Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

‘Taken from Ailward’s family?’ Simon confirmed.

‘Yes. Poor Malkin and Lady Isabel have nothing left, really. They lost house, lands, livestock, the lot. Sir Geoffrey argues that the plot where Sir Odo installed Robert Crokers was actually part of the confiscated estate and should be passed to him, but Sir Odo claims that the land was held in fief from his lord, Lord de Courtenay. Both rattle their swords, but neither wants a war.’

‘Did you hear the men come back?’

‘No. As I say, I was at Beorn’s house.’

‘Did you know of any man who could have sought to harm Hugh?’ Simon pressed.

‘No. He was a miserable cur, though — never smiled, except when he looked at his wife or the boy. That was no surprise — she was a woman to be proud of. But apart from the normal ribaldry, no one made any comments. I don’t know of any arguments with him. Both of them kept themselves to themselves, I think. He wasn’t sociable.’

That was true enough, Baldwin told himself. ‘What of Sir Geoffrey? He had his men at Robert’s place earlier that same day — could he have gone from there up to Hugh’s and attacked in the evening?’

‘Yes, but I can’t understand why he’d attack just the man Hugh. There are others up here whom he hates more.’

‘Very well, then,’ Baldwin said, after glancing at Simon. ‘What can you tell us about the other dead man? Ailward?’

‘That really rattled me,’ Perkin admitted, and as he spoke his frame shook like a nettle in the wind. ‘I’d seen him only a little while earlier, and suddenly there he was, stretched on the grass, dead.’

‘Someone said that there had been a camp ball match that day?’

‘Yes. It’s an annual game we hold here between Monkleigh and Iddesleigh. Been going on for donkey’s years. Everyone joins in; we play from one end of Furze Down to the other. First to get the bladder in the enemy’s goal is the winner. And we’d have won this year, if it wasn’t for bloody Walter. He was up there on the hillside when I got above the stream, and he just knocked me down and grabbed the thing.’

Baldwin could easily imagine the sight: twenty or thirty men haring along, one gripping the ball, and another thirty-odd hoping to take it from him. Camp ball was so dangerous, had caused so many brawls and arguments in his own manor, that he had been tempted to ban it from his lands, but there too the sport was ancient, and although he had seen the most appalling injuries, men and girls still wanted to play. ‘Was that when you found the body?’

‘No,’ Perkin said. He looked away uncomfortably. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, you understand?’

‘Of course,’ Baldwin said. He allowed a little steel to enter his voice as he added, ‘But I must have the truth about the whole circumstance.’

‘There was something about it. When I was knocked down, I saw Ailward standing a little way distant. He was a Monkleigh man, but he made no effort to save me. He just stood and watched as Walter knocked me down and threw the bladder away. It troubled me.’

‘And?’

‘When Walter stopped me,’ Perkin said more slowly, ‘he grabbed me about the waist and legs, and threw me bodily to the ground. I was flying, and while I flew, I thought I saw some signs that looked odd — like blood on the heather. It was just a fleeting glimpse, though, nothing definite.’

‘Where was this?’

‘Near to where Ailward was standing.’

‘Take us there,’ Baldwin said.

It was about noon when John returned at, for him, a fast amble. Since staying here to look after Hugh, he had found his own feet were improving no end. Being able to rest with them warming by a fire at first made his chilblains protest, but later made them subside. The old cracks from too much walking that stabbed so cruelly were binding again, and soon he thought he might be able to move with less of the crabbed, sailor’s gait that had grown so habitual since he left Exeter.

The house was quiet, and for a moment he was aware of a fear that Hugh might have executed their captive, but as soon as he entered, he saw Hugh scowling ferociously at the man as he ate voraciously from a bowl of the soup left over from the night before. John saw that Hugh had untied his arms and legs, and was relieved. He had been concerned that the man could lose all feeling in them if they were bound tightly for too long.

Humphrey glanced up as he entered, and in his eyes there was a little fear, but then his attention went to the doorway behind John, and as it became apparent that there was no one outside his brow cleared and he met John’s eye with gratitude.

‘So you sought to torture the poor fellow with your cooking?’ John tried jovially.

Hugh set his head to one side. ‘ You made it. I just heated it.’

‘I think I have good news for you. There is a Keeper of the King’s Peace here, and a Bailiff Puttock. They say that they were called here to seek your murderer.’

Hugh gazed up at him with hope filling his soul. ‘Sir Baldwin and my master? They’re here?’

‘And actively hunting down the murderer, yes.’

It made Hugh glad, but it was also an anticlimax. He felt as though the responsibility for finding Constance’s murderer was taken from him, and that was a relief … and a curse as well. She was his wife, her murderer was his enemy. It would be easy to rest now, to allow Sir Baldwin and Simon to find the killer, but Hugh had to do it. It was a matter of honour.

‘Are you well?’ John asked.

‘I’m fine. Be all right in a while. Leave me.’

John nodded, understanding his confusion, and went to Humphrey. He glanced at the man’s wrists, where the thongs had cut into the flesh. It was fortunate that Hugh had removed them when they had, or else this man could have lost his hands.

There was no longer any point in keeping him captive. He had admitted to his crime, and although it was shocking, it was not so rare. When so many men worked for the Church, occasionally anger would flare and a man would die. Jealousy or rage could consume an entire community. Yes, John could sympathise with this man.

‘What would you do, Humphrey?’ he asked. ‘Stay here, or move on to another place where you’ll have to scrape a living again?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remain at the chapel now, so I suppose I’ll have to wander again,’ Humphrey said mournfully.

‘You can keep moving, I suppose, but it would make for no life,’ John guessed.

Humphrey shook at the memory. The nights he had spent on the run … Once he had been lying under a hedge, mournfully reminding himself of his miserable fall, when he had noticed a shrew or a mouse in the stubble of the field not far from him. He watched, entranced, while the little figure scraped and muzzled about the ground searching for gleanings. Every so often it would rise to its hind legs and sniff the air as though convinced that there was someone watching it, but not sure who or where.

And then Humphrey all but leapt from his skin as a silent, pale, wraithlike figure swooped down and took it. He could have died in that moment, the way his heart thundered in his breast. It was so sudden, so terrifying!

The barn owl took off again, effortlessly rising through the cool night’s air, and he watched it go with genuine terror, expecting a similar shape to appear at any moment and haul him away to hell.

There were very few nights when he had managed to make use of a rick, hayloft or barn. After a month he was rancid and exhausted. His bones ached, his feet were worn, and he was close to collapse. That was when he had arrived in Hatherleigh and seen Isaac for the first time.

‘There may be a better way,’ John said. ‘Perhaps we could persuade the bishop to give you a trial at the chapel?’