Michael Jecks: A Friar's bloodfeud

There had been a moment’s silence. All eyes were on the ball, slowing as it rose, spinning gently in the clear, cold air. It was heavy, a pig’s bladder stuffed full of dried peas, stitched tightly, slippery to the hand. But as it started to fall, both sides had rushed forward to grab it.

They had strained there in the field as they always did, and when the break came, it was a thoughtless moment on the other side that gave Perkin his chance.

A woman scratched and tore at Beorn, and he grew furious with the pain of the welts she raised on his face. Others would have knocked the vixen down, or retreated before her, but not Beorn. He grasped her arms, then ducked and lifted her over his shoulders. With a hand at the breast of her tunic and the other at her groin, he hefted her high overhead, and then threw her at three of the men from Iddesleigh.

Two of them tried to avoid her. The third, braver or more stupid than they, held out his arms as though he meant to catch her, and took the full weight of her on his breast. The breath gushed from him like water from a broken pipe, and he collapsed, crushed, while she swore and cursed Beorn for fondling her, shrieking her rage as she clambered to her feet.

It was enough. Her words, and the vituperative tone in which they were screamed, made all the other men stop in their tracks and turn to stare at her. Even as Beorn bit his thumb at her, Perkin could see more men and women from Iddesleigh squaring their shoulders and starting to move towards the middle of the field. It was going to end up just as so many other games had.

But as Beorn turned and faced them all, Perkin had seen his opportunity. Martin from Iddesleigh had the ball, and he and two others were pushing forward against two Monkleigh men, Will and Guy. Hearing the woman, they’d turned and become spectators instead of participants, and in that moment Perkin nipped in under their legs, set his hand atop the bladder, and spun it quickly so that it turned from the holder’s hands.

Martin turned back to see what had happened in time to meet Guy’s fist coming the other way, and he fell back with a curse, blood pouring from his nose. Perkin was already on his knees as Guy and Will set upon their opponents with gusto. They were equally matched, and as their fight raged, and Beorn hurled abuse at the men approaching him, Perkin kept his head low on his shoulders, wrapped a fold of his shirt over the ball to hide it and make it easier to hold, and set off on the path they’d agreed. It took the rest quite some time to realise that he was escaping.

Perkin was fast for all his girth, but as he paused to take stock he saw that the others were gaining on him. The dampness wasn’t helping; the ball was slick and difficult to hold when the weather was miserable like this, but he must get the damned thing to the goal, and that quickly. He shot a look heavenwards, grimacing as he saw black clouds coming closer, shivered briefly, and then hared off down the hill again.

It was a matter of honour that they should succeed here where they’d won the prize so often before. If they were to lose, it would be a dreadful reflection on their manhood. After all, it was four years since the men of Monkleigh had lost a game of camp ball to the men of Iddesleigh, and the idea that today their run of success should come to an end was insupportable.

Wouldn’t be a surprise, though. There was something about this weather, with the fine drizzle falling like sparks of pure ice, dark clouds overhead, mud everywhere, and sudden scratches from dripping furze and thorns as they pounded on, that took away any confidence.

Someone had told him that this game had started back in the days when giants had lived here. That was why the field of play spread so widely. Other places, so he’d heard, used a single pasture or maybe a couple of meadows, with the goals set up at either end; not here at Iddesleigh, though. Here the men had to battle their way over a mile of desolate land. The game would range from Furze Down to Whitemoor; that meant two hills, two streams, and a vicious climb uphill to finish, no matter which side had control. Starting with the battle for control of the bladder, followed, invariably, by at least one fight, and culminating in a run of at least half a mile, much of it uphill, it was no surprise that by the end both sides, winners and losers, would be equally knackered. If they were horses, they’d be killed out of kindness.

‘Perkin! Perkin! ’

He was startled from his musings by Beorn’s shout. The younger man’s bare legs were like oak trunks covered in dark moss, and his thick black hair lay lank over his brow, almost covering his dark eyes. Perkin had no idea what Beorn’s warning meant, but he took the easiest defence and hurled the ball to him.

‘Behind you!’

Perkin feinted quickly right, then shot off to his left. Someone snagged his shirt, and he felt it rip, but then he was free, and he heard a satisfying grunt and muffled oath as his attacker fell. Looking over his shoulder, Perkin saw that it was Oliver, the smith from Iddesleigh, who sat up now, disgruntled, a scowl marring his square features. Perkin knew him well, and rather liked him when the game wasn’t on, but today he was only glad that he’d escaped the man.

He was almost through the stream at the bottom of the gully now, and he started the slow clamber up the other side. Beorn was alongside him, and he grinned at Perkin, hurling the bladder back to him. Perkin caught it with a grunt and gave Beorn a baleful glower. The man had to throw the thing so cursed hard ! It all but winded him.

This was the line they’d agreed on: it was steeper, and harder to negotiate, than the usual way, but by coming up here to the hill east of the main flatlands, the men from Monkleigh had slipped round the defending line of Iddesleigh, and although they had set off in pursuit Perkin was already comfortably ahead of even the fleetest of foot. He clutched the bladder under his armpit more tightly and gritted his teeth as the rain began to fall more heavily.

Up and up, until his thighs were burning and his lungs felt as though they must surely burst. There were rocks and projecting bushes up here, and he was sure that his ankle would snap if he misplaced his step at any point. And then, blessed relief, he was at the top of the steepest part of the climb, and he could pause, staring back down the hill.

Straggling up towards him were the bulk of his team. Beorn was still nearest, his face bright with sweat and exertion, eyes staring above his beard; behind him were five more men, and Guy and Rannulf were back at the bottom, Rannulf pounding at an Iddesleigh man with his fists while two others looked on. No one would get in Rannulf’s way when he was in that sort of mood.

Hefting the pig’s bladder in his hands, feeling the weight of all the dried beans inside it, Perkin took a deep breath and began to move towards Whitemoor again. He heard another bellow from Beorn, turned to see what his comrade had seen, and saw a man appear almost in front of him.

Perkin ducked, but he was too late to bolt. A burly arm went about his waist, a shoulder caught his belly, and his breath left him in a woosh of pain. In the twinkling of an eye he was flying through the air and, as though time was standing still for the better appreciation of his predicament, it seemed for an instant that he was suspended as though by a rope.

Not for long, though. Directly ahead of him he could see Ailward, about him a flickering scene: yellow furze flowers, green, red, and then a large, grey rock. At the last moment he flung his arms out and then closed his eyes as the heel of his left hand struck the moorstone, which rasped along the soft underside of his wrist until it smacked into the point of his chin, when he suddenly lost all interest in the game as bright pinpricks of light burst in on his vision.