That was when the injured man had reached up and grabbed his robe with a fist that shook as though the fellow had the ague. ‘No one! They’ll kill me too!’
‘Who will? Who did this?’
But the man had used his grip on John’s robe to pull himself up, and he had no energy, seemingly, to speak further. Instead all his will and energy was devoted to hobbling along on John’s arm towards the lane, where he stooped and picked up a billhook and an axe. He thrust both into his broad leather belt, then stumbled and all but collapsed. John helped him up.
There had been few times in his life when he had seen a man so badly in need of aid. From his crabbed gait it was clear that he was in pain from a number of wounds, although mercifully there appeared to be little blood. What there was seemed to be on his back, but the man wouldn’t allow John to look at it. ‘Later. Got to get away from here.’
His right leg was giving him trouble, but he still half hopped, half staggered along, clinging on to John with the desperation of a man, so John thought at the time, who was petrified with fear for his life. That was the only reason why John had helped him, really, and why he’d agreed not to call for the hue and cry or the local bailiff. He reasoned that if the man was so shocked and scared, it would be cruel to force him to go to speak to the law officers. Better, perhaps, to take him somewhere where he might recover himself. John himself could speak to the officers later, when this man was settled.
‘Can’t stay Iddesleigh.’
It wasn’t a statement that invited debate. John could understand why, of course. If the man thought that his attackers were from that vill, he’d be unlikely to trust to folks there to look after him. ‘What of Monkleigh?’
‘No! Can’t … can’t stay near here. I’ve got to get away.’
‘Man, you are not going to travel far with that leg,’ John said reasonably.
‘Hugh.’
‘What?’
‘My name: it’s Hugh.’ The man turned and looked at him, and although it wasn’t quite madness, there was a terrible purpose in his eyes now which shone through them even here in the darkness. ‘I’ll travel as far as I need, Friar.’
‘I don’t blame you. I’d want to run away too, but …’
Hugh turned and gave him a stare from feverish, maddened eyes. ‘I’m not running away. I need to get better so I can find them.’
Chapter Thirteen
Pagan walked into the chapel and knelt at the altar. It was chill in there, and the tiled floor was uncomfortable, but he was used to it. He’d been coming here to pray all his life, and he tried to do so every day, although he treated the Sunday Mass with a special reverence.
He had never understood the way of so many people today. They all hurried from one place to another and paid little attention to their souls. Even Sundays, which should have been days of rest, were treated with … flexibility. The priest himself, old Isaac, had often told them that God wouldn’t mind them hurrying to fetch in the harvest before church, provided they all listened to the service and didn’t doze.
So many of them seemed to think that the chapel was a quiet refuge from nagging wives or the troubles of the manor, where they could forget all their worries for a little while. It shouldn’t be like that. God expected more from his people, surely.
Pagan himself liked to pray for the men he had known. There were so many who had died in the famine eight years ago, and then there were the masters he had loved. He liked to pray for them all.
It was while his rosary was slipping through his fingers and he was saying some words for poor Ailward that he heard the door rattling. He finished his prayers and made the sign of the cross. As soon as he stood, the old priest chuckled drily.
‘So, you young reprobate. You’ve been misbehaving again, have you?’
‘No, Father. But I like to come and pray. You know that.’
‘Pagan, you pray more than most others in here. It is good to see you. When I think of the godless, murderous sons of whores at Monkleigh, I could burst with anger. Your penitence is an example.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘I will be dead soon. You know that?’
‘You have many years …’
‘No, I’ll soon be dead. And when I am, the lad will be in charge.’
‘Your coadjutor?’
‘Humphrey.’ The rheumy old eyes took in Pagan for a moment. ‘The lad will need help; protection. You help him. He will think he’s not good enough. God knows, he might even try to run away. Stop him. Keep him here. He has a good heart, I am sure of it. He may even come to realise it himself, given time.’
Pagan frowned at him with confusion. ‘What do you mean? He’s a priest, isn’t he? Why would he run away from his people?’
‘Because not all men are what they seem, Pagan. Sometimes a man may be in a job which he’s not supposed to have. But he’ll make a good priest. Don’t worry about that. You just look after him. I won’t be able to for much longer.’
On the second day, the Monday, when Hugh was less stiff and more able to make the distance, John woke him at dusk and the pair of them crossed the river to the woods at the other side, and up the lane to a ruined cottage John knew of: a shod friar and the man he’d rescued. Sitting in the ruins of an old house, with a fire that was smoking more than John liked, at least the two of them were warm enough.
Hugh was in a dreadful state. He was pale and in much pain. His face was twisted with it, and with his terrible desire for vengeance on the men who had destroyed his life. He wanted them to die. All the time he slept, his hands gripped his weapons, and his features moved alarmingly as he ground his teeth, whispered sweet words as though to his wife, and then shrieked with horror and rage … Still, the wound in his back appeared not to be serious, which was a relief. It was only shallow, a blow struck by a man standing above him, thrusting down. His blade had caught a rib and glanced off it, saving Hugh’s life. It took away a flap of skin, but that was all. There was some weeping now, but no pus.
John wiped his face with his eyes closed. It was impossible to rest just now with Hugh requiring all his attention during the day, and then crying out and weeping at night. John could not take his ease, and it was impossible to ask anyone else to come to help him. Hugh had begged him to send a messenger to his master’s friend at some place called Furnshill, and it was sheer good fortune that he had found a stableboy from Exbourne who was leading a horse back to his inn after a guest had borrowed it. John had promised him a reward once he had delivered the message. The fact that he was not from Iddesleigh or Monkleigh was a reassurance. Someone from the locality might have gone straight to the men who had tried to kill Hugh.
It was hard to concentrate now, though. So much despair, so much fear. And John knew the same terrors. He could understand how desolate Hugh must feel, having lost his family. After all, a friar gave up his own relatives when he joined the convent. John himself only had the one member of his family left now, and it was years since he’d seen her. In fact he was quite scared at the thought of ever meeting her again. She’d probably give him hell for his behaviour in the past. Always convinced of being right, she was a hard woman to argue with. Still, her husband was a good man, and perhaps he would have worn off some of the rougher parts of her nature. Who could tell? She might even be a mother.
He shook his head and smiled. It would be good to see her again.
Then he opened his tired eyes again as Hugh burst into sobs of grief. No, he must stay here a little longer, to make sure that this poor injured man was safe. This was no time to go gallivanting across the country to find a sister he hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years.
Nicholas le Poter felt as though his back was on fire. The slightest movement made each scab pull at his flesh; it was like having burning pitch tipped over him.
It could have been worse. In his anger, Sir Geoffrey could have done more if he’d wanted: had his nose clipped, or his ears cut off for offering insult to a man there to parlay. Not that it
was much comfort knowing that. The son of a whore had done enough damage as it was. It would soon come to the younger Despenser’s ears that Sir Geoffrey had been meting out unjust punishments to those whom he trusted.
Not that Sir Geoffrey knew that Lord Despenser had put Nick here to watch the steward’s behaviour. Lord Despenser was no fool, and he wasn’t going to trust even an old man who’d spent years in his father’s service like Sir Geoffrey without having someone else there who could keep an eye on things.
At first it’d seemed the place was well run and effective enough. The peasants certainly seemed to have their lands well in hand, and it was easy enough to see that they were completely docile under Sir Geoffrey’s control, but there was a weakness to his authority, so Nick thought. He’d wanted to laugh when he saw how Sir Geoffrey tried to negotiate boundaries with Sir Odo. That was ridiculous! The men who ran the estates for the Despenser need not ask for favours or make offers. They could demand what they wanted.
It was sensible to take the land east of the river from Sir Odo. Odo couldn’t keep it if they demanded it, and scaring the fool of a bailiff from the place was the first stage in grabbing it. Next would be to get the lands farther up, all the way to Iddesleigh and beyond, if possible, so the Despenser territory would be more or less self-supporting in manpower. If they had the Meeth lands as well as Iddesleigh and Monkleigh, they would be able to begin to threaten Lord Hugh de Courtenay.
Of course, if the lands expanded, clearly Lord Despenser would need a man with more brains than this burned-out old fool in charge. Lord Despenser would want someone younger, more ambitious – and ruthless. Someone like Nick.
Nick grimaced and shifted himself uncomfortably. His back felt dreadful. Still, he hoped that he would soon be in a position to offer Lord Despenser additional territory and influence, and when he did, Sir Geoffrey would be out of his post, and Nick would have it. He’d make certain of that.
But there was something strange about all this. Nick had heard something about the old lands when he was last talking to Ailward, on the day Ailward died. It was something he’d been trying to find out about, because it could explain the negotiations which Sir Geoffrey kept holding with Sir Odo – and why Sir Odo still held lands east of the river.
The two of them had stolen the Despensers’ lands.
Simon reached Iddesleigh a few minutes after leaving Adcock, and as soon as he arrived at the inn he flung himself from his horse, shouting for an ostler, and marched up the steps to the great oaken door.
‘Where’s the master here?’ he bellowed as he walked in.
‘He is here, Simon,’ Baldwin said mildly, standing and crossing the floor. ‘And I have to tell you how sorry I was to hear about Hugh.’
Simon could say nothing for a few moments. He took Baldwin’s hand and held his gaze for a moment, and then cleared his throat gruffly, turning away, ‘So was I. It came as a great shock. Why should he expect danger here? In a quiet rural vill like Iddesleigh?’
He had wandered to the table where Jankin still sat. Jankin looked up at him and half shrugged his shoulders. He had seen plenty of distraught men: men who had lost their wives, men who had lost their sons or their daughters. It was one of his jobs as the innkeeper to try to offer some solace where he could, and he did so now.
‘Master, you’ve travelled far. Sit, let me fetch you some ale, and then some food to break your fast. I will tell you all I know about your servant.’
Baldwin briefly told Simon all that he had heard already, and when Jankin had bellowed through the door at the back to his wife for some food, and had returned with an immense jug of ale and another cup for Simon to sit with the travellers, both Simon and Baldwin looked at him.
‘Master Jankin, you have been very frank and helpful. Now I would ask for any more information you can give us. You said that the Despensers’ man had taken the Lady Lucy. What did you mean? Why should he?’
‘The Despensers have a manor just south of us here, Monkleigh,’ Jankin said. He sipped thoughtfully at his ale. ‘Good brew, this one … Wish I could get it right more often … Well, their man is called Sir Geoffrey Servington. He’s a large bully of a man with the manners of an ox. Maybe fifty years old, maybe a little fewer. Strong, harsh, confident.’
‘You describe half the knights in the king’s host,’ Baldwin pointed out.
‘True. Well, he has been here as steward to the Despenser manor for these last seven years, and I dare say he is efficient enough. But he’s like so many men of power, can’t possess it without using it. He bullies where he may, trying to win stores and victuals for free wherever he can.’
‘It is the way of strong men,’ Baldwin agreed. He didn’t approve of such behaviour, but he knew it was hard to stamp out.
‘Except things are getting worse here, since his master has grown so … so …’
Baldwin eyed him cautiously. The innkeeper was uncomfortable. ‘Master keeper, let me put your mind at ease. I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace and my interest is purely to find the murderer of my friend’s servant. I care nothing for the loyalties of individuals, and to be honest, I doubt even Despenser or the king himself cares about the opinions of an innkeeper in the depths of Devon. Anything said here will be kept between us.’
He reached into his tunic’s neck and withdrew his small wooden crucifix. Over the years he had worn it close to his skin every day. It had travelled with him when he first sailed for the Holy Land and the disaster that was Acre; he had borne it in the islands when he had finally made good his pledge and joined the Knights Templar; and he wore it and wept when he saw his friends die in the flames of an intolerable fire, a fire which had been lighted by bigotry and deceit.
‘I, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, swear that I shall not divulge your name to any man in connection with what we discuss and I will not give away any information about powerful men to anyone at all, neither your friend nor your enemy. I swear this on the Gospels and by my faith that I shall die and rise to Heaven.’
Simon took hold of it. ‘I also swear this. I, Simon Puttock, Bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock, will not give away your name or your help to me in finding the murderer of my companion and servant and his family. And I swear also that I shall find his murderer and see him pay for his offences.’
Jankin sat back and eyed them both. ‘I think we ought to have another ale,’ he said, and grinned.
‘Right,’ he continued when they had all emptied their cups. He set the three cups in a triangle. ‘Sir Geoffrey lies here to the east, far down south of us. He is Despenser’s man through and through, but he’s not averse to a little money on the side. Just here, west of him, and reaching northwards up to here, is Sir John Sully’s land. He’s not in the pay of Despenser, he’s a loyal vassal of Lord Hugh de Courtenay. Sir John doesn’t live here, though. He spends most of his time over at his other estates, especially Ash Reigny, where he’s lord of the manor. So all the affairs of his place here are in the hands of Sir Odo de Bordeaux. Sir Odo lives here at the manor house of Fishleigh. His estates are extensive, and cover all this.’ He waved a hand airily.
Simon looked at the cups. ‘And the two of them are at daggers drawn?’
‘Yes. Lord Hugh de Courtenay is not a natural ally of my Lord Despenser, so I think, and that means that Sir Geoffrey has his master’s agreement to harry and upset all the affairs of Lord de Courtenay’s estates.’
‘And Hugh’s lands were on the de Courtenay estates?’ Simon frowned.
Baldwin nodded. ‘The good Prioress of Belstone let Hugh and Constance have use of it, but she had only rented it from Lord de Courtenay, and didn’t own it.’ He turned to Jankin again. ‘So you believe that Sir Geoffrey could have launched an attack on Sir Odo’s lands? Why? Just to irritate?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t be surprised. If he intended to try to force Sir Odo to give up some of the lands nearer the Despenser estates …?’
Baldwin nodded. ‘I have heard o
f such tactics before. Sometimes a man who is enormously powerful can decide to take over his neighbour’s meagre belongings. But one attack on a man doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s intent on invasion and theft.’
‘No, but when there have been other attacks, it starts to look suspicious,’ Jankin said. ‘There was one on Sir Odo’s sergeant the same day as the attack on your man, Bailiff. A force of rough men-at-arms turned up there, so I’ve heard, and threatened him until he left his land. A sergeant, forced off his own land! All his animals were rounded up and killed or driven off, while his garden was flattened. He has nothing now, except what he can claim from his master.’
‘And you mentioned Lady Lucy, too,’ Baldwin reminded him gently.
Jankin shook his head and stared at his cup. ‘She’s from Meeth, over west, north of Odo’s manor. A nice little estate there, she has. It was hers with her husband, but now she’s gone missing, like I said. Everyone here believes it’s Sir Geoffrey again.’
‘Why?’ Simon demanded.
‘Look, sir,’ Jankin said, rearranging the cups once more into a triangular pattern. ‘If Sir Geoffrey take us here, at Iddesleigh, then he has a nice stretch of land all the way up from Exbourne, down this way, up to Dolton. It’s a good spread, and it’d give him a bit of a power base down here in Devon.’
‘Why would he need it?’ Baldwin asked, but then he guessed at the truth before Jankin could speak. ‘To pressurise Lord Hugh!’
‘I think so, yes. If he can take a few parcels of land, make his own controls increase, then he can start to threaten Lord de Courtenay. There are so many murmurings, masters,’ Jankin added, leaning forward, his voice dropping. ‘We may be out of the way here, but we hear mutters and rumours nevertheless. Everyone is talking about the Despensers and how cruel they are.’
‘It is one thing to threaten a sergeant from his land, another to talk of capturing a lady and holding her, surely,’ Simon said.
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