‘Don’t trust to my word: ask him! Make him swear on his Bible, make him come and question him,’ she demanded. ‘Let him try to preserve his reputation! Make the pervert stand up to someone who dares confront him with his evil sins!’
The object of their enquiry was at that moment kneeling solemnly before the altar in his little chapel. He finished praying, rose, kissed the cross which adorned his stole, and removed it. He was filled with a feeling of melancholy.
His despondency had started on the day that the master had died. It had begun badly, when that young devil Herbert had so wilfully misbehaved, but from then things had grown steadily worse. Petronilla had been waiting for him after he had beaten the boy here in the chapel, and he had been surprised at the expression of horror on her face, and of course he hadn’t the faintest idea why at the time. He’d explained that he had been instructed to thrash the child, but that hadn’t helped.
And when Anney with her pinched, suspicious face had appeared, leading Herbert away and demanding Stephen’s presence in the hall, Petronilla had quietly insisted on arranging a tryst. Her doggedness had first alarmed, and then positively scared him. God knew what the bitch might get up to if he didn’t, so he’d agreed, and they had arranged a day to meet up near the stream where they had gone so often before. That was the day Master Herbert had died…
Stephen thrust his alb and stole into his chest and shut the lid, his lips pursed. He knew it was wrong of him to have felt such loathing for the boy, even if he only acknowledged it in the privacy of his own mind, but he couldn’t help but despise Herbert. Especially after what he’d done to the priest that day.
Just because the boy had died, Stephen was prepared to pray for him, as his mother desired, but he had no intention of keeping his own feelings hidden from his God. The child had caused the death of his father – of that Stephen was quite convinced – and had deserved his end, the barbarous little villain!
Squire Roger may not have been the ideal, God-fearing, learned and cultured lord that Stephen could have wished for, but for all his faults he was a kindly and generous man. Now, all because of that mendacious little swine, he was dead, and it was unlikely, from what Stephen had seen of Thomas, that his services would be required for much longer. Soon he would be forced to move to Exeter, or perhaps further afield.
He closed his eyes, and slowly sank onto his wooden chest, breathing deeply to control the anxiety he felt at this reflection. It was so hard, to be forced to find a new situation at his age. God only knew how far he would have to travel to find himself somewhere to live. And it was all because of that damned Herbert!
He was about to go to his private chamber and sit in quiet meditation when he heard a light tapping at his door. On opening it, he was surprised to see the knight’s servant.
‘Sir, would you come with me to the hall, please?’
Alan was as scared as Jordan, but he swallowed hard and carried on walking towards the hall. The bustle all about them was unnerving, especially when men leading horses walked past swearing at them, or riders cursed at them for wandering so slowly. This was a busy, working manor, and people had too much to do to want to stand aside for youngsters.
Jordan saw one groom staring at them suspiciously, and was glad that he’d left his sling behind. He was sure he recognised the man as one of his targets from the week before, and averted his gaze quickly. It would be humiliating to be captured and beaten now, just when they were trying to hand in the evidence that would destroy their enemy.
There was no doubt in either of their minds as to where they must go. They had to see the bailiff and give him their evidence, and that meant going to the hall. They had been there often enough; it was the place where their master, Squire Roger, had held all his celebrations, as well as his courts. Their lord had given feasts for Christmas, for harvest, for sheep-shearing, and all the other festivals, religious and otherwise, which punctuated the year.
On their way to the hall they had to pass a large gathering of workers who lounged at the door to the kitchen. Here another face caught Jordan’s attention. It was an ageing farmer, a freeman, but one of those who rented land from the manor and who had to pay his annual due of labour to the demesne. Like the others, he was here to collect his wages in food and ale.
‘Ho, there, young Jordan! What are you doing here? And you, Alan, you little devil. Have you both been called to the lord’s court?’
His friends all laughed at his sally. Alan in particular was well known to all the men in the area, and though some could laugh at his mischief, several eyed him sourly, recalling times when they had caught him running through their gardens or trying to shoot squirrels on their land.
‘Sir, we’re here to see the knight and the bailiff.’
The old farmer’s smile dimmed. ‘And why do you think the knight and the bailiff would want to see you two, eh? Go on, boys, clear off and play on the moors. Don’t interrupt men like them when they’re about their business.’
‘But we have to – we have proof of who murdered the squire’s son!’
Chapter Thirty
Simon gave a distracted ‘tut’ when he was told that there were two boys outside to see him. He was about to snap at the obsequious old farmer that he had better things to do than act as nursemaid to a pair of children, when Baldwin put his hand on the bailiff’s arm. Something in the farmer’s anxious features made him think that this was important.
‘Hugh, go with this man and take the lads into the buttery. No doubt Wat is there. Leave them in his tender care, and we’ll see them later, once we’ve heard what the priest has to say for himself.’
Hugh finished his pot of wine and slouched through the door. It was only a short time later that Edgar returned, the sorry-looking priest behind him.
‘Sir Baldwin? I understand you wish to see me.’
‘Not I alone, I am afraid, Brother Stephen,’ he said quietly.
Anney leaped to her feet. ‘Sodomite! Murderer! I accuse you-’
‘Anney, if you can’t hold your tongue, you’ll have to leave the hall!’ Simon felt his anger rising. ‘Let me remind you that this man is a priest, and that this is not a court. Even if it were, only an ecclesiastical one could charge Stephen. You have no right to pursue him, and I have no power to convict him.’
Stephen listened with every sign of bewilderment. On entering he had walked straight to a chair, and now stood in front of it, his face registering astonishment. He stared, first at Anney, then at Simon and Baldwin. ‘I don’t understand, Bailiff – what is this? I thought there was a need for my help, but you say I have been accused of something?’
‘Of the murder of your charge – of Herbert of Throwleigh,’ Baldwin intoned solemnly.
Stephen dropped heavily into his chair. ‘Is… is this a joke? I can’t believe anyone would accuse me of something so heinous as murder.’
Baldwin was studying him closely. The sudden collapse looked very contrived, and the man’s expression did not carry the same conviction as Anney’s.
He shot her a look. She was glaring furiously at the priest, her look as venomous as a viper’s bite. The knight did not understand why she should loathe the man so much, but then reflected that for her, the only person in her life who amounted to anything was her son, and if Stephen had often beaten him, and that unfairly, she might well harbour a grudge. Then again, if she seriously believed that he was a perverted man, who might prey on children to satisfy his sexual proclivity, would it be any surprise that she would wish to see him ruined, destroyed as utterly as she thought he had destroyed young Herbert?
Simon was speaking again.