Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

He crossed the yard to his mount and used a block of stone to help himself up. Ever since he’d been stuck in his thigh by a man-at-arms with a polearm, he’d had this weakness. It was all right when he was up in the saddle, because then he seemed able to grip well enough, but the ability to straighten his leg to spring up was almost entirely lost.

It had been a little skirmish, really. Not a real battle at all. A lowly squire, he’d been fighting for Hugh de Courtenay in the last king’s wars against the Scottish. They’d reached the Solway Firth, and had laid siege to Caerlaverock Castle at the turn of the century. Now it seemed such a stupid thing, but at the time … he had been near the oddly shaped triangular castle when there was a shout that the Scotch murderers were about to make a sally, and he saw the great drawbridge lowered. Immediately, he ran forward with a few others, and reached it as the defenders were starting to make their way from the gatehouse.

Odo felt that old thrill, the excitement of battle, as he sank his blade into a man’s throat and saw him thrash for a moment before tumbling down, choking. Four more fell to him during that short action, though there were no more deaths. A small fight, almost negligible. Probably most of the other men there that day had forgotten it, but not Odo.

The men with him kept up a great roaring shout, and with sheer effort they managed to force the enemy back towards the sandstone gatehouse. Odo’s opponent stumbled and fell, and suddenly Odo realised that they could push into the castle itself. He slashed at the man’s face twice, then turned and roared to the men at the siege camp to join them, and at the same instant felt something slam into his leg. It was a shocking sensation, and the effect was to knock his knee away, so that he collapsed.

After that his battle grew confusing. He had flashes of memory: not because of pain — there was none — but because he was desperate to climb to his feet, to escape before he could be hacked to pieces. A man on the ground would be as likely to be attacked by the men of his own side as his enemy; a fellow on the ground could be preparing to thrust up with a weapon at the unprotected underside of the men battling above him, and there was little opportunity to distinguish friend from foe. Yet he couldn’t stand. He panicked, overwhelmed with terror as he recognised his danger: he was defenceless here in the mêlée. Trying to crawl away, he was stunned as a crashing blow caught his head, and he felt his skull shake as he fell forward, blood washing over his eyes. He was convinced that he was about to die, and began a prayer begging forgiveness for his sins (which he freely confessed were legion), which was cut short by his passing out.

Later, he awoke to find himself being cleaned by a squire. He was lying on a rich bed, a real bed, with soft woollen blankets and marvellous silken hangings.

He coughed, then rasped, ‘Have I died?’

‘I hope not. He’ll have my guts for his laces if you have,’ the squire said drily. ‘How’s your head?’

The squire looked ancient to Odo. He must have been in his forties — couldn’t remember his name now — and must have realised how confused Odo was, because he refused to discuss anything with him until he’d rested.

‘The best thing after a knock like the one you took is plenty of rest. Have some wine, then sleep.’

‘But where am I?’

‘You’re safe. And being well looked after.’

‘My leg,’ he remembered. He tried to get up to look at it, but the shooting pain that slashed through his skull at the movement made him want to heave. He sank back on to the sheets.

‘You’re fine. The leg’s still there, although it took a grievous cut. Don’t worry, friend. You’ve made your name today.’

Yes. Of course I have, Odo thought to himself cynically. There must have been thirty or forty men on that drawbridge, and he was sure that he’d heard the gates slam even as he sank down on to his face. ‘The castle wasn’t won?’

‘No. Now go to sleep.’

The next thing he remembered was being dressed in a new tunic, and Hugh de Courtenay and Sir John Sully being there to help him on with his sword. His leg hurt like the devil, but he was all right apart from that. If he turned too quickly, he would feel dizzy, but that would pass, he knew. He’d been thumped about the head often enough when he was a child and learning his fighting techniques, and he recognised this wound as one of those unpleasant ones that would leave him feeling tired and wanting to throw up if he wasn’t careful.

Not today, though, he had vowed. Because today he was being taken to see the master of the fourth squadron, the team he had served with. And the youth who was in charge was waiting for him.

Only seventeen he was, but you could tell he was a prince from his courtly disposition. He was polite, handsome, and a strong fighter. Even as Odo stumbled towards him, the future king drew his sword and held it aloft, while trumpets blew and the men all cheered. Odo the squire walked to Prince Edward, but Sir Odo left him.

It had been a great day, and although Odo felt much the older man, he had been impressed with Prince Edward’s calm and unassuming nature. He and his companions had been bold enough; certainly none of them seemed wary of fighting, or fearful at the clamour of battle.

Which was why Odo clung to that memory. It was good to recall the prince the way he had been.

He rode eastwards, and then north, crossing the ford under Crokers’s place. He’d heard of the attack there, but there was no sense in approaching it now, just in case Sir Geoffrey had put in a force to guard it. It could be hazardous to go unprotected to a place like that.

Instead, he left the track and took his horse up the hill to the old road, which, muddy, stone-filled, with tall hedges on either side and a thick wood on his right giving glimpses of fields between the trunks, was pleasant enough. It was this land that the Despensers wanted, from what Odo had heard. They wanted to take all the manors owned by John Sully on the east of the river, making their own holdings that much more extensive.

It was always the way: when a man of ambition grew rich, his first inclination was to increase his wealth. Odo couldn’t understand it. Hugh Despenser was fabulously rich. Odo had heard men speculate on his worth, and the general view was that he was the richest man in the country after the king himself. A terrible man, avaricious and ruthless. He would take men and torture them for sport, or to make them sign away their inheritances. Not only men, either. It seemed strange that the prince Odo had met all those years before could have grown into a man who tolerated advisers like Despenser.

There were the other rumours, of course. That the king was infatuated with his friend; that his friend had supplanted the queen in the king’s affections, that he was the king’s lover. It was possible. Odo had no opinion. He did not care particularly.

A twinge of pain in his thigh made him frown, and he massaged his old wound with his fist. It always played up during the winter. Warmer weather was needed, rather than this bleak coldness.

Sir Geoffrey, Despenser’s tool, was not difficult to deal with. Not if you knew his mind and understood what he looked for. He was no fool, and he wouldn’t risk upsetting people for no reason. No, that wasn’t his way. He’d be much more likely to wait until he had his master’s instructions, and then he’d obey them to the letter — provided it didn’t put him in any danger. And what danger could there be for a man who was in the pay of the king’s best friend? None. So if Sir Geoffrey thought he was acting on the advice of his master, he would do anything.