Michael Jecks: A Friar's bloodfeud

‘Don’t seek to threaten me into supporting you,’ Sir Baldwin hissed. He stepped nearer Sir Odo. ‘I shall tell the truth about this night, Sir Odo, and you will be named as guilty in this.’

‘Guilty of what, Sir Baldwin? Is there any proof that I have done something wrong? There is no one here who is likely to accuse me, is there? Do you have any evidence that I am guilty of taking lands or anything else? No! So I should forget your sourness. You have done what you came here to do: you have found the murderer of your man’s family. You have found the murderer of Ailward, too, I expect, and of Lady Lucy. At the same time, you have helped me to thwart an attempt by a lackey of the Despensers to steal lands from our lord. I should stick to that story. It’s believable, after all. Who knows? It might be true.’

‘Sir Baldwin? Get this oaf off me!’

Baldwin turned in time to see Sir Geoffrey being walked up the track towards him, gripped by Pagan.

‘Sir Baldwin, I found this man scurrying away up behind the hall. Thought I ought to bring him home again.’

‘Thank you, Pagan,’ Baldwin said, and as Sir Odo moved imperceptibly towards Sir Geoffrey, Baldwin drew his sword and put it between Sir Odo and his prey. ‘There will be no more bloodshed, Sir Odo, unless you want to challenge me?’

Sir Odo shrugged, smiling broadly. ‘If you say so.’

Pagan was not finished, though. ‘Sir Baldwin, I brought this man to you because I want him to hear the truth. I murdered Ailward on the day of the camp ball match. I confess my crime, but I also denounce Sir Odo and accuse him of the murder of Lady Lucy of Meeth and the murderous attack on Hugh’s family.’

It was not practical to try to hold a court in the middle of the night, and Baldwin demanded that all returned with him and Simon to the church. There, in the nave, in full view of as much of the Iddesleigh congregation as could be mustered at short notice, Sir Odo swore that he would return to be tried the next day. He gripped the Gospels with a firm hand, and he stared at Baldwin as he spoke, loudly and clearly, and then he passed the book back to Matthew with a small bow and spun on his heel.

The people parted as though miraculously. None remained barring his path, which was normal, and showed the correct reverence for his position, he thought, but there was something in the air that grated on his nerves. It was less as though this was a mark of respect for his status, than as though they loathed to share the same space with him. They would not touch him in case he polluted them.

Idiots! They couldn’t understand. How could they? He’d been in the service of other men all his life, and he had wanted fortune. If he’d been luckier, he could have won it, but as things were, it was impossible. He was always in the pay of his masters. The first, the very first chance he’d had of winning his own rewards had been when he’d met Lady Lucy. And he would have been honourable with her, if she’d let him. He would have married her, and allowed his son to take all the money when he died — but she’d have none of it. That look of terror and horror had never left her face, not from the moment when he killed her steward to the last moments when he’d left her in the smithy. She had loathed him.

Outside he stood a few seconds and stared about him at the men standing silently. Then he gave a dry chuckle and walked to his horse. Peasants couldn’t understand because how can property comprehend how another piece of property might be fought over? If you have never owned or desired, you cannot see how a man might be pushed to extraordinary lengths to protect his possessions, or to acquire more.

He sprang on to his horse, whirled the beast’s head about, and rode off along the lane to his hall. There was not much time. He had to collect all his movables, pack them, and clear off urgently. Probably best to head for Tiverton. He seemed to remember someone saying that Lord de Courtenay was up there.

‘Can I tell you what happened?’ Pagan asked as Baldwin and Simon led the way back to the inn.

Baldwin glanced at Simon and Hugh. ‘I suppose so. You will have to explain yourself tomorrow anyway,’ he said.

Pagan walked into the inn and sat at the table with the others. Baldwin and Simon sat opposite him, Hugh and Edgar stood behind him, and Sir Geoffrey perched himself on an upturned barrel nearby, arms folded while he glared at Pagan with loathing. Villagers from Monkleigh and Iddesleigh filled the room, while Perkin and Beorn were up at the bar with a pale and shaken Adcock.

Poor lad. He’d hardly got over the shock of being savagely attacked and injured by that idiot Sir Geoffrey when he’d been overwhelmed by the desire to kill. He’d lusted for Sir Geoffrey’s blood as a youth might lust for a wench. And now the reaction was upon him. He was himself again, and the idea of what he had so nearly become was a terrible burden.

‘I killed Ailward, sir, because I saw what he had done. He and Sir Odo had captured Lady Lucy, and they took her up to my father’s smithy, because they knew that no one ever went there any more. They could do all they wanted to her without fear of discovery. Her screams would go unheeded.

‘I didn’t realise at first, of course. I only found out on the day of the camp ball game, when I saw Ailward. He was smothered in black mud, up to his groin. I had no idea what had happened, and when I asked, he told me! He had murdered the child and taken her to the mire and thrown her in. She was guilty of refusing to marry Sir Odo. For that they killed her.

‘I was disgusted by what I heard. I went to my father’s old smithy, and found it reeking still of burned flesh. They had slaughtered her in the most revolting way so that when her body was found, people would assume the Despenser family had committed this evil act. I came across Ailward on my way back to the house where I lived with Lady Isabel, and my rage knew no bounds. I knocked him down and left him for dead. I would do it again. He murdered that poor child, and he did it in my father’s chamber. Yes, I would do it again.’

‘But he was your master’s son!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘I thought you were so loyal to him and his seed!’

‘I was. I am. I would lay down my life for his child.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Tell me, Pagan, was it your mistress’s choice that you should move back to your old home when Ailward died, or was it yours?’

Pagan allowed a half-smile to curl his lips. ‘How did you guess that?’

‘I was very slow,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But then I started to think. It seemed curious that you should move back to your home just when the women would ideally require a man in their house to guard them. Unless you thought that they would be safe enough on their own. And then I heard Sir Odo had visited the women.’

‘He went there often enough after dark,’ Pagan said. ‘It was much as it had been before, when Squire William was fighting. He often took his son with him when he was fighting, so he could teach him the way of war. As soon as they went, Sir Odo began to pay court to Lady Isabel, and she was so lonely and scared, it’s no surprise she succumbed to his wit and perseverance. But then, when Squire Robert was dead, I think she repented and felt guilt. It was eight and twenty years ago that Robert first went north with his father William, and the two won renown and some fame, under good King Edward, the Hammer of the Scots, although they were not lucky with the spoils of war. The Scottish never seemed to have much to steal. Although he didn’t know it, Robert lost more than his money in fighting for the king. It cost him dearly, and he wore a cuckold’s horns from then on.’

‘So Ailward was Sir Odo’s son?’ Simon asked.