Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

He could not help but glance behind him, reflecting on all that had happened to him since he first saw the easy target, as he had thought. Isaac. The old man had been as innocent and gullible as he had hoped, and yet …

There were some odd comments, some quiet ways he had of looking at a man that made him seem more aware than Humphrey would have guessed. Perhaps it was only that he had a certain stillness, his eyes focusing somewhere else while he listened to a man talking … but that wasn’t because he was clever, it was because he had to concentrate. His eyes were bad, and so was his hearing. He was easy enough to fool into taking Humphrey’s word that he had been sent from Exeter, after all. Others had been more suspicious, like Matthew.

Matthew had been the sort of man who might have written to the bishop to demand whether an assistant had been sent to help Isaac or not. He wasn’t the sort of fellow to take a man’s word if he mistrusted him. No, he must have written … and yet there had been no summons to Exeter.

He can’t have written, and Humphrey reckoned he knew why. Isaac had talked him out of it. The old man must have realised that he had a good thing going. All the while Humphrey was there, he had food ready at the right times, he had his rooms swept, he had the vegetables and grain looked after. It was a comfortable existence, and Humphrey himself was undemanding. It wouldn’t have occurred to Isaac that Humphrey could have lied.

Except that wasn’t entirely true. Isaac was no fool. He usually spotted irregularities and curious behaviour. He did in the case of Hugh’s family, guessing that Hugh’s wife was a nun before anyone told him. He was sharp enough in that sort of way; he had a peasant’s wits. But he hadn’t figured out Humphrey; hadn’t guessed that Humphrey was a threat and could rob the chapel in a moment.

That he hadn’t was only because — well, it was just because , that was all. There was no point in robbing the place. And it didn’t feel right, not while Isaac was lying in there like a guard.

‘He knew all along,’ Humphrey breathed. Dejectedly, he gave up trying to convince himself otherwise. The priest had known what sort of man he was. He had not been reported to Exeter, because Isaac had stopped Matthew writing; he had been given free access to the chapel and all its riches because Isaac knew he could trust him. In a few short months Humphrey had been given his soul back. After the killing he’d thought he’d never know peace again, but Isaac had showed him how to live. He had saved him.

The rain started to fall more seriously, and he glared upwards. ‘All right. I’ll stop,’ he declared, and instead of continuing to Meeth, he stopped at the ruined house. The roof wasn’t entire by any means, but there was enough to protect him from the worst of the weather, and at least there was the remains of the little family’s fire. He could rekindle it and have a warm place to rest the night. And while there he could muse over his life. He had a great deal of thinking to do.

He was almost at the place when he glanced over towards Fishleigh. There were many torches in the hall’s yard, he saw. And then he saw them begin to move. It was too far away to be certain, but he thought that they were taking the road towards the ford that led to Iddesleigh.

It was a large force, he saw, and he wondered why they would all be riding that way at this time of night.

Hugh walked in and sat with his head lowered. He knew that Simon was at his side, and he heard voices speaking, but somehow they made little sense. Suddenly he felt as though there was a great dizziness washing over him, and he must fall, but he managed to keep himself upright with an effort.

There was an arm about him, and he looked down to see that it was his master’s. Simon was holding him. Hugh wanted to speak, but Simon’s eyes were brimming, and Hugh didn’t know why. He sniffed. There was a heaviness in the middle of his breast, and he found that he couldn’t speak, or at least, not without his voice quaking with sobs.

‘Hugh, I thought you were dead,’ Simon said. He closed his eyes and squeezed Hugh’s shoulder. ‘I am so glad, Hugh, so glad to see you’re well. And so sorry to know that Constance and little Hugh … that they were killed.’

‘Is there anything you can tell us about that night?’ Baldwin asked.

Hugh could only shake his head, incapable. It was just as if he’d been storing up the misery and loneliness for the last days and now all his grief was overwhelming him. Surely his heart must burst!

‘Hugh? Look at me. Look into my eyes.’ Baldwin’s tone was insistent. ‘You have to speak to me. We are seeking the murderous bastard who killed Constance, but we need your help.’

Looking up, Hugh saw the depth of compassion in Baldwin’s face. He sniffed, and saw that Edgar was at Baldwin’s side. Edgar nodded gently, and for once Hugh saw Edgar without a smile on his face. This was a lean, sympathetic warrior, not the arrogant servant of a knight. He leaned forward and touched Hugh’s knee, nodded, and then signalled to the pot boy for an ale.

‘I have been looking after him,’ Brother John said hesitantly.

‘Brother, I am glad,’ Baldwin said. He grinned. ‘I didn’t expect to meet you again so soon after you left Exeter.’

‘Nor did I. Especially in such circumstances,’ John said.

‘What brought you here?’ Simon asked.

John sighed. ‘Oh, I was looking to see my sister one last time. I hoped …’ He found he had a catch in his throat now. Seeing Hugh failing to cope with his emotions had brought to the fore all his own feelings of loneliness and despair. ‘I hoped to meet my sister. But she is dead.’

Baldwin stood. ‘Brother, be seated. I shall fetch you wine. Your sister, was she Lady Lucy?’

‘Yes,’ John said, and sat himself down carefully. Suddenly he felt as though he was among friends, and for no reason he could discern, he burst into tears.

Later, when the two men had recovered somewhat, their story came out, and Baldwin and Simon told them all that they too had learned.

‘What would Pagan have been doing in your lane, though, Hugh?’ Simon asked.

‘Come to that, what was Matthew doing there?’ Baldwin wondered. ‘Are there any other houses than yours nearby?’

‘There are — farther up the hill,’ Hugh said. ‘That’s as far as his parish goes.’

‘So he was either walking up there or over to Pagan’s house,’ Baldwin said.

‘We’re as sure as we can be that Pagan’s house is where the torture was conducted,’ Simon said. ‘But we don’t know who was responsible, nor who killed the girl.’

‘Where’s this man Walter?’ Baldwin wondered. ‘He’s the only man we know was there with whom we have not yet spoken. Sir Odo said he was coming here. Jankin? Do you know if a man-at-arms called Walter is guarding the church?’

‘There is a man called that up there, I think. Davie, could you fetch him? Tell him there’s a quart here for him.’

Baldwin nodded his thanks, and the men waited a few minutes. When Deadly reappeared, Walter was behind him. He glanced about the room, then walked in, shifting his sword to rest more comfortably on his hip as he came.

‘Friend,’ Baldwin called. ‘We would like to speak to you. There is an ale here for you.’

Walter looked him up and down. The man was plainly a knight, and Walter had seen him at Fishleigh when he returned from the sergeant’s house over the river. ‘I am tired, and I’m supposed to be guarding the sanctuary-seeker. I don’t have time, friend.’

‘Then, as Keeper of the King’s Peace, I tell you to come here and answer our questions,’ Baldwin said, his smile broadening. ‘I want to know all about you and Ailward and Lady Lucy of Meeth.’