‘You are to conduct the funeral tomorrow?’ the knight asked.
‘Yes, not that the other guests seem to realise that is why we are all here.’
‘You must forgive them, Brother – they’re celebrating their own lives. It’s not that they intend to demean Squire Roger’s memory, just that they are making merry while they still can,’ Simon said.
‘It is disrespectful to a man who was uniformly loved and honoured,’ said the priest primly.
Simon sought to distract him from the behaviour of the other guests. ‘The service will be tomorrow?’
‘We performed the Placebo this afternoon, and the body is lying in the church tonight with the parish poor standing vigil over him,’ Stephen agreed. ‘Tomorrow morning we shall sing the Dirige and celebrate the Requiem Mass, then inter the body.’
‘And then I hope Lady Katharine will be able to get over her pain,’ said Simon.
‘Oh, I doubt it!’ said a voice behind him.
Simon turned to meet the alcohol-bleared smile of a man in his late thirties. He had a short, thickset body, with a barrel of a chest and almost non-existent neck, on top of which sat a large, square face. He looked as though he would be happier wielding a weapon than a jug and drinking horn, but for now his expression was one of drunken vacuity, and he waved his wine in a broad gesture that splashed red droplets against the wall.
‘There’s many of us won’t forget the squire in a hurry, eh, Stephen?’ he said. The words came out playfully, and the man prodded the monk with his jug, splashing a quantity of wine on Stephen’s robe, but Simon, looking into the drunk’s eyes, saw the anger and jealousy burning there. ‘No, poor Lady Katharine will never be able to get over her shock, I expect. My brother was too kindly and generous for her to forget him, so I fear you’ll not be able to wed her for her money, sir!’
Baldwin drew in his breath at this insult to his friend, and Simon stiffened, but the man gave a rasping laugh, drank a little more, and almost in an instant was serious. ‘Your pardon -I jest. My brother was good to the villeins on his land, as well as to his friends. No one will be able to forget him quickly. And his wife won’t want to wed again, I expect, not after living with my poor brother.’
‘You are Thomas of Exeter?’
Baldwin’s question made the man shoot him a glance. ‘Yes, Thomas of Exeter, they call me now. Surprising how speedily you lose your name when you live away for a short while, isn’t it, eh? In the city I’m always Thomas of Throwleigh, son of the Knight of Throwleigh, younger brother of Roger – but here I’m only Thomas of Exeter, like a damned serf, or a plain barber. There was a time when I could have been a knight, you know!’
‘I am sorry your brother has died,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘But it is good that you are here to comfort the squire’s widow, and help her execute her duties towards their child.’
The man had raised his horn to his lips, but now he let it fall away, staring with open-mouthed astonishment at the knight. He gave a half-giggle, as if absorbing a joke. ‘Me? Here to help her and him?“
‘Sir, be silent!’ The priest’s words were uttered in so menacing a tone that the room fell quiet for a moment, all the guests glancing towards them. Thomas curled his lip but said no more, turning and stumbling from me room.
Stephen sighed and shook his head. ‘My apologies for that, Sir Baldwin, Bailiff. I deemed it better to silence him rather than allow him the opportunity to disgrace himself in front of so many people. The trouble is, gentlemen, Thomas and the squire were never comfortable in each other’s company, and I fear… That is, I am sad to say that Thomas of Exeter came rushing here as soon as he was told of his brother’s death less from affection or a desire to help his sister-in-law than from the keen anticipation of his own advancement.’
‘Ah!’ Baldwin said, his eyes going to the doorway once more.
Simon stared from one to the other. ‘What?’
Stephen gave him a long, sad look. ‘Thomas had no idea that his brother had an heir, Bailiff. He thought he was about to inherit the Throwleigh estates.’
The next day was cold and drear: suitable weather for a miserable occasion like this, thought Baldwin. He stood pensively, his cloak wrapped warmly about him, watching as the body was lifted from the hearse before the altar and carried, draped in its magnificent pall of cloth of gold, out to the graveyard.
At other funerals Baldwin had been aware of sadness, regret, even occasionally happiness in the knowledge that a loved one was on his or her way to Heaven, but never had he experienced one where there appeared to be so many undercurrents.
The widow, Lady Katharine, stood with her glorious hair and face covered by a veil and hood, her hands fidgeting with the enamelled brooch at the neck of her cloak, while her frame shook with sobs. At her side was the tall and lugubrious Daniel, her steward, who leaned on his staff, keeping his distance from his mistress, and whose face was wrenched with grief. Baldwin noticed on two occasions that he lifted a hand as if to touch his Lady’s shoulder to offer her comfort – although both times he thought better of his presumption.
Before her was the child – a small and rather feeble-looking boy, with tow-coloured hair and livid features in which the dark eyes seemed to glow with an unnatural fire. His eyes were fixed upon the grave, and while he uttered no sound and his body exhibited only the most subtle signs of grief, the tears poured down his cheeks in an unending stream. Yet Baldwin noticed that there was no contact between mother and son, and he wondered at that. It was surely only natural that she should provide her son with, and receive in return, a little comfort at such a harrowing time, but both stood alone, close to each other, but utterly apart.
Simon and he waited with the mourning guests on one side while the priest intoned the prayers and scattered earth on the face of the shrouded corpse at the bottom of the grave. Only then did the boy give a loud gulp, but his mother snapped at him to be silent.
Stephen appeared to be labouring under a great emotion. Although he was the kind of man who would always have a pasty complexion, today Baldwin thought he looked positively ill, with an unhealthy waxen sheen. His voice was hushed, less with apparent grief for the departed squire, more with a kind of nervous anxiety. Baldwin wondered fleetingly whether there was any justification for that impression: perhaps the cleric had been told he was no longer needed now that the squire was dead.
The only time Stephen’s face softened and he appeared to think of anyone other than himself was when he glanced at the fatherless boy. Baldwin thought at first that it was proof of compassion for the child, but then he began to wonder. Baldwin would have expected sympathy, but Stephen had an odd, wistful look about him. It made Baldwin wonder what the priest was thinking.
Thomas stood with his eyes downcast, but never on the body, only on the ground at his feet. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bloodshot and sore-looking. Baldwin thought he looked like a man who has spent the whole night in prayer, a man who has begged God for the forgiveness of any sins his brother might have committed… and yet the knight reminded himself that the symptoms exhibited by the dead man’s brother were identical to those of an oaf who has over-indulged himself with wine the previous night.
The service over, the mourning group walked slowly to the church gate and prepared to ride back to the house. Simon and Baldwin went to the widow’s side and made their farewells.