Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

The ride to Iddesleigh was usually pleasant. Sir Edward had come this way several times, for when he had to view a body it was always best to visit another Despenser manor where he could count on good victuals and a decent bed for the night. In any manor where the Despenser’s writ held sway Sir Edward was assured of a good welcome and the best of everything the manor had to offer. Such was the case at Monkleigh, he had recently learned.

Up here, heading towards Sir Geoffrey’s hall from the north, he would pass for a short while along a broad expanse of heathland, a plateau from where he could see for some miles. Then, sinking down among some trees, he began to descend to the river, clattering through the ford, then climbing and passing round the higher part of the hill on which Iddesleigh was perched.

A good vill, this. He liked the stolid, well-maintained properties, the neat and trim little yards and gardens, the good fields and pastures which lay in front. All was ordered and gratifying to a methodical eye like his, but today he was seething, and he scarcely glanced about him as he followed the old track past the inn, taking the right hand turn to Monkleigh.

‘When was this woman found?’ he asked again.

The messenger spat and repeated the story of the draining, the gradual appearance of the hand, then the rest of her body.

‘It is fortunate that I was still there for you to find me,’ Sir Edward said. ‘I can view her and hold my inquest without delay.’

‘Very lucky.’

‘There had been a death. A carter’s boy fell from his horse and was trampled,’ Sir Edward said, a faint hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice.

‘Yes. Is he buried?’

‘Yes.’

This was ridiculous ! It was one thing to pressurise a man like Odo from the lands he was supposed to maintain in order to provide Lord Despenser with an additional parcel he had not expected, but Sir Edward had not offered to be associated with the unchivalrous murder of a woman. ‘Did you mention that she was a widow?’

‘Lady Lucy of Meeth. Her husband was killed in the battles two years ago.’

That was all the confirmation Sir Edward needed. So the cunning devil had sought another means of enriching himself, copying his own lord by capturing a woman and trying to force her to hand over the key to her lands and properties. That was not part of the plan when Sir Geoffrey had invited Sir Edward to participate in his little deception. Then the idea had been only to take over some of the de Courtenay lands. His men would fight, probably, but not too fiercely because the gibbets still held the grisly remains of some of the knights and barons who’d been declared traitors after taking part in the rebellion two years ago. With those eloquent reminders of what could happen to a man who stood against Despenser, there were all too few who would take the risk of incurring his enmity. Even a lord like de Courtenay would hesitate before throwing himself into an attack on Despenser lands. Even if provoked.

But this was potentially stupid. If this woman had a brother, a cousin, an uncle, who would be prepared to defend her memory and take back the lands which would now pass to him, Sir Geoffrey could soon find himself challenged personally. A man so appallingly wronged would have few scruples about making the torture and murder of his relative a cause for feud.

Unless, of course, Sir Geoffrey had already assessed the risks and learned that there was no other man involved. That this woman’s lands would be unclaimed once she was removed. Then it would be easy to see why Sir Geoffrey might throw caution to the winds and attempt the theft.

Sir Edward’s respect for Sir Geoffrey’s daring and craftiness grew with every step on the way to the manor.

Isabel sat on her stool, and the three men were waved towards the table. As in so many peasants’ homes, there were only stools for the master and mistress, which meant that when Ailward had come home from his work he must have found himself perching on the edge of the table, because Baldwin was somehow convinced that no matter how strong the man had been he would have been hard pushed to it to gainsay the formidable woman who was his mother.

She was clad in grey wool, a heavy cloth that sagged shapelessly above her belt. In her youth she must have been a handsome enough woman, though. Baldwin could see through the years to when the high cheekbones and steady, firm brown eyes would have been attractive. Her lips would have been less thin and grey, too, more full and rosy, while her hair, now entirely grey, would have formed a thick brown mane. Her hands were callused now, but the fingers were long and elegant, and Baldwin was sure that she would have been an enticing catch for her man.

‘We are both poor widows now, you see,’ Isabel said quietly as the men chose places to rest. Simon crossed his arms and leaned next to Baldwin at the table, while Edgar took up a languid pose at the doorway, ankles crossed and thumbs stuck in his belt. As always, his face wore an accommodating smile, but Simon knew that his eyes were cold. A killer’s eyes.

‘When did your husband die, madam?’ Baldwin asked. He had often found that early on in an inquest it was better to have people talk about any matter rather than leave periods of silence. Then, when they were used to speaking, he could suddenly allow gaps to return; invariably the questioned person would speak hurriedly to fill them. In this way he often gained his most valuable information.

‘He was a brave man. A squire. But the mad Scots saw to him in Ireland when they invaded the king’s lands there.’

‘He was killed in Ireland?’

‘While the traitor Bruce was harrying our men in Scotland, he sent his brother to Ireland to attack the king’s servants there. My father-in-law, Squire William Monkleigh, said farewell as soon as the call went up for men to join the king’s host. We never had any doubts that he’d be back soon enough. But he was slain at Kells.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘That was a fearful battle, so I have heard.’

‘As have I,’ she said slowly, nodding to herself as old women may. ‘And my husband was also slain. Squire Robert. He was a fierce-hearted man too, and he likewise was killed in his lord’s service.’

Baldwin nodded and shot a look over his shoulder at Edgar, then at Simon. His face was serious. ‘He was also a squire?’

‘Yes. But he was poorer. When his father died, much of his wealth was with him, as is natural. We lost his horses, armour, and much treasure. My husband and I struggled, and we intended to make up for the losses, but it was hard. Very hard. And then he too died.’

‘How?’

‘At Bridgnorth,’ she said coldly, looking away.

Baldwin could see the tear form in the corner of her eye, and followed its path as it moved slowly, as though reluctantly, down her cheek. It found a crease in her skin and followed it to her jaw, where she irritably wiped it away. ‘So your husband and his father were vassals to Lord Mortimer?’

‘He was our liege. When he asked my men to go to him, they obeyed.’

Which explained a lot. Baldwin nodded. ‘My lady, I am sorry to hear of your losses. Your men were honourable to their commander.’

‘My family is poor now, but we had our pride. My men never lost that, and no one can take it from me.’

‘But then your son too was found dead?’

‘It was wrong!’ she declared hotly. ‘How could they murder him like that and hope to escape justice? They weren’t content with taking my husband, now they have killed my son too! I damn the Despenser family! I damn them to hell for eternity! Thank God some men here still have some honour. Sir Odo will protect us.’