A man walked past the door and peered inside. Seeing Sir Geoffrey seated there, he hurriedly removed himself, and the knight felt a slight grim satisfaction that at least his reputation was intact. None of the men would dare to infringe his privacy.
Not yet.
But there were signs that his grip on the place was starting to dissolve.
Whenever a man grew to power, there were always others who desired his position. Here Sir Geoffrey had a number of men who were vying for his post. Some, like Edmund Topcliff, were content to wait until Sir Geoffrey was already gone before trying to grab the stewardship; Nick le Poter was less patient. If he had an opportunity, he would pull a dagger at Sir Geoffrey’s back some day, and try to take the place by force. That was the true reason why Sir Geoffrey had punished him the other day. The damned eunuch was as much use as ale without malt – he wanted power here, and would do anything to undermine Sir Geoffrey to win it. Well, Sir Geoffrey wasn’t going to let him take his seat.
They were such cretins! Idiots the lot of them. It never seemed to occur to them that a man like Sir Geoffrey, who had fought in a hundred battles and skirmishes, who had controlled men all his adult life, would understand their plans. He had seen through Nick’s little attempt to remove Sir Geoffrey’s closest sergeants almost before the fool had cooked up the scheme. And what was the point? Maybe he’d succeeded in killing Ailward, but Sir Geoffrey had simply replaced him with someone who was nothing to do with Nick’s camp.
And Nick was certainly a snide little man. Clearly determined to advance himself, Sir Geoffrey thought. He’d happily see the estate ruined for his own profit. If it was down to him, he’d have captured Lady Lucy and tortured her an age ago, determined to rob her of all her property and inheritance. All the men knew how the Despensers had treated Madam Baret. Sir Geoffrey had been forced to explain to them all that Lady Lucy was a useful buffer for now, and if they were to attack her it would provoke Sir Odo. He would have the approval of all, including Sir John Sully and Lord de Courtenay, if he was to espouse the chivalric excuse of protecting a defenceless widow who’d been attacked by an unscrupulous man in the pay of Despenser.
No, Sir Geoffrey believed that to harm her could only serve the interests of his master’s enemies, and sought to persuade his men that they should leave her alone.
Nick wouldn’t have had the gumption to do that. Just as he hadn’t the intellect to see how necessary it was that they should maintain the attacks on the de Courtenay estates, but meanwhile continue holding discussions with Sir Odo. Odo was no fool, and he’d know that it was a means of holding him at bay, but while they kept up the pretence of discussions, neither side could entirely satisfactorily claim to having a reason for a fight. And Sir Geoffrey could bide his time until he was ready to launch an attack on Sir Odo. Meanwhile, Odo’s men were demoralised and irritated, seeing the regular attacks by Geoffrey’s men going unpunished. Sir Geoffrey had heard that three or four of Odo’s men had left the hall recently, disgusted by what they saw as the pusillanimity of their master.
Poor Odo. Sir Geoffrey knew too many men just like him. He imagined he was still living in the times when a man could get by through life knowing who was a master by birth. He was older, too old perhaps for this modern age. Today the men who were reaching the heights of the government were the men who were younger, thrusting, more energetic, more determined. You didn’t get to a position of power and stay there just because you were the king’s cousin or even because you were noble by birth; now you had to work to show the king that you’d pursue his interests, no matter what. Piers Gaveston had been an unknown when the king elevated him to control of Cornwall and Ireland; Hugh Despenser was an impoverished knight when he took the king’s fancy and now he ruled the realm with little if any interference from the king himself. And so it was all down the line. Those who wanted power and were astute and ruthless enough to try to seize it were the ones in authority now.
Those were the watchwords of the day: ruthless and astute. Sir Odo was neither. He’d been here too long, growing old among these peasants. He’d lost his edge.
Hearing the door open, a shout and a scuffle of feet from the yard behind the hall, Sir Geoffrey turned his head to listen, and soon heard the regular thrumming of cantering horses: several of them. It didn’t sound like a massive force; not like Sir Odo coming with a host to repay the manor for the damage done to that bailiff ’s hovel, and he relaxed. If there were so few horses, his men could defend the place without difficulty.
He had to protect his manor, because that was the only way to defend his own position. And he must expand the territory, so that his master could be sure that his own authority was growing to match his importance in the country.
‘Sir Geoffrey?’
‘What is it?’
‘Some men … one says he’s Keeper of the King’s Peace. He wants to look at the woman found up there.’
‘Tell him to …’ Sir Geoffrey bit back the rest of his words when he saw three men in the doorway.
They were not an immense force, but something in the way that one stood by the door on the balls of his feet, smiling coldly, while the other two approached him at a distance from each other, like men who were prepared for a fight, made him reassess their threat. These were men who could use their weapons.
‘Who are you?’ he asked coldly. ‘Why do you threaten me in my own hall?’
‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. You may have heard of me. I am Keeper of the King’s Peace. This is my companion and friend, Simon Puttock.’
‘In that case you are welcome,’ Sir Geoffrey said. It was always best to show courtesy to a king’s officer. ‘Do you want some wine? I have some here.’
‘We want to view the dead body before the coroner arrives. The coroner has been called?’
‘Yes. I have asked him to visit us.’
‘He seems to have been here a lot just recently.’
‘We have been unfortunate.’
‘Yes. A murder and a fire before this present murder. It is most unfortunate, as you say,’ Baldwin said. ‘It was lucky that the coroner was on hand to investigate both.’
Sir Geoffrey frowned. ‘Ailward, my man, was murdered; but the other, that was a mere accident. The coroner told me so.’
‘This coroner, his name was?’ Baldwin enquired.
‘Sir Edward de Launcelles. Do you know him?’
‘There are not so many coroners in Devon and Cornwall that one could remain unknown to me. Yes, I know him. He is a vassal of Hugh Despenser, isn’t he?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘As are you, of course,’ Baldwin said. He remained standing very still for a moment. ‘Now, where is this body?’
Hugh stood when he heard the footsteps outside. He could do so now without a need for his staff, and he listened intently as the steps approached. They were like the friar’s, but Hugh, with a shepherd’s ear for detail, could tell that they were not as confident as they had been earlier.
‘It’s me, don’t worry,’ John said as he entered and saw Hugh’s staff in his hands. John carried a small parcel wrapped in linen. ‘They were very good to us,’ he continued. ‘Eggs, some bread and a small portion of sausage. They were more generous than many. Um.’ He carefully placed the package on the ground at the side of their hearth and stood staring down at it. He was at a loss to know what to do.
The shock of hearing of Lucy’s death had seemed to dislocate his world. He was the same man; he still had his responsibility to Hugh, and he wanted to do all he could to help this stranger with his loss, to aid him in his recovery if possible; and yet all he wanted to do just at this moment was run to seek out her body and weep over it. He had already lost his home since his argument with the prior – now he had learned that the last member of his family was also dead. There was no one but him. He was the last of his line.
‘You seem quiet,’ Hugh commented.
He watched the friar as John knelt and opened his parcel. To
his eye the friar had grown suddenly distant. Before this, John had been talkative and cheerful, as though determined to lift Hugh’s spirits by any means available, but now he was quieter, like a man who’d realised he should be more cautious.
‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ the friar said. He remained looking down at the food. ‘Well, I suppose that’s not strictly true. It is something to do with you. I have heard of another death today. A young lady.’
‘And the sergeant of Monkleigh was killed,’ Hugh grunted as he let himself slip down to the floor. ‘Ach, my leg hurts still!’
‘We could soon have it looked at,’ John said. ‘There must be someone about here who has skills with medicines.’
‘No. I’ll not go about in full view until I’m well enough,’ Hugh declared sourly, staring at the little fire with a lowering expression.
He wouldn’t. Not until he had recovered enough to know that he could kill the men who were responsible for his Constance’s murder.
Never before had Hugh felt such a consuming rage. It was a ferocious, burning fire in his breast, and it made him feel as though the fact of his desire – no, his lust – for revenge alone was fuelling him. Nothing mattered to him apart from that. He had to find the men who’d killed his woman.
Friar John turned to glance at him. ‘Are you well, friend?’
‘I’m fine,’ Hugh muttered. In his mind’s eye he could see the figure stooping over Constance again. He was sure that she’d been raped, too. No man would have minded doing that to a woman with her looks. She’d been so beautiful … Hugh could feel a choking sensation in his breast, and moved his thoughts on to other subjects. He couldn’t submit to the all-encompassing horror of her death and the emptiness of his own existence without her.
Being alone was a fact of life to a moorman, of course. He’d been used to his own company for much of his youth, and the idea of a woman of his own had been a very distant dream when he wandered the moors above the River Teign. His thoughts had been geared to a place of his own, perhaps his own small flock, and maybe some years later, when he’d saved enough money, he could think of negotiating for a woman’s hand. Not for love, though. Mainly so that he’d have help to work his land. That was the way of things.
After he met Constance, everything changed. He wasn’t a farmer – that dream had faded when he first began to work for Simon Puttock and realised he could be happy as a servant to a kindly, sensible man. Margaret was a good mistress, too, and their children had been as good as his own, he’d thought. And then he met Constance and learned that the respect and affection of a woman of his own was more attractive even than the stability he’d enjoyed with Simon and Margaret.
When she gave birth to her child, it had capped his pleasure. The lad wasn’t his, but he didn’t care. The father was long gone, and Hugh would be all the boy would know. Little Hugh had been a happy, smiling boy, always into everything as soon as he could walk. He’d only been up and about for two weeks when Hugh saw him toddle uncertainly into the pool at the side of the house. If Hugh hadn’t been there that day, little Hugh wouldn’t have lived beyond it.
The idea that the child could have been killed was a weight on Hugh’s heart as he sat and stared at the fire’s flames. If only he’d been nearer … yet he had not been far away. Surely he should have heard her screams.
‘Master Hugh? Please, eat some of this sausage. It’ll do you good.’
‘I don’t want it to do me good!’ Hugh snapped, but then took the proffered food with an ungracious snort. He didn’t want the stuff, but he did want to be fit and healthy again so he could find the killers. ‘Did you learn anything about the attack on my house?’
The friar shot him a look, then sighed. ‘I did ask at the vill over the way there, but they knew little about it. All they said was that there’d been a fire.’
‘What about the coroner?’ Hugh pressed eagerly. He had known several coroners from his work with his master and Sir Baldwin. ‘Who was it?’
‘A man called Edward de Launcelles, apparently,’ John said with a sigh. ‘It’s not a name I have heard before, but he was already here for the inquest into the death of some other man.’
‘Must have been Ailward,’ Hugh guessed. ‘He was found just before all this.’ He shot a look at the friar. ‘Didn’t he look at my place?’
‘Yes,’ John admitted heavily. ‘Apparently he took it to be an accident. They all think you’re dead – you were burned to death in the house, they say.’
Hugh gaped with dismay. ‘They say I died? That it was an accident? How can they say that? It was murder! There were men there, they killed my Constance, and left me on my face in the dirt! Why would they say I died with her?’
‘Perhaps, my friend, because they knew how devoted you were to her,’ John said gently. ‘No man could have missed that.’
‘The coroner should have realised I was alive,’ Hugh said, uncomforted by his tone. ‘Why’d he think I was dead?’
‘He must have been in a hurry and confused. You know how often the coroners are changed. All they do is keep records so that the justices know how much tax to impose when a man or woman dies. They don’t concern themselves with details,’ John said, hungrily watching as Hugh slowly devoured the sausage. It was Friday, and John was fasting as always. He would eat no meat today.
‘It’s not right,’ Hugh muttered, and then the grief passed through his soul like a wave of ice, freezing, jagged, cruel, and his head fell on his breast as he wept for his woman, her son, and the life he had loved so dearly. ‘It’s not … it’s not!’
‘My friend, life rarely is,’ John said sadly, and he turned away as Hugh sobbed, for he did not want Hugh to see the tears in his own eyes.
Chapter Twenty-One
Robert Crokers felt good that morning. He had slept better, and as his bitch lay patiently waiting he knelt nearby, watching.
‘Poor old girl,’ he whispered.
‘You mooning after your bitch again?’ Walter called.
He was not a sentimental man, this Walter. So far as Robert could make out, he’d been a wandering man-at-arms for some while, and only fairly recently had come into the de Courtenay fold. It was a surprise to Robert, because he knew that Lord de Courtenay and his vassal Sir John Sully were both reluctant to take on mercenary fellows. Far better that they should have men who were long-term servants, those who owed allegiance from their oaths rather than selling it for a few coins. Nobody liked a mercenary.
‘She’s always been a good bitch,’ Robert explained as he left her in her corner and walked over to join Walter.
‘So she should be. If a dog don’t work, it has to be made to. If it can’t, has to be killed. That’s how dogs are,’ Walter said unsympathetically.
‘You don’t like their company?’
Walter pulled a face. ‘I’ve been bitten too often to trust the damned things. No, give me a good rache and I’m happy. An animal that’ll hunt for the pot, that’s a useful thing – but a sheepdog? What good’s that to me? All they ever do is snap at your heels or worse. I had one go for my cods once. Damn near got them, too. Had a great bite out of my tunic, and I had to kick it to get it to let go. Damned thing.’
Robert wondered idly what Walter could have been doing when the dog took such exception, but it wasn’t the sort of question a man could put to a mercenary. It was all too likely that he’d hear something he’d really prefer not to know. ‘How long do you think it’ll be before they come back?’
Walter shrugged and glanced out through the doorway. ‘If they feel sure of their ground, it’ll be a long time. If they’re nervous, they may try to come sooner. Doesn’t matter which. They won’t want to kill us. We’re not important to them, and there’s no point killing those who aren’t a danger.’
‘If we’re unimportant, surely that makes it easier to kill us?’
Walter looked at him pityingly. ‘If we were at war, our lives wouldn’t be worth a penny, but as it is, with us over here and no rea
l threat to anyone, they’ll just chase us off the land, and by the time we’re gone word’ll have reached Sir Odo and twenty or thirty men will be here to take the place back again.’
‘So how will it end?’ Robert asked. ‘From what you say, we’ll be harried away, then come back, time after time. Where can it end?’
‘It’ll end when the Lord Despenser comes and forces his case,’ Walter said with another shrug.
‘But if Lord de Courtenay comes and defends the place …’
This time Walter’s glance held more contempt than pity. ‘You think so? Say de Courtenay comes here – what of it? Oh, he’s been here in Devon for many years, and he owns much land, I’ve no doubt, but he’s never been a close friend of the king’s, has he? He’s no relation either. So if he comes and tells my Lord Despenser to leave the place, who’s going to have to go in the end?’
‘Lord de Courtenay has more men here, though,’ Robert said confidently.
‘And there are many who’d prefer to stay on the side of the king and his personal friend and companion, too. And that means my Lord Despenser. If Despenser decides he wants this land, mark this, friend, there is no one who’ll be able to keep it away from him. And if it comes to that, you and I’ll be irrelevant. We’re only pawns.’
‘Sweet Christ!’
‘So I wouldn’t worry so much about that hound of yours. Rather, I’d be looking to sharpening any knives or swords that I had about the place. And then thinking about getting the dog ready to fight again. She isn’t much use lying on her flank all day, is she?’
Robert looked out through the door at the small trampled area of garden. ‘How long? How long before it’s over and I know whether this is to remain my home or is going to be stolen from me?’
Walter snorted and hawked, spitting into the angle of the wall. ‘I’d reckon we’ll know in about the next month or so. If Despenser decides he wants this, he’ll make it plain.’
‘What would you do then?’
Walter hunched his shoulders as he considered. He’d been here only a year and a half or so, and by Christ it had been good. In the past he’d served in the king’s host, even travelling to the king’s lands in France for a while, but in a life of fighting he’d never found such … such ease of spirit as he’d found here. That was it, yes. Ease of spirit. In other places he’d fought and been scared, and sometimes his companions and he had won and they’d taken much booty; at others they’d been thrashed and they’d lost everything. There was always the chance of being ruined at any time.
A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) Page 21