A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20)

by Michael Jecks

  This path was so well known to him that he could almost find his way in the dark. There on his right was the drained mire, where the fool of a sergeant had found that woman’s body. He set off up the hill and, panting, reached a tree. From here he could see the house and several miles about. The moon was shining down silver on the whole countryside, and now he could make out the fires at his hall more clearly. There was more, too. He saw the moon glinting off steel. Men were running away along the road to Monk Oakhampton; two were over the hedge and hastening down towards the chapel. And there were no men in the road any more. They’d brought their torches to his hall, and that was that.

  It was enough to make a man weep.

  Pagan and the others stood at the top of the hill, gazing down in the direction the horses had taken when they galloped past them. The battle was invisible to them, at the other side of the house, but they could hear the screams and roars of the men battling for their lives down there, and then they saw the flames begin to rise in the dark night’s sky.

  ‘Is this the end of the manor?’ Adcock wondered.

  ‘There’s never an end,’ Perkin said. ‘Nope. Tomorrow we’ll all be called back to start to rebuild it, just as Sir Odo told his men to go and rebuild the sergeant’s house. They destroy, we build up again. It’s always our efforts that keep the demesne working. Come on, tonight we can still enjoy ale. The work won’t start until morning.’

  He turned his face to the north and set off again. Pagan saw that Adcock was in pain still and offered his hand, but the fellow refused it, saying that he had no need of help. It somewhat added to Pagan’s sense that the lad was not cast from the same mould as the rest of the men at Monkleigh Hall.

  He could feel the guilt falling on his shoulders that his actions could have led to this man’s being brought here and made to suffer so much. But if not him, then it would only have been another. It was hardly Pagan’s fault that a man must follow his destiny. That was just God’s way. A mere human had no control over events – all he could do was react to them. That was what Isaac had once said to him when he asked how God could let so much harm and ill-fortune affect his master. It was so cruel of God to allow his Squire William to be so cruelly torn from his family in a foreign land, and then to kill his son too. Poor Ailward perhaps had not had a chance. Born dispossessed and poor, he had done the best he could with the means at his disposal.

  But this Adcock, he had done nothing. He had been a pleasant man, a young fellow with ambition and hope in his breast when he came here. Pagan had a weight of guilt to support, and that weight seemed to grow each time he looked on the fellow.

  He had done what he thought was best. That was his only excuse. He only hoped it would be enough.

  ‘There’s someone coming behind us!’ Adcock hissed.

  Pagan hesitated, torn by the desire to flee and leave Adcock as a tempting target for whoever might be chasing after them, but then his better nature took over. He grabbed Adcock and bodily hauled him off the path. The other two had already melted into the bushes and trees at the side of the road, and now Pagan pulled Adcock down into the security of the grasses and bushes. Both were soon hidden, and as Pagan listened, he heard the rough, strained breathing of a man pushed beyond his endurance.

  He looked up and down the path, but there was no sign of further pursuit. This man appeared to be all on his own, and as he passed by them, Pagan suddenly recognised Sir Geoffrey, and felt a wild joy kiss at his heart.

  Here was the man who was responsible for the woes of his lady’s family, the man who was the architect of his own shame, delivered up to him. It was the work of a moment to mutter ‘He’s mine!’, to draw his dagger, and to leap up after him.

  Sir Geoffrey for his part had no idea that he was now being pursued. He hurried on his way, stumbling occasionally, tripping over a large tree limb that had broken off and lay on the ground in his path. All that was in his mind was the desire to reach a place of safety, ideally some distance from Monkleigh. The nearest and safest he could think of was Dolton, and that was several miles north. It would take him ages to get there if he walked through the night. Better to find somewhere to rest for the night – perhaps a barn or outbuilding away from other people. There were some sheds up near Pagan’s father’s smithy. That would do.

  And then he would be able to start to plan his revenge on Sir Odo. The mad bastard must have thought he could get away with this – well, he’d soon learn how mistaken he had been! Sir Geoffrey would not rest until he’d taken revenge. He’d come back here with the Despenser host, and he’d take apart Sir Odo’s property stone by stone. Sir Odo himself would be declared a felon and outlawed throughout the land. If he could, let him make his way to the continent and seek a new life there, because Sir Geoffrey would be damned before he saw him return to Fishleigh. That manor would become forfeit, and damn Sir John Sully if he wanted to argue. No one could argue with the Despensers, not now. He would …

  His foot caught on something and he tumbled headlong. Eyes closed, he lay on his belly cursing his fortune before even thinking about rising. It was typical of his luck that he should fall. What next, a twisted or broken ankle? Perhaps he would manage to break his neck and end his misfortunes in style.

  He tried to get up, and realised that the hand gripping his sword was stuck. It was the sword. It wouldn’t move. Opening his eyes, he peered at it, and saw that there was a man’s boot resting on it. Following the leg upwards, he found himself staring at Pagan’s grim features. ‘Get off my sword, you motherless son of a cretin!’ he snarled.

  To his astonishment, Pagan appeared to ignore him. Instead he reached down and took hold of Sir Geoffrey’s short hair, pulling his head up. ‘Shut up! You’ve done enough already.’

  ‘What?’ As the cold metal of the blade touched his throat, Sir Geoffrey was suddenly still.

  ‘Leave him, Pagan. Let me kill him!’

  ‘Adcock?’ Sir Geoffrey said, trying to look over his shoulder while not moving his head. He was pulled up so far that his fingers could hardly touch the ground, and the pressure on his scalp was terrible, but he daren’t move his legs in case Pagan thought he was readying himself to attack.

  ‘Leave him, Pagan. He nearly killed me, and all because I was doing our lord’s work, clearing unusable land. I say I kill him now and we throw him into the mire.’

  ‘Adcock, don’t be foolish!’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘You can’t kill me, I’m your master here. Steward to the …’

  ‘You are nothing now, Sir Geoffrey. You’re a fool who’s lost a manor, that’s all. And wandering about at this time of night you are a suspected fugitive. Come, Pagan, let me kill him. God knows I have enough reason, the bastard!’

  ‘No.’ Pagan sighed deeply. ‘I can’t, Adcock.’

  The fellow was brimming with enthusiasm, the blade gripped so tightly in his hand fairly shaking with desire. He wanted to kill this man more than anything he’d ever wanted. And it was all Pagan’s fault.

  ‘I can’t let you, Adcock. We’ll take the knight back down to Iddesleigh, and hand him over to that Keeper and his friend. They’ll know what to do.’

  No, Pagan couldn’t let this fellow commit murder. When Adcock had arrived here, he’d been a cheerful enough lad, from the look of him, and now he was ruined. He had been subjected to Sir Geoffrey’s cruelty, insulted, demeaned, and changed into a brutal facsimile of the man he had been such a short time before. And all because of Pagan’s crime. It was all his fault that Adcock was here in the first place.

  Adcock protested, ‘I want to kill him, though. Look, it’ll take one stab and we throw him into that mire there. No one will ever find him if we don’t clear it, and after being beaten for clearing the other one, I’m not going to do that in a hurry.’

  ‘Don’t think you can kill me with impunity, boy!’ Sir Geoffrey grated.

  ‘Who,’ Pagan asked quietly, ‘is there up here who would stop us?’

  And suddenly Sir Geoffrey felt panic. He tried to
pull his sword free and then grabbed for the dagger at his belt, but there were too many men, and he could only scream his defiance and abuse as they roughly turned him over, binding his wrists.

  Chapter Forty

  Baldwin and Simon watched the flames roar skywards. Edgar was helping a few others to keep the two sides apart, while men ran about the place fetching and carrying buckets of water from the well to try to douse the flames. Hugh was standing morosely staring at the blaze, remembering the fire at his own house.

  ‘There is little chance of putting that out,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Old thatch that’s had a good chance to dry is never easy to put out,’ Simon said.

  The clouds of smoke, thick, greasy, and greyish green even in the darkness, roiled about the area. Invariably when it sank down and engulfed all the men, it made them choke and splutter, it was so thick and foul.

  They had seen the fires as they hurried down the road, hoping to prevent bloodshed, and both had known that they were too late before they had caught sight of the house. ‘At least there are few dead,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘So far,’ Simon replied. ‘There are some bad wounds in among that lot.’

  They had brought all the men from the bar at Iddesleigh with them, in the hope that they might compose a force to thrust between the warring factions, but by the time they reached the hall most of the men were already separated. The fighting took second place to watching the manor burn for those who had no direct investment in the building. When Baldwin and Simon arrived, Sir Odo’s men had more or less taken the place, and he and a few others were impounding their prisoners against a fence, having taken their weapons from them.

  ‘Sir Odo, this is an outrageous abuse,’ Baldwin said as he met the knight.

  ‘It was an outrageous abuse when that man decided to invade my lands,’ Sir Odo said. ‘This was just an attempt to persuade him to leave me alone. He sowed, and he has reaped the harvest. It’s the behaviour of the Despensers that makes the country so dangerous today. If more men stood up to their bullying, the realm would be safer.’

  ‘You think this is safer?’ Baldwin demanded, waving at the fires and the bodies on the ground.

  ‘It’s better than giving up everything, every time the Despensers or their men decide they want to grab another piece of territory,’ Sir Odo said.

  ‘Is that all this was? An attempt to stop him taking your lands? Or was it to stop Despenser – or, for that matter, Lord Hugh de Courtenay – ever learning that you’d kept back parts of the lands he had taken from the widow of Squire Robert?’ Simon asked.

  ‘That is an unworthy thought,’ Sir Odo said.

  ‘It would be a deeply dishonourable act,’ Baldwin said.

  Sir Odo glanced at him, then shrugged. ‘Well, I cannot help what you two think to yourselves, but bear this in mind, lordings. My action here has protected Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s lands. While he is thought to be a bold and courageous defender of his property, he is more likely to be safe from the Despensers’ attempts to rob him as they have so many others.’

  ‘Don’t seek to threaten me into supporting you,’ Sir Baldwin hissed. He stepped nearer Sir Odo. ‘I shall tell the truth about this night, Sir Odo, and you will be named as guilty in this.’

  ‘Guilty of what, Sir Baldwin? Is there any proof that I have done something wrong? There is no one here who is likely to accuse me, is there? Do you have any evidence that I am guilty of taking lands or anything else? No! So I should forget your sourness. You have done what you came here to do: you have found the murderer of your man’s family. You have found the murderer of Ailward, too, I expect, and of Lady Lucy. At the same time, you have helped me to thwart an attempt by a lackey of the Despensers to steal lands from our lord. I should stick to that story. It’s believable, after all. Who knows? It might be true.’

  ‘Sir Baldwin? Get this oaf off me!’

  Baldwin turned in time to see Sir Geoffrey being walked up the track towards him, gripped by Pagan.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I found this man scurrying away up behind the hall. Thought I ought to bring him home again.’

  ‘Thank you, Pagan,’ Baldwin said, and as Sir Odo moved imperceptibly towards Sir Geoffrey, Baldwin drew his sword and put it between Sir Odo and his prey. ‘There will be no more bloodshed, Sir Odo, unless you want to challenge me?’

  Sir Odo shrugged, smiling broadly. ‘If you say so.’

  Pagan was not finished, though. ‘Sir Baldwin, I brought this man to you because I want him to hear the truth. I murdered Ailward on the day of the camp ball match. I confess my crime, but I also denounce Sir Odo and accuse him of the murder of Lady Lucy of Meeth and the murderous attack on Hugh’s family.’

  It was not practical to try to hold a court in the middle of the night, and Baldwin demanded that all returned with him and Simon to the church. There, in the nave, in full view of as much of the Iddesleigh congregation as could be mustered at short notice, Sir Odo swore that he would return to be tried the next day. He gripped the Gospels with a firm hand, and he stared at Baldwin as he spoke, loudly and clearly, and then he passed the book back to Matthew with a small bow and spun on his heel.

  The people parted as though miraculously. None remained barring his path, which was normal, and showed the correct reverence for his position, he thought, but there was something in the air that grated on his nerves. It was less as though this was a mark of respect for his status, than as though they loathed to share the same space with him. They would not touch him in case he polluted them.

  Idiots! They couldn’t understand. How could they? He’d been in the service of other men all his life, and he had wanted fortune. If he’d been luckier, he could have won it, but as things were, it was impossible. He was always in the pay of his masters. The first, the very first chance he’d had of winning his own rewards had been when he’d met Lady Lucy. And he would have been honourable with her, if she’d let him. He would have married her, and allowed his son to take all the money when he died – but she’d have none of it. That look of terror and horror had never left her face, not from the moment when he killed her steward to the last moments when he’d left her in the smithy. She had loathed him.

  Outside he stood a few seconds and stared about him at the men standing silently. Then he gave a dry chuckle and walked to his horse. Peasants couldn’t understand because how can property comprehend how another piece of property might be fought over? If you have never owned or desired, you cannot see how a man might be pushed to extraordinary lengths to protect his possessions, or to acquire more.

  He sprang on to his horse, whirled the beast’s head about, and rode off along the lane to his hall. There was not much time. He had to collect all his movables, pack them, and clear off urgently. Probably best to head for Tiverton. He seemed to remember someone saying that Lord de Courtenay was up there.

  ‘Can I tell you what happened?’ Pagan asked as Baldwin and Simon led the way back to the inn.

  Baldwin glanced at Simon and Hugh. ‘I suppose so. You will have to explain yourself tomorrow anyway,’ he said.

  Pagan walked into the inn and sat at the table with the others. Baldwin and Simon sat opposite him, Hugh and Edgar stood behind him, and Sir Geoffrey perched himself on an upturned barrel nearby, arms folded while he glared at Pagan with loathing. Villagers from Monkleigh and Iddesleigh filled the room, while Perkin and Beorn were up at the bar with a pale and shaken Adcock.

  Poor lad. He’d hardly got over the shock of being savagely attacked and injured by that idiot Sir Geoffrey when he’d been overwhelmed by the desire to kill. He’d lusted for Sir Geoffrey’s blood as a youth might lust for a wench. And now the reaction was upon him. He was himself again, and the idea of what he had so nearly become was a terrible burden.

  ‘I killed Ailward, sir, because I saw what he had done. He and Sir Odo had captured Lady Lucy, and they took her up to my father’s smithy, because they knew that no one ever went there any more. They could do all they wanted to her
without fear of discovery. Her screams would go unheeded.

  ‘I didn’t realise at first, of course. I only found out on the day of the camp ball game, when I saw Ailward. He was smothered in black mud, up to his groin. I had no idea what had happened, and when I asked, he told me! He had murdered the child and taken her to the mire and thrown her in. She was guilty of refusing to marry Sir Odo. For that they killed her.

  ‘I was disgusted by what I heard. I went to my father’s old smithy, and found it reeking still of burned flesh. They had slaughtered her in the most revolting way so that when her body was found, people would assume the Despenser family had committed this evil act. I came across Ailward on my way back to the house where I lived with Lady Isabel, and my rage knew no bounds. I knocked him down and left him for dead. I would do it again. He murdered that poor child, and he did it in my father’s chamber. Yes, I would do it again.’

  ‘But he was your master’s son!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘I thought you were so loyal to him and his seed!’

  ‘I was. I am. I would lay down my life for his child.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘Tell me, Pagan, was it your mistress’s choice that you should move back to your old home when Ailward died, or was it yours?’

  Pagan allowed a half-smile to curl his lips. ‘How did you guess that?’

  ‘I was very slow,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But then I started to think. It seemed curious that you should move back to your home just when the women would ideally require a man in their house to guard them. Unless you thought that they would be safe enough on their own. And then I heard Sir Odo had visited the women.’

  ‘He went there often enough after dark,’ Pagan said. ‘It was much as it had been before, when Squire William was fighting. He often took his son with him when he was fighting, so he could teach him the way of war. As soon as they went, Sir Odo began to pay court to Lady Isabel, and she was so lonely and scared, it’s no surprise she succumbed to his wit and perseverance. But then, when Squire Robert was dead, I think she repented and felt guilt. It was eight and twenty years ago that Robert first went north with his father William, and the two won renown and some fame, under good King Edward, the Hammer of the Scots, although they were not lucky with the spoils of war. The Scottish never seemed to have much to steal. Although he didn’t know it, Robert lost more than his money in fighting for the king. It cost him dearly, and he wore a cuckold’s horns from then on.’