Godfrey stretched his arms high over his head, then shook his head. He planted his feet a shoulder’s width apart and began to sway first one way then the other, twisting his torso to and fro. ‘He found me in town. Oh, good morning, Bailiff.’
‘Don’t stop on my account,’ said Simon.
‘Nay, Bailiff. I have work to be getting on with.’
‘Protecting your master? But why does he need you at his side all the time? Isn’t he safe enough in the hall?’
Godfrey’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘You haven’t guessed, then? Ah, and I thought the Bailiff of Lydford was clever!’ Chuckling, he made his way back to the door.
Hugh scowled after him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean, eh?’
‘I wonder,’ said Simon pensively. He was about to follow the man inside when a wholly ridiculous idea struck him, and he paused. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘That can’t be right. No.’ And still looking thoughtful, he went indoors.
Baldwin was sure he had never experienced a more doleful service than this. He stood with his wife and Simon and Margaret at the graveside, and watched the little shape being slowly lowered. Herbert’s grave was right next to his father’s, which made this morning’s service even more poignant. Roger’s grave was large, especially now it was filled, for the mound of soil at the top made it look even bigger, while the child’s was tiny by comparison. One could almost imagine that Squire Roger was already in Heaven, but his son’s dismal resting-place made Baldwin think of every story he had ever heard about Hell.
The little form reached the bottom. There was no coffin. He lay, a small figure wrapped in a linen winding sheet, and Baldwin saw his mother wince as the first shovelfuls were tossed on top of him, one striking the boy full in the face. Sobbing, she turned from the scene and stumbled away.
Daniel again was at one side of her, while Anney was at the other. Baldwin watched them walk the short distance to the churchyard gate, and thence to the road. When he turned, the priest was already slipping back inside his church. The knight was about to go after him when he decided to wait. It was too soon after the burial; surely it would be more considerate to leave the man with his thoughts for a while. He would be praying for the boy still.
‘Oi! Get out of here, you little sod!’
Baldwin snapped around to see the furious Thomas hurling a stone at a lad a little taller than Wat. Fair-haired, and with that golden complexion so prevalent among the Saxons, Baldwin instantly registered his striking similarity to the servant, Anney. This must be Alan, her boy.
The missile struck the lad’s chest with an audible thud, and Baldwin tutted to himself. He saw Thomas pick up another large stone, and called out, ‘Hold on, Thomas. The lad’s not here to make mischief, I’ll be bound.’
‘You don’t know him,’ Thomas shouted, taking aim.
‘I doubt whether you do, either,’ said Baldwin unruffled, as he took hold of Thomas’s arm and held it there. ‘You, boy. What are you doing here? Should I release my friend’s arm and let him assault you?’
‘I only wanted to see Herbert being buried, sir. I didn’t want to upset anyone.’
‘Come here.’
Alan was even more like his mother close to. His countenance was that of a child, but one who has aged prematurely: his face was too thin for his age, his eyes too large for his face. Baldwin had seen that look of pinched hunger before, but not commonly here in Devon where even during the abject misery of the famine people generally had been able to produce enough to live.
‘You are Anney’s boy?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the boy said. Although he and Jordan had decided to tell all to this knight, Alan had expected Jordan to be with him. Now, alone with Baldwin, Alan was nervous of him. Baldwin held such high authority; he was a Keeper, and a man who could afford the best linen for his tablecloth and the finest ‘paindemaigne’ – bread made from purest white flour – to go on it, instead of the heavy, rye-filled loaves that Alan and the villagers had to eat. Alan decided to hold his tongue until he could speak to Baldwin with Jordan to back up his tale.
‘Herbert was your friend, wasn’t he?’ Baldwin confirmed, and when Alan nodded, he glanced towards the gravedigger, who was assiduously filling the small hole. ‘It is a great shame that he should have died so young.’
Alan felt his eyes brimming, and rubbed them on his sleeve, sniffing loudly. ‘It’s not fair,’ he declared.
‘This is ridiculous, talking to a villein’s son! What good will it do, eh? A waste of time,’ Thomas spat, hurling his stone aside and stamping off to join the congregation at the gate.
Baldwin ignored him and walked with the boy to the wattle fence at the edge of the yard, leaning on it and staring out over the trees to the massive hill beyond. ‘What isn’t fair, Alan?’
‘Him being killed like that. Herbert was a good friend to me and Jordan.’
‘Jordan?’
‘He’s Edmund’s son.’
‘Oh, Edmund’s boy,’ said Baldwin thoughtfully. ‘Is he as old as you?’
‘No, he’s quite a lot younger,’ said Alan with the scathing contempt of a child for an adult making an obvious mistake. ‘He’s only nine: I’m nearly eleven.’
‘I see,’ said Baldwin, restraining a smile. ‘And he was playing with you and Herbert when Herbert was killed?’
‘We were all up on the hill playing hunters.’
Baldwin smiled. ‘I used to play it myself when I was young.’
Alan looked up at him doubtfully, wondering whether the tall, grave man was making a joke.
‘We used to play lots of games when I was a boy, before I was sent to be trained in warfare. Hunting was only one. I enjoyed all the shooting games -I used to be a good shot with a bow’
‘I haven’t got a bow,’ Alan said regretfully. ‘It broke.’
‘A sling is almost as useful.’
‘Oh, I’m pretty good with mine,’ Alan said complacently. ‘But…’ He was about to say more when Stephen of York came out of the church.
After the ceremony the priest had gone inside to settle the account with the paid mourners and to exchange his garments for travelling robes ready for the walk back to the manor. Now he stood in the yard, blinking in the bright sunlight. As soon as his eye lit upon the boy talking to Baldwin, the knight saw his expression change from one of melancholy to wrath.
Alan saw him too. With a noise that Baldwin could only describe as a bleat, Alan leaped the fence with a single bound and hared away. The knight watched the lad rush off until he was out of sight among some trees, a small frown wrinkling his brow.
‘Has that young scoundrel been troubling you?’ Stephen demanded.
Baldwin turned and gave him a smile. ‘No, I was merely passing the time of day with him. He is very upset at his friend’s death.’
‘Him?’ Stephen said scornfully. ‘He’s the best actor in the whole parish. Don’t believe a word he says.’
Baldwin nodded, keeping the smile fixed to his face, but he was conscious of one thing: Alan had been terrified by the sight of the priest. As Stephen strode off to rejoin the rest of the congregation, Baldwin stared after him musingly.
Thomas was seething with fury as the procession began the journey back to the hall. It was plain stupid of Sir Baldwin to talk to that Alan! He was bound to lie, just like his father. The man had been a liar, a lecherous bigamist, and there was little doubt that the boy would follow in his father’s footsteps. And he might tell Baldwin where Thomas had been on the day Herbert died. Thomas could live without that complication and that was why he now boiled with impotent anger.
‘Are you recovered?’ The soft, insinuating voice broke in upon his thoughts, and he almost jumped.