Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

‘Yes.’

‘So there is a forge up there?’

‘Always used to be, yes.’

‘Let’s go and take a look, Baldwin. It won’t take long.’

It was good always to feel the wind in your hair. Sir Geoffrey expected a token resistance at best; urgently fleeing peasants would be more likely. There was no point in their trying to protect this chunk of land from him. All the men down there would know full well that he was more or less their legitimate master, so they’d not dare raise even a thumb to bite at him.

He had disposed his host adequately. The two sergeants, his bodyguards, would take their little forces to the mill down by the chapel and to the ford further up. Meanwhile, Sir Geoffrey would lead the main force down the main road to Crokers’s house. If all went well, without bloodshed they would win the whole of the old lands on this side of the river. Then they could start to move northwards and begin to loosen Sir Odo’s stranglehold on Iddesleigh itself. That would be a sweet cherry to pluck, with the inn in the middle. On this road it would not make so much money as, say, a tavern on the Oxford to London road, but it would bring in a small fortune compared to Ailward’s inheritance.

The fool. Sir Geoffrey wasn’t sure what had happened, but he was fully aware that he was being set up as the clear and obvious suspect in a series of murders. He would not submit to any man, not even the suave and polite Sir Baldwin, to be tried for murder. That would mark him for life, even if he received a pardon in due course.

But it hurt unbearably to think that Sir Odo could have been so cunning as to think up this scheme when all the time Sir Geoffrey had thought he had the upper hand.

The houses were little more than sheds: simple cruck-built frames with cob used to fill the spaces. Perkin took them to Guy’s house first. It was empty, because Guy himself would be in the coppice with his children. He lived the outdoor life of a charcoal-burner, and even now he had a great pile smoking away. Perkin told them that his wife was off helping Beorn’s wife brew ale. It was often a collaborative task.

Baldwin glanced at Simon as they moved towards the farther of the two properties. For his own part, his hand kept straying to the hilt of his sword, as though seeking comfort from it. But there could be no comfort in a place like this. Baldwin was aware of a heaviness in his soul at the thought that this was a place where a young woman could have been dragged, perhaps screaming and desperate, only to be bound and tortured to death.

‘This Pagan,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Perkin: does he work for Sir Geoffrey?’

‘No, never. He was always devoted to Sir William and Sir Robert.’

‘Lady Isabel’s husband and his father?’

‘Yes. Pagan would spit on money offered to him by Sir Geoffrey — he still thinks that the family should return to their own house. As do most of us.’

‘A bold comment, friend,’ Baldwin noted.

‘Our new master is a leader of thieves and felons. How can we be loyal to him?’ Perkin snapped.

‘If I am right you will not have to compromise your loyalty for long,’ Baldwin said. ‘If he has a part in this murder, I shall see him taken to Exeter, I swear.’

‘You think he does?’ Perkin asked hopefully.

Baldwin shook his head ruminatively. ‘All I can say for certain is that Pagan appears to have some explaining to do, as does this Walter. This is the house?’

They had reached a ramshackle building with green walls and a roof composed of chestnut shingles — a rare sight in Devonshire. Baldwin put his hand to the door and opened the latch. He pushed. There was a squeak and a scraping noise as the timbers moved over the rough flooring.

It was a small chamber, perhaps only twelve feet by ten. A hearth lay in the middle of the floor, a cauldron nearby. There was a stench of rancid ale about the room, and on the single low table there was a hunk of dry bread and some ancient cheese, on which the flies were eagerly prancing. A palliasse was rolled neatly and rested on a shelf, while in a hollow dug out of the wall there stood all the man’s most prized possessions: a small crucifix, a shell and lead pilgrim’s badge. There was also a malformed horseshoe.

Baldwin picked it up. ‘This is a terrible piece of work.’

‘What of it? It’s not for sale.’

‘Ah! Pagan, I was wondering whether you would join us here,’ Baldwin said, eyeing the old but well-polished sword in his hand.

‘So what are you doing in my house?’ Pagan demanded.

‘Looking for evidence that you are a murderer,’ Baldwin said.

‘Me?’ Pagan’s face seemed to fall, but then he held his head at an angle and pointed the sword more aggressively. ‘You dare to accuse me?’

‘Man, I would put that sword down,’ Baldwin said firmly, and waited until he had. ‘We know that your father was an armourer, and that you are living up here. When Lady Lucy was killed she was tortured to death. Her body was taken all the way down to the camp ball game, and then over to the mire at the back of Sir Geoffrey’s house — a mire you would know all too well since you used to live there with your master — and thrown in.’

‘Why should I do all that?’ Pagan blustered. ‘She was no enemy of mine!’

‘It is just possible that you decided to throw her in there to place suspicion on to Sir Geoffrey so that he would be removed from the manor. Perhaps you thought you might be able to win it back for your lady, if you first had him evicted from it.’

‘I had nothing to do with her death. I only heard of her murder after she was found,’ Pagan said.

‘Show us your father’s forge.’

Pagan wavered, then rammed his sword back into its sheath, and led the way back out through the front door, round the building to a small lean-to shed that stood at the rear. A square chimney of steel projected from the roof, and the ground here was all darkened with black dust. Lumps of clinker lay about; deformed, sharpened pieces of hardened stone or metal. They had been trodden into the ground all about here as a means of keeping the mud at bay.

Pagan opened the door and shoved it wide. ‘Go on, take a look.’

Baldwin glanced at Edgar, who stood near the door with his eyes fixed on Pagan while Baldwin and Simon walked inside.

It was dark, but when Baldwin had released the two shutters and allowed the light to enter, he found himself in a room that was perhaps six feet by ten. There were racks of metal, mostly rough pigs of steel, and a sturdy little anvil that stood on a large oak block made from a single log. Staples had been hammered into it, and a series of tools hung from them: pincers, pliers, shaped devices to grip and twist hot metal. Baldwin looked about him and felt his flesh cringe. It was so like the rooms he had heard of in France during the torture of the Templars.

‘Nothing here, see?’ Pagan said.

Baldwin did not hear him, and it was only when Pagan touched his arm to repeat his comment that Baldwin reacted.

He spun, his hand reaching out and taking Pagan’s shirt in his fist, while his other hand flew to his dagger and pulled it free. While he wrenched at Pagan’s shirt, forcing him back against the wall, his dagger’s point was under Pagan’s chin.

‘Did you do it to her? If you did, tell me now and I’ll end your life quickly right here.’

Pagan’s head was at the wall, but there was no fear in his eyes as he shook his head. Surprise, yes, but no fear. ‘I am used to the idea of death, Sir Knight. Your blade doesn’t scare me. I swear I had nothing to do with the death of that child. I couldn’t have hurt a hair on her. Not a woman.’

Baldwin felt a thrill of revulsion run through his soul. He had a sudden vision of Pagan lying at his feet, the blood pumping from a slash in his throat, and the thought made him feel physically sick. Yet it was this room. It had all the atmosphere of a place of torture, and such places reminded him only too clearly of the hideous injustice committed against his companions in the Order.