Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

‘There is no one whom you could have upset?’

‘Me? No.’

‘Then what of her? Could she have unwittingly angered someone?’

‘No. I can’t believe that. She was always kind.’

‘Perhaps it was a misplaced love for her, then?’

‘There were too many men there,’ Hugh said with a firm shake of his head.

‘Perhaps the land, then? Could another have desired the land itself?’

‘The land?’ Hugh scowled at the fire, and John was reminded of a picture he had once seen of Satan eyeing a new soul.

‘I have heard of attempts to push one man or another from his land if it is worthwhile, so that another can steal it and enrich himself,’ John said.

‘But why kill her and leave me alive?’ Hugh demanded.

‘Perhaps they thought you were dead?’ John said with a shrug. ‘Or they didn’t want to kill you, only her?’

‘Why?’ Hugh rasped.

John remained silent for a long moment as he reflected on his own words. It would be a curious thing if someone had intended to kill the woman and leave her husband alive to avenge her. Why should anyone do that, leaving himself open to being attacked? ‘No, that is nonsense. No one would do that,’ he said at last, shaking his head. ‘Come, Hugh. You should rest again.’

‘How can I rest, knowing that the men who killed her are still alive and walking about?’ Hugh said. He glanced at his fist. It had been bleeding for some while, and he gazed at it with surprise. He had felt nothing.

Adcock was relieved that he had at last persuaded Nick to save himself, but now he sat back on his palliasse and considered his own position. If only he could do the same as Nick and run. If he were to do so, however, Sir Geoffrey could demand his return.

But there was no need for him to sit back here and wait for Sir Geoffrey to come back and bully the nearest man, now that Nick was gone. Adcock stood and pulled a shirt on, wincing as the movements made his belly surge and the pain from his cods rose up almost to his throat, so he thought. It was so intense he wanted to be sick, and he had to physically swallow back the bile before he could walk to the door.

From here he had a view of the yard behind the hall. Opposite were the stables, with the top of the yard open, giving on to the open land behind. There were some scattered buildings, the kitchen, a brew-house, storerooms, but apart from them the way was open to the east, and that was the way Adcock went now, rather than risk meeting Sir Geoffrey at the front of the house.

The walk was easy enough usually, but today, with his ballocks so painful and swollen, each step was a trial. Adcock walked up the shallow incline towards the top of the hill, and there he stopped, staring about him. To the south, he could see Beorn and Perkin at the mire still, while north and east all was clear. He continued east, eyes on the ground, walking slowly and carefully.

‘Not enough work to do?’

Sweet Jesus! Adcock thought. The last man I wished to see.

Pagan stood by a tree on the path that led north. Seeing Adcock’s face, his expression tightened. ‘Are you all right, boy?’

‘I am fine,’ Adcock gasped, and threw a look over his shoulder.

Pagan rarely felt guilt. It was not his habit to wonder whether his actions were reasonable or not, but seeing this lad in such pain made him regret his words the last time they had met. ‘Come here, lad. Sit.’

Adcock was in no position to argue. There was a tree trunk at the path’s side, and he willingly sat on it, while Pagan unstoppered a small wineskin.

‘Drink some of this.’

He watched while Adcock drank and nodded, a little colour returning to his cheeks. ‘That’s better.’

‘Aye, well, what’s happened to you? Was it Sir Geoffrey?’

‘Yes,’ Adcock admitted, and then told Pagan all about the body in the mire and Nicholas’s escape.

‘You did well to leave the place. He can be the devil when he’s angry,’ Pagan said. ‘I’ve seen that before now.’

‘But what can I do?’ Adcock said.

‘Keep your head down and get on with things as you see fit. There’s nothing else for you,’ Pagan said. ‘And hope for better times.’

Sir Edward de Launcelles was still at the inn at Roborough when the flustered cattleman’s boy arrived late in the afternoon. He remained seated near the fire, his great fur-lined cloak pulled about him as he watched the lad rush into the warm room, and felt only a comforting certainty that at last his miserable exile here was soon to be ended.

The trouble that he was being put to! Christ’s teeth, if he’d realised how much time and energy would be taken up by the job, he’d never have agreed to being installed as coroner. There were any number of other jobs, in God’s name, and most of them didn’t require a gentleman to survey the noisome remains of long-dead peasants, who’d have smelled rank enough in life, without the added stink of three or four weeks of lying in the open. It was worst, of course, in the summer months, when bodies would become flyblown in no time. There had been one last year which had been reasonably well protected against the depredations of wild animals, but was in an even worse state as a consequence, perhaps. When they tried to pull the body over to view any injuries, the rotten carcass had fallen apart and a swarm of insects of all kinds had risen from it. It had been like watching demons leaving a possessed soul, his clerk had said at the time, recoiling in horror, crossing and recrossing himself against the sight.

That clerk had soon left his service.

This was no job for a man like Sir Edward either, though. Better by far that he should have waited until something else came up. There were so many gifts in the grant of his lord, now that Hugh Despenser was the king’s first adviser. So many manors were being appropriated by the Despensers that Earl Hugh was always looking for loyal and reliable men to run them for him. Perhaps Sir Edward could get one now?

‘Over here, boy!’ he called.

The post had seemed attractive at first, because an assiduous coroner could always find some infraction of the law and thereby impose a few additional fines, some of which could be pocketed. But when the communities were as poor as these Devon vills, it made all the effort of riding out, viewing repellent corpses, and questioning the jury, seem wasteful of his time. Better by far to have a quiet, pleasant manor — one like Sir Geoffrey’s.

The old devil was comfortable there. A goodly force of men-at-arms with him, pleasant estates to manage, and the occasional bit of banditry when life grew dull … it couldn’t be much better. If Sir Geoffrey was ever to leave, Sir Edward would be pleased to take over Monkleigh.

‘Sir? Are you the coroner?’

Sir Edward hitched his cloak up over his shoulder, where it had fallen away. ‘What do you want, boy?’ As if he didn’t know.

‘Sir, there’s been a body found. A lady, sir, murdered.’

‘A lady?’ Sir Edward shot out, and sat up in his seat.

That wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting.

Humphrey hurried along the track, his pack heavy over his shoulder. There was every hope that he might escape without being seen, and the idea of getting away from these cursed vills was entirely appealing. Without thinking, he had taken the obvious route from the chapel, sticking to the main roadway which was so much easier to pass along than the others — but it did mean he was more likely to be discovered by chance as he hurried up towards Iddesleigh.

He stopped and stared about him. He was on the long, flat plain that led up to Iddesleigh itself, and he could see the vill up ahead nestling on the side of the hill, the great white bulk of the inn, the grey moorstone church over to the left. They sat on the side of the little mound, and the road went down into a valley after curling round them both.