke.’
‘Well, you could stay here with him, Hugh.’
Petronilla was content with Hugh’s company. Not because she felt any lust towards him – if anything, she felt the opposite but she did understand him, and the fact that he seemed happy to sit with her in the buttery was a comfort. The pair found that they had quite a bit in common. She had been raised in Moretonhampstead, while he hailed from Drewsteignton; she had been daughter to a gooseherd, he was the son of a shepherd; she had been taken on by her master, Squire Roger, when she was sixteen, he by his first master when he was only fifteen.
It would be good to have Hugh sleeping here in the buttery -and if it caused talk, she didn’t mind. Not now – in fact, it could be a useful diversion for gossipers.
Wat held out his empty cup hopefully, and Petronilla refilled it. The lad was feeling on top of the world. This manor was very different from Sir Baldwin’s household, but he liked the people here. Especially Petronilla. She was kind towards him, and he was aware of a moderately amorous attraction. To an extent, he was jealous of Hugh, who could sit back and listen while she prattled. Wat wanted her to talk to him, and it was to gain her attention that he cleared his throat and said, ‘What were you doing up on the moors, Petronilla? Had you fallen over?’
She flushed. ‘Fallen? Why, no, Wat. Why should you think that?’
‘Because your hands were all dirty with mud. I just thought you must have tripped.’
Petronilla shot him a look, but the boy’s face was innocence itself. Making a comment about the slipperiness of the moors, she added in an undertone to Hugh: ‘The truth is, I had to get away for a while,’ and told him about Nicholas’s advances.
‘So what did he actually say to you?’ Hugh asked, his brow wrinkled with concentration.
‘He offered me a coin to sleep with him. And put his hand here,’ she said, touching her right breast.
‘If he tries it again, you tell me or my master. We’ll protect you. That foreign bastard can’t go around assuming Devon girls are the same as his over there,’ said Hugh stoutly.
‘Thank you, Hugh,’ she said gratefully, and tears sprang into her eyes again. It was so consoling to be able to share her problem with someone who would actually exert himself on her behalf to help and protect her.
Unlike her lover.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sir Baldwin was determined to question the Fleming as soon as possible. The hospitality at Throwleigh was adequate, certainly, but unremarkable – which was quite understandable, given the recent tragic events – and yet van Relenghes seemed determined to remain even though the atmosphere should have been painful to anyone with a sense of courtesy. Baldwin was sure that the man had some ulterior motive, but he couldn’t see what that motive might be. Unconsciously, he began walking faster as the mourners headed back to Throwleigh Manor, and soon drew level with Sir James. Simon, seeing the direction his feet were taking him in, smiled grimly to himself and increased his own speed to match the knight’s.
‘Sir,’ Baldwin said, smiling in a friendly manner. ‘Could I speak to you for a few minutes while we return to the manor?’
Godfrey glanced at his master. Van Relenghes scarcely acknowledged the knight, but nodded as Baldwin and his friend came level. Godfrey fell back a short distance, not from politeness to give them privacy, but to give himself room to unsheath his sword. He had no reason to distrust the knight, but he knew his place: he was paid to protect his master.
It was the knight who began. ‘It is a pleasant part of Devonshire, this.’
Van Relenghes gave a dry chuckle. ‘There are worse parts?’
‘You should see the middle of the moors,’ said Simon with feeling.
‘If it is more desolate there than here, I have no wish to.’
‘But you enjoy taking in the views, don’t you?’ Baldwin said. ‘Like on the day poor Master Herbert died.’
Van Relenghes stiffened. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing, sir. But I heard you were out on the moors that day. Was I wrongly informed?’