Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

Those were the watchwords of the day: ruthless and astute. Sir Odo was neither. He’d been here too long, growing old among these peasants. He’d lost his edge.

Hearing the door open, a shout and a scuffle of feet from the yard behind the hall, Sir Geoffrey turned his head to listen, and soon heard the regular thrumming of cantering horses: several of them. It didn’t sound like a massive force; not like Sir Odo coming with a host to repay the manor for the damage done to that bailiff ’s hovel, and he relaxed. If there were so few horses, his men could defend the place without difficulty.

He had to protect his manor, because that was the only way to defend his own position. And he must expand the territory, so that his master could be sure that his own authority was growing to match his importance in the country.

‘Sir Geoffrey?’

‘What is it?’

‘Some men … one says he’s Keeper of the King’s Peace. He wants to look at the woman found up there.’

‘Tell him to …’ Sir Geoffrey bit back the rest of his words when he saw three men in the doorway.

They were not an immense force, but something in the way that one stood by the door on the balls of his feet, smiling coldly, while the other two approached him at a distance from each other, like men who were prepared for a fight, made him reassess their threat. These were men who could use their weapons.

‘Who are you?’ he asked coldly. ‘Why do you threaten me in my own hall?’

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. You may have heard of me. I am Keeper of the King’s Peace. This is my companion and friend, Simon Puttock.’

‘In that case you are welcome,’ Sir Geoffrey said. It was always best to show courtesy to a king’s officer. ‘Do you want some wine? I have some here.’

‘We want to view the dead body before the coroner arrives. The coroner has been called?’

‘Yes. I have asked him to visit us.’

‘He seems to have been here a lot just recently.’

‘We have been unfortunate.’

‘Yes. A murder and a fire before this present murder. It is most unfortunate, as you say,’ Baldwin said. ‘It was lucky that the coroner was on hand to investigate both.’

Sir Geoffrey frowned. ‘Ailward, my man, was murdered; but the other, that was a mere accident. The coroner told me so.’

‘This coroner, his name was?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘Sir Edward de Launcelles. Do you know him?’

‘There are not so many coroners in Devon and Cornwall that one could remain unknown to me. Yes, I know him. He is a vassal of Hugh Despenser, isn’t he?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘As are you, of course,’ Baldwin said. He remained standing very still for a moment. ‘Now, where is this body?’

Hugh stood when he heard the footsteps outside. He could do so now without a need for his staff, and he listened intently as the steps approached. They were like the friar’s, but Hugh, with a shepherd’s ear for detail, could tell that they were not as confident as they had been earlier.

‘It’s me, don’t worry,’ John said as he entered and saw Hugh’s staff in his hands. John carried a small parcel wrapped in linen. ‘They were very good to us,’ he continued. ‘Eggs, some bread and a small portion of sausage. They were more generous than many. Um.’ He carefully placed the package on the ground at the side of their hearth and stood staring down at it. He was at a loss to know what to do.

The shock of hearing of Lucy’s death had seemed to dislocate his world. He was the same man; he still had his responsibility to Hugh, and he wanted to do all he could to help this stranger with his loss, to aid him in his recovery if possible; and yet all he wanted to do just at this moment was run to seek out her body and weep over it. He had already lost his home since his argument with the prior — now he had learned that the last member of his family was also dead. There was no one but him. He was the last of his line.

‘You seem quiet,’ Hugh commented.

He watched the friar as John knelt and opened his parcel. To his eye the friar had grown suddenly distant. Before this, John had been talkative and cheerful, as though determined to lift Hugh’s spirits by any means available, but now he was quieter, like a man who’d realised he should be more cautious.

‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ the friar said. He remained looking down at the food. ‘Well, I suppose that’s not strictly true. It is something to do with you. I have heard of another death today. A young lady.’

‘And the sergeant of Monkleigh was killed,’ Hugh grunted as he let himself slip down to the floor. ‘Ach, my leg hurts still!’

‘We could soon have it looked at,’ John said. ‘There must be someone about here who has skills with medicines.’

‘No. I’ll not go about in full view until I’m well enough,’ Hugh declared sourly, staring at the little fire with a lowering expression.

He wouldn’t. Not until he had recovered enough to know that he could kill the men who were responsible for his Constance’s murder.

Never before had Hugh felt such a consuming rage. It was a ferocious, burning fire in his breast, and it made him feel as though the fact of his desire — no, his lust — for revenge alone was fuelling him. Nothing mattered to him apart from that. He had to find the men who’d killed his woman.

Friar John turned to glance at him. ‘Are you well, friend?’

‘I’m fine,’ Hugh muttered. In his mind’s eye he could see the figure stooping over Constance again. He was sure that she’d been raped, too. No man would have minded doing that to a woman with her looks. She’d been so beautiful … Hugh could feel a choking sensation in his breast, and moved his thoughts on to other subjects. He couldn’t submit to the all-encompassing horror of her death and the emptiness of his own existence without her.

Being alone was a fact of life to a moorman, of course. He’d been used to his own company for much of his youth, and the idea of a woman of his own had been a very distant dream when he wandered the moors above the River Teign. His thoughts had been geared to a place of his own, perhaps his own small flock, and maybe some years later, when he’d saved enough money, he could think of negotiating for a woman’s hand. Not for love, though. Mainly so that he’d have help to work his land. That was the way of things.

After he met Constance, everything changed. He wasn’t a farmer — that dream had faded when he first began to work for Simon Puttock and realised he could be happy as a servant to a kindly, sensible man. Margaret was a good mistress, too, and their children had been as good as his own, he’d thought. And then he met Constance and learned that the respect and affection of a woman of his own was more attractive even than the stability he’d enjoyed with Simon and Margaret.

When she gave birth to her child, it had capped his pleasure. The lad wasn’t his, but he didn’t care. The father was long gone, and Hugh would be all the boy would know. Little Hugh had been a happy, smiling boy, always into everything as soon as he could walk. He’d only been up and about for two weeks when Hugh saw him toddle uncertainly into the pool at the side of the house. If Hugh hadn’t been there that day, little Hugh wouldn’t have lived beyond it.

The idea that the child could have been killed was a weight on Hugh’s heart as he sat and stared at the fire’s flames. If only he’d been nearer … yet he had not been far away. Surely he should have heard her screams.

‘Master Hugh? Please, eat some of this sausage. It’ll do you good.’

‘I don’t want it to do me good!’ Hugh snapped, but then took the proffered food with an ungracious snort. He didn’t want the stuff, but he did want to be fit and healthy again so he could find the killers. ‘Did you learn anything about the attack on my house?’