Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

‘No. No one.’

‘Man, that’s foolish. I have to fetch a priest, maybe, or a leech. You aren’t well. I’m sure you need a bleeding.’

That was when the injured man had reached up and grabbed his robe with a fist that shook as though the fellow had the ague. ‘No one! They’ll kill me too!’

‘Who will? Who did this?’

But the man had used his grip on John’s robe to pull himself up, and he had no energy, seemingly, to speak further. Instead all his will and energy was devoted to hobbling along on John’s arm towards the lane, where he stooped and picked up a billhook and an axe. He thrust both into his broad leather belt, then stumbled and all but collapsed. John helped him up.

There had been few times in his life when he had seen a man so badly in need of aid. From his crabbed gait it was clear that he was in pain from a number of wounds, although mercifully there appeared to be little blood. What there was seemed to be on his back, but the man wouldn’t allow John to look at it. ‘Later. Got to get away from here.’

His right leg was giving him trouble, but he still half hopped, half staggered along, clinging on to John with the desperation of a man, so John thought at the time, who was petrified with fear for his life. That was the only reason why John had helped him, really, and why he’d agreed not to call for the hue and cry or the local bailiff. He reasoned that if the man was so shocked and scared, it would be cruel to force him to go to speak to the law officers. Better, perhaps, to take him somewhere where he might recover himself. John himself could speak to the officers later, when this man was settled.

‘Can’t stay Iddesleigh.’

It wasn’t a statement that invited debate. John could understand why, of course. If the man thought that his attackers were from that vill, he’d be unlikely to trust to folks there to look after him. ‘What of Monkleigh?’

‘No! Can’t … can’t stay near here. I’ve got to get away.’

‘Man, you are not going to travel far with that leg,’ John said reasonably.

‘Hugh.’

‘What?’

‘My name: it’s Hugh.’ The man turned and looked at him, and although it wasn’t quite madness, there was a terrible purpose in his eyes now which shone through them even here in the darkness. ‘I’ll travel as far as I need, Friar.’

‘I don’t blame you. I’d want to run away too, but …’

Hugh turned and gave him a stare from feverish, maddened eyes. ‘I’m not running away. I need to get better so I can find them.’

Pagan walked into the chapel and knelt at the altar. It was chill in there, and the tiled floor was uncomfortable, but he was used to it. He’d been coming here to pray all his life, and he tried to do so every day, although he treated the Sunday Mass with a special reverence.

He had never understood the way of so many people today. They all hurried from one place to another and paid little attention to their souls. Even Sundays, which should have been days of rest, were treated with … flexibility. The priest himself, old Isaac, had often told them that God wouldn’t mind them hurrying to fetch in the harvest before church, provided they all listened to the service and didn’t doze.

So many of them seemed to think that the chapel was a quiet refuge from nagging wives or the troubles of the manor, where they could forget all their worries for a little while. It shouldn’t be like that. God expected more from his people, surely.

Pagan himself liked to pray for the men he had known. There were so many who had died in the famine eight years ago, and then there were the masters he had loved. He liked to pray for them all.

It was while his rosary was slipping through his fingers and he was saying some words for poor Ailward that he heard the door rattling. He finished his prayers and made the sign of the cross. As soon as he stood, the old priest chuckled drily.

‘So, you young reprobate. You’ve been misbehaving again, have you?’

‘No, Father. But I like to come and pray. You know that.’

‘Pagan, you pray more than most others in here. It is good to see you. When I think of the godless, murderous sons of whores at Monkleigh, I could burst with anger. Your penitence is an example.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘I will be dead soon. You know that?’

‘You have many years …’

‘No, I’ll soon be dead. And when I am, the lad will be in charge.’

‘Your coadjutor?’

‘Humphrey.’ The rheumy old eyes took in Pagan for a moment. ‘The lad will need help; protection. You help him. He will think he’s not good enough. God knows, he might even try to run away. Stop him. Keep him here. He has a good heart, I am sure of it. He may even come to realise it himself, given time.’

Pagan frowned at him with confusion. ‘What do you mean? He’s a priest, isn’t he? Why would he run away from his people?’

‘Because not all men are what they seem, Pagan. Sometimes a man may be in a job which he’s not supposed to have. But he’ll make a good priest. Don’t worry about that. You just look after him. I won’t be able to for much longer.’

On the second day, the Monday, when Hugh was less stiff and more able to make the distance, John woke him at dusk and the pair of them crossed the river to the woods at the other side, and up the lane to a ruined cottage John knew of: a shod friar and the man he’d rescued. Sitting in the ruins of an old house, with a fire that was smoking more than John liked, at least the two of them were warm enough.

Hugh was in a dreadful state. He was pale and in much pain. His face was twisted with it, and with his terrible desire for vengeance on the men who had destroyed his life. He wanted them to die. All the time he slept, his hands gripped his weapons, and his features moved alarmingly as he ground his teeth, whispered sweet words as though to his wife, and then shrieked with horror and rage … Still, the wound in his back appeared not to be serious, which was a relief. It was only shallow, a blow struck by a man standing above him, thrusting down. His blade had caught a rib and glanced off it, saving Hugh’s life. It took away a flap of skin, but that was all. There was some weeping now, but no pus.

John wiped his face with his eyes closed. It was impossible to rest just now with Hugh requiring all his attention during the day, and then crying out and weeping at night. John could not take his ease, and it was impossible to ask anyone else to come to help him. Hugh had begged him to send a messenger to his master’s friend at some place called Furnshill, and it was sheer good fortune that he had found a stableboy from Exbourne who was leading a horse back to his inn after a guest had borrowed it. John had promised him a reward once he had delivered the message. The fact that he was not from Iddesleigh or Monkleigh was a reassurance. Someone from the locality might have gone straight to the men who had tried to kill Hugh.

It was hard to concentrate now, though. So much despair, so much fear. And John knew the same terrors. He could understand how desolate Hugh must feel, having lost his family. After all, a friar gave up his own relatives when he joined the convent. John himself only had the one member of his family left now, and it was years since he’d seen her. In fact he was quite scared at the thought of ever meeting her again. She’d probably give him hell for his behaviour in the past. Always convinced of being right, she was a hard woman to argue with. Still, her husband was a good man, and perhaps he would have worn off some of the rougher parts of her nature. Who could tell? She might even be a mother.

He shook his head and smiled. It would be good to see her again.