Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

Over the fields they pounded, and Simon ignored a growing soreness on his left inner thigh from all the riding he’d done recently as he gave himself up to the pleasure of pursuit. The wind caught at his hair and it whipped about like a short mane, while his cloak tugged at his throat, snapping and cracking. There was another field, and a taller hedge this time, and he leaned forward as he felt the rounsey gather himself and surge as he rose over it; Simon just had time to force himself back before the beast’s legs struck the solid earth at the other side, slamming Simon back against the cantle. It caught him slightly askew, the top raking along his left buttock, and the pain flared for a moment, but then he was concentrating on the race again.

All was forgotten in the mad rush forward, because few if any of the men remembered what they were here for now — they were lost in the excitement of the gallop. Simon had a moment of sudden clarity: all the men here were the same felons and cut-throats whom Baldwin and he had been warned of by Malkin and Isabel. When they found the man they hunted he would stand no chance against them, even if Baldwin and Simon tried to stop them stringing him up forthwith.

Those who would have restrained the posse, the local villeins, were too few, and they would hardly dare to thwart Sir Geoffrey and his hirelings. Looking about him, Simon was aware of a quickening concern about what might shortly happen.

At a rough bellow, the horses left the straight path they had taken, and slipped right to the road again. A low fence and hedge, wait for the horse to bunch up his muscles … now! The rounsey soared up as lightly as a blackbird, and Simon felt a fleeting satisfaction before they came to earth again. This time he was better prepared and his backside didn’t suffer. His thigh was giving him grief, though, and he had to resettle himself in the saddle as they sped along.

The noise was deafening. In his ears was the constant swish and whoom of the wind, but even over that there was the clamour of a cavalry charge, the squeaking and rasping of leather against leather, the clashing of metal, the ringing of chains, the dreadful, persistent roaring of the hooves. No one hoofbeat could be distinguished; all was merged in a single, continuous, mind-numbing thud that seemed to last for ever. The only thing that mattered was staying on his horse, not falling and being crushed by the men and beasts behind him. More men died in fast horse races than in murders, he had heard once, and he could easily believe it.

He could see the buildings of Iddesleigh now. The clump of irregular houses seemed to shine in the darkness, their limewash glowing like starlight, thatch gleaming softly grey. And then Simon saw where the hounds were leading.

Baldwin was still at his side, and Simon could see that he wore an expression of fixed determination.

The whole posse turned up before the inn, and their horses stood stamping and blowing as the hounds jumped the rotten old fence into the churchyard, whining and pawing at the door.

Simon dropped from his mount and strode to the gate, but Sir Geoffrey was there before him.

‘You have no jurisdiction here, Bailiff,’ Sir Geoffrey stated.

‘But I do,’ Baldwin declared coolly. ‘I am not sure that you do.’

‘Whatever you think, this is a matter for the local court,’ Sir Geoffrey snapped. ‘He’s my man, and I’ll have him tried in my court.’

‘He may be guilty of murder, and I’ll have him tried in the king’s court,’ Baldwin responded.

‘With all my men here you try to dictate to me?’ Sir Geoffrey asked. He set his head on one side as though contemplating Baldwin with interest. ‘I think you don’t realise how matters are arranged here in the country, Sir Baldwin.’

‘I know well enough!’

Simon could see that Sir Geoffrey’s men were starting to encircle Baldwin. One was about to stand behind him when there was a cracking sound, and he disappeared. In his place stood Edgar with a heavy branch in his hand, which he discarded with a happy smile fixed to his face. The smile remained even as he drew his sword from its sheath.

Baldwin had left his own blade in the scabbard, but he hooked his thumbs into his belt as Sir Geoffrey leaned forward.

‘Out of my path, Sir Baldwin. This is my quarry. We thank you,’ he added, ‘for your help in running him to earth! But he is ours, not yours. Leave him to us.’

Baldwin looked at all the men before him. He did not move to draw his sword, but met the eyes of all those who stood facing him. ‘I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace. You all know that,’ he said, and then added in his loudest voice: ‘ I call on all the villagers of Iddesleigh to protect their church from attack by men from another parish. I call upon you to support the king’s Keeper of the Peace !’

‘You can’t do that!’ Sir Geoffrey rasped. His hand was on his sword hilt now. ‘If you think a few pissy villeins can stop me, you’re …’

The rest of his words were lost. As he spoke, there was the sound of hooves from the south and west. Suddenly, up the hill from Fishleigh, there appeared a force of men.

Simon eyed them doubtfully. If this fresh force was arriving to support their neighbours, even if all the villagers came out to support Baldwin they must be cowed by such an armed host. The men reined in as they reached the church, circling the group at the door.

At their head was an older man, slightly short, badly scarred on one side of his face, who stood in his saddle and gazed about him as though he was surprised to see so many men already there. ‘Is this a fair? Is there a party? What can all these men be doing on my lands without asking permission, I wonder?’

Sir Geoffrey cursed under his breath, and Simon realised that this new group must be his enemies.

‘Sir Odo. God’s blessings on you. It is good to see you,’ Sir Geoffrey said as though the words were poison in his mouth.

‘Yes,’ Sir Odo said indulgently. He had a mild manner and a happy smile on his face as he spoke. ‘I am sure it is. So tell me, Sir Geoffrey. Is there something about my manor that I can help you with? I don’t think I have heard of so many men on my lands since … oh, since you visited my bailiff last Saturday. He’s back home now, you know. And will stay there.’

‘This is a different matter entirely,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘The poor Lady Lucy of Meeth. You know she has been found? Murdered and thrown into a mire?

‘On Sir Geoffrey’s land,’ Edgar added helpfully.

Sir Odo appeared to notice him for the first time. He gave a small frown as he took in his appearance, and then looked over Baldwin. ‘I believe we have met, sir?’

‘At Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s castle in Tiverton,’ Baldwin agreed, bowing.

‘Of course. You are the Keeper from Crediton? And I saw you in Exeter at the last court of gaol delivery. You were a Justice then.’

‘I was. And I am here to apprehend a man who was once in Sir Geoffrey’s household, but appears to have run to the nearest place of sanctuary.’

‘You think he killed the widow Lucy?’

‘It is possible,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘Although we shall only learn the truth if we are permitted to question him fairly in a court, or if he confesses.’

‘He will confess,’ Sir Geoffrey grated.

‘That is no concern of yours,’ Baldwin said.

‘He is my man!’

‘But he is not in your jurisdiction now. He is on Sir Odo’s lands. Also, he is in the church, which means he has the rights of sanctuary. Until there is a coroner here, he is the king’s man, and I will not have him removed by you.’

‘Please, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Geoffrey said graciously, bowing. ‘Would you stand aside that I may at least speak to him first? Perhaps I can persuade him to come out.’