Michael Jecks - A Friar's bloodfeud

His men were with him, about him, as he charged onwards.

At last there was some resistance as he curved round the wall and saw the line of men waiting. Archers at the end swung round, their faces pasty as they realised their danger, men-at-arms struggling to turn and bring their shields to bear on this unexpected attack from behind them. And then Sir Odo and his men crashed into, over, and through the line, leaving a tangled mass of injured and wounded men.

‘Back!’ he bellowed, and turned his beast back to the line. His destrier was a good brute, expensive as hell, but superb. He would kick, stamp and bite at anyone in his way, and he started now, an enraged animal dealing death with his hooves. Sir Odo saw a man in front of him, and before he could think of raising his sword the horse had flailed with a hoof and the man’s face had disappeared, simply disappeared, pummelled into nothing by the force of a hoof with all the power of that immense foreleg behind it.

Seeing a figure running, Sir Odo thought it looked familiar. He slapped the horse with the flat of his blade, and set it off in pursuit.

There was no means of pulling back the initiative tonight. The battle was lost already. Perhaps it had been as soon as Sir Geoffrey set off to attack Robert Crokers’s house earlier. Whatever the truth, Sir Geoffrey intended escaping, and now he hurried to reach the farther side of his manor and escape behind it.

But even as he conceived the idea, he heard the ferocious roar of his enemy, and he knew he’d been seen. Instead, he changed his direction, and pelted down the track towards the road. He had only one possible defence against a knight on horseback, and he took it, running for his life, down the way where he and his men had expected to trap Sir Odo’s men only a few minutes before.

Faster, faster, until his heart felt as though it must burst in his breast, until his lungs were on fire, until his legs were all but ruined, and then, blessed relief, he saw the rope and ran at full tilt underneath it.

The ground was trembling with the destrier’s hoofbeats, and he thought he could feel its breath on his neck, and then there was a loud cough, and the horse lost his concentration as Sir Odo was caught by the rope and flung backwards like a straw doll to land on his back, while his horse continued a short distance, then seemed to notice that all was not well.

Sir Geoffrey did not hesitate. He left the horse — trained destriers were all too often trained to serve only one man — and went back the way he had come, past the house and up the hill, his sword still in his hand, racing for his life up the hill and away from the slaughter.

Sir Odo was badly winded, and he lay for some little while, his vision black and his senses dulled. It was only when he began to hear the shouting and clamour of battle that he realised where he was, and he rolled over to climb to all fours, wondering what could have hit him. Then, kneeling, he saw the rope between two trees and swore. The simplest trick in the world, and he’d fallen for it.

Sir Geoffrey made it to the top of the hill with his sword still in his hands. Once there, he turned, panting, to gaze behind him.

The house was lighted by a yellow, unnatural glow. As he looked, he thought he could see a shower of sparks rising, and he frowned with incomprehension until he saw the first flames licking at the thatch. Then he understood: someone had thrown torches up into the roof. When he glanced back at the road, he saw that the men gathered there were all gone. Clearly they had taken the opportunity of the attack to charge the place and hurl their flaming torches into the building or up at the straw. Now the flames were taking hold.

He could have wept. Sitting, he put his face in his hands and covered the scene from himself. Shaking his head, he was drained of all emotion. He was desolate. This would be an incalculable loss to him. His master would be sure to remove him and replace him with some arrogant prickle like Nicholas, while Odo would grow in smugness at having beaten him.

Soon men could be coming up here to find him. He had to get as far away as possible. He thrust his sword home in its scabbard, and started.

This path was so well known to him that he could almost find his way in the dark. There on his right was the drained mire, where the fool of a sergeant had found that woman’s body. He set off up the hill and, panting, reached a tree. From here he could see the house and several miles about. The moon was shining down silver on the whole countryside, and now he could make out the fires at his hall more clearly. There was more, too. He saw the moon glinting off steel. Men were running away along the road to Monk Oakhampton; two were over the hedge and hastening down towards the chapel. And there were no men in the road any more. They’d brought their torches to his hall, and that was that.

It was enough to make a man weep.

Pagan and the others stood at the top of the hill, gazing down in the direction the horses had taken when they galloped past them. The battle was invisible to them, at the other side of the house, but they could hear the screams and roars of the men battling for their lives down there, and then they saw the flames begin to rise in the dark night’s sky.

‘Is this the end of the manor?’ Adcock wondered.

‘There’s never an end,’ Perkin said. ‘Nope. Tomorrow we’ll all be called back to start to rebuild it, just as Sir Odo told his men to go and rebuild the sergeant’s house. They destroy, we build up again. It’s always our efforts that keep the demesne working. Come on, tonight we can still enjoy ale. The work won’t start until morning.’

He turned his face to the north and set off again. Pagan saw that Adcock was in pain still and offered his hand, but the fellow refused it, saying that he had no need of help. It somewhat added to Pagan’s sense that the lad was not cast from the same mould as the rest of the men at Monkleigh Hall.

He could feel the guilt falling on his shoulders that his actions could have led to this man’s being brought here and made to suffer so much. But if not him, then it would only have been another. It was hardly Pagan’s fault that a man must follow his destiny. That was just God’s way. A mere human had no control over events — all he could do was react to them. That was what Isaac had once said to him when he asked how God could let so much harm and ill-fortune affect his master. It was so cruel of God to allow his Squire William to be so cruelly torn from his family in a foreign land, and then to kill his son too. Poor Ailward perhaps had not had a chance. Born dispossessed and poor, he had done the best he could with the means at his disposal.

But this Adcock, he had done nothing. He had been a pleasant man, a young fellow with ambition and hope in his breast when he came here. Pagan had a weight of guilt to support, and that weight seemed to grow each time he looked on the fellow.

He had done what he thought was best. That was his only excuse. He only hoped it would be enough.

‘There’s someone coming behind us!’ Adcock hissed.

Pagan hesitated, torn by the desire to flee and leave Adcock as a tempting target for whoever might be chasing after them, but then his better nature took over. He grabbed Adcock and bodily hauled him off the path. The other two had already melted into the bushes and trees at the side of the road, and now Pagan pulled Adcock down into the security of the grasses and bushes. Both were soon hidden, and as Pagan listened, he heard the rough, strained breathing of a man pushed beyond his endurance.

He looked up and down the path, but there was no sign of further pursuit. This man appeared to be all on his own, and as he passed by them, Pagan suddenly recognised Sir Geoffrey, and felt a wild joy kiss at his heart.