A Friar's bloodfeud

Chapter Nineteen

Led to the little group sitting at the table, David felt as though he was being taken to stand before the justices of gaol delivery. There was the same sombre atmosphere about them, the same steady, grim faces staring at him, the sense of violence being held on a tight rein, but only for a little while. These men and women looked on him with undisguised suspicion, even though he knew he’d done nothing. Not that it would help to know you were innocent, as he told himself morosely, if you were dangling from a rope.

The man who’d come to fetch him was the grimmest David had ever seen. He was tall and good looking, with a well-trimmed beard that looked out of place — beards were so rare today. His eyes were so dark that in this room they looked plain black. When he caught sight of those eyes, David felt as though every secret he had ever concealed was laid bare. It would be impossible to gull this knight … and he pulled his gaze away from the other’s as soon as he could, just to avoid being snared by it. But in so doing, he found himself fixed by the unblinking stare of the taller of the two men sitting at the table, a grey-eyed individual with an expression that teetered between rage and devastation.

Thankfully, there were two women at the table, too. One was nursing a child, and did not look up, but the other met his gaze with a still more truculent expression than the men. It was a relief to look away from her and see that the second man at the table was smiling. His open, contented appearance gave David a moment’s comfort, until he saw that behind the cheery exterior there was a cold determination. He would be the fastest of any of them to pull a sword and sweep a man’s head from his shoulders, David reckoned, and he felt as though the ale he’d just drunk had turned to acid in his stomach.

‘You are called David?’

That was the first one again. He hadn’t seated himself again, and David felt intimidated. He shuffled his feet and stared at the ground as he nodded. This was turning out to be one of the worst days of his life.

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace. This is my friend, Simon Puttock, Bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock. We heard you talk of a body being found, and you mentioned that a man in the near vicinity might be guilty of killing this girl. Is this so?’

‘Master, I don’t …’

‘Yes or no?’

David lifted his eyes unhappily and met Baldwin’s grim expression. He nodded. ‘It could be …’

‘Were you making up the crimes of which this man was guilty?’

David didn’t know what to say. If he were to repeat the accusations, he would almost certainly die before long, because the steward of the Despensers was always eager to repay any man who dared to blacken his name. If Davie retracted his words or denied them, news that he had uttered them would get out, and he’d still be hunted down by Sir Geoffrey, more than likely, to be made an example of, and these rich strangers wouldn’t be about the place to protect him.

‘He doesn’t seem to have much conversation, Sir Baldwin,’ the smiling man said. ‘Shall I take him outside and ask him again in private for you? I’m sure I could help his memory.’

‘No, Edgar,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Will it, David?’

‘Master, I don’t know what to say!’ David burst out.

This was worse than he could have imagined. Now he was being threatened by this determined-looking brute, as though he was some mere scruffy felon picked up in the street. He wasn’t like that. He was a good man! If he’d had more luck in his life, he could have been a bailiff, or even the vill’s reeve. It didn’t take a huge brain to do that, and he could keep tally of the grain harvested each year, he could maintain the peace on the demesne if necessary, and make sure that all the peasants performed their obligations to the lord on their days.

But no, he hadn’t been fortunate enough to achieve even that. He’d never been elected at the annual court which allocated responsibilities to the men in the vill, even though he had tried to make them understand he was quite capable. There was a clique of men who ran everything here, and he never got asked to help because they didn’t like his face or his manner or something. He didn’t understand why.

All he ever wanted was to be popular. That was why he got straight to the heart of any gathering, so that he could not only join in, but also let people see what sort of man he was, so that they would like him. He had learned early on in life that to remain shy and nervous would only lead to loneliness. Better by far to go to others and chat to them as an equal.

‘Well?’ Baldwin asked again.

He mumbled, ‘Um, all I know is that the lady was found, sir, and there’s been enough men wondering how she might have got there.’

‘Where exactly?’

That was the empty-eyed man. He looked as though he’d died, but no one had told him yet. David threw him a quick look, but it was only when the large woman nearby spoke that he realised he must respond. She had a rough, harsh voice.

‘Answer him, you fool. Do you think we all want to sit here watching you squirm for no reason? We all heard you, so it’s too late to regret saying villainous things about him, lord or not!’

He cast her a poisonous glance, but there was no denying the truth of her words. The ugly bitch had warts on her warts, and her foul face was lowered like an enraged boar’s, while her massive bosom rose and fell alarmingly. It attracted his unwilling and fearful attention, no matter how much he tried to look away.

‘Well? Or do you want my man here to take you outside and give you an incentive to talk?’ the knight said.

‘She was found in the bog on Sir Geoffrey’s lands, like I said,’ he said at last, defiantly holding his head a little higher.

‘And there is already gossip about who might have killed her?’ Baldwin pressed him.

‘Of course there is,’ David said, more quietly though, and glancing over his shoulder to see who else might be listening. ‘Who wouldn’t believe it of a man who worked for the Despensers? We know of them even here.’

‘You will take us to where this body was found,’ Baldwin stated.

David’s mouth fell open. ‘Me? But what will they do to me when they see that I’ve brought you to them?’

Baldwin eyed him with distaste. ‘You have a duty to take me and the bailiff to the scene of the crime, man, and you will do so. If there is danger for you in this, there is far more danger in not doing so, because then a dangerous murderer will remain at large in this area. So you should take us to the scene, no matter who the killer was, so that we can find him.’

‘And in the meantime,’ Edgar said, leaning forward, ‘what do you know about the family just over the way there?’

‘What, the foreigner and his woman?’ David asked, genuinely surprised. ‘What of them?’

‘You know that they were killed and their house burned down?’ Baldwin asked.

David glanced over his shoulder again, but Jankin, the only man within earshot, seemed to have developed a fascination with a bit of dirt on a drinking horn, and was spitting on it and rubbing it against his sleeve. David unwillingly turned back to the knight. ‘The coroner decided that they’d had an accident.’

‘An accident? It was rather an uncommon one, surely?’ Baldwin retorted.

‘That was what the coroner said, not me,’ David said reasonably.

Baldwin looked past him to the innkeeper. ‘Jankin — is this true?’

‘Yes. The coroner happened to be here because of the murder of another man, Ailward, the sergeant up at Sir Geoffrey’s manor.’

‘This same Sir Geoffrey who David says …’

‘I didn’t actually say he did anything!’

‘Very well, the same man on whose land the latest body has been found? This Ailward was his man?’

‘Yes. So the coroner was here for Ailward, and since he was in the area, he came here to view those bodies too.’

‘What did he find?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘That the hearth fire hadn’t been banked and the house caught light.’

‘Is that what you thought?’ Simon burst out. ‘Where is the man’s body?’

‘If I believed it, do you think I’d have been so open with you?’ Jankin said calmly.

Baldwin nodded. ‘So why have you been so frank?’

‘Because …’ Jankin looked away, out through the unshuttered window at the rolling grassland and trees in front of his inn. When he began to speak again, his voice was quiet and reflective. ‘Perhaps because I could see that you cared, and I thought others should care too. The coroner didn’t — he didn’t give a damn about them. He knew what answers he wanted, and he made sure he got them. All the while, Sir Geoffrey’s men were waiting nearby, watching and listening to all that was said. It wasn’t right, sir. That’s what I reckoned.’

Baldwin nodded slowly. ‘You are right, good keeper. You are right. But we shall make this right none the less. I shall see to it.’

Walter was leaning against a tree when he heard the sound of hooves.

It made his heart flutter, and he felt a sharp pain in his breast for a moment or two, while the sweat broke out on his forehead. He knew too well what hooves could mean. The picture of the woman’s dead face sprang into his mind, and he felt the bile rise in his throat, just as it had during the camp ball game when they had heard the men running towards them.

Even when the hoofbeats passed away, his anxiety remained. Ridiculous that the mere sound of hooves could have such an impact on him.

Christ’s pain, but that day had been terrifying. They’d thought they’d be safe up there. Ailward had said that no one would run out that way — everyone would be down at the main field. They always went that way. And then there had been the sudden roar from all those down on the plain and Walter saw the fixed, straining face of Perkin rushing up the hill towards him.

It was the work of a moment to spring on him, knock him down, and hurl the ball away. With all the other men behind him, it was impossible to try to do anything else. Ailward hid the dead woman, Walter threw the ball and shoved Perkin back down the hill after it. Then, when the men were all out of the way, they’d lifted the body again and carried on their way. They had to get rid of her before they did anything else. If they were found with her, they would be hanged for certain.

No one would protect them.

They had ridden up the road so quickly beforehand that Baldwin was pleased to have an opportunity to see how the land lay round about. He had not taken any notice on the way here.

The vill of Iddesleigh lay on the side of a low hill, the land dropping away gently to the south. From the road it was impossible to see much, for on the right was a stand of trees which obscured the whole view, while on the left there were fields for a short way, and then another section of woods. There was plenty of sound timber here, Baldwin reflected. It was good land, with plenty of space for cattle and sheep, pasture and arable. Perfect for a lord who wanted to make his holding pay its way.

Jeanne and Emma had stayed at the inn. There was little point in their coming with the men to view this young woman’s body. Better that they should remain safe, in case this knight Geoffrey should grow angry at the appearance of a Keeper of the King’s Peace. It would not be the first time that a man had taken offence at Baldwin’s arrival.

‘How far to this place?’ Baldwin asked David.

He trudged on disconsolately. ‘I don’t know. It takes me a short while to get there. It’s only over there. Maybe a mile or so more.’

Baldwin smiled thinly at his tone. He could all too easily understand the man’s disgruntled mood: David had gone to the inn for a quiet drink, hoping to impart a little gossip to his companions, and had instead been caught up in this investigation. There was every probability that it would lead to great trouble in the future. Still, his irritation was nothing to Baldwin’s concern at Simon’s appearance. The bailiff looked quite exhausted. It was one thing for Baldwin to wince every so often as he flexed his muscles and felt that terrible pain in his breast again, but quite a different matter to see Simon so wearied and upset by the loss of his man.

It made Baldwin wonder how he would cope were he to lose Edgar. Edgar had been such an intimate part of his life for the last thirty years or more, it was hard to imagine how he could survive without the man. Edgar was not merely some servant who remained with Baldwin from reasons of loyalty; he had shared the key moments of Baldwin’s career. Edgar had been there at Acre with him, had joined the Templars with him, and then had remained with him when the Order was betrayed and dissolved. If Edgar were to be murdered, Baldwin would feel the same as a man who lost a brother, or a son.

That was clearly how Simon felt too. He had lost a close companion whom he had trusted for many years, and he felt the guilt of not having been there when Hugh needed him. If Hugh had indeed been killed. Now he thought about it, Baldwin wasn’t sure why it was that he had been so convinced that Hugh must have been murdered. Perhaps it was simply some confusion: wasn’t it possible that Wat passed on a message that Hugh was dead, and Baldwin had assumed he’d meant murdered? Or maybe Wat himself had made the error; on being told Hugh was dead had made the natural assumption, for Wat, that there must have been something unnatural about the death.

Yet men did die daily from accidents. There had been the prints of many men outside Hugh’s burned-out house, but they could have been trying to help … or gawping at the smouldering remains. There were always a lot of people who would go to stare at another man’s misfortune. They’d drink ale while watching a poor soul hang; they’d travel miles for a good execution, especially if it was a noble who was to be killed. An accident like this was meat and drink to most peasants. They’d all seen death, and this one was the death of a man who was a ‘foreigner’ and therefore not of any great social importance — it wasn’t as if he was related to anyone at all. He was dispensable. Easily forgotten. Irrelevant.

That word made Baldwin’s back stiffen. The thought that a man — even a miserable, whining, froward son of a cur like Hugh, and God knew how often Baldwin had cursed him under his breath — could be thought of as irrelevant was a disgrace. There were some, he knew, who believed that it was worthwhile hanging any number of men to make an example, but Baldwin was not one of them. Only the guilty should be condemned, he thought. The innocent should always be protected. If the innocent were forced to suffer, there was no justice. Justice existed to protect all: the strong, the weak, the innocent and the poor. There was no point in justice if it provided for only the strong and the wealthy.

Which made him look more sympathetically on David. The man was tedious, and Baldwin had taken a dislike to his sullen manner at the inn, but now he felt guilty at his initial reaction. ‘David, where do you live?’

‘Back up there.’ He pointed to their left, eastwards. ‘I’ve a small cottage up there.’

‘It’s good land.’

‘We grow enough to live.’

That was the proof of a plot of ground, Baldwin knew. It had to provide. That was how a man measured his space: could he live there. Nothing else mattered. ‘On the day that the family was killed, did you hear anything or see anyone?’

‘Nothing. It was Saturday night. I was up at home.’

‘Was there anyone with you?’ Simon asked sharply.

‘Why should there be?’ Davie whined. ‘I’m not married.’

‘So no one can vouch for you?’

David looked at Simon, and then a smile spread over his face. ‘Yes! Pagan was there. He lives a short way from my house, and he was there that night.’

‘Pagan?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘He’s the steward to Lady Isabel — the woman who used to own all the lands about here, from here down to Monk Oakhampton and the river.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Down there now. Since Sir Geoffrey took her hall,’ David said.

‘And where is the hall?’

‘There it is. Up on the hillside there.’

There was a strange feeling about this place, Jeanne thought. She sipped wine as she sat at the table rocking Richalda in her lap, listening as Emma slurped.

It was very sad to think that Hugh and his woman were dead. She had liked Hugh a great deal, and she knew full well that it was rare for a man like him to find a companion. Sometimes a shepherd or peasant farmer would meet a woman and marry, but a man like Hugh?

‘I never liked him,’ Emma said. ‘He was uncouth.’

‘You should remember that you are talking of a dead man, Emma,’ Jeanne said sharply.

‘There is no point in hypocrisy,’ Emma said, and burped.

Jeanne recalled that her maid had already been in the buttery for some while. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘Me?’ Emma exclaimed horrified. ‘I hope I can hold my drink, my lady.’

‘Then do so. Hugh was a kind man, and he was honourable. That is all that matters.’

Emma sniffed. ‘He still took a nun from her convent.’

‘That is nonsense!’ Jeanne said hotly. ‘He only helped a poor woman when she had already left her convent because she should never have been there in the first place.’

‘So you say. I believe that a woman who has become a Bride of Christ should not resign her position. She chose her path and renounced it when it suited her.’

‘She was not there legally, Emma. She was taken in there when she was too young to choose,’ Jeanne said with a cold anger. This kind of small-mindedness was no more than she should have expected from her maid, she knew. Emma was a strangely cold, unkind woman, but she was a habit now as much as a companion. ‘If you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, then best it isn’t exercised.’

‘It’s not my fault if the chit betrayed her God and her vocation,’ Emma grunted. ‘But if you prefer me to keep my thoughts to myself, I’m sure I don’t mind.’

Jeanne snorted and turned from her. Emma’s unforgiving, almost brutal nature sometimes made her so angry, she could have happily told her to return to Bordeaux. But then she had to remember that Emma herself had given up everything for Jeanne, her home in the city with all its beautiful cloths and decorations on display, and come here to this miserable, cold, wet land where the nearest thing to civilisation was the monthly visit to Tavistock. Emma had decided views on Tavistock.

Just for once Jeanne wished that Emma could have shown a little compassion. Sitting here, she saw that Matthew the priest had entered the inn and now stood at the bar with a quart jug in his hand. He turned as Jeanne glimpsed him, and she was sure that he was surreptitiously trying to watch her from the corner of his eye.

Somehow Jeanne felt deeply unsettled by the sight of him. She was certain that he had overheard at least a part of her conversation with Emma, and something about the set of his shoulders made her think that he was not impressed with what he had heard.