Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

At last Geoffrey had stood and lifted his hand. ‘Will you all be silent, please, for our guest?’ he cried with mock seriousness. ‘This poor fellow has ridden many miles to be with us tonight. He is tired. Would you like some wine, fellow?’

‘I am well enough, Sir Geoffrey. I have a message for you from Sir Odo.’

‘Oho! Have you!’ a man shouted from a bench. Adcock glanced up. It was Nick le Poter again. Always trying to foment trouble, Nick was. He scared Adcock, because he was the sort of man who might kill to settle a dispute, and he was undeniably ambitious. He wanted power for himself here in the manor, and if he ever took over from Sir Geoffrey the whole place would grow even worse, as far as Adcock could see. He only seemed to understand brute force and bullying, nothing else.

Geoffrey leaned slightly to get a clearer view of the man who had called out. He pointed with his chin, and Adcock saw two men from the doorway nod. They walked towards Nick.

‘Well, sir? What message does Sir Odo wish me to receive?’

‘He sends you his best wishes. He heard that you enjoyed your ride on Saturday, and hopes you enjoyed the hospitality of his manor, but would remind you that it is the custom of visitors and guests to leave a room in the manner in which they found it. He is disturbed that you appear to have broken down the walls, slaughtered cattle and sheep, and threatened the bailiff. He would like you to make restitution. Naturally, he would like an apology too. He will inform Sir John Sully of the offence given to his estates, and will appeal to Lord de Courtenay for support if necessary.’

‘He will, will he?’ Sir Geoffrey chuckled. Then he glanced to the side.

The man who had shouted abuse was gripped by the two men now, one at each arm. Sir Geoffrey nodded to him. ‘Lordings, this fellow was rude to our guest. We can’t have that, now can we? How should we punish him?’

Adcock frowned. This was peculiar behaviour even from the little he had seen of Sir Geoffrey. The man, Nick, now held by the two guards, suddenly gave a convulsive heave, and managed to throw off one of them, but in a moment he was grabbed again, and he could only stand mouthing futile imprecations while others gloated and laughed at his predicament.

‘What will we do with him?’ Sir Geoffrey asked again. ‘Well, if no one else will help me, I’ll have to think of a suitable punishment myself. You! Fetch me a lash.’

At his command, a fellow from the far table hurried from the room, returning a few moments later with a thin lash. Sir Geoffrey took it and swung it a few times, listening to its sharp hissing. ‘I don’t want my men being disobedient,’ he said lazily, and then walked to the culprit. ‘What exactly did you say again?’

Nick said nothing, but only spat on the ground between them. Sir Geoffrey said not a word, but his face paled with rage. He nodded to the two guards, and the unwilling victim was taken to the top table. While Adcock watched in horror, the man was thrust over the board in front of him, scattering bowls and trenchers, until his bearded face was a scant foot from his own. The guards sprang over the table, still holding his arms, and stood gripping his wrists, pulling his arms outstretched. Sir Geoffrey drew his dagger and ran it up Nick’s shirt from his arse to his neck, incidentally snagging the man’s back a couple of times, and pulled the shirt from him.

He looked straight at Adcock as he pronounced, ‘I will not tolerate disobedience in my manor. Not from any man.’ And then he began to whip the fellow’s back until it was raw with blood.

Simon had reached his home before the third hour of the morning, and he clattered loudly down the roadway to his house at an easy walk, anticipating his breakfast.

It was always good to ride along the ridge here towards Lydford in good, clear weather. The little town had been a centre of tin-mining for many years, since before the Normans arrived even. The old houses could most of them do with being knocked down and rebuilt, but for Simon there was some charm in the fact that this old outpost seemed to be unchanging. It was a part of the delight of the place.

His house was towards the town’s heart, not far from the prison that had been his place of work for so long. He meandered along the road, and then stopped outside the long Devon house that had been his home since he’d been given the job here eight years ago.

Little around here had altered greatly in those eight years. They were lucky indeed that the wars that had so scarred the kingdom had not reached this far west. The fighting had all been on the Welsh March, or farther north at York, Boroughbridge and beyond. There the slaughter had been terrible after the Scottish invasions, so he’d heard.

Here, though, life had continued as it had for decades. His house stood solid and comforting, and beyond it, in the clear morning’s air, he could see for miles to the north-west, over sporadic grey wastes of low-lying mist. He swung from his horse and led it round to the back of the house, removing the saddle and bridle himself before slapping the beast on the rump to send him running. Before long the rounsey was pulling at the grasses and chewing contentedly as though he’d never left this place.

Simon left him there and made his way inside. The ceiling was low and he had to stoop as he entered. He met a serving-girl, who gaped to see him. Winking at her he pointed upwards, and she nodded emphatically, so he stepped quietly to the stairs and mounted them as quietly as he might.

In the solar upstairs, he could see that his daughter was still asleep, while his wife was kneeling with her back to him, playing with his young son. Simon stood a moment staring at them, his heart feeling as though it had swollen to twice its normal size. Peterkin was growing so quickly now, Simon felt as though he was missing too much that was important. But there was little to be done about it. He had to work.

‘Dadad!’

He saw his wife’s startled expression as Peterkin ran past her and into Simon’s arms, and then she was with him too, her mouth on his.

‘You have a strange idea of a place to meet,’ Sir Geoffrey said as he kicked his mount forward. ‘This is too much in the open.’

‘It was hard to pick somewhere in a hurry, sir,’ Sir Odo said calmly.

The two were at the bend in the Torridge river just below Brimblecombe. Neither was in a position to entirely trust the other, and both remained on their horses, speaking low and quiet.

Sir Odo glanced about him as he asked, ‘You came alone?’

‘Of course! You think I want others to know we discuss things like this?’ Sir Geoffrey snapped.

Sir Odo considered him. ‘It’s as dangerous for me as it is for you, Sir Geoffrey. I can’t afford for my master to know that I’m here any more than you can.’

‘Then let’s stop pissing in the wind and get to business!’ Sir Geoffrey retorted.

‘Very well. The attacks must stop. It’s getting out of control. It’s one thing to burn the bailiff from his place, but the killings up at Iddesleigh won’t be so easy to cover over.’

‘Very funny.’

‘What?’

Sir Geoffrey said nothing for a moment. His eyes narrowed, and his face coloured, and then he faced the other knight. ‘Is that a joke? If it is, I think it’s in poor taste.’

‘Those were your men, weren’t they? It’s the talk of the whole area. The man and his woman and child, so I heard. All murdered, their holding burned, the livestock stolen … everyone is saying it was you and your men, that you rode to Iddesleigh immediately after the work you did to Robert’s place. Do you mean it wasn’t you?’

‘What possible interest could I have had in attacking some peasant in his dwelling?’ Sir Geoffrey tore his gaze away from Sir Odo, and he stared along the line of the river northwards. ‘I assumed it was you and your men.’