Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

When she left Bordeaux to come here, she had lost him. Perhaps he was the only man who could have made her happy for life. Yet at the time she had no thought for that. She was leaving to start a new life in England — a life with her mistress, but without Jeanne’s uncle. That in itself had been enough to make her happy … and when she’d told poor Ralph, he had been devastated. Now she could see why, but at the time she was irritated, thinking that he should be glad for her, for this wonderful opportunity.

His face when she left him that last time was desolate. She was sure now that he must have gone home and wept for a week to see her go.

Heaving a sigh, she shook her head. There had been other men in her life. There were plenty of them in any household, and she’d made her use of them when she’d wanted to, but not since Ralph had she known the all-devouring love that a woman needed. That was something she would never know again.

And a good thing, too! A woman had better things to do than go mooning about after men. There was no point in all that flirting and circling, like a dog and a bitch sniffing each other. No, better that she should be beyond such diversions. She was an old maid now, nearly thirty years old. It was best that she should forget any thoughts of love.

Which was why it was so annoying that her thoughts kept bending towards men.

‘What other man?’ Baldwin managed after a few moments.

‘The man-at-arms. Haven’t you seen him?’ Matthew said.

‘No, we have only been here a short while. Was he from one of the local manors?’ It seemed quite possible that the murder was the result of some dispute between local lords. After all, from all Baldwin knew of Hugh, he would be perfectly capable of giving insult to a rich and powerful man — intentionally or not. Burning down a house with the man and his family inside was not the act of a peasant with a grudge, it was more brutal than that. More the behaviour of a minor war-lord who was bent on removing an annoyance. But that must mean that Hugh was in the way of someone. Why? What possible obstruction could Hugh be, other than the fact that he was an obstreperous, froward, stubborn churl to deal with at the best of times?

Although it was no excuse for his murder, it may be that Hugh’s manner and demeanour could hold a clue to the crime, and Baldwin stored that thought for later.

‘It is quite possible,’ Matthew said with a certain cooling of his manner. ‘Again, I think you should speak to Isaac at the chapel in Monkleigh. He would know the men-at-arms that way better than I do.’

‘There are many down there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘They don’t show their faces in daylight if they can help it. They live in the manor all higgledy-piggledy, and only seem to come out at night. As though they are nervous of being seen.’

Baldwin nodded, and now he thought he had a possible group of suspects. He had no doubt that a man-at-arms who was less than entirely honourable could find Hugh’s mulish behaviour to be intolerable. If he had insulted a man from the manor, that man might well decide to repay the insult.

He would visit this chapel and learn what he could.

Perkin winced and wiped at his face with his upper sleeve. The smell here was appalling, and he was reluctant to reach down and pick her up, but someone would have to. Beorn was standing at the other side of the body, and now the two of them reached underneath the corpse’s torso and lifted her from the shallow, muddy grave. They were up to their groins in the thick mud still, but it was a relief that the worst of the filth seemed to have drained away. Perkin had the black mess up to his breast from falling into a deeper pool, but Beorn had managed to avoid the worst of it.

‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ Beorn said quietly.

‘Looks like it,’ Perkin responded shortly.

They both knew her by sight. Lady Lucy had passed through their vill often enough. She had been a slight woman, attractive, with a snub nose and long fair hair that somehow had always escaped from her coif or wimple when she was out. Perkin could remember the way that she had smiled as she snared a stray tress and tried to tuck it back neatly. Somehow she always ended up with more loose than before, but she’d always grin at her failures, as though it didn’t matter anyway.

That was before her old man died, of course. After that, she had grown a great deal more reserved, and her rides tended not to encompass the Monkleigh roads, as though she knew she was in too much danger there.

As she had been. Someone had taken her and broken her limbs, and then killed her. This was no accidental falling into a bog and drowning — not unless she had bound the rocks to her waist herself. She had a great blackened wound in her chest.

Adcock was already waiting at the edge of the bog, and Perkin and Beorn carried her to dry land and set her down as gently as they could.

‘The poor woman!’ Adcock said in a hushed voice. ‘Does anyone recognise her?’

‘Lady Lucy of Meeth,’ Perkin said, and although his voice was cold, he knew that Adcock had to be innocent of this killing. He only arrived here after she had disappeared.

‘She was in there?’

Perkin forbore to answer.

‘She must have been murdered and thrown in,’ Adcock said.

‘She was resting near the middle of the bog. Someone knew this place and chose to carry her there and drop her in,’ Beorn said.

‘He was a brave man, then,’ Adcock guessed. ‘Most would fear to enter a bog — especially carrying a heavy burden like her.’

‘There were ways to cross it which were safe,’ Perkin said shortly. ‘Many of us knew them.’

‘What is all this?’

The familiar bellow startled the men. There was a slow clopping of hooves as Sir Geoffrey rode up to join them, and sat on his horse staring down at the body.

‘Sweet Jesus! What is this?’

Adcock began, ‘The men say it is Lady Lucy of …’

‘I can see who it is, man! What in God’s name is she doing here?’

‘She was murdered, Sir Geoffrey,’ Perkin stated, bending his head respectfully.

‘How can you tell that?’

Perkin could scarcely keep the contempt from his tone even though this was his master. ‘She has had all her limbs broken, sir. Then someone stabbed her, tied rocks to her, and threw her into the mire here.’

‘Probably a raping, then,’ Adcock said. ‘She must have been a pretty little thing.’

‘Rape?’ Perkin repeated.

‘Yes, rape. Quite right,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘Who pulled her out of there, though? The coroner will have something to say about that.’

‘We couldn’t leave her in there, Sir Geoffrey,’ Perkin said.

Sir Geoffrey looked down at him. ‘And who found her there?’

Martin stepped forward nervously. ‘Sir, I saw her first. It was as the water fell away from round her.’

‘And who ordered that the mire be drained?’ Sir Geoffrey demanded, but his eyes were already on Adcock.

‘I did, sir. It’s my job to make the land as profitable as I can, and there’s little enough money in bogs.’

‘You may think you were doing the best for the manor,’ Sir Geoffrey said sarcastically, ‘but I hardly think that forcing us to call the coroner and incurring a fine for murder is very helpful. Perhaps … we could simply throw her back in.’

‘It’s drained now,’ Perkin reminded him coldly.

‘There is still the second bog,’ Sir Geoffrey mused.

‘No, sir. We must send for the coroner,’ Perkin said bluntly. ‘He must come and examine the poor woman. She has been murdered at the least.’

‘ “At the least”? What else has happened to her,’ Sir Geoffrey scoffed.

In answer Perkin took her hand and moved it. ‘Her arms are broken, and look at her hands! The nails were pulled from this one. Do you think she did this all to herself?’