Baldwin was aware of feeling cool, and he glanced at the fire, thinking it must have died, but it was burning brightly. He felt a sudden anxiety. If there should be war again, it would be a harsh affair. There were too many bad memories already, and a civil war would mean families split against themselves, brothers fighting each other, perhaps even sons fighting their fathers. If it came to war, it would be the worst he had seen. ‘It has been done, Simon,’ he said heavily.
‘By whom?’
‘The Despenser.’ Baldwin’s head tilted and he toyed with his cup, then refilled it and drank it off in one gulp. The strong ale hit his stomach like burning oil. It only served to increase his discomfort. ‘They took a lady and tortured her only a short while ago. A knight’s widow. Stephen Baret was killed at Boroughbridge, I have heard, while fighting against the Despensers’ men. A little later his wife, Madam Baret, was taken by Despenser and tortured to make her sign away her lands to him. I have heard this, and that the young woman was so badly maltreated that she lost her mind completely. She is a lunatic now.’
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Simon breathed.
Jankin nodded. ‘That’s what I’d heard too. When I heard that Lady Lucy was gone, I wondered whether it could be the same. And then I thought about her lands,’ he added, and moved the great earthenware jug until it formed a square, resting above the Sir Odo cup and left of the Iddesleigh one. ‘Because she has more than these other three estates all put together, you see. If a man wanted to carve out a nice part of Devon for himself, he could do worse than take over her land with the others. Especially if he owned Iddesleigh too, because then he could just swallow up the whole of the Fishleigh manor entire. And he’d have a goodly portion of land to set against even a man like Lord Hugh de Courtenay.’
Chapter Fourteen
When John rose and left the room to fetch some water, Hugh was glad to see him go.
Shepherd, farmer, moorman and more recently servant, Hugh had lived with the companionship of others, but he was essentially self-reliant. He had friends, and he valued them, but right now he knew that they were all far away. His master was many miles to the south; his friend Edgar, the servant of Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, was miles east at the manor near Cadbury. He might be on his way, but he had responsibilities; Hugh was alone here.
Men had taken it into their heads to attack him, and had killed the only woman who had ever looked at him. He wouldn’t weep. He couldn’t. But the sight of her was in his mind, her smell seemed to be in his nose, and if he closed his eyes he could almost feel her body. Everything that he was, everything that he loved and wanted, had been taken from him. Perhaps by rogue felons, just a wandering gang of outlaws who had spotted his house and seen an easy target for their malice. They approached it, raped his woman, killed her, and thought that they’d killed him too.
Except he knew that was ballocks. It made no sense. If there was a gang of outlaws in the area, he’d have heard. You couldn’t hide a murderous group of men so easily, not in a place like this. And Hugh knew that the men of Monkleigh were keen on taking hold of Iddesleigh. It had been a subject of conversation for a long while. Everybody in Iddesleigh knew it.
And Hugh was an outsider, as Constance was too. He could be attacked without upsetting the lord of the manor of Iddesleigh. He was a safe target.
It was easy to kill Constance and force Hugh from their land. Very easy, he thought, and hurled his axe at a log. It struck and rolled over and over, the blade embedded in the wood.
Perkin was out at the bog and digging when Adcock arrived, and he groaned inwardly to see the new sergeant. He looked over at the other men working with him. Beorn was quick to see the point of his gaze, shot a glance over his shoulder, and set to with more enthusiasm than before, although one lad seemed only to find amusement in Adcock’s appearance. He stood and peered at him. ‘That the new sergeant, Perkin? Dun’t look much.’
‘Just dig, ’Tin.. He’s here to see whether we’re working, and you setting your arm on your shovel and looking at the view ain’t likely to impress him much, is it?’
‘I just wondered what he was like.’
Perkin grunted. If Martin wanted to get into trouble, that was his lookout, not Perkin’s. Perkin had no authority to order him about.
He didn’t want to be here at the bog, and he wasn’t happy about his position in the manor. Ever since finding Ailward’s body, he had been more and more unsettled. Men had disputes, yes, and once in a while someone might be struck down, but it was rarely anything so disgraceful as a murderous attack. Far more common that a man would get roaring drunk and try to swing a fist, only to have his head clubbed by a comrade who was keen to keep the peace.
Ailward had been murdered, though. There was blood all over him from the smashed skull, and Perkin reckoned that although the coroner had registered the stab wound on the naked body as they rolled it about in front of him, so that the jury could see it and agree with his findings, it was the ruin of his head that killed him. The stab came later, to make sure of him. Perkin had an idea that a man like that suspicious son of a Barnstaple whore wouldn’t have let anyone attack him from in front. Only someone behind him could kill him, so his attacker had perhaps beaten him with a club, or perhaps a rock?
Perkin stood up suddenly, scowling ferociously as he considered this new possibility.
‘You are doing well,’ Adcock commented. He had drawn level with Perkin as the peasant had mused on the murder, and now he stood at his side and peered down into the channel cut from the stream towards the roadway and the bog beyond. ‘With luck it will not take long now.’
‘No, master,’ Perkin muttered.
Adcock glanced at him. ‘Perkin, I don’t … I am not here as a lord or something, to make your life harsh. All I want is to make this estate work well for all of us. And then we’ll have a good surplus, I hope, and no one will go hungry.’
‘Good.’
‘But you don’t trust me?’
‘It’s not that. I’m just thinking of that inquest. It seemed odd that the coroner should be asked to come back here.’
Adcock reddened. ‘I think it was just coincidence.’
‘What was?’
‘That the coroner was another knight of our master, Lord Despenser.’
Perkin was watching his face, and as Adcock spoke he realised what the man was implying. The Despensers were taking an interest in the murder of their sergeant, which was natural, but perhaps it meant the findings weren’t entirely unbiased. And then there was the other matter …
‘Did the coroner go to the other murders?’ he asked casually.
‘I believe he did,’ Adcock said, as calmly. ‘But I do not think he had much time to spend there.’
‘That would be no surprise – he was here for an age, eating and drinking with Sir Geoffrey,’ Perkin guessed.
Adcock was suddenly nervous. This peasant was too knowing for his comfort. He hated his own suspicions: that the coroner had been called here to leave Ailward’s death open, that he’d been bribed not to rock Sir Geoffrey’s boat. Adcock had heard Sir Geoffrey and the coroner talk quietly about Iddesleigh and the murdered family up there, and later, as the coroner was leaving, Adcock saw a little purse pass between them. It could only mean that Sir Geoffrey wanted the murders covered up, and that he was paying to protect his own men – or himself.
It was a foul reflection. To live in a manor where he suspected his own master of murders was appalling. As it was, he daren’t even think of bringing his woman within miles of the place in case she was raped.
He nodded harshly, staring back at the bog. It would not be long before the workers had cut the channel far enough. And then they would see the water gushing from the mire to the stream and away. Better to concentrate on that, on his work, than on his new position and the fears that were drowning his senses.
There were other tasks for him, though. He had seen that a pasture farther up the hill needed to have its hedge renewed. Perhaps he should attend to that. He’d l
eave this unsettling churl, and get on with his other duties.
Perkin watched him go, and then turned back to his work. ‘Come on, you lazy sodomites! What, looking for a sheep to shag, ’Tin? No? Then dig, boy, dig!’
Jeanne could feel Simon’s pain as soon as she saw him. ‘Oh, Simon, I am so sorry!’
Baldwin had insisted on fetching his wife as soon as Jankin’s wife brought out their food, and now Jeanne and the two men sat at the table with a platter filled with pig’s liver, bacon, kidneys, and a loaf. Jankin did not believe in guests going hungry when they could leave his inn replete.
For Jeanne the table would have appeared daunting at the best of times, but today, seeing Simon so distraught, she found it was impossible to do justice to such a spread. She put her hand on his with sympathy.
It was plain that Simon was feeling his loss. His eyes were sunken and red-rimmed; his usually hale features were pale and he had acquired a curious habit of rubbing his thumbs against his fingers, as though both hands were raw from handling his reins. He’d bitten his nails to the quick, too, and she saw that two fingers were bleeding from over-enthusiastic nibbling.
‘Yes, well. He was a good friend as well as a loyal servant,’ Simon said after a moment. He half-heartedly speared a kidney and some liver.
Jeanne tried to keep him company with two thick rashers of bacon, and watched with horror mingled with respect as her husband filled his own trencher. It was a strange sight, to see Simon eating little, while her husband heaped his plate. Jeanne excused herself from eating too much by trying to feed the little girl in her lap.
‘Did he mention that he’d made any enemies here?’ Baldwin asked after some moments of chewing.
‘He didn’t say so. If he’d given such offence that a man decided to kill him and slaughter his wife and child too, I’m sure he would have told me. It’s not the sort of thing I’d expect, though. And if he had offended someone so deeply, I’m sure he would have realised the danger. He would have made sure he was safe, or at least he’d have made sure that his wife was. Hugh was no fool when it came to fighting.’
‘I remember,’ Jeanne said. She had seen him in fights. In Tavistock he’d knocked a man down before she had even realised the fellow was a threat.
‘He was astute enough,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But the cleverest man can fail to see into another man’s heart, can’t he?’
‘If that’s the case, we’ll likely never know what happened, then,’ Simon snapped. ‘I can only tell you what he said to me, and that was that this was a pleasant, unspoiled place with no fighting. He didn’t look as though he thought he was in any danger at all, any of the times I’ve seen him. And now he’s dead.’
‘The innkeeper doesn’t seem to think he was disliked at all. He behaved like an old moorman, and kept himself to himself,’ Baldwin mused, unaffected by his friend’s temper. ‘Perhaps someone else could tell us more? The local priest should be a good man to ask.’
‘Yes, let’s go there. Are you ready?’ Simon asked. His own plate was all but untouched as he pushed the stool from the table.
‘No, Simon. And I would like to see you eat that before we go anywhere,’ Baldwin said mildly, and when he saw the expression on his friend’s face he continued, ‘if we find Hugh’s killer, Simon, I want you fit and ready to help catch him, or kill him. Hugh wouldn’t be glad to know he’d been the cause of Meg’s being widowed just because you came here to avenge him and weren’t prepared.’
Simon looked furious and leaned forward a moment as though to utter a fierce denial, but then he looked down at his hands and shook his head slightly. ‘Hugh was a friend for many years. I will find the man who killed him, and I will see him hang, but you’re right. I won’t kill myself.’ He poured another cup of ale and sipped, then upended it. ‘To Hugh!’ he declared.
Baldwin and Jeanne both drank to Hugh as well, and as they held their cups aloft Baldwin met Simon’s gaze and gave a sympathetic grin. And as they stared at each other over the table top, there came a grumbling roar from behind Baldwin, and he felt the flesh on his back creep as the hated voice rasped out: ‘Ah, good. Food! Thought it must be time by now. Mind you eat up, lady, we don’t want you starving now you’re eating for two, eh? Give me that platter. Ah, the kidneys are rare. That’s how I like them, so they still taste strong. What? What? What are you staring at? Give me a cup of that ale. It’s not as good as our manor’s, I expect, but I am a bit thirsty.’
And Emma sat on the bench beside Baldwin, who watched in horror as the juices dribbled down her chin from her open mouth.
Father Matthew grunted to himself as he lifted himself from squatting before the altar, and turned to leave the church just as he heard the footsteps outside.
Two men and a woman walked in, all taking water and crossing themselves. Matthew didn’t recognise any of them, but it was clear enough from their clothing and behaviour that they were not peasants. He immediately ranked them as merchants or traders on their way through the vill, before he saw the marks of chivalry on the older of the two men. This fellow with the trim beard that followed the line of his jaw was obviously a knight. His thick neck spoke of the years of training with a steel helmet on his head; the right shoulder was clearly more powerful than the left, as you’d expect in a swordsman. Not only that, either. It was also there in his eyes, which were stern and authoritative. He was not a man who would be easy to lie to: those eyes looked very intelligent.
‘Father?’
‘Yes?’
It was the second man who spoke, the one with the red, sad eyes, who looked as though he had recently been bereaved.
‘We are here because of the murder of the man Hugh with his wife and child. He was my servant. I want to learn what I may of this affair.’
‘My son,’ Matthew sighed. He looked over his shoulder at the altar and closed his eyes. ‘Come, sit yourselves here. Be at ease.’
There were no seats in the nave, but he led them to a low projection in the inner wall at the rear of the church, where they could perch a little more comfortably. Matthew himself waved away the knight’s offer of a space. ‘No, good knight, I’ve been kneeling for some while in prayer. It may be good for a young man to pray for many hours, but I have calluses on calluses at knee and ankle now. I think I would do myself more good by standing for a little while.’
They introduced themselves, and Matthew looked from one to another, his gaze resting shrewdly on Baldwin after a few moments. ‘So, a bailiff who has lost his servant, and a keeper who wishes to help his friend? You must have valued this servant very highly, Bailiff.’
‘I did. Can you tell us anything about his death? Did he have any enemies?’
‘I have to confess, I do not know of any,’ Matthew said. ‘There are some petty disputes in the vill, but nothing that would bear upon your man. No, if he died as a result of a dispute, I should think that it was by accident. Two men fought, and he stood in their path.’
‘Perhaps Fishleigh and Monkleigh?’ Baldwin interjected.
‘You have heard much,’ Matthew said more flatly. He did not wish to discuss the politics between those two manors with strangers.
‘We have heard a little. We have much more to learn,’ Baldwin said. ‘And you haven’t answered.’
‘It is possible, but I know nothing about such matters. They are the realm of powerful people, not me.’
‘Who owns the living here?’ Simon asked. ‘Is this the advowson of one or other manor?’
Matthew bridled. ‘You mean to suggest that I would conceal a murder just to keep my seat here? Sir, you malign me!’
‘He did not mean to, Father,’ Jeanne said. ‘However, you can see how distraught we are. Is there no help you can give us?’
‘If you wish to learn more about the two manors, perhaps you should ask old Isaac down at Monkleigh chapel. He knows much more about the history than I do. I’ve not been here all that long, in truth.’
‘What of his body? Is he buried?’ Simon as
ked.
‘I am sorry … no. We found the remains of his wife and the little boy, too. He was lying in the corner of the room, so wasn’t quite so badly burned, but the man … his body must have been entirely consumed by the fire.’
Baldwin cocked his head. ‘Entirely? In a small house fire?’
‘It was hardly a “small” fire, Sir Knight. It destroyed the place. It’s possible that there are more bones inside, but I think it unlikely that they’ll be found.’
‘What of the others?’ Simon asked.
‘As soon as the coroner had completed his inquest, they were buried in my cemetery. Would you like me to show them to you?’
Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance. Simon said, ‘Yes, please, Father. I would like to say goodbye to them. They came here seeking peace, and they deserve a kindly word if nothing else.’
Chapter Fifteen
Emma sat back and eyed the wooden trenchers as the others walked out, then hurriedly took the choicest leftover scraps and set them on her own, soaking up the juices with a hunk of bread.
This was a foul little place. There was really nowhere as attractive as Bordeaux, where she and Jeanne had spent so many happy years when they were young. The climate, the wines, the markets … and here all there was was mud, dirt, smelly and uncouth peasants who hardly knew how to address a lady, and rain. Always rain. It was a revolting place to live.
Of course she had agreed to come here as soon as her charge was chosen by Sir Ralph. He was a good man. Always respectful, polite, sensible. Well, until he began to blame Lady Jeanne for their lack of children. Then he changed a lot. But that was only to be expected. He was a knight, and he wanted an heir. What was a marriage if God didn’t bless the union? The whole point of marriage was children.
On hearing a little sniff, she looked down at the bundle of clothing beside her. Richalda was asleep, but she kicked even when dead to the world, and now her little feet began pounding at Emma’s thigh. The woman glanced about her narrowly, and then put a hand down and started to stroke the mite’s head.
A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) Page 15