A Friar's bloodfeud

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘What are you talking about?’ Simon demanded as soon as they had remounted and ridden away from the hall. ‘You said in there that Constance and young Hugh were both dead, but you implied …’

Baldwin brought his horse nearer Simon’s. ‘Simon, Edgar and I have seen men burned at the stake. You’ve seen bodies brought out from burned-out cottages, too. A man doesn’t simply burn away.’

Edgar nodded. ‘A man takes cartloads of wood to be completely immolated, Simon.’

‘But what else could have.?’

‘If Hugh was hurt, he would find a place to hide until he was well, wouldn’t he?’ Baldwin said. ‘And then he would return to exact vengeance.’

‘He could have escaped that place only to die alone somewhere else,’ Simon said with a gasp. His grief was rising again. It felt like panic. The idea that his man could have been injured, and had run off like a stabbed hog to die in a lonely, miserable, cold place far from anyone he loved, was more than Simon could bear. He closed his eyes and didn’t quite catch Baldwin’s next comment. ‘What?’

‘Wake up, Simon!’ Baldwin snapped. ‘This is the first chance we’ve had to discuss this. We’ve had people with us up until now. I wasn’t going to talk to you about it at Hugh’s ruins, but I am sure that Hugh did not die there. The question is, did he die at all, or was he free to escape?’

Edgar shrugged. ‘Obviously he was free.’

‘What are you saying?’ Simon protested. ‘How could you think that he would choose life when his woman was dead? He couldn’t have lived.’

‘Clearly he did,’ Edgar said flatly. ‘He sent a messenger to me.’

Simon’s jaw dropped. ‘He … how do you know this?’

‘The messenger was from a friar who met him somewhere round here. He told me that the friar was agitated, but that he had been told to pass on the message. If Hugh is in the hands of a friar, I should think he would be well enough.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘I did not even think of that. I simply assumed that the messenger came from the vill.’

‘My first thought was, who there could have known where I was,’ Edgar said. ‘There were some who could have known where Simon was, but not me, I thought. That was why I asked.’

‘And it was a good thing you did,’ Baldwin said. ‘So let us assume that he is alive and recuperating. That means we have an urgent task.’

‘Why assume that?’ Simon said, reluctant to accept this leap of faith. ‘He may have died.’

‘If he had, I think the friar would have told someone,’ Baldwin said. ‘A friar need not fear the local politics. No, I think the fact that they are still silent and apparently hidden means that they are both alive. So we have the job of finding the killer before Hugh tries to.’

‘I would have no difficulty with Hugh finding the murderer and killing him,’ Simon said, and spat into the road. ‘He deserves whatever Hugh does to him.’

‘I agree,’ Baldwin said, but now there was an unusual note in his voice, a tone Simon had only rarely heard before. Baldwin swung his arm and winced at the pain in his shoulder. ‘But we have to remember that Hugh has been known to get things wrong before, Simon. I don’t want to have to protect him after he’s killed the wrong man.’

Humphrey was happy that he’d done all he could now, and he was about to pack his meagre belongings when the heavy pounding at the chapel door made him stiffen and wait, considering what he could do.

The only thought in his mind had been of escape, and he was almost ready to leave. He’d done it before, and he was more than ready to slip off again. It wasn’t the best weather for it, of course, but at least he could depart at night and find a new post somewhere, anywhere, and begin again. There was no point in hanging around here any longer. He was convinced of that. If he did, he might be hanged.

‘Who is it?’

‘Father, it is the Keeper of the King’s Peace, Sir Baldwin Furnshill. I understand you saw the body of a young woman on Sir Geoffrey’s land today. May we speak to you?’

Humphrey closed his eyes and swore to himself. God was playing games with him now. So near to escape, yet he was in danger again. He stared at the altar and the plain cross accusingly, his lips pursed in anger. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said, and slipped the bolt open, stepping into the chill daylight.

The men before him were alarming. The Keeper, of course, was worrying enough. Any man whose job involved tracking down and arresting felons was not the sort of person Humphrey wanted to be involved with, not with his past. Still, he managed to smile coolly and eye the three with what he hoped looked like calm disinterest. ‘You wanted to speak to me about the young woman?’

‘Yes. What can you tell us about her?’

‘I did not know her, if that is what you mean. She was the widow of a knight at Meeth, I understand. That was what Perkin told me, anyway.’

‘Perkin?’

‘One of the peasants. He was the man who found Ailward after the football.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘You mean the sergeant who died?’

‘Yes. He was killed up on the moor near Iddesleigh. I reckoned it was because of the camp ball. Perkin was running up to the goal when he saw Ailward. It was because Ailward appeared there in his way that a man from Fishleigh was able to knock Perkin down and take the ball, and it was because of that tackle that Monkleigh lost the game. Not many forgave Perkin that loss. And I doubt he forgave Ailward for distracting him.’

Simon listened with rising anger. This was all nonsense. The man was talking about some game of camp ball, while he wanted to learn about his man. He pushed his way forward. ‘What of the …’

‘Simon, please wait,’ Baldwin said. He glanced at his friend and gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘We have to try to get to the bottom of all these stories before we can hope to learn what became of Hugh. There must be a connection between them all.’

‘Hugh?’ Humphrey repeated, looking from one to another. ‘Who’s he?’

‘He was the servant of my friend here,’ Baldwin said. ‘And his wife and child were killed up beyond Iddesleigh a few days ago.’

‘Oh, the man who died in the fire,’ Humphrey acknowledged.

‘You agreed with that conclusion?’ Baldwin said.

‘The coroner said it was an accident, didn’t he?’ Humphrey said.

‘I believe so,’ Baldwin said without emphasis. Then he added, ‘A coincidence that the coroner was here for Ailward’s death just when this man and his family were killed too.’

‘And now another woman’s dead too,’ Simon snapped. ‘What is happening here, priest?’

Humphrey licked his lips and glanced from Simon to Baldwin. He was in two minds, but there seemed little point in trying to conceal anything from them. It wasn’t as if the matters had anything to do with him — and he would soon be gone anyway.

‘Everyone thinks she was killed by Sir Geoffrey. He and his men are vassals of Despenser, and you know his reputation. Lady Lucy had land and could perhaps be bullied into giving it up, while your man was one of several who were beaten up and told to go.’

‘He wasn’t “told” anything,’ Simon spat. ‘He was slaughtered with his family.’

‘It was meant as a message, I think,’ Humphrey explained. ‘Others have been used in the same way. There is a man called Robert Crokers over the way there, who is sergeant to Sir Odo of Fishleigh. He had his home burned too. That was the same day as your man.’

‘A message …’ Simon mused, his eyes narrowing as a thought came to him.

Baldwin peered with keen interest. ‘You are sure? He was attacked the very same day?’

‘Yes. A party of men went to Robert’s house in the late afternoon. It was the very day that Adcock arrived to replace Ailward. They rode off as Adcock got there, and forced Robert out before setting light to his house. Your man died later that night, so far as I can tell.’

‘Why attack my man?’ Simon asked. ‘What would be in it for this man Geoffrey?’

‘He wants more lands for his master, I suppose. The more he has, the better it reflects upon him, and the more authority he has himself.’

Baldwin and Edgar exchanged a glance. ‘That makes some sense,’ Baldwin said slowly. ‘But we have heard this from many others in the area since we arrived. Is there no one else who could have a desire to take lands? Or is it possible that someone could have wanted to attack Hugh and his family with a view to making everyone think that it was Sir Geoffrey who was responsible? There are too many possibilities.’

‘I don’t know. All I can say is, it fairly shook me to my sandals to see that poor woman in the bog up there — and the knight was remarkably keen to get her out of sight. I’ve never seen a woman like that … soaked in black water … poor woman!’

‘What of the dead sergeant, this Ailward? What can you tell us about him?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘He was a hard taskmaster, but a bailiff has to be, doesn’t he? Sergeant or bailiff, it’s all the same thing. They are there to make the land pay for the lord. The vill has to have enough food to live on, but all the rest is for the lord, and sometimes it’s hard. Ailward was a brawny fellow, fast with his fists or his staff, but to his credit, I think he was a kindly soul to those who actually had little. He talked hard, and sounded a cruel fellow, but if a peasant needed money, he would lend it. His wife adored him.’

‘How long had he been sergeant?’ Baldwin asked. He could sense that Simon’s ire was rising once more, but he shot his friend a look that made Simon half turn away.

‘Since before I came here. Some while as a bachelor, more recently as a husband. I understand his family used to be wealthy, but then they fell into …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well — disgrace. The war two years ago. When the king won, there was nothing left for Ailward. That is what I have heard.’

‘Another family ruined,’ Simon said bitterly.

‘Where do they live?’ Baldwin asked.

As the waves of nausea rolled through him, starting from the pit of his belly and rumbling upwards, Adcock rolled out of his cot and fell on to the floor on all fours, retching.

The pain was exquisite; quite unlike anything he had experienced before. He felt as though his ballocks were going to explode. This was no simple, geographically isolated ache, it was all-encompassing, from his knees to his breast. It felt as though he was one whole mass of bruises from his chest to his thighs. Walking was impossible. Sitting on a horse with this tenderness was unimaginable. All he could do was crouch, choking with the fabulous anguish that brightened and flared from his groin. His head fell to the floor, for his entire soul was dragged down to his ballocks, and nothing else mattered.

‘You still lazing about?’

Adcock didn’t hear him the first time. He was entirely concentrated on his wounds, and it was only when Nick le Poter gave him an ungentle push with his boot that Adcock collapsed, weeping with the torture of it, his eyes still firmly closed. He opened them when the waves had subsided a little, and looked up to see his fresh tormentor.

‘So, you’ve learned what our mad master is like, have you?’

Nick was still unable to pull a jacket or shirt over the lacerations on his back, and he must continually move his muscles to ease the itching as the bloody scabs tightened and the scars formed. At least the worst of the actual searing sensation was gone now. One day of grief, and it was more or less all right. He’d suffered worse.

Adcock whispered. ‘I think I’d guessed already.’

‘He’s off his head. You upset him, did you?’

‘All I did was do my job. There was a mire out on the Exbourne road. You know the one? I had it drained, that was all, but in the bottom there was a dead woman.’

‘What?’

‘Someone from Meeth — Lady Lucy? She was only young, but she’d been tortured. Even I could see that, and I know nothing about death. She had great welts on her where someone had burned her, I think.’ He winced.

Nick saw his expression, his mind racing. ‘And we both know who could do that to someone, don’t we?’

Jeanne accepted the wine from Jankin with a graceful inclination of her head. Emma was starting to get dozy, she could see. The maid was looking about her belligerently, like an old hen who had mislaid her corn and thought one of the cockerels in the run might have stolen it. Soon, like a hen, she appeared to forget all about them, and instead sank back on her stool, resting her back on the wall behind her and grumbling to herself.

The trouble which Jeanne had so often tried to explain to her was that, when complaining about a hostelry, it was usually best to wait until she had left the place. Emma was notable for many things, but the subtlety and moderation of her voice were not among her attributes. It was as Deadly Dave reappeared, apparently glad to have escaped from Jeanne’s husband from the glare he threw her as he stood in the doorway, that Emma began to make her feelings known.

‘Look at this place. Little better than a sty.’

‘Emma, keep your voice down.’

‘Why? No one would hear me here. Anyway, I doubt any of them would want to dispute it. Look at the state of the place! And the men here. Look at them. As ungodly a mob as I’ve ever seen. Only that one’s moderately clean. I can see why Sir Baldwin chose him as a guide. I can tell you, mistress, I’ll be glad to be back home at Liddinstone.’

‘Moderate your tone,’ Jeanne commanded urgently.

‘We’re only here to look after Sir Baldwin, after all. And he’s gone off on his own already. What’s the point of our being here?’

Jeanne clenched her jaw and, as Richalda mumbled in her sleep in her lap, took a moment to force her voice to calm. At last she said, ‘Emma, Sir Baldwin is safe because he has his servant Edgar and his friend Simon with him. I need not fear his falling from his mount into a ditch while there are two strong men at his side. However, he needed us on the way here. And he needs us to be here when he returns, not lynched because …’ she lowered her voice to a malevolent hiss, ‘because you insult all the people of this good vill. You will be silent!’

‘Harrumph! Don’t see what you’re so upset about. It’s not like the little family up the road were close to you, is it? That scruffy tatterdemalion Hugh was ever a foolish little man, you used to say.’

‘Perhaps I did on occasion,’ Jeanne said with spirit, ‘but I never took pleasure in denigrating him like you, and I would prefer not to hear any more insulting words about him now the poor man is dead.’

Emma snorted and gazed about her once more, her small eyes seeking fresh amusement. ‘Shame about his wife. Her being a nun and all.’

Jeanne winced. She could almost hear the necks creaking as all the men in the room turned to stare at the two women. ‘Emma, be silent!’

‘Why? She was a nun. Don’t you remember? Hugh met her at Belstone, and she …’

Jeanne leaned forward and removed her cup of wine. ‘You have had enough.’

‘But I haven’t finished it!’

‘I think you have!’

Emma sank back and sulkily cast an eye about the room again. ‘Look at this place! What do you want?’

This was addressed to a boy who, intrigued by the conversation which all had heard, was leaning round to peer at Emma from between two older lads.

‘You stick to your drink and leave two ladies alone,’ Emma said haughtily.

‘Was it true?’ called a man from the bar near Jankin. ‘Was she really a nun?’

Jeanne glared at Emma, but failed to catch her maid’s attention.

‘Yes. Of course she was. Poor chit, she won’t have a chance to confess her sins now, will she?’

‘Shouldn’t have buried her, should you, Matthew?’ said another man. ‘If she were a runaway, she shouldn’t be put into the churchyard, should she?’

‘Specially if she had a bastard!’ another called. ‘She had a boy, didn’t she? If she was a bride of Christ, that lad was a bastard. Stands to reason.’

Matthew cast a look at Jeanne in which several emotions were mingled, and Jeanne held her chin up with a supercilious look in her eye. She would not have Hugh’s wife’s memory impugned. ‘Yes?’

‘May I speak with you a moment, my lady?’ he asked, slipping from the bar and crossing towards the door.

Jeanne remained seated for a moment or two, before nodding and standing, gently shifting Richalda to her shoulder. When Emma moved to join her, she hurriedly held out her hand and shook her head. ‘You wait there,’ she commanded sternly. ‘And this time keep silent, as I said. I don’t want any more trouble!’

Emma glanced about her with a slightly curled lip.

‘Not much chance of me causing trouble in here, is there?’

Hugh left the house for a moment, wondering how well his leg was healing. To his surprise, it held up well as he crossed the ground outside, and he felt a sudden burst of confidence. He would be able to use it, and that meant he could seek to avenge Constance. It was all he wanted.

She had been so good for him. He’d learned the delights of family life, the joys of a home filled with the sounds of a child at play. Resting before his fire, his exhaustion seeping away, the glowing flames warming his face after the chill of the wintry wind, he had known real happiness. It was a strange sensation, one he had never fully experienced before.

The worst of it all was this feeling of guilt. If only he had returned to the house earlier and not dallied at the hedge, perhaps he could have saved her, protected her from the attackers. He could have done — he should have done; he should have been there for his woman.

He could feel the hot tears of frustration and rage prickling again. The idea that she died alone, crying for help while …

But he was not so far away that he could have missed her screams, surely? She had a good voice, and when she scolded her son Hugh could usually hear her from up in the field. Yet that day he had heard nothing. She must have called for him, though, because she must have known that no one would go to her rescue if she didn’t. Constance was no fool. She must have realised that Hugh could have heard her if she had cried out. He wasn’t that far away. She knew that.

Surely, though, he must have heard her screaming.

Suddenly Hugh tottered. He had to reach out an arm and support himself against the wall. As his legs weakened and he slowly sank to the ground, he felt the sobbing start again deep in his breast.

If he hadn’t heard her, it was because she had not called for him. And she hadn’t called for him because she didn’t want to have him there to witness her shame. Or, worse, because she didn’t want him to be hurt. She had kept quiet as the men took her and killed her, accepting her fate while her man worked so near. She had died quietly so that he wouldn’t himself be hurt.

He covered his face and tried to keep the sound of his heartfelt weeping as quiet as possible.

John found him there later, his arms outstretched against the wall like a man on the cross, his eyes cast up to heaven; a man who sought for help in his despair.