Michael Jecks: A Friar's bloodfeud

It had been shortly after he had joined the priory that he had heard from his mother that his older brothers were both dead, killed in the wars that ran up and down the marches at all times. The Welsh were a froward, cunning foe, and his brothers had been tricked into a narrow valley by the offer of treasure before being slaughtered by Welsh arrows. Ach, the Welsh were ever cowards. They wouldn’t stand and fight.

By then, it was too late to tempt him home. His life had the purpose it had lacked before, and he was content. The manor would go to his remaining sibling, a sister. At least the estates would make for a good dowry when she was married.

His reflections were cut short by a pebble. He was wearing boots which a kind donor had given him, but the thin leather was little protection against the ragged stones. The soles of his feet were cracked and throbbing, and every so often he would stub a toe on a lump of moorstone or semi-frozen mud, which would give him a stab of exquisite pain.

It was as he leaned on his old staff with his face twisted, having managed to do this yet again and stemming the tide of curses only with an effort of will, that he saw the light up ahead.

There were many places out here where a man should be cautious, but even the most devil-may-care felon would think twice before harming a friar. In the first place a friar was useful because he might take a man’s confession and shrive him; in the second, he had no possessions. There was no point in trying to rob him.

Still, thieves were not the only threat to a man in the darkness. A law-abiding farmer could be as dangerous if he thought that a dark figure in the shadows was possibly a man come to ravish a wife or daughter. Many out in assarts miles from any neighbours would strike first and ask questions later if practicable. John had little desire to court any more grief than he already endured, so he peered ahead, his narrow face screwed into an expression of intense concentration, while his sharp eyes gazed from under his beetling brows. There were no signs of dancing shapes, no screaming or shouting thieves, only a warm glow amidst the trees, and overhead, now he glanced upwards, a thick pall of black smoke. Occasionally a shower of glinting sparks would rise in a rush, only to disappear.

John gripped his staff and started to make his way towards the blaze. The hour was late for a fire in the woods. People tended to douse the flames so that the trees were protected from stray sparks. Even now, when winter had not yet given way to spring, there was still the threat of wholesale conflagration if men were careless, and men were rarely careless.

It was a good half-mile to the fire, and he had plenty of opportunity to survey the area on his way.

He had come from Upcott towards a place he was told was called Whitemoor, in the hope that the tavern at Iddesleigh might offer him a space on the floor for the night. The fire appeared to be close to the vill itself, set away from the path by a short distance, and he approached it slowly and reluctantly, his staff tapping on the ground firmly with every step he took, until he reached the burning buildings and saw the bodies lying all about: chickens, a dog, cats, and then, last of all, the body of a man.

‘Sweet Mother of Christ,’ he breathed.

As he stood at the door to his cottage, Pagan could see the men moving about at the big house, and he felt himself slump wearily at the sight.

That house had lots of fond memories for him. It had been the place where he had grown; his father had been the armourer to good Squire William, and when the squire rode to war in Ireland with his lord, Pagan’s father had ridden with him. A lord’s host needed men who could wield a hammer or an axe. The old man had died there when they reached Kells. There the Scots persuaded the despicable de Lacys to turn their shields and become traitors to Mortimer, their master — Squire William’s master. Kells fell and there was a terrible slaughter.

Squire William too died that day, and the family which Pagan had served so long had been thrown into turmoil. It was all very well for William’s son, Squire Robert, to be born to a title, but without money a title was worthless. And the family had nothing. Pagan had remained to serve Squire Robert because he could imagine no other function, and all he could do was act as steward to the people he knew so well and hope that their fortunes might change.

As they had — but not in the way he had hoped. With the death of Squire Robert at Bridgnorth, still fighting on the side of his master, Lord Mortimer, there was little the family could do to defend itself. Robert had died in the service of a rebel, and the king’s rage at such people knew no bounds. Whole families were punished for their heads’ loyal service to their lords; bodies still hung on gibbets even now, years afterwards, and the king’s own advisers, the Despensers, saw that they could seize the advantage. They cheated, they stole and they killed to take what they wanted.

That was when the family lost their house. Squire Robert’s widow, Isabel, was forced out by that thief, that deceiver, that disgrace to chivalry, Hugh Despenser. He took everything, leaving them only a hovel in which to live. It was fortunate that Pagan still had his own cottage, for there was hardly space in hers for the squire’s widow, her son Ailward and her daughter-in-law, Ailward’s wife. Only Sir Odo had tried to help, riding over occasionally from Fishleigh to visit her. Not that Pagan would stay when Sir Odo was there. He knew why Sir Odo wanted to see the widow, and it wouldn’t be seemly for Pagan to be there to watch.

Yes, from up here he could see what Despenser’s lackeys were up to. Last afternoon they had ridden off to the west, returning only late, after dark, and Pagan knew what they had been doing. Everyone knew. All had heard of the attack on the poor sergeant of Sir Odo’s over towards the ford.

Someone must stop them.

Sir Odo was a man who liked routine. Each morning he would rise with the dawn, and call for his horse while he drank weak ale and ate a hunk of bread broken from a good white loaf. By the time he’d finished, the stable boys should have finished preparing his old grey rounsey, and he would walk out to take his early morning ride round his estate.

Today he stood in the doorway and snuffed the air while he pulled on heavy gloves; a middle-aged man of only some five and a half feet tall, he made up for lack of height by his breadth. In his youth he had been a keen wrestler, and he had maintained his bulk over the years: his neck was almost the same diameter as his skull, and his biceps were fully larger than most men’s thighs.

His temper was foul today. The grief that had afflicted Lady Isabel on hearing of the loss of her son had naturally affected the manner in which she dealt with everyone else. Sir Odo felt that grief keenly. He was a long-standing friend of Lady Isabel, and to see so noble a lady reduced by the death of her only child was dreadful.

He sniffed and closed his eyes. Seeing a lad of only five or six and twenty die was always sad, but this case was worse than most. Sir Odo had thought that Ailward would shortly be finding his place in the world, that he might recover a little of the family’s fortune, but instead he had been struck down by a murderer. Perhaps a killing committed after too many drinks, or a falling out with a stranger, or a local peasant with a grudge against the man who ordered who should work when, and for how much. There were so many men who could have a reason to kill a sergeant.

There was an icy chill in the wind that came from the north and east. It was always easy to tell when snow was threatening, because the wind seemed to come straight at the house, along the line of the Torridge River, and today was no exception. Sir Odo wasn’t fooled by the clear sky and bright sunshine. If he was any judge of the weather here, there would be snow before long.