A Friar's bloodfeud

Chapter Six

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill stood in the cool morning air wearing only a thin linen shirt and a fine tunic of flaming crimson, and drew his sword as he faced the rising sun on the grassy slope, tossing the scabbard aside on to the grass and standing still a moment.

He was a tall man, broad and thickset about the shoulders and neck as befitted a warrior used to wearing armour, and his right arm was more heavily muscled than his left from working with heavy weapons. Yet for all his warlike appearance, his face showed a different quality. He lacked the brute arrogance and cruelty of so many modern knights. Instead, he had kindliness in his dark brown eyes — kindliness and a sort of wariness, a man always slightly on guard. A thin beard followed the line of his lower jaw. Once it had been dark, but now, like his hair, it was showing more and more grey. There was more salt than pepper, his wife had said recently, and he could not deny it.

Today he felt unsettled, and it was not merely his wound: it was a curious manor, this, the small estate which had been his wife’s first husband’s.

It had a lovely outlook, being some miles north of Tavistock but not quite on the moors, with a view of Dartmoor itself. The manor house was a good, solid moorstone building, with sound grey walls, lately whitewashed (Baldwin suspected because the local steward had heard that his mistress’s husband was coming to see the place) and thatched well only the previous summer. It stood on a small knoll, as though on its own shallow motte, and all about it at a distance of some sixty yards were woods, with the only bare aspect being to the south, where a man could see almost all the way to Brent Tor on a clear day, so it was said. Sir Baldwin didn’t know about that, but he did know that today he needed to try his muscles.

Some three or four months ago he’d been the victim of an attack, and the encounter had nearly killed him. Even now, the wound in his breast was enough to make his chest seize up when he over-exerted himself. The pain was normally a dull ache, but every so often it grew into a flaming agony that seemed to threaten to rip his ribs apart. Last night had been one such occasion.

They had come here to Liddinstone a matter of a month ago. He had promised his wife that they would come to see how the manor was faring, and as soon as he felt able to make the journey from his little estate near Cadbury, a short distance south of Tiverton, they had arranged their affairs, leaving Edgar in charge.

Edgar had been his most loyal servant for more years than either cared to remember. They had met in the hellhole of Acre in 1291, both arriving in time to witness the city’s death at the hands of many thousands of Moors. They had set up a vast siege encampment all about the city walls, and during their time there, Baldwin had found Edgar and saved his life. Subsequently, both had been injured and would have died, had it not been for the generosity of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar, who had rescued them. As a result, as soon as they could, both had given their oaths to serve the Order, and Baldwin became a knight while Edgar became his sergeant. They served together for many years, until the appalling day when the Order was arrested.

Friday 13th October 1307. It was a date that felt as though it had been engraved with a red-hot burin on Baldwin’s heart. Each year he felt drawn to toast his comrades on that day, and yet he could not. The idea that he should celebrate their destruction was repellent. No, it was better that he remembered them all on days like today, when the sun was newly risen with the promise of clear weather, like so many of those other days when he and his companions had woken with the dawn.

He held his sword out forwards, his arm straight, elbow and wrist locked, the peacock-blue steel of the blade sitting still in his grip, and he smiled to himself grimly. There were few knights who were as old as he and yet still capable of holding their swords outstretched for any period. He was more than fifty years old now, and although he knew that he could best most men half his age, he had to pick his moments and his opponents.

Yet if there was one thing that the Templars had taught him, it was the benefit of constant practice. A man who trained was a man who could rely on his reflexes, and now Baldwin swung the sword in his wrist, first letting the point drop down then spinning it up on his right, then dropping it and flicking it up on the left of his forearm to form a figure 8. After twenty of those, he threw the sword spinning into the air, and caught it with his left hand, repeating the exercise before tossing it up again and catching it in his right hand once more.

Now he started the serious training. This was basic work, but he had performed these actions almost every morning since his acceptance into his Order. It was only at times of great pain that he had neglected his training, such as late last year, 1323, when the crossbow bolt had laid him low for so long.

He could consider the near-death with equanimity now, although at the time he had been appalled that he could die and leave his wife and daughter without a protector. True, Edgar would be there, and knowing Edgar he would continue to offer his support and what security he could to Baldwin’s widow and offspring, but it wasn’t the same.

It was a dreadful thought, that his wife should be widowed and left to fend for herself. Of all his nightmares, that was the one which recurred most often and left him distraught, unrefreshed and emotionally drained in the morning.

Jeanne de Liddinstone, as she had been before marrying Baldwin, had been born to a moderately wealthy family, but when they had been murdered she had left to live with family in Bordeaux, only returning when she married Ralph de Liddinstone.

Sadly Ralph proved to be a brute. He took to abusing his wife when she couldn’t produce a child for him, and accused her of barrenness. Shortly before Baldwin first met her, Ralph died. A little while later, Baldwin married Jeanne. Now they had a daughter, Richalda.

He lifted the point of the blade so that the tip was in line with his arm, the point up-slanting, and then swivelled his body right, blocking an imaginary hack; with a flick of his wrist he moved the blade to point out to his right, and brought his fist across, the blade trailing, covering a thrust at his head. The sword’s point fell and he covered a series of attacks at his legs, always a vulnerable target, especially in this age of staffs and polearms, then began a series of defensive manoeuvres, first to cover his right flank, then his left. At the end of this, he was panting, and there was a fine sheen of sweat over his features, as well as what felt like a small snake of ice on his spine where the perspiration had soaked into his shirt.

The only parts of his body that felt hot were his forearms and his wound.

His breast was so damp, he pulled his shirt away suspiciously and stared down to where the foul, swollen pock mark stood so plainly, thinking for a moment that the damned thing was leaking once more. For the last two months it had seemed fairly well on the way to healing, but before Christmas every time he exercised it had wept a watery, unpleasant liquor, and even some little while after Candlemas it had bled just a little. It was enough to make a man concern himself over his health. Especially now that he had something to lose, Baldwin told himself.

The sun was quite high in the sky now, and Baldwin stood staring ahead. The hills of Dartmoor were licked with a bright orange-pink glow where the sun hit them, while the parts the sun could not reach were blue-grey, with small flecks of what looked like whiteness to show where the frost still lay thickly on the grasses. It was a perfect, marvellous sight to Baldwin, who had spent so many years abroad in hot countries which had no frost to stimulate them.

‘My husband? Are you training again?’

Baldwin narrowed his eyes and winced without turning at once. When he faced his wife, it was with an expression of bright cheerfulness. ‘My love! I had thought to leave you resting. I didn’t intend to wake you. I am sorry.’

‘Husband, do you mean you’ve only just risen?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ he said with apparent surprise.

‘Then you haven’t been out here long enough to work up a sweat?’

He recoiled from the questing hand that snaked towards his back, growling. ‘Woman, please leave my person. Treat an invalid with a little respect.’

‘So much of an invalid that you can stand out here in the frost and the freezing air?’

‘I was looking at the view,’ he protested.

‘With your sword in your hand,’ she said with innocent deliberation.

‘May I not keep anything secret from your suspicious mind?’

‘Husband,’ she said sweetly, ‘do I hound you for all your secrets? I have no need. You give them up so easily and unintentionally.’

He scowled at her. It was impossible to be angry with her. Jeanne was perfection in his eyes, her round face framed by thick, red-gold tresses, blue eyes like cornflowers on a summer’s afternoon, a small, almost tip-tilted nose, a wide mouth with an over-full upper lip which gave her a stubborn look — all in all, he had never seen any woman more beautiful. He growled, ‘It is hardly comely for a wife to be so forthright.’

‘It is hardly sensible for a wounded man to be testing his scars in the cold like this, especially after sleeping so badly.’

He looked away guiltily. ‘It was nothing. I was thirsty.’

‘In the middle of the night, and you were forced to leave our bed and fetch water? And couldn’t return?’

‘I was not tired once I rose, Jeanne,’ he said, and then sighed. He picked up the scabbard again, thrust the sword home, and faced her. ‘You are right, though. It is this shoulder of mine. The thing hurts whenever I lie still with it, and there seems to be nothing I can do to alleviate it.’

‘You should rest it then, husband. Stop this foolish sword-waving in the early morning. Take things more easily; rest more.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Perhaps you are right.’

‘Do not patronise me, Baldwin,’ she said tartly. ‘I won’t have it.’

‘I am sorry, then.’

‘You are still convinced that there will be war?’

Baldwin shot her a look. They had set off on the way back to the house, and her tone was light, but there was an edge to it. ‘Yes.’

‘I am happy here now,’ she said quietly. ‘I was not when Ralph was alive. He was so different when he realised that we wouldn’t have children. It made him bitter … bitter and cruel. You have changed my life for me. There are two men who have been consistently kind to me since I married Ralph: the Abbot of Tavistock, and you. I couldn’t bear to lose you, Baldwin. You do realise that, don’t you?’

‘What brought this on?’ he asked with some confusion. ‘You will not lose me.’

‘If there is a war, I may have to. You may be forced to ride to battle and leave me behind,’ she said quietly. ‘And when you ride away, you will go to find excitement. I don’t begrudge you that, but you won’t be thinking of me, will you? Nor of Richalda. You will be thinking of warfare and how to win renown by your prowess. Yet all the time I shall be here ready to mourn my loss … well, in truth, I will already be in mourning, because although I shall hope and pray that you will come home, it is possible that I shall never see you again, and that is a very hard thought to accept.’

‘Jeanne, I swear to you that Richalda and you will never be far from my mind if it comes to war.’ Seeing the doubt in her eyes, he took up his sword, and kissed the cross. ‘I swear it, Jeanne! I practise here because I want to ensure that even if there is a war, I am fit enough and experienced enough to return to my home. I do not wish to die because of a moment’s thoughtlessness. My training is perhaps all that can save me in a battle.’ He looked behind them, back at the moors. When he spoke again, it was in a reflective tone, more gentle. ‘You say that I ride for honour and excitement … well, it is possible that I could find myself honoured, but it is more likely that I would find myself dead. I have seen war. More men always die through starvation and pestilence than wounds won honourably on the field of battle. I fear that more than anything: a slow, lingering death at the roadside after the host has moved on, alone, without the opportunity to say farewell to you. If I go to war, Jeanne, my thoughts will be with you always …’

Jeanne was about to speak when there came an enraged bellow from the house. Jeanne closed her eyes and sighed, and Baldwin cast his eyes heavenwards. ‘Is there no possibility of sending her home, Jeanne? Or anywhere else?’

Friar John set his jaw as he made his way rather laboriously up the lane towards the church. He had found a temporary place of refuge last night, a charcoal burner’s hut in a coppice west of Iddesleigh, but after the foul discovery at the small holding he thought it might be better to move farther away as soon as he could. Friars were not usually so detested by the populace that they would be attacked, but a prudent man knew when to conceal himself, and a fellow who walked about after nightfall when there were plainly dangerous rogues abroad could soon become a target no matter how innocent.

There were two places on which John had counted in his life: churches and inns. In neither establishment was there anything for him to fear. Today, simply because the church was the nearer of the two, he entered that first, listening with a smile of gratitude to the creaking of the door hinges. To him, unoiled hinges had a sound all their own: the sound of comfort, holding the promise of warmth and dryness. There was a stoup of holy water by the door, and he dipped his fingers in it, closing his eyes and crossing himself fervently.

At times he’d been accused of play-acting. People said that a man who seemed so committed must by nature be more of a charlatan than a genuine man of God, but to that he answered that all must explain themselves before God when the time came. For his part, his conscience was clear. He had devoted his life to God and the spreading of His Gospel, and if men wished to mock, that was for them.

He turned to face the altar and stood a few moments studying the paintings on the walls. All were vivid — if lacking some artistic skill on occasion — and ideally suited to stirring the spirits of a peasant from an out of the way place like this.

That was half the battle. A man must always bear in mind the status and abilities of the folk to whom he was preaching. There was no earthly good in putting forward arguments that had been disputed in Oxford if the audience was a group of shepherds, carters, ploughmen and charcoal-burners. They wouldn’t understand the niceties. Now, if John spoke to them, he’d pitch the story at a lower level, curse a bit, give them more of what they heard each day in the tavern. And from that perspective, this little church was ideal. It made the uneducated look at the walls. They couldn’t retreat from them.

He knelt and bent his head, praying now for aid. Since finding the man last night, he had much to think through. There was his own mission, which must necessarily be suspended for a little while, and then there was much to learn. Such as, why should a man have been attacked like that in a quiet vill like this? What could have justified such a ferocious assault and murder?

This was a good place. It smelled right, not damp or musty, but earthy, with the tang of incense. A soft, mellow odour that reminded him always of his very first memories of a church.

‘Master? May I help you? My name is Father Matthew.’

There was a tall, spare priest behind him, and John turned and smiled, grunting as he levered himself upwards. ‘Father, I am glad to see you. I am Brother John, and while wandering these lands I wondered whether you would object to my preaching a little?’

The man’s expression hardened. At John’s words it looked as though his face was transformed into firm, unyielding cuir bouilli — leather boiled until it became almost as hard as metal. Then, just as John was expecting a firm rebuff, the man’s features relaxed.

‘I am sorry, Brother. The last preacher who came here listened to a man’s confession and gave him such a light penance that the fellow went off and committed another crime. Since then, I have been wary of allowing friars to become involved with my flock. But it is silly to think that all friars are the same, just as it would be to say that all flowers are the same colour. Of course you may preach here, and if you wish to make use of my pulpit, you may. I do beg, though, that before offering to hear any confessions from my people you tell me first. There are some here who would be keen to speak to you rather than me. After all, if they talk to me, they will have to face me every day for the rest of their lives. Surely that is a part of their penance, just as much as a series of Pater Nosters.’

‘I assure you I could not agree more,’ John said. ‘In these troubled times, a good priest must see to it that as many of his flock as possible see the errors of their ways. There is so much cruelty and evil in the world.’

‘You can have no idea how correct you are,’ Matthew said heavily. ‘It sometimes seems that the whole world is at war to no purpose.’

‘So many petty arguments,’ John said. And then he added with truth, ‘Feuds and disagreements are rife all over the country. Even in a place so seemingly quiet as this, I suppose?’

‘This little vill is the property of one lord, and another craves it. Everywhere is in a ferment. Why, even last night there was an attack on a little holding …’

He shook his head, and then glanced behind him at a low doorway that gave into a small storage room. ‘Brother, could I offer you some refreshment? I have spent all the morning so far at my glebe, and my hands are frozen even as are my insides. I feel the need for wine. Would you care for some?’

‘I should be delighted,’ John said enthusiastically.

They went into the storage area, where John sat on a low chest, while Matthew took his rest on a small, rough box which he unceremoniously emptied that he might perch on it up-ended.

‘You have much land?’

‘Yes, enough. And it is fruitful, God be praised! But the effort at this time of year — breaking up the soil is such cruel work. My hands are not so young as once they were.’

John nodded sympathetically. Matthew’s hands were rough, dark-stained by the soil, and each finger had its own callus from the inevitable effort of working his private strips in the vill’s fields. One had cracked so badly in the cold that a thin, weeping blood was oozing, but when Matthew saw that John had noticed it, he merely waved his hand and sucked it until the blood stopped flowing.

‘Do you have many problems here?’ John asked.

‘Only the usual: recalcitrant folk who prefer to hold their tongues rather than confess in a mood of penitence, determined never to repeat their mistakes.’

‘There would be little work for men of God if all were angels,’ John said with a gentle smile.

‘True,’ Matthew said, but he frowned, peering into his cup as though the wine had turned to vinegar. ‘Yet here matters seem to be growing worse.’ He was a trusting man, and soon he was telling John all about the attack on the family a short way along the road. ‘All dead, and the house burned.’

‘You think that it was no common outlaw?’

Matthew shook his head. ‘There are too many here who would have been glad to see that family gone.’

‘Father? Is there something else troubling you? May I help?’

Matthew sat without speaking for a long time, as though holding a debate with himself about whether or not to speak, but in the end his desire to unburden his soul of his concerns overwhelmed his natural caution. ‘There is one thing, my friend. South of here lies a little manor called Monkleigh, where there is a small chapel. For many years past this place has been served, and served well, in God’s name, by a holy fellow called Isaac. Isaac is now very old, and I fear his hearing and eyes are failing him. So, some little while ago — it was last summer, I recall — a young priest was sent here to help him. This fellow has been there with Father Isaac for months now.’

‘Surely that is good, though?’ John asked.

Matthew smiled with his mouth, but his eyes were hard and suspicious when he looked up at John again. ‘Aye, it should be. But I have never seen signs that he was truly sent from Exeter, and Isaac told me that he had never complained. And I believe that. He is not the sort of man to ask for help. So since the bishop has not held a visitation here in my memory, how did he come to hear of Isaac’s infirmity?’

‘Perhaps a friar saw him, or the magnate who lives in the hall decided to ease his load a little?’ John hazarded.

‘That God-damned scoundrel would rather murder Isaac and steal all he could from the chapel than try to assist an old man. No! The lad Humphrey was not sent here. I know it in my bones. I have seen him in the chapel, and while he is fluent enough in Latin … well, he is too fluent! You know the sort. He should be at Stapeldon College, rather than in a small chapel in the middle of the waste like this. And he speaks like a friar, too.’

‘Ah!’ John smiled as understanding broke upon him.

‘Yes. I think he must be a runaway. Perhaps even a renegade friar.’