A Friar's bloodfeud

Chapter Five

As he stood at the door to his cottage, Pagan could see the men moving about at the big house, and he felt himself slump wearily at the sight.

That house had lots of fond memories for him. It had been the place where he had grown; his father had been the armourer to good Squire William, and when the squire rode to war in Ireland with his lord, Pagan’s father had ridden with him. A lord’s host needed men who could wield a hammer or an axe. The old man had died there when they reached Kells. There the Scots persuaded the despicable de Lacys to turn their shields and become traitors to Mortimer, their master — Squire William’s master. Kells fell and there was a terrible slaughter.

Squire William too died that day, and the family which Pagan had served so long had been thrown into turmoil. It was all very well for William’s son, Squire Robert, to be born to a title, but without money a title was worthless. And the family had nothing. Pagan had remained to serve Squire Robert because he could imagine no other function, and all he could do was act as steward to the people he knew so well and hope that their fortunes might change.

As they had — but not in the way he had hoped. With the death of Squire Robert at Bridgnorth, still fighting on the side of his master, Lord Mortimer, there was little the family could do to defend itself. Robert had died in the service of a rebel, and the king’s rage at such people knew no bounds. Whole families were punished for their heads’ loyal service to their lords; bodies still hung on gibbets even now, years afterwards, and the king’s own advisers, the Despensers, saw that they could seize the advantage. They cheated, they stole and they killed to take what they wanted.

That was when the family lost their house. Squire Robert’s widow, Isabel, was forced out by that thief, that deceiver, that disgrace to chivalry, Hugh Despenser. He took everything, leaving them only a hovel in which to live. It was fortunate that Pagan still had his own cottage, for there was hardly space in hers for the squire’s widow, her son Ailward and her daughter-in-law, Ailward’s wife. Only Sir Odo had tried to help, riding over occasionally from Fishleigh to visit her. Not that Pagan would stay when Sir Odo was there. He knew why Sir Odo wanted to see the widow, and it wouldn’t be seemly for Pagan to be there to watch.

Yes, from up here he could see what Despenser’s lackeys were up to. Last afternoon they had ridden off to the west, returning only late, after dark, and Pagan knew what they had been doing. Everyone knew. All had heard of the attack on the poor sergeant of Sir Odo’s over towards the ford.

Someone must stop them.

Sir Odo was a man who liked routine. Each morning he would rise with the dawn, and call for his horse while he drank weak ale and ate a hunk of bread broken from a good white loaf. By the time he’d finished, the stable boys should have finished preparing his old grey rounsey, and he would walk out to take his early morning ride round his estate.

Today he stood in the doorway and snuffed the air while he pulled on heavy gloves; a middle-aged man of only some five and a half feet tall, he made up for lack of height by his breadth. In his youth he had been a keen wrestler, and he had maintained his bulk over the years: his neck was almost the same diameter as his skull, and his biceps were fully larger than most men’s thighs.

His temper was foul today. The grief that had afflicted Lady Isabel on hearing of the loss of her son had naturally affected the manner in which she dealt with everyone else. Sir Odo felt that grief keenly. He was a long-standing friend of Lady Isabel, and to see so noble a lady reduced by the death of her only child was dreadful.

He sniffed and closed his eyes. Seeing a lad of only five or six and twenty die was always sad, but this case was worse than most. Sir Odo had thought that Ailward would shortly be finding his place in the world, that he might recover a little of the family’s fortune, but instead he had been struck down by a murderer. Perhaps a killing committed after too many drinks, or a falling out with a stranger, or a local peasant with a grudge against the man who ordered who should work when, and for how much. There were so many men who could have a reason to kill a sergeant.

There was an icy chill in the wind that came from the north and east. It was always easy to tell when snow was threatening, because the wind seemed to come straight at the house, along the line of the Torridge River, and today was no exception. Sir Odo wasn’t fooled by the clear sky and bright sunshine. If he was any judge of the weather here, there would be snow before long.

He crossed the yard to his mount and used a block of stone to help himself up. Ever since he’d been stuck in his thigh by a man-at-arms with a polearm, he’d had this weakness. It was all right when he was up in the saddle, because then he seemed able to grip well enough, but the ability to straighten his leg to spring up was almost entirely lost.

It had been a little skirmish, really. Not a real battle at all. A lowly squire, he’d been fighting for Hugh de Courtenay in the last king’s wars against the Scottish. They’d reached the Solway Firth, and had laid siege to Caerlaverock Castle at the turn of the century. Now it seemed such a stupid thing, but at the time … he had been near the oddly shaped triangular castle when there was a shout that the Scotch murderers were about to make a sally, and he saw the great drawbridge lowered. Immediately, he ran forward with a few others, and reached it as the defenders were starting to make their way from the gatehouse.

Odo felt that old thrill, the excitement of battle, as he sank his blade into a man’s throat and saw him thrash for a moment before tumbling down, choking. Four more fell to him during that short action, though there were no more deaths. A small fight, almost negligible. Probably most of the other men there that day had forgotten it, but not Odo.

The men with him kept up a great roaring shout, and with sheer effort they managed to force the enemy back towards the sandstone gatehouse. Odo’s opponent stumbled and fell, and suddenly Odo realised that they could push into the castle itself. He slashed at the man’s face twice, then turned and roared to the men at the siege camp to join them, and at the same instant felt something slam into his leg. It was a shocking sensation, and the effect was to knock his knee away, so that he collapsed.

After that his battle grew confusing. He had flashes of memory: not because of pain — there was none — but because he was desperate to climb to his feet, to escape before he could be hacked to pieces. A man on the ground would be as likely to be attacked by the men of his own side as his enemy; a fellow on the ground could be preparing to thrust up with a weapon at the unprotected underside of the men battling above him, and there was little opportunity to distinguish friend from foe. Yet he couldn’t stand. He panicked, overwhelmed with terror as he recognised his danger: he was defenceless here in the mêlée. Trying to crawl away, he was stunned as a crashing blow caught his head, and he felt his skull shake as he fell forward, blood washing over his eyes. He was convinced that he was about to die, and began a prayer begging forgiveness for his sins (which he freely confessed were legion), which was cut short by his passing out.

Later, he awoke to find himself being cleaned by a squire. He was lying on a rich bed, a real bed, with soft woollen blankets and marvellous silken hangings.

He coughed, then rasped, ‘Have I died?’

‘I hope not. He’ll have my guts for his laces if you have,’ the squire said drily. ‘How’s your head?’

The squire looked ancient to Odo. He must have been in his forties — couldn’t remember his name now — and must have realised how confused Odo was, because he refused to discuss anything with him until he’d rested.

‘The best thing after a knock like the one you took is plenty of rest. Have some wine, then sleep.’

‘But where am I?’

‘You’re safe. And being well looked after.’

‘My leg,’ he remembered. He tried to get up to look at it, but the shooting pain that slashed through his skull at the movement made him want to heave. He sank back on to the sheets.

‘You’re fine. The leg’s still there, although it took a grievous cut. Don’t worry, friend. You’ve made your name today.’

Yes. Of course I have, Odo thought to himself cynically. There must have been thirty or forty men on that drawbridge, and he was sure that he’d heard the gates slam even as he sank down on to his face. ‘The castle wasn’t won?’

‘No. Now go to sleep.’

The next thing he remembered was being dressed in a new tunic, and Hugh de Courtenay and Sir John Sully being there to help him on with his sword. His leg hurt like the devil, but he was all right apart from that. If he turned too quickly, he would feel dizzy, but that would pass, he knew. He’d been thumped about the head often enough when he was a child and learning his fighting techniques, and he recognised this wound as one of those unpleasant ones that would leave him feeling tired and wanting to throw up if he wasn’t careful.

Not today, though, he had vowed. Because today he was being taken to see the master of the fourth squadron, the team he had served with. And the youth who was in charge was waiting for him.

Only seventeen he was, but you could tell he was a prince from his courtly disposition. He was polite, handsome, and a strong fighter. Even as Odo stumbled towards him, the future king drew his sword and held it aloft, while trumpets blew and the men all cheered. Odo the squire walked to Prince Edward, but Sir Odo left him.

It had been a great day, and although Odo felt much the older man, he had been impressed with Prince Edward’s calm and unassuming nature. He and his companions had been bold enough; certainly none of them seemed wary of fighting, or fearful at the clamour of battle.

Which was why Odo clung to that memory. It was good to recall the prince the way he had been.

He rode eastwards, and then north, crossing the ford under Crokers’s place. He’d heard of the attack there, but there was no sense in approaching it now, just in case Sir Geoffrey had put in a force to guard it. It could be hazardous to go unprotected to a place like that.

Instead, he left the track and took his horse up the hill to the old road, which, muddy, stone-filled, with tall hedges on either side and a thick wood on his right giving glimpses of fields between the trunks, was pleasant enough. It was this land that the Despensers wanted, from what Odo had heard. They wanted to take all the manors owned by John Sully on the east of the river, making their own holdings that much more extensive.

It was always the way: when a man of ambition grew rich, his first inclination was to increase his wealth. Odo couldn’t understand it. Hugh Despenser was fabulously rich. Odo had heard men speculate on his worth, and the general view was that he was the richest man in the country after the king himself. A terrible man, avaricious and ruthless. He would take men and torture them for sport, or to make them sign away their inheritances. Not only men, either. It seemed strange that the prince Odo had met all those years before could have grown into a man who tolerated advisers like Despenser.

There were the other rumours, of course. That the king was infatuated with his friend; that his friend had supplanted the queen in the king’s affections, that he was the king’s lover. It was possible. Odo had no opinion. He did not care particularly.

A twinge of pain in his thigh made him frown, and he massaged his old wound with his fist. It always played up during the winter. Warmer weather was needed, rather than this bleak coldness.

Sir Geoffrey, Despenser’s tool, was not difficult to deal with. Not if you knew his mind and understood what he looked for. He was no fool, and he wouldn’t risk upsetting people for no reason. No, that wasn’t his way. He’d be much more likely to wait until he had his master’s instructions, and then he’d obey them to the letter — provided it didn’t put him in any danger. And what danger could there be for a man who was in the pay of the king’s best friend? None. So if Sir Geoffrey thought he was acting on the advice of his master, he would do anything.

Odo did not need to guess at Despenser’s ambition. He and Sir Geoffrey had discussed it often enough in the past. Being neighbours, and having known each other before that for several years, they were realistic about whom they should trust. Yes, both had their loyalties to their masters, but they were in a unique position here, far from their lords. They had a duty to try to get along.

Sir Geoffrey was entirely his master’s man. He had joined Earl Despenser’s entourage many years before, when the earl was still a lowly knight. Odo for his part was devoted to Sir John Sully. Although the two stewards could have been at loggerheads, they had avoided disputes, and recently had even joined in small ventures together. Sir Geoffrey could trust Sir Odo — he was different from most neighbours, simply by virtue of the fact that he had been knighted personally by the present king on the field of battle. Sir Geoffrey knew that he must be more inclined to assist the Despensers, because they were King Edward’s most devoted friends. Helping them meant helping the king. That was what Sir Geoffrey had said to him once, and Sir Odo had not seen fit to deny it. In these troubled times it was safer for a man to keep his own counsel.

Which was why Odo was surprised that Sir Geoffrey was making difficulties about this parcel of land. They had discussed it when Geoffrey took the old manor from Ailward, but Odo thought he had persuaded Geoffrey that this piece was truly Odo’s. Ailward’s estate had been carved into two, and Odo had only taken a small part. Just enough to protect the ford. That way, hopefully, very few people would be hurt.

Still, if Geoffrey wanted to launch an attack, Odo had no objection. He would relish a little action; he was bored with idly sitting by. It had been a long time since he had known a dispute like this, and he was looking forward to it with an especial excitement. With any luck, once the land was gone and the dispute ended, Sir John would release Odo from Fishleigh, and he could go and rest in his own home.

Isabel was worried about little Malkin. She might be old enough already to be widowed, but she seemed a child to Isabel still. Since Ailward’s death, she spent too long just sitting and staring into the distance without speaking for long periods, her expression bereft.

‘Mary? Mary?’ Isabel sighed. ‘Malkin, please …’

Mary seemed to come to with reluctance. ‘Mother?’

It was what, eighteen months since this young woman had become her daughter-in-law? And until Ailward’s death Isabel had only ever seen her as happy, excited and enthusiastic. To see her green eyes grown so cold and empty was torture. Nothing could rouse her. Since she had lost her husband, she had lost all her love for life.

Isabel held her arms wide, and Malkin stood and crossed the floor, walking into her embrace.

It was impossible for Isabel to find the words to explain her own devastation in the face of such tragic despair. For Isabel this was merely the latest in a series of losses. Her life for the last ten years seemed to have been one of continual mourning. Well, she would not sit and wail again, no matter how much she missed her son. She was the daughter of a squire, the wife of another, and mother of a sergeant. She was proud.

Malkin had lost no one before, though, and she wept freely on Isabel’s shoulder. The girl felt so frail and soft to the older woman, it surprised her that she had been able to conceive her child. There was no strength to her, not like the women of Isabel’s age who were so used to death and trying to survive in the worst of conditions.

‘I must seem pathetic!’ Malkin murmured. ‘I am so sorry, Mother. But I miss him so — and I don’t know how I can live without him …’

‘Child, you know nothing of the world, do you? You are young. Yes, it is right to grieve for your man, but when you are as old as me you will realise that there are always fresh losses. All you can do is weather each storm that comes, and try to protect those who still matter.’

She looked down at Malkin’s head approvingly. The chit was soft, but she had adored Isabel’s son, and that was enough to endear her to Isabel.

Malkin nodded and sat up, her head averted as though she was ashamed of her outburst. She stood and returned to her stool, picking up her wool and taking a deep, shuddering breath before counting each stitch on her knitting needle.

She was beautiful — there could be no doubt of that. Her blue-black hair was iridescent as a raven’s wing, and her face was delightfully shaped: a broad, white brow that curved down to a pointed little chin. With green eyes slanted down at the sides, and full lips, even now in the depths of her misery she was a delight to the eye. It was no surprise that she’d stolen Ailward’s heart. More surprising was that she’d been prepared to accept his advances.

Isabel was no fool; nor was she prepared to attribute characteristics even to her own son that were better than he possessed. Ailward was a bullying, covetous fool, who could, maybe, have made a good sergeant given time, but had died first. Not that his foolishness affected Malkin’s opinion of him, apparently. She seemed to have genuinely adored him. There had never been any tears about the place while he lived, and she had always been doting. Perhaps it was true, the old idea that love blinded a young wench to her man’s true character. If blindness were ever needed, it was in the lover of Isabel’s son.

She sighed. Already an old woman at four and fifty, she was lonely, and unlike the widow in front of her had little chance of ever winning another man.

‘Sad, Mother?’ Malkin asked softly.

It would have been easy to snap at her. What did she have to be sad about? No father, no husband, no son … not many even in the last decade had been forced to contend with so much despair. Isabel felt her eyes sting, but she blinked the tears away before they could form. ‘No, child. I was just remembering. There’s no need for sadness, not when the good Lord is protecting us at all times. My son is gone to a better place.’

‘Of course.’

The arrival of the steward prevented further discussion. Isabel held out her mazer for a refill of wine, and she watched as Pagan filled it to the brim.

He was a good old servant, Pagan. It was one of the old Devonshire names. Nowadays all the young men of quality seemed to have the same ones, even in the same family. Isabel knew one in which the oldest boy was called Guy, the following four sons were all called John, and the last two were both William. She knew why it happened — any parent wanted a godparent to be as committed to his offspring as possible, and so named the children after favoured friends. But if a favoured friend became godparent to more than one of the children, it could lead to embarrassing and confusing multiple naming in the family. Isabel was glad that she had only ever had to worry about the one boy. Much easier that way!

Pagan filled Malkin’s cup and then set the jug between the two women before leaving the room. He stood at the door, as usual, eyeing both of them, his eyes going about the room: checking the fire was warm enough, that the shutters were pulled shut against the cold evening air, that the dogs were settled out of the way so that they couldn’t upset the women. Only when he was satisfied that they were as comfortable as they could be did he quietly draw the heavy curtain over the doorway and retreat to his pantry to clear away the rubbish.

He was one man who could always be relied upon, Isabel thought. There were so many who were unreliable. Men who would steal the rings from a widow’s fingers, who would demand money before performing their services, who would eye her with a lascivious tenderness, hoping to receive a better payment in kind for their efforts, or simply pocket a portion of the manor’s wealth and fly the place, never to return.

Pagan was not like them. A little younger than Isabel, his family had served Isabel’s dead husband’s for many years going back into the dim and distant past. The fact that Pagan was still here was a measure of his commitment to them, and a proof of his honour, although he was only a common peasant in truth. At the same time, knights who called themselves honourable were stealing manors from defenceless widows like her.

She gazed into the flames, lost in thought.

‘Mother? Are you well?’

Malkin’s soft voice drew her back to the present. ‘Yes! Of course I am,’ she snapped without thinking, and then regretted her harshness. ‘I am sorry, Malkin. It’s just …’ She waved her hands feebly. ‘I don’t know how to say it.’

‘I know,’ Malkin said. Tears appeared in her eyes again. ‘I can’t think how to face life without my man.’

‘That is easy,’ Isabel said sternly. ‘You survive. I have lost three men now. My father, like my husband’s, killed by the Scots in Ireland, Robert himself in that treacherous attack at Bridgnorth, and now my son. My beloved son …’

‘I loved him so much,’ Malkin said.

‘I know you did, little sweeting.’

‘It seems so hard to imagine that he’s gone.’

‘The thing to concentrate on for now is my grandson. You have to look after him, child. It is he who matters, who has to be protected. No one else.’