Michael Jecks: A Friar's bloodfeud

He scratched at his neck and shuddered with the cold. Adam, always known as Adcock by his friends, was a man of two and twenty years, slimly built, with a face that would have been pleasing enough if it weren’t for the marks of the pox which scarred it. He had regular features, large, wide-set eyes under a broad forehead, a slender nose and rather full lips. His hair was dark, and already receding at the temples, so he knew well enough that before too long he’d look like his old man, Jack, who’d lost almost all his hair by the time he was thirty. Adcock could vaguely remember seeing him with hair when Adcock had been very young, but all his other memories had his father looking more like the vill’s priest than a servant in Sir Edward Bouville’s household.

Servant he had been, and proud, too. Adcock’s father had been with the Bouville family all his life, and the old devil had been justifiably satisfied with his position. He had new clothes each summer and winter, a gallon of ale a day, food, and money when he needed it. When he married Adcock’s mother, he was given a small plot not too far from the manor, and he was regularly granted time to go and visit it and see his wife, when his duties allowed. Adcock had only good memories of the old man.

Feeling another itch on his back, he grimaced and swore quietly. He’d not sleep in a cheap place like that ever again. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to. Not once he’d taken up his new position.

It was his own fault. If he’d set off when he’d meant to, leaving Oakhampton early in the morning, he’d have reached his new home by evening. As it was, there was the rush to say his farewells, going to see his mother at the last minute and accepting her offer of bread and cheese washed down with some of her best ale — well, he didn’t know when he’d see her again; she was getting quite old now, and wouldn’t live for ever: God willing, she’d still be alive when he next came this way — and after that he had to go and visit Hilda at the dairy, sneaking up behind her to grab her bubbies as she stood working the butter churn, making her squeak with alarm, silencing her scolding with kisses. It was hard to leave her behind — but they’d agreed she’d best remain until he had saved some money and they could wed.

That was a daunting prospect. Many of his friends had married, but somehow Adcock had never thought of himself as a husband. Yet here he was, ambling along on his pony and already considering how Hilda would look in a small cottage somewhere near the manor. He could install her there and go to visit her regularly, with luck. Perhaps, if the steward was an amiable, understanding sort of man, Adcock could find a place very close. With proximity he could see her more often, perhaps even stay with her each night?

But first, he told himself, he must take charge of his manor. Under the steward, he would be the most powerful man on the demesne.

The steward was Sir Geoffrey Servington, a man whose name inspired respect. He’d been a warrior for many years, and he and Sir Edward had been in all the important battles of the last thirty years. Now he was all but retired, of course, as was Sir Edward himself, although that did not dim his reputation. By all accounts he was a demanding, ruthless taskmaster, determined to squeeze the very last drop from his serfs, but that was what was sometimes needed. When they lived so far from their real lord, some peasants would grow lax and idle. It needed a man with a vigorous manner to keep them under control.

It was daunting to someone like Adcock, though. He only prayed that he might find in Sir Geoffrey a man who was accommodating and reasonable.

He was almost there. Through the trees that grew thickly on either side, he could see smoke and some buildings. They were the first he’d seen since he left that dreadful alehouse in Exbourne that morning. The memory made him scratch again at his neck.

There was not much to see. If he hadn’t spotted the buildings, he wouldn’t have guessed that this was a thriving little vill. He knew of Monk Oakhampton — the manor was owned by the monks of a great abbey, Glastonbury, and he had heard that it was a very profitable little place. It was no surprise, looking about the area here. There was the ribbon of silver-grey river on his left, promising drink and fishing, and the soil looked darkly rich. From the look of the fields, in which the crops were already creating a fresh lime-coloured carpet, the place was one of those in which farming never failed.

It boded well for the manor he was to join. Close by, surely it would have a similar lushness. Good husbandry and management of the land was all that was needed to make a place like this rich, and he would see to it that the manor where he was to be sergeant would grow in fame for its harvests.

He rode past the small cotts of the Glastonbury estate, and then on for another mile or so, until he came to a clearing in the trees from where he could see his new home.

It was a long, low building, looking a little grubby now where the limewash had faded and started to turn green, with a thickly thatched roof and the aura of wealth. Massy logs lay piled at one end, a makeshift thatch over the top to protect the wood from the worst of the rains. Smoke drifted from beneath the eaves, and there was a bustle about the yard as men darted here and there. Adcock could see that the buildings at the side were where the stables lay, because as he sat on his mount studying the place, he could see horses being brought out by grooms, all saddled and ready to be ridden. Soon a group of men stepped over the threshold and stood eyeing their beasts.

The man in front took Adcock’s attention. Even from this distance the fellow clearly had commanding presence, a round-shouldered man with grey hair already turning white. His face was grim, square, and broad as he donned soft leather gloves, and he contemplated Adcock from half-lidded eyes as the newcomer approached the hall. It was a cold, devious look, and when Adcock noticed an archer with a bow at the ready, an arrow nocked on the string, he felt a rush of fear flood his soul. He was suddenly aware that this man was dangerous.

‘Who are you?’ the commander called as he drew near.

‘Adam of Rookford, master,’ he answered quickly, feeling himself flush a little under the amused gaze of so many men.

‘Oh, aye, the new sergeant,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘You’ll be wanting to hasten inside, then, and find some ale after your journey. There’s bread and meats. Shout for the servants for anything you need.’

‘You are off?’ Adcock looked about him for the raches and other hunting dogs, but there were none about other than the odd sheepdog and cattle-herding brute.

‘Yes, we go to visit a neighbour or two,’ Sir Geoffrey said.

‘I thought you were hunting,’ Adcock said. He felt the eyes of all the men on him as he reddened and began to stammer. ‘I was looking for dogs, but then I realised there weren’t any for hunting. Not out here, anyway.’

‘You want to see my dogs?’ Sir Geoffrey asked, and a strange smile came over his face. ‘Perhaps later, eh? For now, you rest until I return.’

He took the reins of the horse brought to him by a shorter, narrow-shouldered youth, and swung himself into the saddle, adjusting his sword until it was more comfortable on his hip, tugging at his glove again, settling himself in his seat. Then he grinned at Adcock, and the new sergeant felt a renewed apprehension.

At his bellowed command, the other men clambered on their horses, and then, when he whirled his arm about his head and set off at a smart canter, the others followed behind him in an untidy, straggling mass.

Hugh was lost in contentment as he carried his tools down to the road where the hedge stood.