Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

When Simon first saw it, he thought that the house on which Hugh had lavished so much attention might have been empty for years: the walls had crumbled, and the roof was entirely burned away, showing blackened timbers thrusting upwards like the ribs of an enormous animal. There was nothing to indicate that this had until recently been the home of a contented little family.

When Baldwin, Jeanne and he reached it, all of them spattered with mud from the track, they were struck by the sense of sadness that lay about the place. Someone had already started to remove stones from the walls, and bits and pieces of wood from the little fence Hugh had built to protect his vegetables had been taken. It was natural enough that local people would come and liberate useful items, but it only made Simon feel an increased anger, as though they were deliberately eradicating any memory of his servant.

Baldwin was peering at the track beyond the property, and now he walked a short way up it, his eyes fixed on the muddy path.

Jeanne knew how his mind worked in situations like this, and left him to his careful perusal of the land, instead going to Simon and putting her hand on his shoulder.

‘I am so sorry, Simon. I don’t know what Baldwin would do without Edgar. I can imagine it must be terrible after knowing a man so well for so long.’

‘I just wish I’d been here to protect him … he looked after me so well for so many years …’

‘He would have known you’d have been here to protect him if you could have been,’ Jeanne pointed out. ‘He was loyal to you because he knew you loved and respected him in turn.’

‘It wasn’t enough to save him, though,’ Simon said bitterly.

Baldwin joined them. ‘There have been a few horses here, but not for a long time. More recently there have been several men on foot, mostly passing up and down the lane. I would guess some six or seven in total. Wait!’

He had seen some marks in the mud, and now he darted from the lane up into the wide garden of the house. At one point he stopped and slowly walked towards the house, his eyes fixed to marks in the soil. That done, he shook his head, and walked along to the fence. At a point where some stakes had been taken, he studied the ground carefully, then wandered back towards the lane, but once there he shook his head.

‘This is impossible. I can see perhaps as many as eight feet, but of course they may have come here when the fire was seen — to try to help douse the flames or save the people inside. Some were definitely here afterwards. One man’s feet certainly led up to that fence. He stole bits and pieces from it. Some of the prints are undoubtedly those of the men who took the rocks and wood from the house.’

‘I suppose someone will have had the bressemer already,’ Simon said.

‘A good lintel is hardly likely to have been left behind,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Do you mind if I have a look inside, Simon? I want to see if there’s anything to learn.’

‘Just don’t step on his bones if they’re there,’ Simon said. He gave a humourless half-chuckle. ‘It sounds like a joke, doesn’t it? It’s hard to imagine that he was burned away completely.’

‘Yes,’ said Baldwin shortly. ‘It is.’

Simon turned away as Baldwin set off towards the door. Baldwin knew that his friend was squeamish about dead bodies generally, but today he was surprised — he would have expected Simon to show more interest in the scene of Hugh’s death. And then he recalled that the first time he had met Simon had been during investigations into fires and murders near Baldwin’s home. Simon had often said how he had found it hard to eat pork afterwards, because the odour was so similar to that of scorched human flesh. The idea of finding part of Hugh’s body would be naturally revolting — perhaps ‘horrific’ would describe it better.

Baldwin had more experience of death and the destruction which men could wreak on each other. He had a belief that any murderer left clues about his motives and his personality at the scene, and he hoped that there would be something here for a man with a naturally enquiring mind to learn. Outside all was a mess of mud and footprints, but perhaps inside there would be less disturbance.

In his life he had seen many men who had been killed by burning, and there was much about this story which he found frankly incredible. He had witnessed Jacques de Molay being burned at the stake, and he recalled how many of the people of Paris had swum the Seine to reach the spot where Jacques had died in order to collect fragments of his bones. They were saved afterwards as relics. That thought was uppermost in his mind as he stood in the doorway gazing at the devastation inside.

Many feet had been in here, stirring the fine ashes that lay all over. From the threshold he could see the main chamber of the building, although there was a second, smaller room on the right which could be entered through a narrow, doorless archway. That led to what had once been the storerooms, Baldwin guessed, the buttery and pantry. This main room would have been Hugh’s living area.

Looking about him, Baldwin could see a larger patch of slightly different-coloured ash lying in the middle of the room. That, he thought, must be where the hearth had been. From there he began to make out certain details about the place. There were a couple of thicker charred timbers, which looked as though they could have been the legs of a solid bedframe. To the side, right in the angle of the wall, there was an area that was significantly scuffed, and there, he guessed, was where the child had been found. Jankin had said that he was found lying in a corner, and the disturbed area looked about the right size for a little boy. It made Baldwin feel inexpressibly sad to think that the child might have crawled there, away from the noise and terror of attacking men. Perhaps the lad had seen Hugh die, and his mother fall. Being a realist, and remembering the woman’s soft beauty, Baldwin had to wonder whether the lad had also witnessed her rape. It was more than likely.

The ashes appeared uniform over the floor, and Baldwin crouched down to view them from a lower angle to see if there was anywhere a lump which could have been a body, but there was nothing. The only thing he did notice was that the ash appeared to have worn in a channel from this doorway to the room at the back of the house. It led close to the wall, all the way round the room until it reached the archway.

A man walking might make such a little gutter in the surface, Baldwin thought to himself. Footprints wouldn’t last in this soft, feathery ash. A faint gust of wind would remove definition from all edges unless the ash grew damp, and this was still very dry. Slowly he rose to his full height. Taking a grip on his sword’s hilt, he pulled it a short distance from its sheath as he started to follow the trail. No, he could see no footprints, but the ash was so light it blew about his ankles even as he walked. Any prints would have been blown over and concealed in moments. Baldwin stepped slowly towards the open doorway. Inside the chamber it was darker, but suddenly Baldwin saw that there was a flickering. Someone had lit a fire in there. Even as he realised that, Baldwin could smell meat cooking. He set his jaw, drew his sword fully from his sheath, and was about to spring inside when he was stopped by a voice.

‘Sir Baldwin, please don’t prick me with that. Steel’s no good for my digestion.’

Humphrey closed the door behind him as he heard the men approaching. He froze a moment, thinking that someone was coming to fetch him, but he told himself not to be so stupid. No one could have seen what lay inside the chapel. He glanced over his shoulder and scowled at the party. ‘What is it?’