Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

‘Sir! What do you want me to say? That I will rather go to the gallows than denounce you? Then I do accuse you! I accuse you of the murder of the Lady Lucy of Meeth, and of the murder of the little family here in Iddesleigh. And I will repeat this before the coroner. I swear, sirs, I am innocent of these murders, and that man is guilty.’

At the chapel, it took Perkin and Beorn some little while to tidy the corpse.

‘What are we doing this for, anyway?’ Beorn grumbled. ‘Have we become the church’s unpaid fossors? I ought to be home. Look! It’s dark already, and it’ll be light soon enough. I need to go and sleep.’

‘Stop your grumbling and help,’ Perkin said unsympathetically. ‘We may as well get him ready. We’ll have to get him to the church tomorrow, no matter what time you want to sleep.’

That was the trouble, of course. The chapel had no churchyard for the dead. Its open space was dedicated to the living, for it was where the vill’s people would gather on May days and festivals. For a serious matter, like a burial, they had to carry the poor corpse up to Iddesleigh where the church could arrange for a funeral and interment.

Usually it was a rather tedious job, wrapping the dead body and hauling it all that way on a cart, but it was easier than others. A travelling man had once told Perkin that in Dartmoor one parish was so vast that the poor folk of the moors had to walk miles to the nearest church. It was easy to believe. The Church had no interest in where a man might live, nor who his lord was. For the Church the only issue that mattered was the location of the nearest legal church. Churches owned their own lands and protected them as greedily and passionately as any local magnate.

At least poor old Isaac had been so old and desiccated that he would weigh little to transport. And they’d be able to borrow a cart from someone. Nobody would grudge old Isaac his last journey in comfort.

‘Where’s that little runt who was with him, though?’ Perkin asked as they finished. ‘Surely Isaac must have died a while ago. But I haven’t seen Humphrey since he viewed Lady Lucy’s body. Have you?’

‘I know my little Anna said she saw him going up the road after our supper tonight, but that can’t be right.’

‘Why?’

‘He’d have seen old Isaac, wouldn’t he? No churchman would leave another priest lying in a room like this, would he? Stands to reason.’

‘Yes. You’re right, of course,’ Perkin said, but doubtfully. ‘What reason could he have had for leaving Isaac like this? If he had any other business, he’d have to send his apologies and stay here with his old master, wouldn’t he?’

‘Difficult to mistake him, though,’ Beorn said.

Perkin had a sudden memory of Humphrey’s face when they went to the chapel to ask the priest to come and say the words over Lady Lucy’s corpse. He’d looked shocked then, and he stood in the chapel’s doorway like a man trying to block the view inside …

But that was mad. What on earth would one priest want to conceal the death of his companion for? He must just have missed Isaac’s body.

Perkin and Beorn finished their work, and carried the body to the altar. There they set him down on the floor to lie in front of the cross, and stood back a moment contemplating the little huddle of cheap linen.

‘Seems unfair for him to just pass away like that.’

Beorn had a choke in his voice. Perkin nodded, unsure of his own.

‘I mean …’ Beorn coughed. ‘He baptised me, and my brothers, and all my children. He married me, he buried my old man and my mother up at Iddesleigh. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for any of us.’

‘Even a priest has to die,’ Perkin managed. He was in the same position as Beorn. There had never been a time before Isaac. All his life he had known the old priest. Every moment of importance, Isaac had been there in the background, his grim, penetrating eyes watching over them just as the Church said her shepherds watched over her flock of souls. Isaac was the living embodiment of the Church down here. The chapel itself may have been a strong building of moorstone, but the rock was a pale imitation of the strength of his conviction.

‘I’ll … I’ll get home, then,’ Beorn said hesitantly.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll stay here with him,’ Perkin said. ‘Go on. Be off with you. I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Thank you, Perkin. I’ll come at dawn with a two-wheeled cart.’

And when it was all silent in that little room, Perkin sat next to Isaac’s body and put a hand on the cold, firm shoulder. ‘I’ll miss you, old man.’

Hugh entered with a pair of coneys over his shoulder. He dropped them on the floor before John, who stared at them.

‘Found them on the roadway. Can’t have been anyone’s,’ Hugh said defensively.

‘Clearly not!’ John said. He tried to separate them, and saw that Hugh had cut along the upper rear part of each rabbit’s left leg. He’d thrust the right leg through the gap between tendon and bone, making a loop, and tied the two together so that they might hang on his shoulder without falling. John unjoined them and began to skin both carcasses as Hugh settled down, staring at their captive.

Humphrey was less imposing now. When Hugh had seen him before, he had that sort of arrogance that a priest has. That kind of look that tells anyone else that he’s a man of importance, and you aren’t, so get out of the way quickly. He had that appearance last time Hugh had seen him, when he had been in the road asking about Constance. When he had told Hugh to look after her, because she deserved all the care Hugh could give her.

Not now. Now Humphrey lay back in the mess of the floor with his bound hands held before him like a supplicant. His robe was marked and stained, and his hair was almost as wild-looking as his eyes. ‘What do you want with me?’

Hugh squatted near him and stared deep into those eyes.

‘I want to know why I shouldn’t kill you right now.’

It took some while to persuade Sir Geoffrey and his men to leave the church, and only when Baldwin and Sir Odo were sure that the party was truly riding back towards Monkleigh did Baldwin relax a little and invite Sir Odo to join him in a jug of wine.

‘I should be delighted … but first, please let me demonstrate how little I trust my neighbour,’ Sir Odo chuckled. He beckoned a farmer’s boy who stood nearby watching the goings-on with fascination. ‘You want a farthing? Good. Then run down the road there, until you come to a place where you can see those men riding away. If you see any of them turn off and return this way, come to me at the inn at once. Yes?’

The delighted boy grabbed the coin eagerly and scurried off down the road.

‘I think that answers my first question,’ Baldwin said.

‘What was that?’

‘How honourable is Sir Geoffrey?’

Sir Odo laughed aloud as he limped along the roadway to the inn. ‘Ach, he’s not so bad by his own lights. But his master is a dangerous man, now that he’s the king’s own adviser. A man with so much power is always a threat. And if Sir Geoffrey thought that he’d be more well-regarded if he took another man’s land — well, from all we’ve heard, Lord Despenser is less scrupulous than many others.’

‘You are candid, sir.’

‘I am a knight of Sir John Sully, and he is a loyal vassal to Lord de Courtenay. I am loyal too. I dislike this new fashion for men to sell their service for money. In my day, we took our oath because we loved our lord, and we served him faithfully to death.’

‘Still, it might be as well to moderate your language with strangers, sir.’

Sir Odo threw him a look in which the grin smothered the shrewdness. ‘You think so? Sir Baldwin, since you’re known for avoiding any discussion of politics, other than stating that you’re the king’s man because you owe him allegiance, I think I can speak openly in your presence.’ He nodded towards Simon. ‘And every servant of Lord Hugh de Courtenay knows of the Puttock family. If I can’t trust Lord Hugh’s father’s favourite steward’s son, whom can I trust?’