Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

Not one of them had done anything more than give him verbal support. Any of them could deny speaking to him. To cover their arses, they’d all act like his chief prosecutors, just to make sure that they were safe themselves.

He was so torn between rage and the sense of deep frustration that he had failed utterly at all he had attempted, that he felt he must burst. And then he felt the sobs welling up with the tears, and he abandoned himself to the numbing terror. He had no idea what he should do, to whom he could turn, or where he might run to. All he could think of was the marginal safety of this church, and the fact of the altar cloth in his hands. They were real, they were substantial. With the tears falling from his cheeks, he bent to the cloth to sniff it, and took in the clean odour of the fresh air from when it had been left to hang in the open to dry. It smelled like freedom to him, sitting uncomfortably there on the cold church floor.

A freedom he might never know again. He screwed the thin material in his hands with his returning grief, and to his horror heard a slight ripping sound. There was a moment of agonised suspense, and then he looked at the cloth.

He had torn it. He felt as though he had savaged his hopes of safety.

Baldwin rode into Fishleigh’s court with Simon and Edgar at either side.

The place was rather like a castle without the curtain wall. Set on top of a good-sized hillock, it had a ditch dug round it to make attack more difficult, and the entrance was reached by a small drawbridge. Once over it they were in among the bustle of the great house.

Servants were everywhere, fetching and carrying stores from one outer building to a large undercroft beneath what Baldwin took to be the great hall. A number of men-at-arms were present, all of them apparently set upon readying their weapons. Rasping could be heard from all sides as blades were whetted and honed, axes had their heads run over the great stones, and bills were taken from their short hedging handles and thrust upon long staves so that they could be used to slash at horses or their riders.

‘This is an encampment readying itself for war,’ Simon breathed.

‘I fear so,’ Baldwin said. He glanced about him with some anxiety. ‘I can see no sign of the master. Where is Sir Odo?’ he asked a man nearby.

A boy was sent scurrying to the stables, and after a few minutes the genial figure of Sir Odo was hobbling towards them, his scarred face twisted into a grin.

‘Sir Keeper, and Bailiff Simon as well? We are glad to see you, gentles. Would you take some wine with me?’

Once in the hall with him, Baldwin was able to tell him what they had learned up on the moor.

‘So you think that one of my men could have had something to do with this?’

‘We know that a man called Walter was up there with Ailward. A witness says he saw what looked like blood on the ground near the two, and later the same day when he went up there, he found Ailward’s body. This man Walter may know something of what was happening. It may be that there was a strip of red cloth on the ground, nothing more than that. But if it was the woman from Meeth …’

‘I quite understand. I shall have him called to me here and you shall question him.’

‘So you are his master?’

‘Yes.’

Baldwin walked towards the door and peered out at the compound. ‘You are expecting Sir Geoffrey to attack you and your lands?’

‘He knows he has to. If he wants to iron out matters with his lord, he’ll have to mollify the man somehow. One way to do that would be to take some extra lands. From anyone.’

‘The land on which his manor stands once belonged to Ailward’s family?’ Baldwin asked, returning to the seat where a cup of wine waited for him.

‘That’s right. Until Ailward’s grandfather died, his was a moderately wealthy family. The Irish campaign put paid to that — and then his father’s headstrong rush to join Mortimer again … he was killed up in the north, you know?’

‘We had heard. Some skirmish at Bridgnorth.’

‘That is right. A great waste. He was a good man.’ Sir Odo shook his head reflectively. ‘You know, I think that Ailward could have made a good, competent squire. He had the physique for it. Strong torso, heavily built, with good arms and legs. He could ride like a knight, and had the grace with a lance to charm a princess.’

‘His wife is a lovely woman,’ Simon commented.

‘Yes. He liked the better things in life. He was very badly affected by the loss of his manor. Very morose and dejected … and then to be forced to become a menial … it was a hard fate for a man who had hoped for so much.’

Simon said, ‘Did he resent you too?’

‘Why would he do that?’ Odo asked with frank surprise.

‘Because you had a part of his inheritance.’

Sir Odo laughed. ‘On the contrary, that was all he was able to salvage. I made an arrangement with Sir Geoffrey that we would share that part of the manor. It is fruitful, that area within the river, and half the money went to Ailward. I kept nothing. But Geoffrey thought that we were sharing the profits.’

‘Why did Geoffrey agree to that?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘Surely he could have simply added it to his existing lands and pleased his master …’

‘But not to his own profit,’ Odo said slyly, tapping his nose. ‘I appealed to his greed. So no, Ailward liked me and trusted me. As he should have. I always helped him.’

‘Do you think that he could have been capable of killing Lady Lucy and throwing her into the mire on his land just to lay the blame for the murder on Sir Geoffrey?’ Baldwin asked thoughtfully.

‘He would have been capable, I suppose. If he wanted to do that, though, wouldn’t he have picked a place where she would have been easier to discover? Why choose a bog? She might have stayed there for ever, just as so many sheep and horses do each year. And who would have killed him?’

‘Walter and he were there together. Could they have argued about the course of action they were about to take, perhaps come to blows, and Walter killed him?’

Simon took up the idea. ‘So Walter took her body on his own shoulder and walked along the waste lands, round the back of Sir Geoffrey’s lands, and then dropped her into the mire?’

‘It is scarcely likely, is it?’ Baldwin said reluctantly.

‘No. Not unless they had an ally in Sir Geoffrey’s camp,’ Simon mused. ‘Someone who would know the best way to avoid being seen so near to the house.’

‘Any of the peasants would know all the less frequented routes, surely?’ Sir Odo said.

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said. ‘Could you have Walter brought here so that I may question him, please?’

With a good grace Sir Odo nodded and left them, adjuring them to be comfortable while they waited.

‘You have had an idea?’ Simon asked.

Baldwin nodded. ‘The assumption we made originally was that Sir Geoffrey had intended to torture Lady Lucy to make her pass over her lands to him — but it now appears that Sir Geoffrey never pushed his master’s claim to the whole of Ailward’s inheritance too strenuously — Sir Odo still keeps a hand on some parts. I just wonder: if Sir Odo could have taken over Lady Lucy’s lands, it would have been as beneficial to him as it would have been for Sir Geoffrey, surely?’

‘I suppose so,’ Simon said. ‘What of the other men? Ailward could have allied himself with anyone, I reckon. He was bitter and vengeful after losing his entire estate. Walter was probably involved, since he was there on the moor with Ailward and, perhaps, Lady Lucy’s body, if Perkin was right. Nicholas le Poter could have been connected to them as well. Three men: Ailward, Walter and Nicholas, all of them working together.’