‘And there were so many people with motives, let alone the ability,’ commented Simon. ‘Almost everyone on the hill had time and the opportunity to murder the boy.’
‘But what I don’t understand,’ said Jeanne more quietly, casting a look at the two woebegone killers, ‘is why. They both claim that Herbert was their friend, and yet they murdered him. Why?’
Baldwin was silent, and it was left to Simon to answer. ‘Boys this young can’t always understand what is right and wrong. Neither of these lads is stupid, but they don’t necessarily comprehend what death is, or perhaps more important, how precious life is. One of them said something about Herbert complaining, threatening them with exposure, because he hadn’t fired the bullet that hit the priest. I daresay that was the crucial comment. Herbert was the son of Alan and Jordan’s master, and now he himself was their master – and he knew it. If he felt hard done by, maybe he felt justified in exposing them – after all, he had suffered on the day his father died, hadn’t he? All because the boys had been playing together. Maybe he was sick of taking the blame for everything they did as a trio and wanted to see them pay as well.’
‘Sir, we didn’t mean to kill him!’ Jordan said plaintively.
‘Was that what happened?’ Jeanne asked him.
Jordan let his head hang again. ‘He kept saying he’d see we got thrashed as well, and that we’d regret treating him so badly when he grew because he’d make us suffer then.’
Alan continued, ‘We didn’t mean to kill him, we only wanted to stop him threatening us, but then we saw we’d hurt him badly, and we got sort of panicked, because we knew we’d be in trouble if anyone saw what we’d done, so we thought we’d better make him quiet, so we hit him again, and then he stopped moving, and we didn’t know what to do.’
‘So you threw him in front of the first cart that came by?’
Jordan scowled angrily. ‘It wasn’t fair! We were just too late to throw him in front of the fishmonger’s wagon. I’d not have shoved him in front of Dad if I’d known he was coming, but we left Herbert there once we’d chucked him down. We didn’t want to be seen, not on the road with his dead body.’
‘So what did you do? Wait to see what would happen?’ Simon demanded.
Alan glanced at Jordan. ‘No, sir, we went back along the road to see if anyone was coming, and then we saw Jordan’s dad. And he saw us, too. The Fleming and his man had already ridden away, and Edmund turned back to the road ahead and saw Jordan. Bellowed what the hell was he doing up on the moor so late, and jumped down and grabbed him, catching him a right ding over the ear, so we both ran off before he could do anything else. That was why he rode over Herbert, I suppose, because he was still looking for us and not at the road.’
‘It makes sense,’ Baldwin said. ‘But didn’t you realise you shouldn’t kill another boy?’
‘Of course we did, but we didn’t mean to!’ Jordan protested. ‘We never wanted to hurt him, we only wanted to make him stop threatening us, but when we hit him he kept crying that he’d tell his mother, and then we’d suffer. All we wanted to do was shut him up.’
At home in Exeter once more, Thomas of Throwleigh dropped from his horse and threw the reins at the groom, then stood glowering at the men unloading the packhorses, shouting occasionally at the ones who seemed least careful about their cargo.
Not that there was much, he reflected gloomily. Since that mad bitch had burned his inheritance to the ground, there was little enough to bring home to Exeter. He shook his head, a small gesture of dissatisfied acceptance, and made his way inside.
The shutters were all wide, and the din from the street outside was deafening. Thomas filled a pint tankard with wine and wandered to the window, staring out with a bemused eye. Why did the noise irritate him so? It hadn’t bothered him before. Perhaps it was the contrast between the countryside about Throwleigh compared to Exeter, he thought, and kicked the nearest shutter closed.
‘Nick! I…’ He stopped. There was no point calling for him. Thomas found his resentment increasing. No hall, no money, and now no Nicholas; his whole life had been turned upside-down, on the promise of a manor with its huge hall and vast lands. Instead, here he was with his old place, mortgaged to the hilt and beyond, and without his best servant.
He fell backwards into his chair and drummed his fingers on the arm while he glared about the room with the embittered conviction that he had lost everything. There was nothing to be retrieved; no way to make an income.
‘Bring me my secretary!’
Unless, of course, he could make Throwleigh pay for itself…
His clerk entered.
‘Sit down, man. I want you to write a letter for me, to Sir Reginald of Hatherleigh. Something along the lines of, “Sir, you will know that my brother’s house has sadly been destroyed in a great fire. It is impossible for me to be able to pay the usual tallage because all the taxes I impose on my villeins must be used to rebuild the house. However, I think it may be possible to pay the normal dues if you would consider permitting me to hold a small fair at my village of Throwleigh…” ’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Godfrey winced at the sight of the fellow’s stance. ‘No, you hold the swordpoint up like this, for the outside guard. When it is held directly before you, the weapon is in the medium guard, like this. Have you never been in a fight?’
It was always the same, he sighed. Modern folk had no interest in learning real and effective methods of self-defence; they were too keen on chasing women and drinking all night. Especially those who fancied themselves as ladies’ men.
That was the problem with James van Relenghes, he thought. The man was a fool, with his brain in his hose. He believed he could pull the wool over a man’s eyes and could cuckold any husband, just because he sometimes had a certain charm, and there was nothing anyone could do to persuade him that he was wrong. Since the foolish attempt on the squire’s wife, he had tried to win the affection of another woman, this time one who was still unfortunately in possession of a husband. As far as Godfrey’s informants went, she had not refused his advances, not by any means! However, the husband had heard of secret assignations, and even now was searching for van Relenghes.
Godfrey stepped back, held his sword out once more, and allowed his opponent to swing at his head; ducking, Godfrey moved under his arm, gripped his wrist, and yanked backwards, pulling the arm up until the other had to drop his sword.
It was quite funny, really, he mused. Even those who disliked him intensely were sometimes forced to make use of his services.
‘Now do you believe me?’ he asked politely. ‘If you want to learn how to use your sword properly, you have to learn the basic positions; if you get the stance wrong, anyone can get in underneath and get straight to you.’
‘Very well,’ said Sir James van Relenghes. ‘I believe you. Er, could you release my arm now?’
As she walked into her house, Anney stood a moment and stared. The packed earth of the floor had been swept clean, and where the dismal remains of the previous night’s ashes had been there was now a cheerful fire, which lighted the whole room with red-gold flickering warmth.
‘Where are you?’ she called, and hearing a voice behind the cottage, walked through to the yard. There she found Nicholas resting happily on his axe contemplating a stack of logs under the eaves.