Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

But the man who had brought about all the expansion was now plainly suffering and Simon had a chill sensation in his bowels. He had known Abbot Robert for many years, and in all that time he’d never seen him with more than a minor cold. A man like him, keen on hunting, on wines, and most of all on ensuring that he left a lasting legacy, had always seemed a force that could not be removed. He was too virile and potent to be deposed, and yet, looking at him now, Simon was struck by the thought that his old master, his old friend, was suddenly frail.

‘Abbot?’

‘Sit, Simon, sit. I am as you see me — an all but broken reed.’

‘But you will recover,’ Simon said heartily.

The abbot looked up from red-rimmed eyes. ‘Perhaps. But for my money, I’d not put too large a wager on it. It is good, Simon. I don’t fear death. I know I can go to God with a clear conscience and my heart rejoices to think that at last I shall have an opportunity to lay down my burden — and I pray I might meet Jesus. It will be good to give up the responsibility for this place, for the abbey and the town.’

Simon had a little business to conduct, but when he hesitantly mentioned it, the abbot waved a hand in an exhausted gesture. ‘Simon, save it for the steward. He can help you. For now, tell me, how is your family?’

‘My daughter grows ever taller and more beautiful,’ Simon said, ‘and my little boy, Peterkin, wants to come to Dartmouth as soon as possible to play on the ships. I won’t let him. If he ever joined me there, he’d be on to a ship in a moment, and I’d not see him. Knowing him, he’d stay stowed and no one the wiser until he got to a foreign port. He hankers after distant countries and the idea of travel. He’s still jealous that I went on pilgrimage last year.’

‘So am I,’ Abbot Robert said quietly. He coughed painfully, then sipped wine. ‘This cold weather is going to take me away, I fear, but I should have liked to see Compostela. It is supposed to be very beautiful.’

He had turned away from Simon, and Simon saw that his gaze was gone to the window that looked out over the river and the bank on the far side. In the past, Simon had stood in this room discussing business, and the abbot had all too often been hard pressed to keep his mind on their discussions, for his attention would fly off to the window whenever there was a flash of russet in the trees that spoke of a deer coming for water. The abbot was an inveterate hunter, and prized his horses and his raches as among his most valued possessions. Now his mournful expression resembled that of one of his mastiffs.

‘You will hunt again, Abbot,’ Simon said softly.

‘No, friend Simon. I fear I shall not,’ the abbot sighed. He looked up at Simon and smiled. ‘It is as I said, I long to set down my burden. I meant it. You go and see your wife, man. You don’t want to be here in a dying man’s room. Go and see your family, but come by here on your way back in case there is anything we need to discuss.’

‘I shall,’ Simon promised. He stood, but only reluctantly. This man had been good to him for so many years that leaving him today was a wrench.

He walked to the door and glanced back. The abbot was slouching in his chair again, his eyes on the fire. To Simon, he looked like someone who was already dead.

Robert Crokers heard the sound from a distance as he stood in the trees.

With no logs, he had to shift each morning to prepare enough timber for his fire, and it was fortunate that this piece of land had not been worked by the coppicers for some little while. He could collect plenty of sticks and thicker twigs to form faggots, and bind them with some old straw twisted to make a twine. He’d need a lot of them: bundles like that burned through in no time compared with a couple of good logs, but when he’d collected a few to be going on with he’d be able to start cutting up some old trunks that had lain on the ground since last winter. They’d not be perfect, not like the logs he had stored in his pile, but they’d do for now, and later he could organise himself to start a new pile.

He was exhausted. Worry about his bitch and what could have happened to her tore at him. She had been his only friend for so long. And then there was the jumpiness that came to a man who had only a few days before been thrown from his land by violence. There was a cloying odour of burnt wood and tar that stuck in his nostrils and prevented easeful rest.

Sir Odo’s man Walter was still with him, to be at hand in case of further incursions, and last night their slumbers had been disturbed when the two of them had finally managed to drop off. In the middle of the night there had been a dreadful roaring noise and both men had leaped to their feet, convinced that the attackers had returned.

‘Bastards!’ the old warrior spat. He grabbed his sword, and was out through the door like a rache seeing a rabbit. Robert fully expected to hear screams and shouts, but he only hesitated a moment before he took up his billhook and ran out.

There was nothing there. Walter stood with his sword in his hand, head lowered as he scowled around him at the woods, but even as Robert arrived behind him he could see that no one had come to attack them.

‘Where are they?’ Robert asked anxiously.

‘Don’t know,’ Walter said. He stood upright, shoved his sword into the scabbard and thrust his thumbs in his belt. ‘Probably in their beds, if they have any sense. Must have been something else we heard. It came from the end, didn’t it?’

He led the way round the corner of the house and the two of them could see what had made the noise as soon as they spotted the avalanche of dried mud and straw that had tipped on to the soil.

‘I wonder if the rest of the building is safe?’ Robert said.

Walter looked at him, then grunted to himself. ‘I don’t know, but I do know it’s warmer in there than out here.’

Recalling that, he could smile again now, but the idea that the house might collapse was a source of fresh fear to Robert. Where the wall had fallen was directly beneath one of the roof supports, and he had the unpleasant feeling that others were probably as unstable. Walter said he’d seen similar damage before, and that it had been cured by putting a plank underneath the roof supports at the top of the walls. Perhaps that would work — but it was a daunting idea, lifting the roof enough to push planks under.

He was still mulling over the easiest way to do it when he heard the low whine. It was a hideous sound, and he felt the hairs on his upper neck start to shiver to attention. He was bent at that moment, reaching down for a longer length of branch, and he stopped what he was doing as the terror of all things with fangs and claws returned to haunt him. As a little boy he had regularly suffered from mares, and each time it was the same: a wolf, ravening, drooling at the sight of such an easy meal. Even now he thought he could hear the soft padding of paws as it approached him.

With a whimper of fear, he snatched up the branch and whirled.

Only to see his sheepdog, greatly swollen with puppies, stagger towards him and lie down painfully at his feet.

Adcock was awake early the next day, and as he prepared himself for an expedition over to the eastern edge of the manor to look at the pastures and assess their quality, he could hear bellowing from inside as Sir Geoffrey readied himself for his ride. It served to make the sergeant’s desire to leave the place all the more urgent, hearing that hoarse shouting.

He was still shocked at the way the messenger had appeared yesterday. He’d entered haughtily proud, walking straight down the hall, round the fire, until he stood in front of Sir Geoffrey. All the while Sir Geoffrey sat with a shoulder of mutton in his hands, tearing at it with his small, square teeth until only the bone remained. This he held in his hand and studied. Meanwhile the other men in the hall were laughing and calling the messenger names. At first they had been quiet, but as they grew in belligerence some started to shout obscene suggestions at the man, one even throwing a piece of food at him.