At the time his place, and the trust in him which it implied, had been a magnificent honour to Anney, but now it was the greatest regret of her life that her boy had been taken on. There was no point in receiving an honour if it wasn’t possible to enjoy the fruits of it in later life, and the only result of this had been the ending of his life. If it hadn’t been for the job, he would be alive now. But he had taken the job, he had played with Herbert, and he had fallen into the well – nobody knew why even now – and from that moment on, her life had been empty.
Lady Katharine met her gaze again, and the eyes of both women filled with tears.
‘Anney, I’m so sorry about Tom. Only now can I truly understand how you must have felt.’
‘My Lady,’ Anney said, and grasped her hand. With difficulty she forced a certain sympathy into her voice. ‘I would never have wanted to see Herbert die. Anything but this. It is so miserable to lose a son this way.’
‘Any way in which one loses a son must be cruel,’ Katharine said.
‘At least he is with God,’ Anney murmured. That was her sole comfort since Tom had died: at least he would be at peace now in Heaven. Mary would take in the youngster, Christ would treat him like a brother – wasn’t that what the priests always said? It was only reflections like that which had kept her sane in the long, depressing evenings after her son had been taken from her.
Not that her lady had understood at the time, Anney reminded herself.
When she had found Herbert, he was standing at the edge of the well, peering over into the depths, and she had cried to him to come away, but he had said that he was waiting for his friend. Only then had Anney realised something was wrong. She had shouted down into the echoing depths, but when there was no answering call, nothing, she had gone to search other, more obvious places, first with annoyance, but soon with nervousness.
Tom was nowhere to be seen, and at last she called the steward – a cold, clammy panic setting in as Daniel and the men fetched ropes and dropped them down into the foul interior. One of them gingerly undertook the mission, a youngish fellow, she recalled, Ralph, a groom with the arms and shoulders of a blacksmith, and a high brow. He returned with the child in his arms, both of them dripping green weeds and slime. Anney had managed one shrill scream before collapsing with horror.
Lady Katharine had not comprehended her distress: perhaps she thought serfs couldn’t suffer much, perhaps she assumed that a mere servant couldn’t feel the same pain as a highborn woman.
She understood it now, all right, Anney noted with a vicious sense of justice.
‘Shall we find Stephen and question him now?’ Simon asked.
‘No,’ said Baldwin thoughtfully. ‘He has to prepare for the burial tomorrow.’
‘There is another man we must see: Nicholas. At least he won’t be so difficult to prise away from his master as Godfrey,’ Simon said.
Baldwin agreed. ‘I could do with a walk to cool my blood. A stroll in the fresh air would be most pleasant.’
Simon grinned to himself. There was a more pressing desire on his part, having now drunk the better part of two quarts of ale, but he decorously avoided mentioning it in front of Baldwin’s bride. Instead he and Baldwin took their leave of their wives and went outside, Simon strolling to the heap of manure at the corner of the stables and relieving himself.
The evening was breezy, and the wind soughed and moaned about the yard, scattering straw in little whirls. Baldwin, gazing up at the numerous stars, stepped into a pile of hound’s faeces and muttered a curse, making Simon chuckle as he straightened his hose.
Light from lanterns and braziers blazed cheerily in the open stable doorway. Peeping inside, Baldwin saw grooms and stablemen polishing harness and saddles, chattering happily like so many rooks preparing for the night.
At the other side of the long building were the five men Thomas had brought with him. Nicholas and his companions were seated on logs playing dice, and none looked up until the knight and bailiff were almost at their backs. Then the sudden silence as the leather-polishing stopped penetrated even to the five, and their game was halted.
Nicholas stood, grunting as his bones complained from resting too long on a cold, hard seat. ‘Sirs? Can I help you?’
The stable workers slowly began to work again, but not so noisily as they all eavesdropped. Baldwin was sure that the manor’s servants did not like Thomas’s men.
‘We would like to ask you some questions,’ Simon said smoothly. ‘You were with your master on the day the boy was killed, weren’t you? Out towards the north.’
Nicholas licked his lips, but without visible concern. ‘Yes, sir. Squire Thomas and I rode out in the afternoon.’
‘Why did he take you with him?’
‘My master knows this area – he grew up here,’ Nicholas shrugged. ‘So he knows that there are plenty of felons – and other dangers about. Or what if he was thrown from his horse on the moors?’
‘You didn’t go to the moors, though.’
‘We went where the fancy took him.’
‘Until you met the Fleming and his man.’
‘What if we did?’ His tone had altered, as had his stance. Now he stood as if ready to spring.
Baldwin edged to his left, Simon right, to defend themselves. The other four men also rose to their feet. None had reached for a weapon, but now the knight saw the fearsome war axe leaning against the wall, a heavy bill above it. Nicholas himself wore a heavy falchion, not a modern weapon, but a good, solid, battering blade that could be ferociously lethal in the right hands.
The grooms were silent. Nicholas was now their steward and they looked at each other; unsure whether to interrupt or ignore what was developing into a fight.
Baldwin threw a look at his friend, and Simon nodded, saying, ‘Nicholas, we want to know what was said between your master and the Fleming that day’
‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
“I’ll be the judge of that…‘
‘No.’
‘And we want to know what happened later, when you held Thomas’s horse while he thrashed around in the undergrowth,’ Simon continued. ‘What was that all about?’
‘I reckon you’ve been listening to stories. I don’t remember anything like that,’ Nicholas said, and laid his hand near the hilt of his sword.
As he did so, Baldwin saw one of Nicholas’s colleagues reach out idly and grab the handle of his axe, while another, a truly disreputable-looking scoundrel with a cast in one eye and pox scars all over his face, thoughtfully tugged a long Welsh knife from its scabbard. The others stood, one making for the bill, the last, a one-eyed man pulled out a dagger.
Baldwin had never been the best of swordsmen, but he thanked his stars that his father had taught him how to defend himself against English fighters: ‘Don’t wait for the bastards to decide what to do! If you think you’re close to a fight, hit the sods first.’
He whipped out his sword with an electric sparkle of blued steel and sprang forward even as he brought his left hand down to protect his belly. At his side he heard his friend drag his own blade from its scabbard, but his eyes were already on Nicholas.
The man gaped, not believing anyone would accept odds of five to two, but then he realised his own danger, and grabbed for his falchion. His blade was half out when Baldwin reached him. The new sword was a flash of blue, and Baldwin swept it right, smacking the flat against Nicholas’s elbow and slamming his hand away from the falchion’s hilt. Instantly Baldwin sidestepped Nicholas, and lashed out with his foot. His boot caught the back of Nicholas’s knees, whose legs collapsed, and he crumpled as though pole-axed. Simon had already marched to him and as Nicholas stared up, Simon stamped his foot on his chest, the point of his sword at his throat. Simon smiled down at him, but Nicholas found no comfort in his expression. The bailiff’s eyes were glittering with a cold anger.