A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20)

by Michael Jecks

  Baldwin was suddenly very still.

  ‘Emma, of course you are. I wouldn’t dream of stopping you from finding love – I am as happy as I could be with my husband, and if you have found a man whom you love, that would make me more than happy. But are you sure?’

  ‘He asked me to marry him, and we exchanged our vows,’ Emma said firmly.

  Baldwin licked his lips anxiously and gazed at his wife.

  ‘That is wonderful,’ Jeanne said, although her tone betrayed a certain doubt. ‘But you have not known him for long.’

  Edgar sniggered. ‘But you have known him very well in a short time.’

  Baldwin glared at him furiously.

  ‘Madam, would you release me? I once knew love, and left him because you were coming here to marry. I don’t want to lose another.’

  Baldwin held his breath. Jeanne looked at him and he tried to keep the hope from his eyes.

  ‘I shall miss you, Emma,’ Jeanne said.

  And Baldwin felt as though the sun had suddenly burst through the ceiling and lighted the whole room with a roseate glow.

  Perkin grunted as he pulled at a beam. It wouldn’t move, and he shook his head in disgust. ‘Hoi! Beorn! Get off your arse and help with this thing, will you?’

  Already black with the soot that lay all about, Beorn wiped a hand over his forehead and snorted, hawking and spitting as he rose and walked through the fine ash to his friend. ‘Why you want to move that one?’

  ‘Don’t start, Beorn. Just help me with it, will you?’

  ‘It looks the wrong one to start with. I’d go for one of those on top.’

  ‘This is the one I want to move, all right? Just help me pull it out of the way.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Christ’s balls, just pull!’

  Beorn smiled accommodatingly, and bent his knees. He gripped the section of wood and grunted that he was ready. Perkin took the end again, and the two strained. There was a creak, and the beam shifted slightly.

  ‘That’s it! Come on, a little more!’ Perkin gasped.

  ‘I really don’t …’

  ‘Just bloody pull!’

  Beorn shrugged, pulled, and the beam squeaked, then moved, and Perkin found himself falling backwards as it came out.

  ‘I told you!’ he said, and smiled. His smile grew glassy as there came a slight rumbling noise.

  Beorn was already moving backwards. ‘And I told you so.’

  ‘Oh, bugger!’

  The farther wall of the house suddenly sprang a crack. Where the beam had lain, a second had fallen on to the old cob wall, and where it had struck, the wall was slowly but surely collapsing.

  Perkin took some quick steps backwards. ‘I didn’t think that would …’

  The roar of falling stones and timbers drowned his words. He stood, staring dumbfounded, his mouth gaping as a hole appeared in the wall before him.

  Beorn walked to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. A small cloud of ash burst upwards, and he narrowed his eyes against it. When it was somewhat dissipated, he sniffed with an air of satisfaction. ‘I reckon they’ll soon see the advantage of it, Perkin. Takes a genius to see that a house needs a new door. I wouldn’t have seen that myself.’

  ‘What’s all the noise? I heard a … Christ in a wine barrel, what’s happened here?’

  ‘Now, Emma, don’t you worry,’ Perkin said quickly. ‘Look, there was this bit of an accident, and the wall …’

  ‘She’s stepping towards you,’ Beorn said warningly.

  Perkin held his hands before him. ‘Emma, please, it was just one of those … Emma!’

  ‘Just one of those things, eh?’ Emma asked. She bent and picked up a small lump of blackened timber. ‘I’ll show you one of those things, I will …’

  Perkin took a look at the lump of timber in her hands and gave up any ideas of diplomacy. He darted back, and dived through the new hole in the wall.

  Beorn looked at her. ‘Could you ask Davie to get his arse in here and help me?’

  Emma nodded. She scowled at the hole Perkin had created, and tossed the timber through it, pretending not to hear the thump and cry of anguish. She wouldn’t let them know how happy she was here. They didn’t need to know that. She glowered at the men outside, before smiling at her Davie.

  This place was perfect for her. Hugh’s old home was no good to him, but she would change this into a marvellous little house. When the new roof was up, she’d clean all the soot and grime from it, and Davie could start to fence in the pasture, and then they could spend a little of the money which Jeanne had given them on purchasing some good animals, an ox, some pigs, maybe some lambs too. They’d soon have this little place thriving.

  Or she’d know the reason why.

  Lady Isabel watched him all the time with suspicious eyes, but he didn’t care. He knew what she was feeling, because he knew perfectly well what it was like to love and to lose a love. She had lost her man; she wasn’t the only person in the world to have lost.

  Although she sat still and her eyes were still regularly brimming with tears, he could give her his sympathy, but not his compassion. Why should he? He served her with her food, and she and Malkin took their meagre shares and began to eat.

  It was an unspoken rule now that he would not speak to them. Nor would Isabel knowingly make any comment while he was within earshot, but he didn’t care. Her words would have been barbed, and he was happier to live in this silence.

  She had been hoping that Sir Odo would return to her, apparently. When she heard from others that Sir Odo was dead, she had been disbelieving at first, then furious and almost lunatic, but that all changed when she heard the actual details of his death. She had flatly refused to entertain the concept that he might have been fleeing from Fishleigh without her. That, she asserted, was impossible. And since that was, the whole manner of his death was also impossible. Someone had made it up to fool her, and she wouldn’t swallow it. No, he had been going to come and fetch her at last. They would share their misery at losing their son, and could comfort each other.

  Malkin knew the truth, of course. No one in their right mind could doubt the truth behind Sir Odo. He was the man behind all the violence, and the cause of the deaths, including his own son’s.

  She’d never been happy about Odo coming to visit her mother-in-law, Pagan knew. It was a question that Pagan’s mind would turn to every so often, whether or not Ailward had told Malkin that he was Odo’s son, not Squire Robert’s, but he doubted whether he would ever learn the answer. And in fact the speculation was enough. He didn’t need to know, and he didn’t want to know.

  No, he had only ever loved the once, and it was enough for him. When Squire Robert died, he had felt the pain more than anything else he had ever known, and the only thing that kept him sane for many years was the knowledge that he was doing his duty by guarding Robert’s son Ailward. Except Ailward was not his son.

  But Robert had thought he was, and that in some way was as good as Pagan could have hoped for. If Ailward was good enough for Robert to treat as his own son, Malkin’s son would be enough for Pagan too. He would serve the child as he had served Ailward.

  For love.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Coroner Edward knew that he would not remain in his post for very long. Not when the full details of the matter were aired. And they would be. He had Sir Baldwin de Furnshill’s personal assurance of that.

  He had tried his best to explain how important it was that he was kept out of the story – after all, the matter was little to do with him. He had been an unwilling accomplice at best. He had accepted a small retainer to be in the area when he was called, but that was all, really. The errors of his inquests over the body of Constance and the others were just that: mistakes. He was new to the post of coroner, and these were very difficult times, what with so many people being involved, and Sir Geoffrey trying to demand favours.

  Lord Despenser was keen to see that his men worked together wel
l, too. He would hardly expect a hard-working man like Sir Edward to ignore requests for help from a man so senior as Sir Geoffrey, would he? No, of course not.

  It had looked for some while as though Sir Baldwin was being swayed by his arguments, but then he’d made the little slip of offering a sweetener to him. At once the shutters had fallen behind his eyes. It was just as though Edward had become invisible to him all of a sudden. Baldwin was looking at him, focused, and then he was looking through him unheeding. All because he had asked that justice be allowed to be flexible on this one occasion.

  ‘Are you ready yet?’

  ‘I have been ready for some while now,’ Sir Edward lied. He disliked Sir Geoffrey more and more each time he saw the man. Now, with the remnants of the men who had served the steward, they were to leave Monkleigh Hall. And a good thing too! Sir Edward could hardly wait to be well shot of this place. It held only foul memories.

  Sir Geoffrey, to his surprise, seemed to be sad to be going. Well, probably not a surprise. Once the Despenser heard of the mess that this manor was in now, he’d not be best pleased.

  That was important, too. Sir Edward had to have his story planned so that when he was asked for his version, he had it ready. The truth would work – in places … but there were plenty of aspects which he had to hone.

  After all, he didn’t want to be sunk with Sir Geoffrey. Perhaps he might even be able to rescue something from it all. Maybe even a small manor of his own, if he was credible enough and managed to put all the blame on Sir Geoffrey.

  Yes. That was the way forward. He would have to see how he could deny all knowledge and responsibility. Then, even if Sir Baldwin told some different story later, he could deny it, saying that these were the words of a man who was a natural enemy of Lord Despenser, and who would be delighted to slander and malign Lord Despenser’s loyal supporters. With any luck, Sir Baldwin would be too busy to do anything for quite a while, and by the time he did, Sir Edward’s story would already have been commonly accepted.

  What story could he tell? That he was asked to come down here, naturally, and wanting to help another vassal of Lord Despenser, had hurried down to protect Lord Despenser’s interests, but then, when he arrived, had learned that the deaths could have been caused by Sir Geoffrey’s dreadful relations with his neighbours. Being suspicious, he didn’t return home, but stayed nearby so that he could fly back quickly if there was more trouble, and when a fresh body was found … Yes, that would do it. With luck, soon he would be Lord Despenser’s hero, and would have a larger manor, or some other form of recognition. Yes, he told himself. Life was good. Sir Geoffrey could sulk and complain, but Sir Edward was going on to better things.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t have to carry on his duties as coroner, either.

  He would have been much less happy if he had known of the messenger Baldwin had sent ahead of him with a sealed package that held a full explanation of all that had happened, including allegations that the coroner had offered him a bribe to conceal the details.

  Walter was amerced before Baldwin left the vill, and forced to deposit a large sum to guarantee that he would turn up at the next court.

  He had been to courts before, and just now he wasn’t of a mind to expand his knowledge of the system. In the old days, it could be ten years before the Justices might arrive to try a case in a vill like this. That was how long it took them on their Grand Eyre, constantly on the move from one county to another, hearing all the felony cases put to them by the juries of every Hundred.

  No longer, though. One of the changes which the old king had implemented was the change in the court system, and now the courts were held more regularly. That was not a result which appeared attractive to Walter.

  Tonight there was a celebration to be held at the manor to celebrate the departure of Sir Geoffrey and his men from the ruin of their hall. While the peasants of Monkleigh were forced to clear up the mess and rebuild much of the place, the men of Fishleigh were intending to hold a big feast, sponsored in part by the treasure which some of the men had secreted after their attack on Sir Geoffrey’s hall. Walter had been told he wouldn’t be welcome there, and he had volunteered to help look after Nicholas while the normal guards went to drink.

  He wasn’t alone, but there were only two others, and he knew their routines. One was at the far side of the church, and by the middle hours, he would be snoring. The second was a little more reliable, but he liked his ale too, and he’d be at the inn for much of the early evening, so just now, Walter told himself, quietly opening the door, just now was the ideal time.

  The figure at the altar stirred and blearily looked up. ‘Who’s that? What do you want?’

  ‘Don’t panic, Nick. It’s me, Walter. Come on, let’s get away from here. If you’re here when the coroner arrives you’ll be forced to surrender or abjure the realm. Do you want to swing, or leave the country for ever? No? Then get your backside off the floor there and come with me. I can’t stay, because if I’m still here for the next court, I’ll hang too. So I’m running, and if you want to, you’d best make the most of it.’

  ‘Why should I come with you?’

  ‘Well, Nick, if you come with me, you and I can watch over each other, and when we get to a town, we can separate if you want. But for now, while we are on the run, two minds and two pairs of eyes are better than one.’

  Nicholas considered, but only for a moment. ‘All right!’

  And meanwhile, outside, Matthew grunted his approval. ‘Godspeed, Nicholas!’

  His companion grunted. ‘You were right.’

  ‘It was only a matter of time. I’m just glad that Walter took my hint,’ Matthew said. ‘It cost me a lot to donate a barrel of ale to Fishleigh. I wouldn’t have been happy had it been drunk and the fool didn’t take advantage!’

  Humphrey nodded, then sipped from his jug again. There was some comfort in being here in a vill far from ecclesiastical courts. When the bishop’s man had arrived a few days ago to speak to Matthew about the chapel and whether a man should be selected to fill the post left vacant by Isaac’s death, Matthew had turned and looked at him, and Humphrey had been sure that he was about to be denounced in front of this cocky clerk; but Matthew had merely asked, ‘What do you think, Humphrey?’

  ‘Me? I don’t know, Father.’

  ‘And neither do I,’ Matthew said to the clerk. ‘You pick a man you feel most suitable. Anyone will find it hard to stand in Isaac’s shoes. He was so kind and perspicacious. But we shall make any replacement most welcome. Humphrey here used to help Isaac. Perhaps he could do the same for a new man, too?’

  ‘Do you think she will be safe?’ Jeanne asked her husband as she played with her daughter.

  ‘Is that a serious question?’ Baldwin asked with frank astonishment. ‘How is your belly?’ he added nervously. He was not squeamish about the dead, but the reality of birth terrified him, and he was still anxious that Jeanne could have been hurt by such a long journey homewards to Furnshill.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I am fine. Now, come – poor Emma’s not really all that bad,’ Jeanne said.

  ‘My lady, your maid was more venomous than a viper, more ferocious than a tiger, more cunning than any fox, more cruel than …’

  ‘No. Not cruel. Loyal.’

  ‘Noisome, harsh, loud, complaining …’

  ‘Kindly, devoted and …’

  ‘Entirely unrestful.’

  ‘Did you really hate her?’

  ‘No! Not in all truth. But she was no comfort to me. I am happy that she is also happy, and I am content that she lives with a man she loves now. Far better that than remaining here and ruining what little peace we have known.’

  ‘Yet she stayed with me to see to my happiness even though it meant leaving her own lover behind. I never knew that.’

  ‘Nor did I.’ Baldwin admitted to himself that it put a different complexion on his view of her. ‘It showed a great deal of generosity on her part.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jeanne said. B
ut she could not help wondering if Deadly realised how his life must change with Emma as his wife. After a short while, she said, ‘I wonder what happened to that friar?’

  ‘John?’ Baldwin said with a smile. ‘I hope he lives long and happily. He stopped Hugh from killing a man, and that was a good act. Hopefully he’ll be preaching somewhere.’

  ‘He murdered Sir Odo, didn’t he?’

  ‘His sister was avenged. I saw no evidence that Sir Odo was murdered.’

  ‘You told the coroner to go and view the body, but you didn’t go with him,’ Jeanne pointed out.

  ‘There was no need,’ Baldwin said. ‘Sir Odo fell from his horse and his head was crushed.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘It is what the records say, so surely it must be true,’ Baldwin said, and smiled to himself. Sometimes, he reflected, justice was not perfect – yet the best result could be achieved by men who intended to achieve it.

  It was early afternoon when Simon and Hugh arrived back at Simon’s house at Lydford. For his part, Simon was sore and weary, and he felt as though he needed a week’s rest before he would be recovered, but he forced himself to forget his own aches and pains as he glanced at Hugh on his pony.

  Riding was one of those pursuits which Hugh had gradually come to accept as necessary, but it was not one in which he excelled. There was something about a horse that he found unnatural. A beast so large, so dangerous, was not the sort of creature he would want to sit upon. They were too powerful for him to control them, and he disliked intensely being so high from the ground on them. Still, there were times when a horse was necessary, and while travelling he must ride.

  After the last few days, since Odo’s death, he had found himself suddenly weeping for no apparent reason. The slightest reminder of his wife was enough to set him off. Once, in Iddesleigh, he had seen a young maid with her lover, and the way she had set her hand upon his forearm, and gazed into his eyes, was so entirely like Constance’s way of looking up at him that the sight made his tears flow once more. Then, on the way here, Simon had suggested that they should pause for a while at Exbourne, but outside the tavern by the roadside Hugh had seen a girl gracefully swaying, her hips moving gently as she scattered grain for chickens, and the scene was again so reminiscent of Constance that it brought tears to his eyes.