A Friar's bloodfeud

Chapter Eight

Robert Crokers had needed all the Sunday and Monday just to clear the mess from his house. The fire had taken all his belongings with it, and the building was a blackened shell that stank of tar and soot, but with the help of the man whom Sir Odo had brought it was soon cleared out, and the rubbish taken to his little midden.

The worst of the burned rafters had been pulled down, apart from one which wouldn’t break apart, and that they had left, assuming that if the weight of three men dangling from it wouldn’t move it, neither would some straw thatching. They’d swept and brushed the walls and floor until the stench of burning was all but gone, and meanwhile others had thrown poles up over the roof to create a ridge, to which they nailed long, thin planks. Before long, straw brought from Sir Odo’s storehouse had been thrown haphazardly on top, and today two of the men from the vill who were best at thatching came to finish the job, complaining all the while that the men should have waited for them to arrive.

‘It’d have been easier if those useless turds had laid the straw more carefully.’

‘Ah. If they had more than shit for brains, they’d be dangerous,’ his friend commented, chewing a straw.

Still, by the middle of the third day, the Tuesday, the house was almost renewed. There was a roof, and Robert had a palliasse laid out on a low, rough bed. His hearth was soon lighted, and for lunch he was able to set his pot over the fire and make his own pottage from the peas and leaves which Odo’s men had left for him.

‘Should be all right now,’ said Walter. He was a cadaverously thin man, one of Sir Odo’s older men-at-arms, who squatted beside the fire and held his gnarled hands to it appreciatively. ‘The roof is safe enough.’

‘What if they come back, though?’ Robert said. ‘Here I’m an easy target for them.’

Walter sniffed, his sunburned face the colour of old chestnut. His eyes were almost hidden beneath his thick brows, and he shot a look at Robert, then hawked and spat into the fire. ‘They’re not after you personally. Just the land. Anyway, I doubt whether they’ll be back here for a while.’

‘Why? How can you be so sure?’

‘They’ve left a message. They wanted Sir Odo to know they want this land, and they’ll gradually try to increase the pressure on him to give it up and leave all the land this side of the river to them.’

‘So they could return at any time?’ Robert squeaked.

‘No. Now they’ve sent the warning, they’ll start to use the courts. This was just to stop anyone arguing and making the lawyers’ fees too high. That’s all.’

‘But Sir Odo can’t give up the land — it’s not his. What then?’

‘They may come back and threaten war, but you should be safe enough. Why’d they hurt you? You’re nothing to them. No, if they wanted to do some damage, fine, they’d come here and warn you off, then fire the house. Meanwhile they’d be doing all they could to force Sir Odo, and through him Sir John Sully, off this land. If they could, they’d get the rest of the manor too. They like land.’

‘How could an honourable knight behave like that, though?’ Robert demanded. ‘Surely Sir Geoffrey is a true knight?’

Walter gave him a look in which surprise and contempt were equally mixed. ‘Of course he is. And all he’s doing is what a true knight should: following his master’s bidding.’

Robert nodded. He knew nothing of the ways of fighting men. All he really knew was sheep and sheepdogs.

And now he had neither, he reminded himself as the tears threatened to engulf him again.

When she had first met Wat, Jeanne had been unimpressed by the round-faced boy with the shock of unruly hair and the vacant expression. Although, to be fair, perhaps her opinion of him was coloured slightly by the lad’s behaviour on her wedding day, when he drank so much of the strong ale beforehand that as the wedding party left the church door, all guffawed at the fellow who was propped like a sack of swedes at a wagon’s wheel. Even as he tried to squint at the crowd, he started to slip down, and only Simon’s servant, Hugh, saved him from complete collapse.

Now, though, he had grown into a man with enough good looks to tempt any of the maids in the vill to take a tumble with him in a hayrick, were he to ask them. Jeanne could see her dairy maid loitering at the house’s corner, and, seeing how the girl took a deep breath and bent her back slightly as he noticed her, she was sure that it was time to worry about the arrival of an irate parent demanding compensation for the arrival of a fresh bastard in his family. She would have to speak to Baldwin before things got out of hand — but then she noticed that although Wat gave the girl an appreciative leer his expression was serious, even sad, when he looked at his master. There were more important matters on his mind.

Baldwin had not yet cast a glance at Wat, but he too saw the girl, and snapped, ‘Wat, take your eyes off her and stop drooling. What are you doing here?’

‘Sir Baldwin, it was a messenger came to Edgar, thinking to find you. A lad from Iddesleigh. He’d ridden as soon as the news came, so he said.’

‘What news?’

Jeanne could feel her man tense, as though he reckoned that this could be the call to war.

Wat lowered his eyes. ‘There’s been an attack on a smallholding. Hugh’s.’

‘You mean Simon’s servant?’

‘Yes, sir. It sounds like Hugh’s dead, and his woman with him. Men rode in at night and fired the place.’

Baldwin was strangely still. Jeanne could feel the energy rushing through his veins, and she tightened her grip on his arm, as though by so doing she could persuade him to remain with her and not to fly off to Iddesleigh.

‘Was there any message about who was responsible?’ Baldwin asked.

‘No, sir. They didn’t know.’

‘Have they had the coroner?’

‘I don’t know. They should have.’

‘True. So when was this news brought?’

‘Last afternoon. Edgar told me to mount and come here as soon as he heard. I had to stop the night at Crediton and came on at first light,’ Wat said.

‘Good,’ Baldwin said. ‘And what else did Edgar want you to say?’

‘Nothing. Only that he would be packing and leaving for Iddesleigh this morning. He’ll meet you there, Sir Baldwin.’

‘I see.’ He stood deep in thought. ‘Wat, you must ride for Lydford and see whether Simon’s there at his house. I don’t think he will be, but it’ll be a good ride for you from here. If he’s not there, go to Tavistock to the abbot, and tell him what you’ve said here. The good abbot will send a messenger on to Simon at Dartmouth, if he’s there.’

‘Sir.’

‘Wait! First take some rest. You must be exhausted. Have some ale and cheese while a horse is prepared, then take a loaf and some meat to pack in your bag. And Wat!’ Baldwin reached into his small purse and pulled out a penny. ‘Well done for coming here so swiftly.’

While the boy was taken away by the milkmaid to be shown where the pantry was, Baldwin waited for the inevitable argument. When there was no comment, he tentatively cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry, my love, but I have to …’

‘Of course we do.’

He blinked. ‘I think I should go alone.’

‘With your wounds unhealed? That would be most intelligent, husband. If you fall from your horse between here and Iddesleigh, whom will you expect to find you and bring you home?’

‘It is a long road, my sweet.’

‘Many are, my love. Which means we should pack. I shall see to it.’

‘But …’

‘You should eat something too, if we’re to set off as soon as we can,’ Jeanne said firmly, and was gone.

Humphrey was feeling as though his back was soon to break when he stopped his work and stood slowly, rubbing at the muscles above his buttocks.

There was too much to be done, that was the trouble. Old Isaac had many strips of land in the communal fields, and all had to be tilled. For Humphrey, that meant more work. He had to look after the fields as well as taking the services for Isaac. There could be no leisure for a parish priest. He was another local farmer, just like all the others, and like all the others he must work if he wanted to eat.

Today he was in the strip nearest the road. All the villagers had strips in this great field, and all were widely separated. This was the first of the priest’s strips, and his next was way along there, ninety yards or so. Each strip was over an acre, too, so that the amount of land available to each inhabitant of the vill was quite large. Not as fruitful as some places Humphrey had seen, it was true, but it wasn’t as desolate as others, either.

When he looked up, there was a man walking along the roadway, a cheerful-looking friar, with a smiling face, flaming red cheeks, and that appearance of drawnness which so many friars wore.

They were a scavenging breed, the friars. As Humphrey knew only too well, they were detested by many in the Church, and with good reason. Friars would take the money which parishioners should give to their own church; they offered mild penances when they heard confessions, penances that could do little good to the poor soul who had confessed and whose very leniency must devalue the whole structure of the Church’s efforts to prevent sin. In any case, making confession to a wanderer whom a man would never see again was easier, and thus less morally efficacious, than confessing to a priest with whom the penitent tilled the soil, ploughed, drank and ate. There was shame and embarrassment in admitting a sin to a companion, whereas a friar … a man could admit anything to one of them and forget it in moments.

Humphrey knew all the arguments against friars. He had heard Isaac rehearse them often enough. Right now he was only glad that Isaac was not here to see the scruffy fellow passing by.

‘God grant you peace,’ he said when the friar came closer.

‘God’s blessing on you,’ the friar responded.

Now that he was closer, Humphrey could see that he was still less prepossessing than he had originally thought. Humphrey didn’t recognise him, which was a relief — that could have been embarrassing … As it was, it was annoying to have to stop his work to offer hospitality to someone whom he did not wish to entertain.

‘You are far from any main roadway, Brother,’ he said.

‘Ah, I wander where God wills it,’ the friar said. ‘I am called John. I had thought to stay in this area and preach a little. Father Matthew thought it would be all right?’

There was a question in his voice which Humphrey could not miss. It was, in truth, a generous question. He had no need to request permission, and this John would have been well within his rights to go wherever he wished, preaching every hour of every day, if he so desired; but there had been friction for some years between Holy Mother Church and the friars, and it was good that this one at least appeared keen to avoid arguments.

Humphrey shrugged a little gracelessly. ‘Brother, if you wish to do so I wouldn’t stop you, but I am only a coadjutor here. The priest himself is … not well.’

The friar’s face grew grim. ‘It is good to see an assistant helping an older man. Is he very ill?’

‘He is. But it is age which ails him. I have heard it said that he has lived here as priest for nearly three and forty years, and from the look of the records in the church, that could be correct.’

‘Do you think that my presence could offend him?’ the friar asked tentatively. ‘I should prefer not to preach where my words could upset a sick man.’

‘That is very kind of you, Brother. I think,’ Humphry said consideringly, ‘that if you preach away from the church here, and not right in front of the alehouse at the top of the road, you will be unlikely to cause him offence.’

‘He spends much time there?’

‘It is easier for me to leave him in the alehouse than alone in the church while I do the work.’ Humphrey shrugged. ‘I prefer to know that he is safe. If he were to remain in the church all day, he might fall and harm himself.’

‘You are a good man, my friend,’ Friar John said. ‘And now, if you do not mind, I think I should seek out the tavern — not to preach, but to beg a little bread.’

‘Brother, if I had anything with me, I would …’

The friar held up his hand. ‘Friend, please. I would not impose further upon you. No, I shall go to the tavern. No doubt they earn enough to subsidise a poor wanderer without harming their own pockets! Where is this place?’

Humphrey gave brief directions, and then smiled and nodded as the man carried on his way towards the vill of Monkleigh. He watched until the friar had disappeared round the bend in the road and was hidden by the trees.

‘Some wandering preacher?’

Humphrey felt the breath catch in his throat, and he spun on his heel, his heart thundering. ‘Pagan! In God’s name, man, where did you come from?’

‘I was going to the inn to buy a barrel of ale. Why?’

‘You half emasculated me, man! Walking up behind a fellow like that …’

‘What did he want?’

‘Permission to preach. Nothing more.’

‘You should be wary of such men. No good comes of having those preachers wandering about the place,’ Pagan said.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘When I was young, they found a friar who’d killed a young boy. He claimed the protection of the Church, of course, but we all knew what he’d done.’

‘I hadn’t heard of that,’ Humphrey said.

‘Before your time. If you have a man like that about the place, there’s no telling what might happen.’

‘It can scarcely be worse than it already is,’ Humphrey said. ‘Had you not heard about that poor man up east of Iddesleigh, with his wife and child?’

‘I’d heard. And there is still Lady Lucy of Meeth. No one knows where she is.’

‘So one friar can hardly do much harm,’ Humphrey said.

‘A friar can always cause more harm,’ Pagan said, and he looked at Humphrey with what appeared to be a cold challenge in his eyes that made Humphrey feel quite chilled. ‘I would have thought you’d know that.’

Late that night Perkin and Beorn met at Guy’s house.

The weather was bitter, and all three were glad of the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. They squatted on their haunches, holding their hands to the flames. Today they had been working on the manor’s land, and all were desperate for refreshment.

Guy was married with four children. He had been lucky, and ever since the famine he had waxed wealthy. His strips produced a good crop each year, and so far he had been able to feed all his family without too much difficulty. Last week his wife had brewed a fresh barrel of ale, and the others were here to test its quality. It was commonly agreed that Anne was one of the best alewives in the county, so all three of the men were keenly looking forward to sampling her brew.

Perkin took a long pull from his mug. The house was very crowded, with Guy’s wife and children all asleep on the low bed in the corner, while smoke billowed from the central hearth. There was a table, with one low bench running down one side, and a stool for Anne. Apart from that, the living space was filled with the assorted rubbish that houses full of children tended to gather: a rude hobbyhorse, dolls made of straw and clothed in scraps, sticks with cross-guards tied in place in imitation of swords, a single small chest with clothes piled on top to save them falling on the damp floor. A vast black cauldron sat nearby, with all the house’s plates and wooden spoons protruding from it.

It was small, crowded, and none the worse for that. From here, Perkin knew that his friend could sit and view his wife and children as well as the ox that stood quietly in the far end of the place snuffling at a pile of hay. It was good that a man could contemplate his life.

There was a price to be paid for sitting here and drinking a man’s ale. Both the visitors had their knives out and were whittling busily at the bits and pieces of wood Guy had given them. He had need of more spoons for his children, and it was common for men like them to carve as they chatted. There was always a need for a new spoon, a trencher, or a cup, and while the women spun wool their men might as well work too.

‘What did you make of the coroner?’ Perkin asked Guy.

‘A knight. What else?’

Beorn snorted. ‘A friend of our master, I reckon.’

‘Sir Geoffrey? Why say that?’

‘Didn’t you see the long streak of piss who wanted to talk to him after the inquest?’ Beorn demanded.

Perkin’s ears pricked up. ‘I saw him, but didn’t know him. Who was he?’

‘Adam, our new sergeant, although he’s always called Adcock, apparently. He went up to the coroner and asked him to go to the big house.’

‘You think the master’s got an idea about Ailward’s death?’ Guy asked anxiously.

‘The coroner said it was someone else, not us. That’s enough for everyone,’ Perkin said firmly. ‘The master won’t want to have a load of accusations flying around here disrupting things. His job is purely to take money from us. He can’t do that if we’re in gaol.’

Beorn shot him a sidelong look, but said nothing.

Guy frowned, then looked down at the spoon he was carving. ‘What of the poor devil up the way?’

They all knew whom he meant. There had been little else discussed in the vill since it had learned of the attack up in Iddesleigh. A whole family wiped out.

Beorn scowled at the fire. ‘Who’d have done a thing like that? It looked like a bunch of felons.’

‘We know who was out that day, though, don’t we?’ Perkin said in a low voice, glancing over his shoulder to see that the children and Anne weren’t listening.

Guy glared at him. ‘I won’t have that sort of talk in my house, Perkin.’

‘You can try to ignore it if you want, but it’s not going to help when Sir Odo comes to defend his own, is it?’ Perkin hissed.

‘He won’t dare,’ Beorn said confidently. ‘What could he do? Raid and kill a few men from Sir Geoffrey’s household? The retribution would be terrible.’

‘Sir Odo has the reputation of being a strong, fierce warrior,’ Guy said.

‘Aye,’ Perkin said. ‘And I think he’d spit in Sir Geoffrey’s eye for a penny. This will leave him sore, you mark my words. You can’t attack a peasant in another manor without the lord coming for compensation.’

‘If he had proof, you’d be right,’ Beorn said, ‘but I’d bet a sack of oats that there’s no one will own to seeing Sir Geoffrey’s men, and that any man who tried to take a matter like this to court would soon find himself out of pocket, and without his lands either.’

‘A whole family,’ Perkin said, shaking his head. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Guy’s sleeping children. The sight was warming, and the idea that a lord could decide to wipe them out was terrifying. ‘Why’d he want to hurt them, anyway? They hadn’t been here that long.’

‘I heard that the woman was a nun who’d left her convent,’ Beorn said. ‘Good-looking wench.’

‘They had a little boy.’ Perkin had seen the lad once. He didn’t often have need to go so far as Iddesleigh, but he’d once had to walk up past it, and he could vaguely recall a tall, elegant fair woman, with a little boy on her hip.

Guy shook his head. ‘What could they have done to deserve an attack like that?’

It was Beorn who sighed and shook his head. ‘Whatever it was, it’s probably died with them.’

‘I saw Pagan earlier today,’ Guy said slowly. ‘He said that there was a stranger in the area. A friar.’

Perkin glanced up at him. ‘So? You don’t say a friar could have done that to the family?’

‘There are always stories … She was good looking.’

‘Yes, there are always stories,’ Perkin scoffed. ‘And there is silliness wherever you look. But that man’s family was wiped out in the same evening that Robert Crokers was forced from his home. And you know as well as I do that Sir Geoffrey has looked with interest at all the lands this side of the river. How better to leave a message about his intentions than an attack on a defenceless family?’

Beorn shook his head as he held up his spoon and studied it critically. ‘I wonder what did happen to that poor woman from Meeth?’

‘I suppose she’ll be found someday soon,’ Guy said. ‘At least she wasn’t one of our own born down here.’

Perkin sighed. ‘She was a widow. No one to defend her. And her lands must be as attractive as any other to Sir Geoffrey.’

It was no more than the truth. Women were rarely taken and killed here, but it wasn’t unknown. To think that a widow like her could be kidnapped and killed was awful, though. Perkin only hoped she had died before she could suffer too much. ‘I dare say we’ll soon find her, Guy, just as you say.’