Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

And finally there was the attack on his neighbour’s sergeant.

It was wrong; to set upon a neighbour in his own house on his own land struck at the heart of all Adcock believed. To him it seemed clear that it was a matter of simple blackmail — if you don’t pay me, I’ll come and burn your house again. And it was that which persuaded him of the sort of manor into which he had arrived.

If he was to be sergeant in a manor that was little better than a den of thieves and rogues, at least he would do his own duty well, though. Which was why he was pleased to see that the bog was draining nicely. Hopefully before long it would be empty and he could show how more land could be cleared for use.

But now, as he rolled over in his bed, he could hear more muttered orders and a clanking of metal. There was a rattle as steel was dropped, and a hissed curse against the offender, and then he heard clattering hooves and the noise of men mounting and riding off.

And at that sound, he closed his eyes tight shut and prayed that, whomsoever they were seeking, they might miss him.

Baldwin woke to find the morning overcast and grim. He rose quietly, leaving his wife in the small bed, and pulled a linen shirt over his nakedness as protection against the cold.

The inn was a pleasing house, with one large communal room for travellers, and this smaller chamber up some stairs to keep it farther away from the damp floor. It had the disadvantage that smoke from the fire would rise into it, but there was the huge advantage, so far as Baldwin was concerned, that there was no space for Emma. She had slept downstairs with the others in the communal room.

Downstairs, Baldwin asked a maid for some fresh water to drink, because when he had lived as a warrior monk he had chosen a frugal life. The expression on her face told him that this was forlorn hope, though, and he sighed and reluctantly asked for a weak ale — and a word with her master.

The owner was soon with him: a smiling, friendly man with the large build of a Devon farmer and a round, cheerful face. ‘Just back from the pasture,’ he commented, wiping his hands on his towel. ‘It’s thirsty work, too. How can I serve you, master?’

Baldwin motioned towards his barrel. ‘Would you join me in a drink?’

‘I’d be glad to.’

‘Your name?’

‘Jankin, sir. From Exbourne. I took over this place when my wife’s father died, and have lived here ever since. It’s a good vill.’

‘I am known as Sir Baldwin, I am Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I have been called here because of the murders.’

Jankin’s face grew blank. ‘It was a terrible thing, sir. All of them dead like that. But what makes you say it was murder?’

‘It was what I was told — that the family was murdered.’

‘I don’t know where that came from, sir,’ Jankin said. ‘Here everyone said it was an accident.’

There was a stolid certainty about his tone, but Baldwin saw something else in his eyes: a blankness, as though there was more to the story.

‘When did it happen?’ Baldwin asked, toying with a coin.

‘There’s no need for that, sir. You’re paying here already. Put your money away. Let’s see. I think it was about five days ago now. He used to live only a short way up from here, just round the corner of the hill, maybe a quarter-mile off. Him and his wife and their boy. Lovely family, they were …’ Jankin’s expression altered subtly. ‘Well, the woman and the little boy were. The man, Hugh, he was a little more — reserved, you might say.’

Baldwin smiled. ‘You mean he was a taciturn old devil?’

‘You could put it like that,’ Jankin agreed happily. ‘God forbid that I should speak ill of a dead man,’ he added, hastily making a rudimentary sign of the cross. ‘Still, he was an old-fashioned moorman as far as I could see. A fair man, good with his hands, and if he gave his word he’d stick to it.’

‘Has the coroner been to hold his inquest?’

Jankin studied his ale. ‘A coroner did come up here.’

‘That’s not quite what I asked.’

‘He did come and hold an inquest.’

There was a reservation there as well, Baldwin noticed, but rather than make an enemy of the man he changed the subject. ‘Who found them?’

Jankin shook his head. ‘That’s the terrible thing, master. They were killed one day, but no one realised until the next morning. A passing labourer came and raised the alarm, but by then it was too late to help any of them. All were dead.’

‘So this fire happened in the middle of the night?’

‘I suppose so. A dreadful accident.’

‘Unless it was an attack from a fighting force. And it must have been quite a force to subdue Hugh,’ Baldwin mused. ‘If I knew him, he wouldn’t succumb to any man easily — most especially if the attacker threatened his woman.’

‘I think you’re right there,’ Jankin agreed. ‘You knew him, then?’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said absently. ‘But nobody heard men passing by here? Did they come from the other direction?’

‘Master, it was agreed that it was an accident. A tallow taper, perhaps, which fell on their floor rushes. I doubt we’ll ever know precisely,’ Jankin said, and looked down again.

‘If there had been an attack, you would have heard men passing by?’ Baldwin pressed.

Jankin pulled a doubtful grimace. ‘We had a lot of men in here that day, for it was a little celebration. It was the feast of St Matthias the Apostle, and because we have a fellow in the vill who was named for the saint, we always have a party here. The folk here like to celebrate, and it ended late.’

‘So if there had been a party of men …?’

‘No one would have heard. Not if it was a squadron of the king’s knights with all their squires and archers.’

‘You say it ended late?’

‘Well after the sun was down — but at this time of year there’s so little daylight, almost everything is done in darkness, isn’t it?’

‘Especially murder,’ Baldwin muttered.

‘I am afraid so. There’s nothing a murderer likes so much as darkness to cover his deeds.’

‘Why should someone attack and kill Hugh, though? He was scarcely a powerful, dangerous man, was he?’

‘No,’ Jankin admitted. ‘Perhaps that was why it was thought to be an accident.’

‘Could you imagine men at arms attacking him?’

Jankin was perplexed, and again Baldwin saw he avoided his eye. ‘I have thought about that myself.’

‘Do you think someone could have desired his woman and she rejected his advances?’

‘If a man did that, he’d have carried her off like …’

‘Yes?’

Jankin gazed back at him. ‘I do not want trouble, master. You are a rich and strong man, with men to guard you, I dare say. Me? I’m a farmer who scrapes a living, and I have some money come in from running this place. My wife brews a few gallons of ale a week and I sell it for ready cash. We don’t make a huge profit, but we stagger on. I don’t want to be murdered for talking too much.’

‘Friend Jankin, you are helping me to understand what has been happening here, and I swear to you now that if any man comes to threaten you, he will have to answer to me directly. I will have men set here to guard you if need be. However, for now, anything you tell me I shall keep entirely to myself until I can assess how you can be protected.’

‘Master, that’s no security! How long could you have a force remain here to look after me and my wife? Five days? Six? A fortnight? What of the wealthy men who live here and would like to destroy me as they’d squash a fly that sat on their bread at mealtime? They’ll still be here in a year, in five years, and they can take their time with me.’