Michael Jecks: A Friar's bloodfeud

It was an old one, this. A good local hedge, with solid moorstone inside to support it, covered with turves. Earth had been piled at the top, and the first farmers would have thrown acorns and berries on to it, or perhaps planted young whips of hawthorn, blackthorn, rose and bramble. Anything that would help to form a prickly, dense mass. And as the years passed, the thin little plants had grown strong and tall, and when they were thick enough the farmers had come back with billhooks and slashers and axes, and had cut half through the inch-thick stems and laid them over, fixing them in place by weaving them between stakes. And the hedge had grown, solid, thick, impenetrable, self-renewing.

All that was long in the past. Hugh had kept his eyes on this one for the last two years, thinking that it was grown too tall and straggly, and he had begun work here a week and a half ago, cutting out all the dead wood, trimming the smaller branches, hammering in new stakes. Now he had to hack at the surviving plants so that he could lay them afresh.

It was all but done. He had only a few more hours’ work, and the field could be used again for pasture. That would be a good day. With luck, the ale that Constance had put to brew last week would be ready at the same time and they could celebrate their fresh little success with her best drink.

‘God’s blessings on you!’

Hugh peered through the hedge to see the priest from the chapel down the road at Monkleigh. ‘Father.’

‘This hedge is a mess. It must take a lot of effort to keep it clear?’

‘Yes,’ Hugh said, feeling his former sense of well-being begin to ebb away.

‘What is your name?’

‘I’m Hugh. Some call me Hugh Drewsteignton or Shepherd,’ he responded. He swung the billhook at a stem and sliced three-quarters of the way through the thick wood.

‘Well, Hugh Drewsteignton or Shepherd, are you one of the villeins of Sir Odo?’

‘No. My master lives at Lydford.’

The priest lifted his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Really? What are you doing here, then?’

‘My wife lives here.’

‘Your wife? Who is that?’

‘Constance.’ By now Hugh’s contentment was all but gone, and he wished that this priest would go too. There were some in the vill who had muttered when he had arrived there with Constance. It was noticeable that one or two had turned away from them when they went to the church door to be married, as though no woman before had ever wedded her man with a swelling belly.

The priest must have heard the tale, because he gave Hugh a very shrewd look. ‘I have heard much about her.’

‘So?’

‘She is a wise woman, so they say. Good with healing potions and salves.’

‘Yes. She learned it at Belstone.’

‘What did she do there?’

Hugh began to chop at the stems again, concentrating on the work in hand. ‘She was busy learning potions and the like, I dare say.’

‘Well, you look after her, man. She deserves all the care she can receive.’

Hugh ignored him, and soon the young priest was off again, walking slowly homeward down the Exbourne road, his feet splashing in the puddles and mud. For a moment Hugh wondered what he had meant, but then he shrugged. He had work to do.

Robert Crokers could have saved himself if he had kept his eyes open. The riders would have been clearly visible coming through the trees.

He had lived here only a few short months. Born at his father’s house at Lyneham near Yealmpton, he had been sent to Lord de Courtenay’s household when he was five, so that he could learn manners and humility, and he had hated it from the first. A great lord’s household was never at rest. When it was newly arrived at a manor there was the noise and bustle of unpacking, the fetching and carrying of boxes and chests, and the coming and going of the peasants bringing food for men and beasts; after a few days there would be more uproar as the men set off to hunt morning and afternoon, with raches and harriers snuffling and slobbering about the place, and horses stamping and chomping at their bits … and when all was done and the stores were gone, there was the trouble of packing everything up and preparing to leave for the next manor.

When he had heard that this little manor needed a new bailiff he had seen a chance to escape, and Lord de Courtenay’s steward had been kind enough to let him. Better that he should be at a quiet manor where he could annoy only a small number of people with his whining and moaning, rather than at Tiverton or Okehampton, where he could upset many more, the older man had said, and then grinned and wished him all good fortune.

This land was good, Robert told himself now. Up here at his house there was plenty of wood, while down at the vill the fields were bursting with health. In many parts of the country people were starving because of the terrible harvests, but here in Devon the populace was a little better provided for. Their diet was geared towards hardier crops, which could bear the dreadful weather. He sometimes thought that the peasants here were like the oats they grew. Both seemed stoical in the face of the elements.

His home was a small building, cob-built under a thatched roof, but it was comfortable and snug even during the worst of the winter’s storms. From the door, he could look over a large garden where he hoped his beans and peas would thrive, while beyond the beds was a small area of pasture which rolled down the hill south-west towards the river. The ford was in front of the house, and the lane from it led past his door and on up the hill towards the lands north and east: Iddesleigh and Monk Oakhampton. The way was cut through thick woodland, and few travellers ever passed this way.

Robert was making his way home, a man of middle height, slightly built, with a slender waist and narrow shoulders. He had fine features: his nose was straight, his lips were sensuous, and his brown eyes were intelligent and kindly; and he was as hungry as the peasants on the estate. Food had been plentiful enough through the cold, barren months, but now that winter was drawing to a close and the stocks were low his teeth were aching badly, as usual, and one or two were loose in his jaw as the scurvy started to take hold again. It was the same every year, ever since he’d been a little lad. When the food grew scarce, he began to suffer. If fortune favoured, he would soon recover. He always did when the weather improved.

He was almost at his house when he heard the drumming of hooves in the distance. The sound was loud enough for him to stop and turn, frowning. Horses were making their way down the rough road that led towards the Okement river and the ford that led to the big house over west. Robert had no cause to be anxious, so far as he knew. He was far from the main manor here, but who would dare to attack him on Lord de Courtenay’s lands? No one would be so foolish. Still, there was something about the relentless approach that made him turn back and move more quickly towards his door and the promise of safety within.

There was a sudden silence behind him, and he wondered at that. If the riders were heading for Fishleigh they must pass him, surely, and that would mean the noise of hoofbeats would grow … unless they had turned off and were even now haring off towards another homestead.

The thought was curiously unreassuring. If there were riders in force around the manor, he wanted to know about them. On a whim, he went to the edge of his garden, peering up the road through the trees. Sounds could play a man false up here. Sometimes he had heard voices which sounded as though they were from only a few yards away, and yet when he had gone to investigate, he had discovered that they were men talking at the far side of the river.

So now he stood frowning, straining his ears to discover where the riders could be. It was only sensible to be wary, especially with neighbours as unpredictable as the men under Geoffrey Servington. When he had first come here, he had been warned that Geoffrey’s men were prone to violence. Not long before there had been a scuffle of some sort, and Geoffrey’s men had killed Robert’s own predecessor.