Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

Ailward had been murdered, though. There was blood all over him from the smashed skull, and Perkin reckoned that although the coroner had registered the stab wound on the naked body as they rolled it about in front of him, so that the jury could see it and agree with his findings, it was the ruin of his head that killed him. The stab came later, to make sure of him. Perkin had an idea that a man like that suspicious son of a Barnstaple whore wouldn’t have let anyone attack him from in front. Only someone behind him could kill him, so his attacker had perhaps beaten him with a club, or perhaps a rock?

Perkin stood up suddenly, scowling ferociously as he considered this new possibility.

‘You are doing well,’ Adcock commented. He had drawn level with Perkin as the peasant had mused on the murder, and now he stood at his side and peered down into the channel cut from the stream towards the roadway and the bog beyond. ‘With luck it will not take long now.’

‘No, master,’ Perkin muttered.

Adcock glanced at him. ‘Perkin, I don’t … I am not here as a lord or something, to make your life harsh. All I want is to make this estate work well for all of us. And then we’ll have a good surplus, I hope, and no one will go hungry.’

‘Good.’

‘But you don’t trust me?’

‘It’s not that. I’m just thinking of that inquest. It seemed odd that the coroner should be asked to come back here.’

Adcock reddened. ‘I think it was just coincidence.’

‘What was?’

‘That the coroner was another knight of our master, Lord Despenser.’

Perkin was watching his face, and as Adcock spoke he realised what the man was implying. The Despensers were taking an interest in the murder of their sergeant, which was natural, but perhaps it meant the findings weren’t entirely unbiased. And then there was the other matter …

‘Did the coroner go to the other murders?’ he asked casually.

‘I believe he did,’ Adcock said, as calmly. ‘But I do not think he had much time to spend there.’

‘That would be no surprise — he was here for an age, eating and drinking with Sir Geoffrey,’ Perkin guessed.

Adcock was suddenly nervous. This peasant was too knowing for his comfort. He hated his own suspicions: that the coroner had been called here to leave Ailward’s death open, that he’d been bribed not to rock Sir Geoffrey’s boat. Adcock had heard Sir Geoffrey and the coroner talk quietly about Iddesleigh and the murdered family up there, and later, as the coroner was leaving, Adcock saw a little purse pass between them. It could only mean that Sir Geoffrey wanted the murders covered up, and that he was paying to protect his own men — or himself.

It was a foul reflection. To live in a manor where he suspected his own master of murders was appalling. As it was, he daren’t even think of bringing his woman within miles of the place in case she was raped.

He nodded harshly, staring back at the bog. It would not be long before the workers had cut the channel far enough. And then they would see the water gushing from the mire to the stream and away. Better to concentrate on that, on his work, than on his new position and the fears that were drowning his senses.

There were other tasks for him, though. He had seen that a pasture farther up the hill needed to have its hedge renewed. Perhaps he should attend to that. He’d leave this unsettling churl, and get on with his other duties.

Perkin watched him go, and then turned back to his work. ‘Come on, you lazy sodomites! What, looking for a sheep to shag, ’Tin? No? Then dig, boy, dig!’

Jeanne could feel Simon’s pain as soon as she saw him. ‘Oh, Simon, I am so sorry!’

Baldwin had insisted on fetching his wife as soon as Jankin’s wife brought out their food, and now Jeanne and the two men sat at the table with a platter filled with pig’s liver, bacon, kidneys, and a loaf. Jankin did not believe in guests going hungry when they could leave his inn replete.

For Jeanne the table would have appeared daunting at the best of times, but today, seeing Simon so distraught, she found it was impossible to do justice to such a spread. She put her hand on his with sympathy.

It was plain that Simon was feeling his loss. His eyes were sunken and red-rimmed; his usually hale features were pale and he had acquired a curious habit of rubbing his thumbs against his fingers, as though both hands were raw from handling his reins. He’d bitten his nails to the quick, too, and she saw that two fingers were bleeding from over-enthusiastic nibbling.

‘Yes, well. He was a good friend as well as a loyal servant,’ Simon said after a moment. He half-heartedly speared a kidney and some liver.

Jeanne tried to keep him company with two thick rashers of bacon, and watched with horror mingled with respect as her husband filled his own trencher. It was a strange sight, to see Simon eating little, while her husband heaped his plate. Jeanne excused herself from eating too much by trying to feed the little girl in her lap.

‘Did he mention that he’d made any enemies here?’ Baldwin asked after some moments of chewing.

‘He didn’t say so. If he’d given such offence that a man decided to kill him and slaughter his wife and child too, I’m sure he would have told me. It’s not the sort of thing I’d expect, though. And if he had offended someone so deeply, I’m sure he would have realised the danger. He would have made sure he was safe, or at least he’d have made sure that his wife was. Hugh was no fool when it came to fighting.’

‘I remember,’ Jeanne said. She had seen him in fights. In Tavistock he’d knocked a man down before she had even realised the fellow was a threat.

‘He was astute enough,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But the cleverest man can fail to see into another man’s heart, can’t he?’

‘If that’s the case, we’ll likely never know what happened, then,’ Simon snapped. ‘I can only tell you what he said to me, and that was that this was a pleasant, unspoiled place with no fighting. He didn’t look as though he thought he was in any danger at all, any of the times I’ve seen him. And now he’s dead.’

‘The innkeeper doesn’t seem to think he was disliked at all. He behaved like an old moorman, and kept himself to himself,’ Baldwin mused, unaffected by his friend’s temper. ‘Perhaps someone else could tell us more? The local priest should be a good man to ask.’

‘Yes, let’s go there. Are you ready?’ Simon asked. His own plate was all but untouched as he pushed the stool from the table.

‘No, Simon. And I would like to see you eat that before we go anywhere,’ Baldwin said mildly, and when he saw the expression on his friend’s face he continued, ‘if we find Hugh’s killer, Simon, I want you fit and ready to help catch him, or kill him. Hugh wouldn’t be glad to know he’d been the cause of Meg’s being widowed just because you came here to avenge him and weren’t prepared.’

Simon looked furious and leaned forward a moment as though to utter a fierce denial, but then he looked down at his hands and shook his head slightly. ‘Hugh was a friend for many years. I will find the man who killed him, and I will see him hang, but you’re right. I won’t kill myself.’ He poured another cup of ale and sipped, then upended it. ‘To Hugh!’ he declared.

Baldwin and Jeanne both drank to Hugh as well, and as they held their cups aloft Baldwin met Simon’s gaze and gave a sympathetic grin. And as they stared at each other over the table top, there came a grumbling roar from behind Baldwin, and he felt the flesh on his back creep as the hated voice rasped out: ‘Ah, good. Food! Thought it must be time by now. Mind you eat up, lady, we don’t want you starving now you’re eating for two, eh? Give me that platter. Ah, the kidneys are rare. That’s how I like them, so they still taste strong. What? What? What are you staring at? Give me a cup of that ale. It’s not as good as our manor’s, I expect, but I am a bit thirsty.’