Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

‘It’s just a workshop,’ Simon said.

Baldwin released the man and sheathed his dagger. ‘I am sorry, Pagan. I should not have done that. It was … just a feeling I had. I am sorry.’

Simon was quite right, too. It was a smithy, nothing more. There was the forge. There was the anvil, the tools, the foot bellows to pump air to the fire, now well rotten. ‘It is only rarely used now?’

Pagan shrugged. ‘I don’t think anyone has used the place in ten years or more. When was Kells? I forget. I have never used it myself. I once made a horseshoe, the one you saw. I would not have made a good smith.’

Simon grunted. He could understand that. While Baldwin and the smith’s son talked, he wandered around the place. There was a fine black dust all about, and he ran his fingers in it, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. It was rough to the touch, and smelled metallic. At one point there was a tall, straight tree-limb supporting the roof with another series of staples set into it, some hung with more tools like the ones on the anvil. All were rusty and darkened with the iron filings and dust. He moved on, and saw a little rag on the floor.

It was nothing, just a shred of bright green material, but it made him pause in wonder for a moment, and then he realised why: it was relatively free of the dust that lay all over everything else. He stooped to pick it up, and found that there was a crust of black stuff on the underside. Immediately he knew what it was, and even as he called Baldwin, his eyes were on the supporting timber in front of him.

This was farther from the anvil, and had no tools hanging from it, but there was one staple, set up high. It had one face that was bright and uncrusted.

‘She was here,’ he said.

Robert Crokers set the bowl at the bitch’s head and she looked up at him appreciatively.

By some miracle, bearing in mind the barbaric wound inflicted on her, only two pups had been stillborn. She herself had lost some blood, and he wondered whether there would be a fresh gush, as he’d sometimes seen in other animals giving birth. When that happened, it meant that the mother was sure to die, and he only prayed that she would be safe.

And so she was. After giving birth to four healthy little squirming, mewling blind and bald lumps, she set to cleaning herself and them while he stood by watching them with delight. In that moment he had felt his heart swell with pride, as though these were his own creation. It must be how a father felt, he thought, on seeing a child for the first time. An awe and awareness of how unimportant he was; his only purpose was to serve these little scraps of flesh.

The pups looked much like rats, they were so small, pink and blind. It was impossible to look at them and see that they would one day grow to be like her. For now all he could do was hope that they’d show even a small portion of the intelligence she had. She’d always been a good worker, and the fact that she’d been so badly hurt spoke volumes of the way that she’d tried to protect her master and his land. He reached down cautiously to touch one, and stopped when he heard the low rumbling snarl.

‘You’re right, little girl. They’re yours, not mine. I’ve no place here.’ He smiled and backed away from her. She watched him for a moment, then appeared to give a mental shrug and set to cleaning them again.

That was when he heard the hooves.

‘You still say you had nothing to do with the woman’s death?’ Baldwin rasped. He grabbed Pagan’s arm.

‘What are you talking about?’

Simon held the cloth to him. ‘Whose dress did this come from?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Lady Lucy of Meeth. She wore a dress like this. And this has her blood on it.’

‘I should think it was used as a gag,’ Baldwin said. He was tempted to punch Pagan, to beat the truth from him. ‘And the staple.’

Pagan shook his head. ‘What of it?’

‘It’s been hammered in only recently,’ Simon said. ‘So when you said no one’s been in here for ten years or so, that was a lie.’

‘I don’t know who could have been here. I haven’t been inside in ten or more years. I lived at the manor until we were thrown from there, and then I lived with my master Ailward and his family, until Ailward’s death. Then I came back up here to sleep, but only to my room. Not here to the smithy. Why should I?’

Simon grunted. ‘Baldwin, that’s one thing Isabel and Malkin told us, you remember? That Pagan used to live with them until Ailward died. And Lucy died before him, if we believe what Perkin has said.’

Baldwin slowly released Pagan. ‘True. But who else could have come up here?’

‘Ailward could have,’ Simon said. ‘He knew of this place because he knew his grandfather’s armourer. And he knew that no one was living here now. So it would be secure.’

‘Perkin,’ Baldwin said. ‘You say that the man Guy just near here is a charcoal burner? Was he burning coals when Ailward died? Charcoal burners often take their families with them. Does this Guy?’

‘Yes his family was with him in the week before that.’

‘So if Lady Lucy was here, no one would hear her screams?’ Baldwin said.

‘I suppose not,’ Perkin said nervously. The sudden burst of anger from these two men had shocked him. It shouldn’t, but he hadn’t expected such raw ferocity.

‘Ailward and Walter,’ Simon breathed.

‘I want to speak to this Walter,’ Baldwin said. He took one last look about the room and swept out.

Hugh heard them first. It was a part of him, this wariness. In the past it had been so that he could protect his flock from wolves or foxes, keep the lambs safe from buzzards or crows or magpies; now it was the in-built defence against predators on two legs that sent him scurrying towards the door when he heard hooves.

There were two men on horseback cantering down the track, and he peered round the door frame as they pelted towards the bridge over the river that led to Iddesleigh.

‘Who was it?’ Friar John asked in a whisper.

‘I don’t know,’ Hugh admitted. ‘Men hurrying down that way …’

‘They came from up there?’ John asked, pointing.

‘Yes.’

‘I was there not long ago. It would be a good place to watch Fishleigh, Sir Odo’s house.’

‘Why would someone watch there?’ Hugh said.

Humphrey cleared his throat. ‘It was said in Monkleigh that Sir Geoffrey sought to take over the whole of the lands east of the river. If he was launching an attack, he might set men up here to see when Sir Odo’s men were marshalled …’

Hugh nodded. ‘True enough.’ But now he was feeling a strange sensation. The noise of horses pounding past had set off a series of connections. It wasn’t anything to do with horses, though, he felt. No, rather it was a set of noises at night. People … The priest, Matthew! That was it! Constance had seen the priest outside in the lane, and he had thought there could be no harm in it because he was a priest, and had slammed the door shut. ‘The priest …’ he murmured.

‘What?’ Friar John asked.

‘Nothing. I have to go. See what’s happening there,’ Hugh said.

It was well past noon when Baldwin re-entered the inn.

‘Jeanne, I am sorry to have been so long. I think that we are making some progress,’ he explained as he walked into their little chamber.

His wife was sitting on their bed, breastfeeding Richalda. ‘I am glad to hear that. I don’t want to stay here alone too long. Emma is driving me mad.’

‘What’s she up to now?’

‘She would try a saint. She keeps walking out, inventing errands. I have no need of her running to the farm to ask for milk for me to drink, but she feels the need to go. Earlier she went to seek a biscuit for me, and then it was a blanket for Richalda. I don’t know what’s got into her.’