Michael Jecks: A Friar's bloodfeud

There was a sharp explosion of noise, and he spun round to find the area before his house filled with horses. He had been too keen to listen out for the riders coming along the track to think that they might approach another way. Somehow these men had ridden through the woods and come at him from the river. He moved aside as their beasts stamped and pawed at the soil, snorting and blowing after their urgent ride.

‘You the bailiff here?’

Robert turned to find himself confronted by a thickset figure on a horse. He nodded.

‘I am Sir Geoffrey Servington. This land is my lord’s, bailiff. So I want you to leave.’

‘This is land of Sir John Sully. No one else’s,’ Robert said, but he was nervous in the face of all these men-at-arms. A black horse backed, stamping angrily, and Robert moaned when he saw it crush his carefully planted bean and pea plants.

Following the direction of his gaze, Geoffrey shouted, ‘Get off the garden! After all,’ he added, smiling evilly at Robert, ‘when we have our own man living here, we won’t want him to starve, will we?’

Hugh brought the axe down one last time, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and set the axe by the side of his pile of wood. Gazing about him, he grinned as he told himself that he had never been so happy as since he started to live with Constance.

This old tree had collapsed during the year before last, when he’d first come here. Over time the other larger boughs had been cut out, but this one had, for some reason, survived. And then a foul storm had struck and it had collapsed, taking a lot of the old Devon hedge with it.

It was a problem with older parcels of land in this area. The little holding where Hugh and Constance lived was once part of the Priory of Belstone’s demesne, but when Constance had been sent here by the prioress it had been empty for some years. The hovel which had stood here had been all but derelict, and when Hugh first saw it his temper had if anything grown more sour.

‘Best work on that first,’ he had declared, and stood staring at it while Constance gazed at him anxiously. She had been anxious a lot of the time back then, he remembered. About her baby, about her life, whether she had made the right choices, whether she should be here at Iddesleigh at all … there were so many concerns for a young woman with no vocation.

What else could a moorman do, though? Hugh knew that a place like this needed a man to look after it, just as a woman needed a man to provide for her. It was all well and good to say to a woman like Constance, ‘Woman, there’s a place at Iddesleigh. There’s a house and some acres. Go and take it. You can live there,’ as though that was an end to the matter. But no one who’d ever farmed would think that. No, as Hugh knew, a farm which was left fallow for any length of time would soon be overwhelmed with weeds and brambles, the coppices overrun with small, useless stems, and the house … well, it would look as this one had.

Constance was lucky the prioress had given her anything, of course. It was proof of the regard in which she was held by the prioress — but God’s ballocks, it was fortunate that Hugh had been here to see to it.

The scowl on his face lightened a moment. Being born on the moors lent a man a suspicious nature, and for a moment Hugh wondered whether that could have been at the heart of the prioress’s suggestion that Hugh should travel here with Constance … the old woman was certainly crafty enough to see that this servant was already attracted to the former novice. Only it was more than that. Hugh felt the same adoration for Constance that a sheepdog feels for its master. There was no denying it: he loved her. She was … well, there weren’t words for her.

He’d even given up his master, Simon Puttock, and his family for Constance. Perhaps if he hadn’t met her, he’d still be in service with Simon, living with him at Dartmouth. When Master Simon had been given that post — the Abbot Robert’s representative in the town with full authority under the Abbey of Tavistock’s seal — Hugh had known so many doubts, it had felt as though his heart was being torn in two; but there was no choice as far as he was concerned, not really. He’d seen Constance’s new home by then, and although he’d rebuilt the worst of the hovel, there was too much to be done on the land about it for him to leave her alone yet. Simon, who knew him so well, had given him a small purse and wished him Godspeed when they last parted. There was no pointed comment, no demand that he ought to continue to serve his master as he had before, no bitterness: only a wholehearted and generous wish for his happiness.

Hugh could remember that last meeting.

‘Hugh, make her happy — and I will pray that God makes you as content with her as I always have been with my darling Meg. Constance is a good woman, and she deserves a man who’ll honour her, so look to her, protect her, and you can always send a messenger to me if you are in want. Remember that!’

And with that, Hugh could remember the glistening at his master’s eyes. Simon had actually wept at losing Hugh’s company. It made Hugh feel terrible, but there was no choice. Not really. Hugh hefted the axe again and let its weight draw it down into a long branch.

No, Master Simon could always find a new servant. He’d said that he had one already — a lad called Rob — who was efficient and ever cheerful. That was what Master Simon had said: the lad was always cheerful. It was a daft comment. Hugh had always been cheerful enough, God’s blood! He normally greeted his master with a respectful duck of the head of a morning. He scowled, remembering: what more could anyone ask?

He swung the axe again, glancing up at the sky. It was darkening in the way that it did in the late winter, deepening to blue overhead with pink in the west. Looking at the remaining trunk, he sniffed, then slung the axe over his shoulder. There would be time enough tomorrow to finish the job, and then it would be a matter of carrying all the logs back to the house. He had a small hurdle which he’d made from the smaller branches, and he reckoned he could lash the logs to that, and hitch it to an ox. The beast would drag the lot back home.

Mulling over his plans for the next day, he wandered slowly through the gathering gloom to the house. Soon he could smell the fire, and he snuffed the air happily. It was good to know that he was nearly home. The mere idea of ‘home’ was enough to make him smile. When he’d been a youngster he’d had a home, of course, but then he’d become a shepherd, and that lonely life had marked him profoundly.

His path took him over the line of the hill, along the lane westwards, and thence down to the cottage. He stopped once, gazing along the sweep of hills to the south to where, in the distance, he could see his old haunt: Dartmoor, sitting like a brooding animal preparing to pounce on the far horizon, dark and dangerous. Sometimes he liked to think of himself like that: a man of action who rested at present, but only like a moor viper, coiled, alert and ready to attack.

Tonight all he wanted was a quiet evening, and then his bed. The house looked shabby and in need of a fresh coat of limewash and a new roof, but he stood still and smiled at the sight of it. It was all he had ever wanted. A good, solid house, when all was said and done, with space for the animals at the bottom of the slope so that their filth would drain through the hole in the wall, while he and his woman and child slept in the northernmost portion, up the hill. It was a sight to warm an old shepherd’s heart.

Sighing happily, he strode into the yard, and had gone six paces when he realised that something was wrong; terribly wrong.