Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

Over the river the hillside was fairly thickly wooded, and with the sun already very low in the western sky, he knew a faint trepidation and a chill that felt as though his bones were sensing the cold before his flesh. It was a superstitious sensation, not a rational one, he told himself. There was no point in fearing ghosts and creatures of the night, not when he was more likely to suffer from the worst of what men could do. And their worst would be extremely unpleasant.

He wanted to get into a place where he could rest for the night and sleep. There was a path which led off through some trees towards a small assart, and, spotting it, he sighed with relief. He’d thought he’d missed it. Picking up his feet more quickly, he scurried up the track towards the little place he recalled from several months ago.

When he was last here, he had been exploring, partly to understand the lie of the land in this little parish, but also because he knew that it was possible that one day he would need to know how best to escape the vill. He’d stumbled upon this little deserted assart by pure chance, and at the time he’d instantly thought that it could be a useful location to bear in mind, should he ever need a quiet, secure place of concealment.

It stood in a tiny clearing, he remembered. An old, slightly tumbledown cott with the thatch holed and rotten, it wouldn’t provide any shelter from the rain or much from the wind, but for a one-night stay, it had the benefit of being off the beaten track and safe from investigation.

When he caught sight of it, he heaved a sigh of relief and stood a moment. There was an atmosphere of homeliness about it that tore at his memories, making him feel sad that he had lost his own home so many years ago. It was ruined, though. Worse than he remembered from when he’d last been here. The roof was almost all gone, and the door which had stood here had rotted away, and fragments of the planks that had constituted it lay haphazardly all about.

Hearing a crack behind him, he recalled what he was doing here, and darted into the clearing, then headed straight for the door. There was another crackle of broken twigs behind him in among the trees, and Humphrey felt the blood course more urgently through his veins. There was someone there! He must have been followed. For a moment he stood, irresolute, staring wildly over his shoulder at the thick boles of the trees, now smothered in their own twilight. Then he shot forward to the doorway, entered, and sprang back to stand with his back to the wall, panting heavily. ‘God’s blood,’ he muttered.

Now, his scalp crawling, he realised what had made the place appear so pleasingly homely: the odour of wood smoke. Now he could see that there was a good little fire of dry wood burning in a makeshift fireplace ringed about with small rocks in the middle of the room, and he felt his fear return to flood him. Slowly, cautiously, he leaned over to peer through the doorway.

And he shrieked as he caught sight of a mad, glowering face only inches from his own. Then he felt the crunch of a cudgel at the back of his head, and he forgot his panic as he slumped headlong into a vast pool of blackness.

Baldwin had heard their last exchange and he looked at Malkin now, asking, ‘Do you think Sir Geoffrey could have been personally responsible for your husband’s death, or was that an act by one of his men, then?’

‘I am certain it was him. He could have paid one of his men to thrust the knife home, but it was his order that led to my Ailward being killed.’

A man had entered now, a tall man with greying hair. He stood in the doorway scowling suspiciously at the men talking to the two women. ‘Who are you?’

‘Pagan, don’t worry. These men are here to learn what happened to the master,’ Malkin said.

‘We know what happened to him,’ the man spat. ‘He was killed so he couldn’t claim his lands back.’

Baldwin pricked up his ears. ‘Was there a chance that he might?’

Malkin drew a deep breath. ‘I had lodged a complaint at the king’s bench to demand my own lands be returned to me. Part of the manor was my own dower, and I wanted it back. And Ailward had never stood against the king. He had always remained a loyal vassal. Yet he was being punished for what his father had done. That was wrong — and I think that the king must have realised it before long and offered to return to us all of our lands. Sir Geoffrey knew that. So he had Ailward killed.’

‘It is a serious allegation to make against a man who is so strong,’ Baldwin commented.

‘You think I don’t know that!’ she hissed, and she met Baldwin’s look with eyes that seemed to blaze with a sudden green fire. ‘I have lost my husband and my lands, my servants … my future. All gone — and you tell me I make serious allegations because I want justice against the man who was responsible?’

‘If he had your husband killed, you should be careful. He may try to do the same to you,’ Baldwin murmured.

‘If he tries, he’ll find we’re not so easy to kill!’ Pagan declared. He stood with his arms crossed and jaw jutting defiantly. ‘Any man tries to break in here, he’ll find more than just two widows …’

Isabel held up her hand and spoke gently. ‘Pagan, that is enough. There’s no need for more rancour here. Besides, you don’t sleep here overnight. That could be … indecorous.’

‘You don’t have a man to sleep here with you?’ Baldwin asked.

‘We are in a strong enough group of buildings. If any tried to break in here we would be able to protect ourselves,’ Isabel said. ‘And Sir Odo has promised support if we need it. All we need do is send for help, and he and his men would be here.’

‘It may be safer to let Pagan stay here,’ Baldwin said.

‘It would not be right to have a man sleeping in our household. We are two widows. There are plenty of others here to protect us.’

Baldwin nodded, unconvinced. Turning to Pagan, he said, ‘You were servant to Ailward?’

‘I was servant to his father, then to him. I made my vow to serve his father and I haven’t faltered. I’ll protect their memory just as I did their bodies when they lived, and now both are dead I’ll protect their women as well as their honour.’

Baldwin watched Isabel as she smiled at Pagan. He guessed that there was a closeness between them, and it was no surprise. How often had he heard people in Crediton talking in hushed, shocked tones about widows who had married their stewards? Time beyond count. And yet he found it a little surprising in this case. Isabel did not look the sort who would be inclined to mix with a man like Pagan. She was too haughty by nature.

He nodded. ‘That is good, Pagan. If someone were to come here to attack and rape or kill your mistresses you would naturally be right to protect them. Now, is there anything any of you can tell me about the death of Ailward? Anything you have remembered since the coroner came?’

Pagan looked from Malkin to Isabel and back. ‘There is nothing I can think of. Ailward was found lying up on the hill leading towards Whitemoor. It was near to the stream, I think. Up at the top of a little rise.’

‘I do not know this area well. Is there someone who could take me there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Such as the man who found him,’ Edgar suggested.

Baldwin nodded. ‘Yes, that would be best,’ he agreed.

‘That’s easy enough. You need Perkin from Monkleigh. He’s one of the men who used to be ours,’ Pagan declared. ‘If you tell him I said he should take you up there, he’ll do it.’

Baldwin smiled thinly. ‘I think I can make sure he does. What does he look like?’

While Pagan described him, Simon stood and stretched his legs. It was good to think that they’d soon be leaving this sad little hovel to return to the inn. He wanted to get away from this house and the feeling of cloying misery that hung about it. After losing Hugh, he had enough sorrow already, and he didn’t need to share in other people’s.