A Friar's bloodfeud

Chapter Eighteen

Jankin had just finished serving the small party when a sudden burst of noise announced some more customers, led by the sturdy figure of David atte Moor.

As a landlord, Jankin knew that he must try always to be friendly and accommodating. He had lived in the area all his life, and by and large there were very few men with whom he couldn’t get on, but there were some … and David was one of them.

His voice was pitched always to irritate Jankin’s ear: it was a kind of braying noise, which always made Jankin think of donkeys. Which was why one nickname for David was ‘David the Donkey’. Then again, on most evenings, when David had drunk his first ale, he would get maudlin drunk, and woe betide any man who was within earshot then, because they would invariably receive a full and detailed summary of his life so far, how unfair it was that his father died when he did, leaving David with such terrible death fines to pay that he almost lost all his farm as a result, that he suffered more than anyone during the famine, and that women never understood him (whereas Jankin knew damned well that they understood him only too well). It was this ability to talk a man to near-suicide that had led to Jankin’s other name for him, which was ‘Deadly Dave’. Few names he had invented over the years had seemed quite so suitable as that one, somehow.

David was broad-shouldered, pot-bellied, and had a long but chubby face that wore a constant look of blank incomprehension. Today he was leading Oliver and Denis, and all were talking so quickly that a man might have thought them already drunk, except that they all took one look at the party of strangers and went silent in a moment, eyeing them as suspiciously as only a Devon man could.

Jankin took his place at the barrel of ale, a jug at the ready, and waited, his eyebrows raised enquiringly. The three joined him at the bar, but as usual it was Deadly who monopolised the conversation. Oliver tried to speak a couple of times, but it was a pointless exercise.

‘You should have seen the lad’s face,’ Deadly started.

‘Well, he always had a nervous …’ Oliver began.

‘He had that. Now, though, the poor fellow’s broken. I’ve seen boys like him before, when they’ve had a shock. Never any good. One boy was never any good again. Remember Rance? Laurence Millerson, from over towards Hatherleigh? He saw something scared him, swore it ruined him. Couldn’t stay in his house after that.’

‘Rance saw a mare, he said. A ghost, and he …’

‘That was what he said at the time, but he wasn’t sure. Anyway, if it were a ghost, that’d be one thing, but seeing a body covered in filth and all, just exposed like that. Terrible. If Rance had seen that, I dare say he’d have fallen dead on the spot.’

‘Well ’Tin didn’t, he just …’

‘Yeah, just you wait, though. He’s all right just at the minute, but he’ll soon be unwell. You mark my words, he’ll be faint and sickly for a day, then he’ll start to fade. Always happens.’

Jankin glanced at Oliver. ‘What’s happened?’

Oliver opened his mouth and spoke in a hurry. ‘It’s young Martin down the way. He found a dead body. Reckons it’s Lady Lucy, from …’

‘Meeth. You know she went missing a while ago? Well, poor chit, looks like she didn’t go far,’ Deadly said, shaking his head.

He seemed to be aware always when someone else was about to speak, and leaped in with his slightly raised voice, deadening all conversation. This was no exception. As Jankin saw Oliver take a breath as though to speak again, Deadly moved slightly so that he blocked Jankin’s view of the other man entirely. ‘And you know the worst? Not just where they found her, but what those bastards had done to her. You’d hardly credit that even that mad group of unchivalrous murderers and serf-whippers would do something like that, would you?’

Jankin shouldn’t have done it, but he had had enough of Deadly in his inn over a number of years. He frowned a little, turning his head to one side as though slightly hard of hearing, and peered at Deadly enquiringly. ‘Keep on,’ he said, moving away a short distance to refill the jug.

Seeing him walk away, Deadly did what he always did. He spoke louder to dominate the conversation and prevent anyone else from providing the gossip when he could himself impart it.

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Those mad fools at Monkleigh captured her to steal her lands. She was tortured, Jankin. Tortured to death, if the truth be known, and her a poor widow, too. It’s shameful that a man who calls himself knight could behave like that. Shameful!’

Jankin fitted a scandalised expression to his face. ‘Now who do you mean? Not Sir Geoffrey?’

‘Who else, Jankin? I swear this, if that poor girl hadn’t been discovered, her lands would have been taken by Sir Geoffrey and absorbed into his manor within the week. Perhaps now she’s been found, maybe, just maybe, her unfortunate soul will receive justice, eh? Not that it’s very likely. The poor chit had no family to speak of, did she? There’s no one to ensure a fair result even if Sir Geoffrey were to be uncovered as her murderer.’

Jankin could see Deadly’s expression subtly alter as the rest of the room went silent. Suddenly Deadly appeared to realise how loudly he had spoken, and Jankin felt a little ashamed at the way he had led him on, but if he hadn’t, he knew that Deadly would have been unable to keep his mouth shut anyway. There was no point crying over a fool who put himself in harm’s way.

There was a long moment’s hush, as though the walls of the inn were themselves waiting for the blast of condemnation that must surely follow such an atrocious allegation from a man of so lowly a class, and then the silence was broken by the drawn-out rasp of a stool’s feet against the packed earth of the floor.

‘My friend, I would be very grateful if you could join my friends and me.’

‘I don’t think I can, master. My apologies, but I have to … um …’

But looking into the serious dark eyes of the knight, Deadly suddenly found that he could defer his departure. And would do so.

Friar John heard about the dead girl at almost the same time as Baldwin.

He had been walking up towards Meeth, breathing in the cool air and feeling that although the last few days had been traumatic, at least he had done all he reasonably could after finding that burning hovel.

The land was so delightful here. He remembered it clearly, and the low, unwarming wintry sun was of a mood to light everything with a contrasting golden hue, while the shadows were longer and darker than at any other time of year.

It was cold, yes, and his fingers felt as though they were close to freezing entirely as he walked up the slope. They had turned blue, and he thought that if he were to clench his fists too swiftly they all must shatter and fall off. The wind made his robe feel as insubstantial as a linen shirt, and he could feel his breast’s flesh contract, his nipples so cold that it almost felt as if they were suffering from the opposite mortification: being gripped by red-hot pincers. Strange how freezing weather could make a man’s body react so agonisingly.

Still he had experienced worse. He was only glad that he had a pair of boots to wear, for if he had to rely solely on his old sandals, he didn’t like to think what would have happened to his toes by now.

To reach Meeth from the shelter where he had left Hugh he had to climb a hill, and then traverse its edge, the river on his right. From here he could see the small town clearly. A good, pleasant little place with the spire of the church rising prominently over it. There, over on the far side, was the hall he’d heard of. Broad, clean, with yellow-gold thatch and a number of outbuildings, it was a picture of calmness and comfort. The sort of place a man might go to when he was determined to rest from the world: quite idyllic.

He stopped. It called to him, but he wasn’t ready. He wanted to go down there, but something told him he shouldn’t yet. There was a dragging weight at his feet that prevented his continuing. It had been so long … No, he would go elsewhere.

Returning the way he had come, he gazed about him. When he saw Fishleigh, he paused, and then made his way towards it, crossing the little wooden bridge and wandering up to the hall.

Fishleigh was a good-sized manor, and John stood puffing for a moment at the bottom of the little hill on which it stood. A wide house, it looked well cared for, with a fresh coat of limewash, although the thatch had been patched so often that it would need to be replaced in the summer. However, it didn’t look as though it had suffered over the years. God Himself knew how long it was since John had been down here, and in that time he had travelled so widely, it was a miracle he still had any feet. It would be interesting some day to sit down and consider how many shoes’ soles he had worn out in his wandering: how many oxen’s hides he’d caused to be used just to protect his feet.

He continued up the hill, leaning more and more on his staff as he went. The trouble was, friars tended to be on their feet so much. His were enormously painful: his heels were split and cracked, like wood beaten too often. And heavens, but they hurt.

The place was as he remembered it. In fact, the years might not have passed at all, so little changed did it appear. The only difference was, there was more of an armed presence noticeable, but that was the norm nowadays. He saw men-at-arms wherever he went.

It was dreadful to admit it, but the whole country was enfolded in fear. The king’s appalling treatment of his enemies after Boroughbridge had left the kingdom in a state of terror, feeling as though it was waiting, tensely, for the next page to be turned in this chronicle of fear.

The path up to the door of the manor was quite steep, and now John could see that the approach was further controlled by a high wall about the front of the house itself. It gave an aura of preparedness, as though the house was sitting and waiting for a force to arrive. Even the actions of the men about the place bore it out. There were several serfs working in the garden immediately in front of the hall, and they all stopped their digging and raking to stand staring at him as he approached.

John was worried about the man he had left in the ruined cottage, but he knew that there was little he could do. He’d promised the fellow that he wouldn’t divulge his whereabouts, and he’d rather tear out his own tongue than forswear that oath. But there was a need for food for them both, and perhaps a little wine or ale, so he must beg something without betraying the existence of his charge.

The great door did not have an alms bowl, but in a manor like this, so far from the nearest town, that was no surprise. In a town, each merchant would put out a bowl containing at least a tenth part of every meal, so that beggars and the homeless could count on something to eat. Here, though, there were few itinerant people. Spare food from the master’s table would be allocated to the poorest of the parish, or more likely sent straight down to the pigs. There was no waste in an efficient manor like this one.

‘Friar?’

It was a short, round-faced man with a paunch like a lord and a grin like a conman. He stood a short way from John and apparently gave him a close inspection.

‘My friend, I am desperate. I have come all this way, and have been without food or drink since yesterday. If you have anything to spare, I would be very grateful. Perhaps I could preach to your master and his men for my food?’

‘Friar, I’m the master here. I’m Sir Odo, and I am very happy to offer you my hospitality — but no preaching, thank you. I’ll wish you Godspeed, but I’d be happier if you didn’t slow the idle sons of the devil in their work!’

‘Of course. I understand. Perhaps I should come back on Sunday,’ John said.

‘You’d be most welcome. The men go to Hatherleigh for their preachings. Will you be there?’

‘Perhaps. I am walking all over. If I am still in the neighbourhood, I shall make my way there,’ John said with a smile.

‘Be careful, Brother. This area is not so safe as once it was,’ the man said, suddenly serious. ‘I’m afraid that it’s growing more dangerous every day. Less than a week ago a family was wiped out, and my own bailiff was attacked and driven from his home.’

‘It is a terrible thing when a man decides to turn to evil,’ John said sententiously. He made the sign of the cross over his breast. ‘I have heard that there have been attacks about here. Poor serfs have enough to contend with without seeing their comrades and neighbours killed.’

‘It’s not only them, Brother,’ Sir Odo said confidentially. ‘My neighbour here has been murdered too. The body of Lady Lucy from Meeth has been discovered on Sir Geoffrey Servington’s estates at Monkleigh.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid fear runs through every heart in this county.’

John could only agree. He himself was feeling as though his own heart must stop from sadness. He had so looked forward to seeing her again — and now his sister was dead.