His soul was a shiver on the breeze as it left his body and drifted away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Wednesday, Feast of the Annunciation
Exeter
The baby was crying again.
Every time Simon heard that sound, it pulled at his heart. It was so like the cry of his firstborn son, little Peterkin.
The baby boy had been a delight to Simon and his wife when he was born. Small but sturdy, he had been utterly different from their daughter Edith. She was tall, slim and fair, whereas both Simon and his wife Margaret felt sure that Peterkin would be short and dark.
Their dreams ended in disaster when Peterkin was struck down with a fever, and gradually over three days his crying became weaker and weaker as he succumbed. The little fellow’s death had profoundly affected Simon and Margaret, but it was Simon who felt the guilt, because by the end of the third day, he was desperate for the sound to end. It tore at his nerves to hear it, and when the noise ceased he felt a kind of horrible relief.
When their second son was born, it seemed only natural to name him Peter as well. But Simon always quailed at the sound of a child’s crying since it brought Peterkin’s death home to him once again.
This time, though, the crying was the natural demand of a child for his mother and milk. Incredible to think that this was his own grandchild.
Simon passed the little bundle to his daughter, and watched with pride as she untied the laces at the front of her chemise, releasing a breast for the baby.
‘He’s a good pair of lungs,’ Simon observed.
‘Henry is a strong little boy, aren’t you?’ Edith cooed. ‘Father! Get that look off your face.’
‘What look?’ he protested.
‘The one that makes you look like a lapdog staring at his mistress.’
‘Well, I’m happy,’ he objected. ‘How do you expect me to look?’
‘Are you going to stay at home now? Mother was very distressed about your absences last year.’
‘I know, but there was nothing I could do.’ Simon sighed. ‘Now that the kingdom is calm again, there is no more need for me to worry. I am just a farmer, whatever the great lords may think.’
‘You’re more than that, Father,’ Edith protested. ‘You were the Abbot of Tavistock’s man for years.’
‘But the good Abbot has been taken from us.’ Simon shrugged. ‘I know little about what happens at Tavistock now, and care less. I will not risk my family again by thrusting myself into politics. Not that I meant to before,’ he added.
There was a loud knock at the door, and Edith called to her maid, Jane, to go and answer it. Before long the maid was back, but before she could open her mouth, Simon grinned. ‘Bring him in.’
‘How did. .?’
The bellow of greeting as Sir Richard de Welles entered was enough to make the child stop suckling and start to cry. Edith looked up in consternation. Her mother walked in shortly afterwards and said, ‘Sir Richard, it is good to see you, but surely you wouldn’t mean to distress my daughter as she feeds her child?’
‘Hah! Madame Puttock, as God is my witness, I wouldn’t wish to upset her or you!’ the coroner said in a loud whisper. ‘My apologies, ladies both, but I was too overjoyed to see Master Puttock once more. And Madame, you look extraordinarily well just now.’
‘It is kind of you to say so, Sir Knight,’ replied Margaret Puttock.
Simon was about to speak, when he saw the shuffling figure in the doorway. ‘Hugh? What are you doing here? You should be at home.’
‘ I brought him,’ Sir Richard beamed. ‘Master Puttock, I have to ask for your help.’
‘Help? How can a farmer help a knight, sir?’
‘I need a posse. Men have tried to release the last King from the castle where he’s held. Damn their souls, the fools would threaten the realm’s stability if they let him go.’
‘No,’ Simon said immediately.
‘Simon, this is not a request from an elderly knight. It is a demand from the King. King Edward wishes to ensure that his father is safe.’
‘He is held in a castle, in Christ’s name. How might I help protect him? There are many others who would do a better job.’
‘As I said, men have tried to break into Kenilworth Castle to free the King’s father.’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Simon murmured as the knight’s words sank in. ‘Who could want to do that?’
Sir Richard grunted and sat on a stool. ‘I don’t know — someone out to earn themselves a good purse of gold and a future secure from debt? Whatever the reason, I have been told to get up there with help. You and I, Simon, are to assist in transporting the old King to a new home.’
Willersey
It was early in the morning that Agatha saw the sudden burst of activity over near the church.
She had been out seeing to the chickens, throwing a little corn to the stupid creatures as they pecked at the grit and rubbish about the yard. They were the most foolish animals. Even more dim than sheep, Agatha reckoned, and she had little enough respect for their intellect. Throw corn down, and they would likely peck at the stone next to the food, rather than the grains themselves.
Jen tried to help her, but Agatha could see that her heart wasn’t in it. The poor chit was anxious about her father. It made Agatha look more kindly upon the girl. But then she saw her making a pile of their precious grain and asked. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I was only thinking they could come and gather all they want,’ Jen said. Her eyes were huge in her thin little face. ‘I thought it would be easier.’
‘I am spreading their food here already,’ Agatha spat. ‘And you go wasting good grain like that? Well, if you want to take over, do so, maid. You obviously know better.’
‘No, Mother, wait! I’m sorry, I was only trying to help.’
‘Well, you didn’t,’ her mother snapped. She walked to the precious corn sack and carefully let her apron down to release the golden grains back inside it. ‘If you can’t think, you’re no help at all.’
Jen was silent, and Agatha saw the glistening trickles at either cheek. There was no satisfaction at seeing the hurt she had caused, but neither was there any guilt. You couldn’t go wasting grain.
It was then, as she strode back towards the house, that she became aware of some drama going on, up at the church. Jen heard it too, and Agatha saw her staring at the great building. Together they watched the short, stocky man talking to the priest. The man, who wore a leather jerkin over a faded green tunic, was pointing back up the road. The priest put his hands to his face as though in horror, and then there was a general movement by a small crowd in that direction, following the ashen-faced priest and the fellow who had fetched him.
‘Where are they going?’ Jen asked, and instinctively reached for her mother’s hand. Surprisingly, this once Agatha did not give her a stern reprimand, but squeezed her hand gently. Then, the two slowly trailed after the others.
Jen knew that this was evil tidings. It was there in the way that the priest walked, as though bludgeoned with bad news. She felt sorry for him.
They were at the woods now, and Jen recognised this as a place where her father used to bring her to collect wood in the autumn. They would coppice the trees, taking the spare twigs as bundled faggots for the fire, while the long boughs would be used for renewing buildings, for tool handles, or for carving into bowls or spoons. This was one of her father’s favourite places, she knew. Here, he could find some peace from her mother’s endless nagging.
There were three men standing at the edge of a little clearing. Jen knew them from the vill. They, and the other men and women, were looking at her with sorrowful eyes. Jen could scarcely breathe. She was paralysed with dread.
. . And then time moved on and she saw the blood, the axe — still embedded — and then she was on her knees and there was a roaring sound in her ears as she reached out to her father to try to console him. . and then the noise reached a peak and was stilled, as the girl toppled forwards and knew no more.