Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

‘Oh, the man who died in the fire,’ Humphrey acknowledged.

‘You agreed with that conclusion?’ Baldwin said.

‘The coroner said it was an accident, didn’t he?’ Humphrey said.

‘I believe so,’ Baldwin said without emphasis. Then he added, ‘A coincidence that the coroner was here for Ailward’s death just when this man and his family were killed too.’

‘And now another woman’s dead too,’ Simon snapped. ‘What is happening here, priest?’

Humphrey licked his lips and glanced from Simon to Baldwin. He was in two minds, but there seemed little point in trying to conceal anything from them. It wasn’t as if the matters had anything to do with him — and he would soon be gone anyway.

‘Everyone thinks she was killed by Sir Geoffrey. He and his men are vassals of Despenser, and you know his reputation. Lady Lucy had land and could perhaps be bullied into giving it up, while your man was one of several who were beaten up and told to go.’

‘He wasn’t “told” anything,’ Simon spat. ‘He was slaughtered with his family.’

‘It was meant as a message, I think,’ Humphrey explained. ‘Others have been used in the same way. There is a man called Robert Crokers over the way there, who is sergeant to Sir Odo of Fishleigh. He had his home burned too. That was the same day as your man.’

‘A message …’ Simon mused, his eyes narrowing as a thought came to him.

Baldwin peered with keen interest. ‘You are sure? He was attacked the very same day?’

‘Yes. A party of men went to Robert’s house in the late afternoon. It was the very day that Adcock arrived to replace Ailward. They rode off as Adcock got there, and forced Robert out before setting light to his house. Your man died later that night, so far as I can tell.’

‘Why attack my man?’ Simon asked. ‘What would be in it for this man Geoffrey?’

‘He wants more lands for his master, I suppose. The more he has, the better it reflects upon him, and the more authority he has himself.’

Baldwin and Edgar exchanged a glance. ‘That makes some sense,’ Baldwin said slowly. ‘But we have heard this from many others in the area since we arrived. Is there no one else who could have a desire to take lands? Or is it possible that someone could have wanted to attack Hugh and his family with a view to making everyone think that it was Sir Geoffrey who was responsible? There are too many possibilities.’

‘I don’t know. All I can say is, it fairly shook me to my sandals to see that poor woman in the bog up there — and the knight was remarkably keen to get her out of sight. I’ve never seen a woman like that … soaked in black water … poor woman!’

‘What of the dead sergeant, this Ailward? What can you tell us about him?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘He was a hard taskmaster, but a bailiff has to be, doesn’t he? Sergeant or bailiff, it’s all the same thing. They are there to make the land pay for the lord. The vill has to have enough food to live on, but all the rest is for the lord, and sometimes it’s hard. Ailward was a brawny fellow, fast with his fists or his staff, but to his credit, I think he was a kindly soul to those who actually had little. He talked hard, and sounded a cruel fellow, but if a peasant needed money, he would lend it. His wife adored him.’

‘How long had he been sergeant?’ Baldwin asked. He could sense that Simon’s ire was rising once more, but he shot his friend a look that made Simon half turn away.

‘Since before I came here. Some while as a bachelor, more recently as a husband. I understand his family used to be wealthy, but then they fell into …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well — disgrace. The war two years ago. When the king won, there was nothing left for Ailward. That is what I have heard.’

‘Another family ruined,’ Simon said bitterly.

‘Where do they live?’ Baldwin asked.

As the waves of nausea rolled through him, starting from the pit of his belly and rumbling upwards, Adcock rolled out of his cot and fell on to the floor on all fours, retching.

The pain was exquisite; quite unlike anything he had experienced before. He felt as though his ballocks were going to explode. This was no simple, geographically isolated ache, it was all-encompassing, from his knees to his breast. It felt as though he was one whole mass of bruises from his chest to his thighs. Walking was impossible. Sitting on a horse with this tenderness was unimaginable. All he could do was crouch, choking with the fabulous anguish that brightened and flared from his groin. His head fell to the floor, for his entire soul was dragged down to his ballocks, and nothing else mattered.

‘You still lazing about?’

Adcock didn’t hear him the first time. He was entirely concentrated on his wounds, and it was only when Nick le Poter gave him an ungentle push with his boot that Adcock collapsed, weeping with the torture of it, his eyes still firmly closed. He opened them when the waves had subsided a little, and looked up to see his fresh tormentor.

‘So, you’ve learned what our mad master is like, have you?’

Nick was still unable to pull a jacket or shirt over the lacerations on his back, and he must continually move his muscles to ease the itching as the bloody scabs tightened and the scars formed. At least the worst of the actual searing sensation was gone now. One day of grief, and it was more or less all right. He’d suffered worse.

Adcock whispered. ‘I think I’d guessed already.’

‘He’s off his head. You upset him, did you?’

‘All I did was do my job. There was a mire out on the Exbourne road. You know the one? I had it drained, that was all, but in the bottom there was a dead woman.’

‘What?’

‘Someone from Meeth — Lady Lucy? She was only young, but she’d been tortured. Even I could see that, and I know nothing about death. She had great welts on her where someone had burned her, I think.’ He winced.

Nick saw his expression, his mind racing. ‘And we both know who could do that to someone, don’t we?’

Jeanne accepted the wine from Jankin with a graceful inclination of her head. Emma was starting to get dozy, she could see. The maid was looking about her belligerently, like an old hen who had mislaid her corn and thought one of the cockerels in the run might have stolen it. Soon, like a hen, she appeared to forget all about them, and instead sank back on her stool, resting her back on the wall behind her and grumbling to herself.

The trouble which Jeanne had so often tried to explain to her was that, when complaining about a hostelry, it was usually best to wait until she had left the place. Emma was notable for many things, but the subtlety and moderation of her voice were not among her attributes. It was as Deadly Dave reappeared, apparently glad to have escaped from Jeanne’s husband from the glare he threw her as he stood in the doorway, that Emma began to make her feelings known.

‘Look at this place. Little better than a sty.’

‘Emma, keep your voice down.’

‘Why? No one would hear me here. Anyway, I doubt any of them would want to dispute it. Look at the state of the place! And the men here. Look at them. As ungodly a mob as I’ve ever seen. Only that one’s moderately clean. I can see why Sir Baldwin chose him as a guide. I can tell you, mistress, I’ll be glad to be back home at Liddinstone.’

‘Moderate your tone,’ Jeanne commanded urgently.

‘We’re only here to look after Sir Baldwin, after all. And he’s gone off on his own already. What’s the point of our being here?’

Jeanne clenched her jaw and, as Richalda mumbled in her sleep in her lap, took a moment to force her voice to calm. At last she said, ‘Emma, Sir Baldwin is safe because he has his servant Edgar and his friend Simon with him. I need not fear his falling from his mount into a ditch while there are two strong men at his side. However, he needed us on the way here. And he needs us to be here when he returns, not lynched because …’ she lowered her voice to a malevolent hiss, ‘because you insult all the people of this good vill. You will be silent! ’