Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

Humphrey knew all the arguments against friars. He had heard Isaac rehearse them often enough. Right now he was only glad that Isaac was not here to see the scruffy fellow passing by.

‘God grant you peace,’ he said when the friar came closer.

‘God’s blessing on you,’ the friar responded.

Now that he was closer, Humphrey could see that he was still less prepossessing than he had originally thought. Humphrey didn’t recognise him, which was a relief — that could have been embarrassing … As it was, it was annoying to have to stop his work to offer hospitality to someone whom he did not wish to entertain.

‘You are far from any main roadway, Brother,’ he said.

‘Ah, I wander where God wills it,’ the friar said. ‘I am called John. I had thought to stay in this area and preach a little. Father Matthew thought it would be all right?’

There was a question in his voice which Humphrey could not miss. It was, in truth, a generous question. He had no need to request permission, and this John would have been well within his rights to go wherever he wished, preaching every hour of every day, if he so desired; but there had been friction for some years between Holy Mother Church and the friars, and it was good that this one at least appeared keen to avoid arguments.

Humphrey shrugged a little gracelessly. ‘Brother, if you wish to do so I wouldn’t stop you, but I am only a coadjutor here. The priest himself is … not well.’

The friar’s face grew grim. ‘It is good to see an assistant helping an older man. Is he very ill?’

‘He is. But it is age which ails him. I have heard it said that he has lived here as priest for nearly three and forty years, and from the look of the records in the church, that could be correct.’

‘Do you think that my presence could offend him?’ the friar asked tentatively. ‘I should prefer not to preach where my words could upset a sick man.’

‘That is very kind of you, Brother. I think,’ Humphry said consideringly, ‘that if you preach away from the church here, and not right in front of the alehouse at the top of the road, you will be unlikely to cause him offence.’

‘He spends much time there?’

‘It is easier for me to leave him in the alehouse than alone in the church while I do the work.’ Humphrey shrugged. ‘I prefer to know that he is safe. If he were to remain in the church all day, he might fall and harm himself.’

‘You are a good man, my friend,’ Friar John said. ‘And now, if you do not mind, I think I should seek out the tavern — not to preach, but to beg a little bread.’

‘Brother, if I had anything with me, I would …’

The friar held up his hand. ‘Friend, please. I would not impose further upon you. No, I shall go to the tavern. No doubt they earn enough to subsidise a poor wanderer without harming their own pockets! Where is this place?’

Humphrey gave brief directions, and then smiled and nodded as the man carried on his way towards the vill of Monkleigh. He watched until the friar had disappeared round the bend in the road and was hidden by the trees.

‘Some wandering preacher?’

Humphrey felt the breath catch in his throat, and he spun on his heel, his heart thundering. ‘Pagan! In God’s name, man, where did you come from?’

‘I was going to the inn to buy a barrel of ale. Why?’

‘You half emasculated me, man! Walking up behind a fellow like that …’

‘What did he want?’

‘Permission to preach. Nothing more.’

‘You should be wary of such men. No good comes of having those preachers wandering about the place,’ Pagan said.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘When I was young, they found a friar who’d killed a young boy. He claimed the protection of the Church, of course, but we all knew what he’d done.’

‘I hadn’t heard of that,’ Humphrey said.

‘Before your time. If you have a man like that about the place, there’s no telling what might happen.’

‘It can scarcely be worse than it already is,’ Humphrey said. ‘Had you not heard about that poor man up east of Iddesleigh, with his wife and child?’

‘I’d heard. And there is still Lady Lucy of Meeth. No one knows where she is.’

‘So one friar can hardly do much harm,’ Humphrey said.

‘A friar can always cause more harm,’ Pagan said, and he looked at Humphrey with what appeared to be a cold challenge in his eyes that made Humphrey feel quite chilled. ‘I would have thought you’d know that.’

Late that night Perkin and Beorn met at Guy’s house.

The weather was bitter, and all three were glad of the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. They squatted on their haunches, holding their hands to the flames. Today they had been working on the manor’s land, and all were desperate for refreshment.

Guy was married with four children. He had been lucky, and ever since the famine he had waxed wealthy. His strips produced a good crop each year, and so far he had been able to feed all his family without too much difficulty. Last week his wife had brewed a fresh barrel of ale, and the others were here to test its quality. It was commonly agreed that Anne was one of the best alewives in the county, so all three of the men were keenly looking forward to sampling her brew.

Perkin took a long pull from his mug. The house was very crowded, with Guy’s wife and children all asleep on the low bed in the corner, while smoke billowed from the central hearth. There was a table, with one low bench running down one side, and a stool for Anne. Apart from that, the living space was filled with the assorted rubbish that houses full of children tended to gather: a rude hobbyhorse, dolls made of straw and clothed in scraps, sticks with cross-guards tied in place in imitation of swords, a single small chest with clothes piled on top to save them falling on the damp floor. A vast black cauldron sat nearby, with all the house’s plates and wooden spoons protruding from it.

It was small, crowded, and none the worse for that. From here, Perkin knew that his friend could sit and view his wife and children as well as the ox that stood quietly in the far end of the place snuffling at a pile of hay. It was good that a man could contemplate his life.

There was a price to be paid for sitting here and drinking a man’s ale. Both the visitors had their knives out and were whittling busily at the bits and pieces of wood Guy had given them. He had need of more spoons for his children, and it was common for men like them to carve as they chatted. There was always a need for a new spoon, a trencher, or a cup, and while the women spun wool their men might as well work too.

‘What did you make of the coroner?’ Perkin asked Guy.

‘A knight. What else?’

Beorn snorted. ‘A friend of our master, I reckon.’

‘Sir Geoffrey? Why say that?’

‘Didn’t you see the long streak of piss who wanted to talk to him after the inquest?’ Beorn demanded.

Perkin’s ears pricked up. ‘I saw him, but didn’t know him. Who was he?’

‘Adam, our new sergeant, although he’s always called Adcock, apparently. He went up to the coroner and asked him to go to the big house.’

‘You think the master’s got an idea about Ailward’s death?’ Guy asked anxiously.

‘The coroner said it was someone else, not us. That’s enough for everyone,’ Perkin said firmly. ‘The master won’t want to have a load of accusations flying around here disrupting things. His job is purely to take money from us. He can’t do that if we’re in gaol.’

Beorn shot him a sidelong look, but said nothing.

Guy frowned, then looked down at the spoon he was carving. ‘What of the poor devil up the way?’

They all knew whom he meant. There had been little else discussed in the vill since it had learned of the attack up in Iddesleigh. A whole family wiped out.