Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

Beorn scowled at the fire. ‘Who’d have done a thing like that? It looked like a bunch of felons.’

‘We know who was out that day, though, don’t we?’ Perkin said in a low voice, glancing over his shoulder to see that the children and Anne weren’t listening.

Guy glared at him. ‘I won’t have that sort of talk in my house, Perkin.’

‘You can try to ignore it if you want, but it’s not going to help when Sir Odo comes to defend his own, is it?’ Perkin hissed.

‘He won’t dare,’ Beorn said confidently. ‘What could he do? Raid and kill a few men from Sir Geoffrey’s household? The retribution would be terrible.’

‘Sir Odo has the reputation of being a strong, fierce warrior,’ Guy said.

‘Aye,’ Perkin said. ‘And I think he’d spit in Sir Geoffrey’s eye for a penny. This will leave him sore, you mark my words. You can’t attack a peasant in another manor without the lord coming for compensation.’

‘If he had proof, you’d be right,’ Beorn said, ‘but I’d bet a sack of oats that there’s no one will own to seeing Sir Geoffrey’s men, and that any man who tried to take a matter like this to court would soon find himself out of pocket, and without his lands either.’

‘A whole family,’ Perkin said, shaking his head. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Guy’s sleeping children. The sight was warming, and the idea that a lord could decide to wipe them out was terrifying. ‘Why’d he want to hurt them, anyway? They hadn’t been here that long.’

‘I heard that the woman was a nun who’d left her convent,’ Beorn said. ‘Good-looking wench.’

‘They had a little boy.’ Perkin had seen the lad once. He didn’t often have need to go so far as Iddesleigh, but he’d once had to walk up past it, and he could vaguely recall a tall, elegant fair woman, with a little boy on her hip.

Guy shook his head. ‘What could they have done to deserve an attack like that?’

It was Beorn who sighed and shook his head. ‘Whatever it was, it’s probably died with them.’

‘I saw Pagan earlier today,’ Guy said slowly. ‘He said that there was a stranger in the area. A friar.’

Perkin glanced up at him. ‘So? You don’t say a friar could have done that to the family?’

‘There are always stories … She was good looking.’

‘Yes, there are always stories,’ Perkin scoffed. ‘And there is silliness wherever you look. But that man’s family was wiped out in the same evening that Robert Crokers was forced from his home. And you know as well as I do that Sir Geoffrey has looked with interest at all the lands this side of the river. How better to leave a message about his intentions than an attack on a defenceless family?’

Beorn shook his head as he held up his spoon and studied it critically. ‘I wonder what did happen to that poor woman from Meeth?’

‘I suppose she’ll be found someday soon,’ Guy said. ‘At least she wasn’t one of our own born down here.’

Perkin sighed. ‘She was a widow. No one to defend her. And her lands must be as attractive as any other to Sir Geoffrey.’

It was no more than the truth. Women were rarely taken and killed here, but it wasn’t unknown. To think that a widow like her could be kidnapped and killed was awful, though. Perkin only hoped she had died before she could suffer too much. ‘I dare say we’ll soon find her, Guy, just as you say.’

Sir Geoffrey was in his hall.

This was a good place to live. In his youth, Sir Geoffrey had been an unknown knight in Gascony, and when he had won his spurs he left his home to seek his fortune. Travelling all over Christendom with a lance and the determination to make himself a name, he had won fabulous sums at tournaments, eventually finishing up at a tourney in Fontevrault in Anjou. It was a quiet affair. The French king of the time, Philip IV, felt less strong than he should and wanted to prevent any gatherings of armed men on his lands, and had decided to ban all tournaments from his domain. Of course the County of Anjou was not a part of the royal demesne, but it was felt better not to advertise the tournament too widely at the time. The count didn’t want to antagonise the king — but he did wish to celebrate the knighting of his eldest son, so he would have a tournament.

Only a select number of knights were invited to participate, and Geoffrey felt certain that he would be able to make enough money at this last bout to retire. In the year of our Lord 1297, it was time he stopped his idle ramblings about the countryside, and found himself a place he could call his own. Perhaps he could go on pilgrimage with the Teutonic Knights and see what the lands were like in the heathen country they were suppressing? With a good purse earned from this last fight, he could perhaps buy a small castle — or take one, if he could form a small force. Capturing a small town or castle was always a good way to enter the nobility.

So he had gone to the tournament, had wagered heavily on himself, and had lost all his money when he was unhorsed and ransomed by the sniggering Count of Blois. Reptilian man. He’d been lucky: Geoffrey’s horse had stumbled on a molehill or something as he went into the gallop, and that little misstep had made the beast slow, turn his head and stamp before Geoffrey could take control, and in that time the count had covered the distance between them. To Geoffrey’s horror, he saw the lance almost on him, and before he could move his horse plunged once, and the lance caught him on the breast. His cantle broke, and he was pitched over his mount’s rump to land, winded, on his back.

As quickly as he could, he rolled over on to all fours and stood, but even as he did so, a ringing crash on his helm sent him headlong. This time there was no mistake. The count had his sword at Geoffrey’s visor, and it was all over: his successes were set at nought.

And yet there had been one good piece of fortune that day. Unknown to him, there had been another knight present at the tourney, a tall, well-formed man: Hugh Despenser. To Geoffrey’s relief, Despenser had ransomed him, returned his arms and mount, and offered him a place in his household.

That was long ago, of course. Long before his son grew powerful in the king’s favours — and, most guessed, in his arms, too — and long before Hugh Despenser the elder became the Earl of Winchester.

Geoffrey preferred the old Hugh, the man to whom he had been so indebted on that sunny afternoon in Anjou. Immediately, his life had changed, and now he felt it was all for the better. He had been reduced to penury, dependent upon another once more, and all dreams of finding a small town, sacking it and living in the castle were gone, to be replaced by a post as an effective steward in a vill down here in Devon.

First Despenser had taken him with him on the campaign to Flanders with the English king’s host. That pointless failure did the king no good, but Geoffrey managed to capture two burgesses and ransom them for a goodly sum, and soon he was a man of some wealth once more.

Many would have thought it odd that one who had aspired to own his own castle should have been content to remain in my Lord Despenser’s household. Geoffrey did not care what they thought. He had a warm hall, comfortable clothes, rich tapestries, new tunics every summer and winter, and the life of a minor noble. All without risk. He was happy with that. He had everything he needed from life.

His new sergeant entered, and Geoffrey looked up at him. ‘So, Adcock. Are you hungry? I’m about to eat.’

‘I think it’s a little late to eat now,’ Adcock said with a quick look about him.

It was just as though he feared to be attacked in such a den of thieves, Geoffrey thought, and he felt a rush of anger against the man. These were his men, and some piss-legged sergeant like this had no right to look down on them. ‘Sit here with me. This is the time I learned to eat when I was fighting with the last king, God bless his memory, and what’s good for a king can’t be bad for a sergeant, can it? Sit here.’