Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

At once it was grabbed by the man on his left. His right hand was taken by the other, and as he looked wildly from one to the other Sir Geoffrey’s fist struck him under the ribcage with the force of a galloping mare.

His vision went black, and he found he couldn’t breathe. Doubled up with pain and the desperate need to suck air into his lungs, he retched drily; his vision clearing, he felt a slight tremor in his stomach, and he gulped in a small breath of air. It almost made him sick. Then he collapsed again, his chin falling on his breast, while the two men held his arms up, so that they were almost as painful as the blow to his belly.

‘I’ll ask you again, churl. What made you go to that mire?’

‘I didn’t know anything, Sir Geoffrey. I was only trying to serve my master.’

‘Why that place? Why today?’

‘There was no reason!’

This time, Sir Geoffrey resorted to kicking him in the groin, and Adcock’s vision blacked again. He felt his arms released, and he collapsed on his face among the filthy rushes, gagging, curled into a ball of pain like a hedgehog hiding its soft underbelly from attack. His arms were about his stomach to protect it, and he threw up over the floor, a weakly green bile-filled vomit that stung his throat and his nostrils.

‘A last time, boy! Who suggested that place?’

‘Beorn … he took me to it … didn’t say to drain it … was my idea …’ Adcock choked.

‘Entirely your idea?’ Sir Geoffrey snarled. His boot came back, ready to kick again.

‘No! Not again!’ Adcock pleaded. ‘It was Nicholas le Poter. He suggested emptying it … he said you’d be pleased to have more land to farm. It was him, not me!’

‘You don’t fucking do anything here without my permission, boy , because if you do once more, I’ll have you shoved in the bog with stones to hold you down, and you’ll never be seen again,’ Sir Geoffrey hissed in his ear, and then the three men left Adcock alone. Soon afterwards he heard the shouts and rattling of hooves as they rode away.

He couldn’t rise for some minutes. A servant came in, and seeing Adcock wriggling on the ground he called for help, and tried to help Adcock up, but Adcock had been manhandled enough already that day. He shook his helper’s hand away and rolled on to his knees before slowly pushing himself up. His ballocks were a pool of pain so intense, he wondered that he could live. Even when he stood, there was a sensation as though both were twice their usual size and hanging behind him, pulling his belly out of his body. It was so agonising, he could only stand leaning against a table and weep for a long time. Without support, he could do nothing.

‘Master, can I get you anything?’ the servant asked sympathetically.

It was tempting to demand a horse, and then to throw his few belongings together and ride from here, just whip the beast and let it take him anywhere away from this hideous manor, but he knew he couldn’t. He was not a free man: he had taken the Despensers’ salt, and he was a part of the household now.

He left the hall and walked to where he had his palliasse in the chamber where the men slept.

On the way, he couldn’t help but weep hot tears of despair. He was sure that, like Ailward, he would die here. And it would perhaps not be very long before it happened.

Jankin saw them return with a sense of genuine pleasure. ‘Lordings, please, let me fetch you some ale or wine. And this gentleman is a companion of yours? Well met, friend. It is most pleasant to see you.’

In all honesty, although having a knight staying with him was no strain, this new fellow had a dangerous look to him. He was one of those, so Jankin thought, who would smile happily while slipping a knife in a man’s belly. Not the sort of traveller to insult. He’d have to speak to his wife and the servants and make sure that these folks were well served. No need to cause offence — especially when it was likely to result in someone’s getting hurt.

There was another reason to welcome them back, of course.

‘Er — madam, your maid was distressed that you had left her here alone.’

‘Ah. Where is she?’

‘At present, I think she’s in my buttery with a pot man. She was very thirsty.’

‘Thirsty? Do you mean she’s drunk?’

‘Scarcely,’ Jankin replied honestly. He had never seen a wench with a more alarming capacity for alcohol.

‘And she has my daughter with her? Bring them to me,’ Jeanne commanded with an iciness in her manner.

‘You have Emma with you?’ Edgar asked.

Baldwin answered. ‘Yes. Jeanne thought it best to bring someone in case my wound should be exacerbated by the journey here. She believed that having so potent a protection against outlaws would be sensible.’

‘I doubt many outlaws would risk life or limb by attacking her,’ Edgar agreed equably.

Jeanne listened with half an ear. She was alarmed by the thought that Emma could get herself too happily ensconced in a buttery with barrels of ale. The woman was here to help her and look after Richalda, not to drink herself stupid when left alone for a few moments.

‘Mistress, I was bereft when you left without me!’

‘You could have easily walked from the door, I believe,’ Jeanne said with poisonous sweetness. ‘Or did you take a wrong turn and end up in the buttery instead?’

‘I was asked to go there to help clear up some mess, and while we were there we thought to make sure that the casks were all right. I didn’t drink the place dry, if that’s what you mean!’

‘That is good. Now be silent, please.’

‘Mistress … but, Bailiff, I am sorry to hear about your man. He wasn’t the best servant, I know, but it is always difficult to lose someone you’ve known …’

Jeanne hissed, ‘I said silent!’

‘Oh, very well. I don’t have to speak.’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said pointedly. ‘Master Jankin, could you please fetch me a little wine with water?’

Malkin was exhausted already, and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. She felt so weak , so feeble . She was a pitiful creature, quite useless. Look at Isabel, in comparison. She was a real woman: strong, resolute, unbending in adversity, cunning and quick to take advantage no matter what. She wouldn’t sit and mope like Malkin, she’d get off her rump and start planning for her future.

But what future was there, really? Malkin wasn’t going to fool herself. She could perhaps survive for a little while, but without a husband she was merely fodder for the appetite of strong men. If any of them wanted her, they could force her to accept their advances, once a decent period of mourning had passed.

To be fair, the idea was not repellent, if the man concerned had some money. The main thought uppermost in her mind was that she needed security for herself and her child. Ailward’s child. And there lay the problem, of course. How many men would be prepared to take on a woman who already had a babe of her own? There were few enough who’d be happy to take on the upkeep of another man’s boy.

She had loved him so much, her Ailward. Since his death, she felt as though a part of her had withered. A soft, kind, happy piece of her soul had been cut from her, and it left a hole. It was impossible to keep her mind on one thought, impossible to plan or look to the future.

Ailward had been so close, so he had said, to making their fortune. He wasn’t above making a little money on the side, of course. He had a lot to live up to, with his father and grandsire both being such honourable men, and if he was ever going to work his way up to renew the fortunes of the family he would have to fight every step of the way. From a knight’s son to penury was a sharp fall, and he had felt the humiliation deeply. Her Ailward had been devoted to making the family wealthy again.