A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20)

by Michael Jecks

  Certainly Malkin was very sad since the death of Ailward. Lady Isabel was different – she mourned her son, but she remembered her husband with more affection. She missed him dreadfully, as a woman should. Losing him had meant losing her companion. Naturally she didn’t feel the same about Ailward. He was not formed from the same mould.

  Not at all the same mould, as Pagan knew only too well. Which was probably why Lady Isabel felt it better that he should not be in the house now that the two men were dead. Having Pagan there once more could prove too much of a temptation to the old strumpet.

  It was all very disorientating to a newcomer, but Adcock had done the best he could. He had ordered that the little bog should be emptied, showing the peasants how they might dig a trench to release the moisture from it. Later, he felt sure, the second bog could be drained too, but better to start with one and see how it went. After that, he went to study the middens, check the fields, see how the animals fared in their winter stables, and begin to take a hold of the place.

  It was not easy, the more so because he was sure that there were a hundred different secrets about the manor.

  For one thing, as he had noticed from the first day, it was a remarkably heavily manned place. Usually a house this size would have one knight, and then would depend on a number of servants and peasants, armed with billhooks and daggers, to protect it. The idea that anyone could need the three and twenty fellows who lived here was laughable.

  Then there was the curious way in which the manor was kept. Visitors were not encouraged, and when strangers appeared all the men in the place kept quiet. Sir Geoffrey would talk, but the rest would stand silent and surly, eyeing the newcomers with grave distrust. Even provisions brought from the vill were left at the door and taken in when the household rose. Late, normally. There was a deal of singing and gambling of an evening, and little by way of religious observance. In fact Adcock had been surprised by the lack of any Christian sentiment among the men in the hall. Oh, he knew that often the priest in a vill would give men leave to go to their fields of a Sunday morning before Mass, provided that they attended church later, because it was often impossible for a peasant to find time to harvest his own crops after he had performed his statutory labour for his master otherwise, but to learn that of all the household only four men would go to church on a Sunday came as a shock.

  And finally there was the attack on his neighbour’s sergeant.

  It was wrong; to set upon a neighbour in his own house on his own land struck at the heart of all Adcock believed. To him it seemed clear that it was a matter of simple blackmail – if you don’t pay me, I’ll come and burn your house again. And it was that which persuaded him of the sort of manor into which he had arrived.

  If he was to be sergeant in a manor that was little better than a den of thieves and rogues, at least he would do his own duty well, though. Which was why he was pleased to see that the bog was draining nicely. Hopefully before long it would be empty and he could show how more land could be cleared for use.

  But now, as he rolled over in his bed, he could hear more muttered orders and a clanking of metal. There was a rattle as steel was dropped, and a hissed curse against the offender, and then he heard clattering hooves and the noise of men mounting and riding off.

  And at that sound, he closed his eyes tight shut and prayed that, whomsoever they were seeking, they might miss him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Baldwin woke to find the morning overcast and grim. He rose quietly, leaving his wife in the small bed, and pulled a linen shirt over his nakedness as protection against the cold.

  The inn was a pleasing house, with one large communal room for travellers, and this smaller chamber up some stairs to keep it farther away from the damp floor. It had the disadvantage that smoke from the fire would rise into it, but there was the huge advantage, so far as Baldwin was concerned, that there was no space for Emma. She had slept downstairs with the others in the communal room.

  Downstairs, Baldwin asked a maid for some fresh water to drink, because when he had lived as a warrior monk he had chosen a frugal life. The expression on her face told him that this was forlorn hope, though, and he sighed and reluctantly asked for a weak ale – and a word with her master.

  The owner was soon with him: a smiling, friendly man with the large build of a Devon farmer and a round, cheerful face. ‘Just back from the pasture,’ he commented, wiping his hands on his towel. ‘It’s thirsty work, too. How can I serve you, master?’

  Baldwin motioned towards his barrel. ‘Would you join me in a drink?’

  ‘I’d be glad to.’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Jankin, sir. From Exbourne. I took over this place when my wife’s father died, and have lived here ever since. It’s a good vill.’

  ‘I am known as Sir Baldwin, I am Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I have been called here because of the murders.’

  Jankin’s face grew blank. ‘It was a terrible thing, sir. All of them dead like that. But what makes you say it was murder?’

  ‘It was what I was told – that the family was murdered.’

  ‘I don’t know where that came from, sir,’ Jankin said. ‘Here everyone said it was an accident.’

  There was a stolid certainty about his tone, but Baldwin saw something else in his eyes: a blankness, as though there was more to the story.

  ‘When did it happen?’ Baldwin asked, toying with a coin.

  ‘There’s no need for that, sir. You’re paying here already. Put your money away. Let’s see. I think it was about five days ago now. He used to live only a short way up from here, just round the corner of the hill, maybe a quarter-mile off. Him and his wife and their boy. Lovely family, they were …’ Jankin’s expression altered subtly. ‘Well, the woman and the little boy were. The man, Hugh, he was a little more – reserved, you might say.’

  Baldwin smiled. ‘You mean he was a taciturn old devil?’

  ‘You could put it like that,’ Jankin agreed happily. ‘God forbid that I should speak ill of a dead man,’ he added, hastily making a rudimentary sign of the cross. ‘Still, he was an old-fashioned moorman as far as I could see. A fair man, good with his hands, and if he gave his word he’d stick to it.’

  ‘Has the coroner been to hold his inquest?’

  Jankin studied his ale. ‘A coroner did come up here.’

  ‘That’s not quite what I asked.’

  ‘He did come and hold an inquest.’

  There was a reservation there as well, Baldwin noticed, but rather than make an enemy of the man he changed the subject. ‘Who found them?’

  Jankin shook his head. ‘That’s the terrible thing, master. They were killed one day, but no one realised until the next morning. A passing labourer came and raised the alarm, but by then it was too late to help any of them. All were dead.’

  ‘So this fire happened in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I suppose so. A dreadful accident.’

  ‘Unless it was an attack from a fighting force. And it must have been quite a force to subdue Hugh,’ Baldwin mused. ‘If I knew him, he wouldn’t succumb to any man easily – most especially if the attacker threatened his woman.’

  ‘I think you’re right there,’ Jankin agreed. ‘You knew him, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said absently. ‘But nobody heard men passing by here? Did they come from the other direction?’

  ‘Master, it was agreed that it was an accident. A tallow taper, perhaps, which fell on their floor rushes. I doubt we’ll ever know precisely,’ Jankin said, and looked down again.

  ‘If there had been an attack, you would have heard men passing by?’ Baldwin pressed.

  Jankin pulled a doubtful grimace. ‘We had a lot of men in here that day, for it was a little celebration. It was the feast of St Matthias the Apostle, and because we have a fellow in the vill who was named for the saint, we always have a party here. The folk here like to celebrate, and it ended late.’

  ‘So if there
had been a party of men …?’

  ‘No one would have heard. Not if it was a squadron of the king’s knights with all their squires and archers.’

  ‘You say it ended late?’

  ‘Well after the sun was down – but at this time of year there’s so little daylight, almost everything is done in darkness, isn’t it?’

  ‘Especially murder,’ Baldwin muttered.

  ‘I am afraid so. There’s nothing a murderer likes so much as darkness to cover his deeds.’

  ‘Why should someone attack and kill Hugh, though? He was scarcely a powerful, dangerous man, was he?’

  ‘No,’ Jankin admitted. ‘Perhaps that was why it was thought to be an accident.’

  ‘Could you imagine men at arms attacking him?’

  Jankin was perplexed, and again Baldwin saw he avoided his eye. ‘I have thought about that myself.’

  ‘Do you think someone could have desired his woman and she rejected his advances?’

  ‘If a man did that, he’d have carried her off like …’

  ‘Yes?’

  Jankin gazed back at him. ‘I do not want trouble, master. You are a rich and strong man, with men to guard you, I dare say. Me? I’m a farmer who scrapes a living, and I have some money come in from running this place. My wife brews a few gallons of ale a week and I sell it for ready cash. We don’t make a huge profit, but we stagger on. I don’t want to be murdered for talking too much.’

  ‘Friend Jankin, you are helping me to understand what has been happening here, and I swear to you now that if any man comes to threaten you, he will have to answer to me directly. I will have men set here to guard you if need be. However, for now, anything you tell me I shall keep entirely to myself until I can assess how you can be protected.’

  ‘Master, that’s no security! How long could you have a force remain here to look after me and my wife? Five days? Six? A fortnight? What of the wealthy men who live here and would like to destroy me as they’d squash a fly that sat on their bread at mealtime? They’ll still be here in a year, in five years, and they can take their time with me.’

  ‘If they are so well known to you, they’ll be known to others too,’ Baldwin said reasonably. ‘Any man could tell me of them. Now you said that they’d have carried Constance off, as they did someone else. Who?’

  ‘There was a young woman at Meeth,’ Jankin said. He began slowly, his reluctance only gradually overcome by his natural hatred of injustice. ‘Lady Lucy, she was. A pretty little thing.’

  ‘You say she “was”. Is she dead, then?’

  ‘She may be. About two weeks ago, just before we had the local ball games, she went missing. She’d been out to Hatherleigh, I believe, to market, but at some point on her return she was taken. Her servant, a man called Peter, was murdered and left by the roadside. The coroner went and saw him ten days ago, but apart from imposing the usual fines on everyone, there was nothing to be done.’

  ‘Was there no sign of the woman at all?’

  ‘Nothing. She simply disappeared.’

  ‘Husband? Father? Who went to seek for her?’

  ‘She’s a widow, and the manor was her husband’s. Her father is dead, I think, but he lived north somewhere, a long ways off. On the marches, I think. There was no one here to protect her. Only her servants, and, as I say, the man with her was killed.’

  ‘And what is the opinion of the people here in the vill?’

  Jankin looked up at him with a set jaw. He paused, looking deep into Baldwin’s eyes as though gauging whether he could trust this tall, dark-haired man. Then his eyes dropped away to his hands, and he toyed with a splinter of wood.

  ‘You really want to know what I think, sir?’ he said in a low voice. ‘I think it was the Despensers’ man. He took her.’

  Adcock had seen this man in the distance, but never from close to before.

  ‘I’m Pagan,’ he said when Adcock asked, and spat into the road.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Is that a joke?’

  Adcock was startled by the man’s ferocious response. ‘Friend, I know very little about this place still. I know few people and …’

  ‘Then you should know that I am the steward to Lady Isabel, who was lady of this manor until your master evicted her, stealing her estates, her home and her life. Now she has nothing.’

  ‘Her husband?’

  ‘Was killed in the last wars, God remember him, and because he was honourable and stayed true to his lord, your lord saw to it that his widow lost all.’

  Adcock looked away. The older man’s eyes were unwavering, and in them there was only bile and hatred. It made Adcock feel worse than insignificant to be treated in this way. ‘Well, I am sorry to hear that. I had no hand in it, though. I’m just the steward here.’

  ‘Aye. And you know who you replace? Her son. It was her son who died, so don’t think that you’ll win her favour if you tell her you’re the man sent to fill his boots!’

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Adcock murmured to himself as he walked away. ‘Save me from old servants like him! I only wanted to be friendly.’

  But wanting to make friends was difficult. The peasants did not trust him. All looked on him as a spy in Sir Geoffrey’s pay, and none would drink with him or talk for long, except about matters that affected the manor. As he continued on his way, when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the man Pagan in the distance, still staring at him with those narrow, malevolent eyes as though accusing him of stealing another man’s position. It was hardly fair to suspect Adcock of plotting to take his predecessor’s place when Ailward had died days before Adcock had been called here, in God’s name!

  He was almost at the bog, swamped with feelings of melancholy, when he saw the rider in the distance.

  Whoever it was, the man was riding fast, and Adcock peered with interest at the approaching figure, forgetting his own woes for a moment.

  The fellow rode hard, like a man with a terrible mission, but when he saw Adcock standing by the roadside he made for him and reined in hard, making his rounsey skip and slither on the icy surface.

  ‘Friend, I am seeking Iddesleigh – can you tell me where I may find it?’

  ‘Of course – keep on this road, and you’ll soon be there. It can only be a mile or two distant. You are looking for a friend?’

  ‘I am looking for my servant’s killer! Someone has murdered him, so I’ve heard!’ Simon spat. ‘You know of the murder?’

  ‘You were the master of Ailward?’ Adcock said. ‘I am here in his place, and …’

  ‘Who? No, I’m here because of Hugh. Hugh Shepherd or Hugh Drewsteignton, he may have been called. Someone has told me that he was killed along with his woman and child.’

  Adcock felt a sharp pain in his breast. ‘When was this?’ he gasped.

  ‘I don’t know! You say the vill is up there?’

  ‘Yes, just stay on the road and you’ll soon be there.’

  ‘My thanks. Godspeed!’

  Adcock stood staring after him as the man shouted at his mount, spurring it to a gallop again, and with sparks flying from the shoes the beast leaped away like a bullet from a sling.

  There was a dreadful sense of conviction in his breast. He remembered the coroner’s visit three days ago, and Sir Geoffrey’s insistence that Adcock should invite the man to lunch at the hall before going on. There had been mention then of deaths at Iddesleigh, but Adcock knew no one up there and had paid little attention as they spoke of a family murdered in the next village. It had meant nothing to him at the time.

  But now he had seen the pain that those deaths had caused. A man, his woman and his child, all dead. And who could have committed such a crime?

  Adcock knew too well which band of men in this area was most likely to carry out an attack of that kind.

  Friar John, too, was fully aware that there were dangerous men in the area.

  He sat and poked at his fire, feeling curiously disconsolate. He had come here hoping to find some sort o
f sanctuary for a little while, and instead here he was, hiding in a rude shelter, a more than half-ruined cottage, with a man who had been near to death for the last few days.

  The fellow lay on a thin blanket, his eyes wide and staring. His face was fixed into a glower of such malevolence that several times when John caught a glimpse of it, he had been tempted to cross himself: the man looked so much like a demon. Even now, as the flickering flames caught his features, John had to shudder. There was something in his eyes that spoke of a mind driven to lunacy, and as the light caught them, the reflection almost looked as though the fire was in his soul. It made John think that the poor fellow was already living in a hell of his own, and the idea was fearfully compelling.

  He knew little enough about him. When he picked him up from the ruins of the house, the man had been unable to speak. He’d merely sat, his head in his hands, rocking slowly back and forth and moaning to himself. John had pulled him away from the wreckage of the building, uttering kind, soft words to calm him, and then settling him on the ground with a few blankets he’d found hanging from a branch. The woman must have washed them and left them hanging to dry. And all the while the flames began to take hold in the house.

  ‘Wait there, I’ll fetch help.’

  ‘No! No! No one else!’

  ‘Man, you need a room to sleep in and some help. I can’t do much for you. I don’t have the knowledge.’

  ‘No one. I must keep away, somewhere safe … can’t go to vill. Must stay away …’ His voice trailed away while he stared about him with wide, anxious eyes. ‘They killed her, my Constance! Raped her and killed her! Where’s my boy? Where’s Hugh …’

  John shook his head. Inside the doorway he had seen the child tossed into a corner. ‘Let me fetch the watch. There must be someone even in …’

  ‘No. No one.’

  ‘Man, that’s foolish. I have to fetch a priest, maybe, or a leech. You aren’t well. I’m sure you need a bleeding.’