Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

And Emma sat on the bench beside Baldwin, who watched in horror as the juices dribbled down her chin from her open mouth.

Father Matthew grunted to himself as he lifted himself from squatting before the altar, and turned to leave the church just as he heard the footsteps outside.

Two men and a woman walked in, all taking water and crossing themselves. Matthew didn’t recognise any of them, but it was clear enough from their clothing and behaviour that they were not peasants. He immediately ranked them as merchants or traders on their way through the vill, before he saw the marks of chivalry on the older of the two men. This fellow with the trim beard that followed the line of his jaw was obviously a knight. His thick neck spoke of the years of training with a steel helmet on his head; the right shoulder was clearly more powerful than the left, as you’d expect in a swordsman. Not only that, either. It was also there in his eyes, which were stern and authoritative. He was not a man who would be easy to lie to: those eyes looked very intelligent.

‘Father?’

‘Yes?’

It was the second man who spoke, the one with the red, sad eyes, who looked as though he had recently been bereaved.

‘We are here because of the murder of the man Hugh with his wife and child. He was my servant. I want to learn what I may of this affair.’

‘My son,’ Matthew sighed. He looked over his shoulder at the altar and closed his eyes. ‘Come, sit yourselves here. Be at ease.’

There were no seats in the nave, but he led them to a low projection in the inner wall at the rear of the church, where they could perch a little more comfortably. Matthew himself waved away the knight’s offer of a space. ‘No, good knight, I’ve been kneeling for some while in prayer. It may be good for a young man to pray for many hours, but I have calluses on calluses at knee and ankle now. I think I would do myself more good by standing for a little while.’

They introduced themselves, and Matthew looked from one to another, his gaze resting shrewdly on Baldwin after a few moments. ‘So, a bailiff who has lost his servant, and a keeper who wishes to help his friend? You must have valued this servant very highly, Bailiff.’

‘I did. Can you tell us anything about his death? Did he have any enemies?’

‘I have to confess, I do not know of any,’ Matthew said. ‘There are some petty disputes in the vill, but nothing that would bear upon your man. No, if he died as a result of a dispute, I should think that it was by accident. Two men fought, and he stood in their path.’

‘Perhaps Fishleigh and Monkleigh?’ Baldwin interjected.

‘You have heard much,’ Matthew said more flatly. He did not wish to discuss the politics between those two manors with strangers.

‘We have heard a little. We have much more to learn,’ Baldwin said. ‘And you haven’t answered.’

‘It is possible, but I know nothing about such matters. They are the realm of powerful people, not me.’

‘Who owns the living here?’ Simon asked. ‘Is this the advowson of one or other manor?’

Matthew bridled. ‘You mean to suggest that I would conceal a murder just to keep my seat here? Sir, you malign me!’

‘He did not mean to, Father,’ Jeanne said. ‘However, you can see how distraught we are. Is there no help you can give us?’

‘If you wish to learn more about the two manors, perhaps you should ask old Isaac down at Monkleigh chapel. He knows much more about the history than I do. I’ve not been here all that long, in truth.’

‘What of his body? Is he buried?’ Simon asked.

‘I am sorry … no. We found the remains of his wife and the little boy, too. He was lying in the corner of the room, so wasn’t quite so badly burned, but the man … his body must have been entirely consumed by the fire.’

Baldwin cocked his head. ‘Entirely? In a small house fire?’

‘It was hardly a “small” fire, Sir Knight. It destroyed the place. It’s possible that there are more bones inside, but I think it unlikely that they’ll be found.’

‘What of the others?’ Simon asked.

‘As soon as the coroner had completed his inquest, they were buried in my cemetery. Would you like me to show them to you?’

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance. Simon said, ‘Yes, please, Father. I would like to say goodbye to them. They came here seeking peace, and they deserve a kindly word if nothing else.’

Emma sat back and eyed the wooden trenchers as the others walked out, then hurriedly took the choicest leftover scraps and set them on her own, soaking up the juices with a hunk of bread.

This was a foul little place. There was really nowhere as attractive as Bordeaux, where she and Jeanne had spent so many happy years when they were young. The climate, the wines, the markets … and here all there was was mud, dirt, smelly and uncouth peasants who hardly knew how to address a lady, and rain. Always rain. It was a revolting place to live.

Of course she had agreed to come here as soon as her charge was chosen by Sir Ralph. He was a good man. Always respectful, polite, sensible. Well, until he began to blame Lady Jeanne for their lack of children. Then he changed a lot. But that was only to be expected. He was a knight, and he wanted an heir. What was a marriage if God didn’t bless the union? The whole point of marriage was children.

On hearing a little sniff, she looked down at the bundle of clothing beside her. Richalda was asleep, but she kicked even when dead to the world, and now her little feet began pounding at Emma’s thigh. The woman glanced about her narrowly, and then put a hand down and started to stroke the mite’s head.

Sir Baldwin was all right, really. Not so bad as a master. His manor was dreadful, with a poky little hall, a piddling solar and pathetic lands about it, but for all that he had advanced, with Jeanne’s help, and he was a fairly successful officer. Not that Emma would ever admit to his face that he had any skills or qualities that she could admire. She preferred to keep her distance from a master. Always.

It would have been good to have children of her own, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not now. No, better that she concentrated on Jeanne’s. This one and the one to follow. Who could tell? There may be more later.

Baldwin was a lot better than some she knew of. Some women lived in constant fear of their masters. And she had known a bad experience, too …

It was more than ten years ago now, when it had happened. He was Jeanne’s uncle, the man who had taken the girl in when she was orphaned. He had chosen Emma as a maid for her, and took a close interest in both girls. At the time Emma had thought his concern was purely that of an uncle who sought to ensure that his niece was well cared for, looking to Emma’s behaviour and training to ensure that Jeanne grew to be a courteous and elegant young lady, a credit to him and the household.

But it wasn’t just that. Emma realised only afterwards that she was not the first. She wouldn’t be the last, in all probability, either. The maid who looked after his wife was treated the same way, and if anyone were to complain, well, the street was just beyond the door, and a maid could as easily be on one side of the door as the other. Emma knew she wouldn’t last ten minutes on the streets. So she assiduously saw to Jeanne’s every need so that Jeanne need never complain about her, and accepted that each night she might be visited by the lecherous old bastard.

Escape to England, this wet, cold, cheerless part of the realm, was still escape. She detested almost every aspect of the place — but she wouldn’t seriously want to swap it for Bordeaux, not for all the wine they exported!