A Friar's bloodfeud

Chapter Nine

Sir Geoffrey was in his hall.

This was a good place to live. In his youth, Sir Geoffrey had been an unknown knight in Gascony, and when he had won his spurs he left his home to seek his fortune. Travelling all over Christendom with a lance and the determination to make himself a name, he had won fabulous sums at tournaments, eventually finishing up at a tourney in Fontevrault in Anjou. It was a quiet affair. The French king of the time, Philip IV, felt less strong than he should and wanted to prevent any gatherings of armed men on his lands, and had decided to ban all tournaments from his domain. Of course the County of Anjou was not a part of the royal demesne, but it was felt better not to advertise the tournament too widely at the time. The count didn’t want to antagonise the king — but he did wish to celebrate the knighting of his eldest son, so he would have a tournament.

Only a select number of knights were invited to participate, and Geoffrey felt certain that he would be able to make enough money at this last bout to retire. In the year of our Lord 1297, it was time he stopped his idle ramblings about the countryside, and found himself a place he could call his own. Perhaps he could go on pilgrimage with the Teutonic Knights and see what the lands were like in the heathen country they were suppressing? With a good purse earned from this last fight, he could perhaps buy a small castle — or take one, if he could form a small force. Capturing a small town or castle was always a good way to enter the nobility.

So he had gone to the tournament, had wagered heavily on himself, and had lost all his money when he was unhorsed and ransomed by the sniggering Count of Blois. Reptilian man. He’d been lucky: Geoffrey’s horse had stumbled on a molehill or something as he went into the gallop, and that little misstep had made the beast slow, turn his head and stamp before Geoffrey could take control, and in that time the count had covered the distance between them. To Geoffrey’s horror, he saw the lance almost on him, and before he could move his horse plunged once, and the lance caught him on the breast. His cantle broke, and he was pitched over his mount’s rump to land, winded, on his back.

As quickly as he could, he rolled over on to all fours and stood, but even as he did so, a ringing crash on his helm sent him headlong. This time there was no mistake. The count had his sword at Geoffrey’s visor, and it was all over: his successes were set at nought.

And yet there had been one good piece of fortune that day. Unknown to him, there had been another knight present at the tourney, a tall, well-formed man: Hugh Despenser. To Geoffrey’s relief, Despenser had ransomed him, returned his arms and mount, and offered him a place in his household.

That was long ago, of course. Long before his son grew powerful in the king’s favours — and, most guessed, in his arms, too — and long before Hugh Despenser the elder became the Earl of Winchester.

Geoffrey preferred the old Hugh, the man to whom he had been so indebted on that sunny afternoon in Anjou. Immediately, his life had changed, and now he felt it was all for the better. He had been reduced to penury, dependent upon another once more, and all dreams of finding a small town, sacking it and living in the castle were gone, to be replaced by a post as an effective steward in a vill down here in Devon.

First Despenser had taken him with him on the campaign to Flanders with the English king’s host. That pointless failure did the king no good, but Geoffrey managed to capture two burgesses and ransom them for a goodly sum, and soon he was a man of some wealth once more.

Many would have thought it odd that one who had aspired to own his own castle should have been content to remain in my Lord Despenser’s household. Geoffrey did not care what they thought. He had a warm hall, comfortable clothes, rich tapestries, new tunics every summer and winter, and the life of a minor noble. All without risk. He was happy with that. He had everything he needed from life.

His new sergeant entered, and Geoffrey looked up at him. ‘So, Adcock. Are you hungry? I’m about to eat.’

‘I think it’s a little late to eat now,’ Adcock said with a quick look about him.

It was just as though he feared to be attacked in such a den of thieves, Geoffrey thought, and he felt a rush of anger against the man. These were his men, and some piss-legged sergeant like this had no right to look down on them. ‘Sit here with me. This is the time I learned to eat when I was fighting with the last king, God bless his memory, and what’s good for a king can’t be bad for a sergeant, can it? Sit here.’

‘Thank you,’ Adcock said as he took his place on a stool at Geoffrey’s side.

He was pale and anxious-looking. Geoffrey knew that since his arrival he had been looking more and more fretful, as though he suddenly realised he was among dangerous men. He looked like a lamb who had woken to find himself in the midst of a wolf-pack. Well, he’d best make the most of his position here. He would be here for a good long time. Lord Despenser had heard of his skills and wanted him here to help Sir Geoffrey, and if Lord Despenser wanted a man, he would have him.

‘Boy, you should learn to enjoy yourself more. This solitary life is no good for you. Perhaps we could find you a woman?’

Adcock flinched and looked away. In his mind’s eye he saw Hilda bending over her work, her lovely body encased in her old tunic, turning and smiling at him with that tender look in her eye … it was enough to make him want to weep. ‘I don’t want a woman.’

‘Aha! So you have one, do you?’ Geoffrey said with delight. ‘I’m glad to hear it. You should bring her here, then, show her to us, so we can see what she’s like. Tell me: is she fair or dark? Long in the leg, or a short-arse? Big breasted or small?’

Adcock felt himself colouring under his questions. It was demeaning to his memory of his woman that this knight should quiz him about her so crudely in front of all the men.

‘Answer me! What is she like?’ Geoffrey demanded.

‘She is my woman. Mine. That’s all you need know,’ Adcock stated flatly. He would not discuss the woman whom he intended to marry in this manner. She was worth more to him than his post here.

‘You won’t tell me about her?’ Geoffrey growled.

‘I do not offer her to you — why should I describe her to you?’

Geoffrey’s face blackened for a moment, and he leaned towards Adcock, but then the food was brought into the hall, and he relaxed. Adcock was sure that the older man’s hand had strayed to his dagger’s hilt, and his heart was pounding uncomfortably with the conviction that he had narrowly escaped death. He tried to sit a little farther away from Geoffrey without moving too ostentatiously.

The food was a loaf of bread, freshly baked that afternoon and broken into hunks. There was a wooden platter of cooked meats, with a pair of roasted pigeons on top, and Geoffrey took one and pulled it apart. He dabbed bread in the bloody gravy on the plate and filled his mouth, glancing at Adcock as he ate. Taking a great slurp of wine, he swallowed, then belched quietly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Realising Adcock was watching, he rubbed his hand on his tunic as though to stop showing himself to be uncouth, before reaching over to pat Adcock on the thigh.

‘You’ll do, boy. If you can stand up to me in my hall here, you’ll hold out against the vill’s people too. Well done.’

Adcock took a sip from the mazer of wine before him, his sense of near panic melting away to be replaced by a feeling of. . what? Acceptance? Perhaps that was it. Geoffrey had stirred him to see how far he could push, and to see what response he would get from Adcock if he threatened violence. Well, he had his answer.

It was a terrible situation, though. Ever since that first day when the men had ridden out from the place, and later Adcock had heard about the attack on the house owned by the neighbouring bailiff, he had understood the kind of manor this was. It was little better than a robber-knight’s hideaway. The men here were all strong, sturdy fellows who were good with their fists or weapons, but nothing else. No one in the hall could plant a field or harvest it; all they were good for was intimidating or killing. And Adcock now was one of them. It made him feel appallingly lonely; his dream of bringing his woman here to live with him was gone. He would rather die a bachelor than expose his Hilda to this malevolent household.

At least he had Geoffrey’s respect, he thought, shooting a quick look at his master. Geoffrey happened to cast a glance his way at the same time, and, catching Adcock’s eye, he gave a quick grin.

Just then a man walked into the hall. ‘Sir Geoffrey. There’s a messenger here from Sir Odo. He wants to talk to you.’

Sir Geoffrey grinned suddenly, a wolfish baring of his teeth that had little humour in it. He bent his head to his meat and chewed loudly, spitting tiny fragments as he bellowed: ‘Show him in.’

Every so often Simon Puttock created a need to visit his abbot in Tavistock.

His new job at Dartmouth as the abbot’s representative in the town, checking the customs and collecting all the money due, was hardly onerous on its own, if lonely for a gregarious man, but to have to do it without the support and companionship of his wife was very hard. He missed his Meg every moment of every day while he was there.

Margaret, his wife, was a tall, fair woman, with glowing blond hair that settled about her shoulders like a golden cloud. Her mild manner and calmness in the face of dreadful adversity had always buoyed his spirits, and living away from her for the first time in his married life had been very hard.

But it was unavoidable. She had to remain at Lydford for a little while. Their daughter, Edith, was a woman now, and although Simon would have preferred to have her close to him where he could keep an eye on her, the simple fact was that she wanted to remain in the old stannary town, near to the lad she claimed she wanted to marry.

Marry! She was far too young to think of that sort of commitment. She was only — what? Sixteen nearly? Christ in chains, where had all the years gone? And it was, he had to admit (if only privately), far better that she should be in a place like Lydford, which was secure, quiet, and not filled with drunken, whoring sailors who’d look at a wench and unclothe her in their minds even if their horny fingers didn’t try to do so for real.

So as often as possible, Simon would take advantage of the slightest excuse to travel up north from the coast, ostensibly to drop in on the abbot, and then to carry on to see his family. When he could, he would take his time. And he usually could: the new clerk at Dartmouth, Martin, was more than capable of seeing to the job. It did not need Simon’s presence to make sure that the money was brought in.

The first two or three times he’d returned, the good abbot had appeared to be amused to see his Keeper coming back, but old Abbot Robert was nothing if not a kindly soul, and he made no comment; he simply smiled easily and suggested that Simon might like to drop in on his wife since he was already more than three-quarters of the way home. It didn’t take more than that for Simon to bolt from the room and bellow for his horse.

But not this time. Abbot Robert was for the first time looking his age, and Simon stood in his room with an unpleasant feeling of being tongue-tied. He had never seen his master looking unwell before, and to be confronted with a man who was plainly very old was somehow shocking. It forced Simon to consider what might happen to him, when this generous-hearted individual did eventually die.

‘Come, join me near the fire,’ the abbot croaked.

He sat swathed in thick rugs at the fireplace, a low table at his side bearing a goblet of strong spiced wine. When he cocked an eyebrow at Simon, he looked again the person whom Simon had grown to love and respect over the years. Abbot Champeaux was much more than merely his master: he was a man whom any would be happy to follow.

The abbot had been master of this abbey for thirty-nine years. When he was elected, Tavistock was in debt, and he had been forced to borrow heavily to keep it afloat. After a lifetime’s struggle, he oversaw an expanded demesne, with more churches incorporated, more rights added: the farm of the stannaries on Dartmoor, and the money from Dartmouth too, now he was Keeper. What had been a bankrupt little institution on the boundaries of the moors had become a thriving community, with the valuable asset of the town of Tavistock built up as a profitable venture in its own right.

But the man who had brought about all the expansion was now plainly suffering and Simon had a chill sensation in his bowels. He had known Abbot Robert for many years, and in all that time he’d never seen him with more than a minor cold. A man like him, keen on hunting, on wines, and most of all on ensuring that he left a lasting legacy, had always seemed a force that could not be removed. He was too virile and potent to be deposed, and yet, looking at him now, Simon was struck by the thought that his old master, his old friend, was suddenly frail.

‘Abbot?’

‘Sit, Simon, sit. I am as you see me — an all but broken reed.’

‘But you will recover,’ Simon said heartily.

The abbot looked up from red-rimmed eyes. ‘Perhaps. But for my money, I’d not put too large a wager on it. It is good, Simon. I don’t fear death. I know I can go to God with a clear conscience and my heart rejoices to think that at last I shall have an opportunity to lay down my burden — and I pray I might meet Jesus. It will be good to give up the responsibility for this place, for the abbey and the town.’

Simon had a little business to conduct, but when he hesitantly mentioned it, the abbot waved a hand in an exhausted gesture. ‘Simon, save it for the steward. He can help you. For now, tell me, how is your family?’

‘My daughter grows ever taller and more beautiful,’ Simon said, ‘and my little boy, Peterkin, wants to come to Dartmouth as soon as possible to play on the ships. I won’t let him. If he ever joined me there, he’d be on to a ship in a moment, and I’d not see him. Knowing him, he’d stay stowed and no one the wiser until he got to a foreign port. He hankers after distant countries and the idea of travel. He’s still jealous that I went on pilgrimage last year.’

‘So am I,’ Abbot Robert said quietly. He coughed painfully, then sipped wine. ‘This cold weather is going to take me away, I fear, but I should have liked to see Compostela. It is supposed to be very beautiful.’

He had turned away from Simon, and Simon saw that his gaze was gone to the window that looked out over the river and the bank on the far side. In the past, Simon had stood in this room discussing business, and the abbot had all too often been hard pressed to keep his mind on their discussions, for his attention would fly off to the window whenever there was a flash of russet in the trees that spoke of a deer coming for water. The abbot was an inveterate hunter, and prized his horses and his raches as among his most valued possessions. Now his mournful expression resembled that of one of his mastiffs.

‘You will hunt again, Abbot,’ Simon said softly.

‘No, friend Simon. I fear I shall not,’ the abbot sighed. He looked up at Simon and smiled. ‘It is as I said, I long to set down my burden. I meant it. You go and see your wife, man. You don’t want to be here in a dying man’s room. Go and see your family, but come by here on your way back in case there is anything we need to discuss.’

‘I shall,’ Simon promised. He stood, but only reluctantly. This man had been good to him for so many years that leaving him today was a wrench.

He walked to the door and glanced back. The abbot was slouching in his chair again, his eyes on the fire. To Simon, he looked like someone who was already dead.

Robert Crokers heard the sound from a distance as he stood in the trees.

With no logs, he had to shift each morning to prepare enough timber for his fire, and it was fortunate that this piece of land had not been worked by the coppicers for some little while. He could collect plenty of sticks and thicker twigs to form faggots, and bind them with some old straw twisted to make a twine. He’d need a lot of them: bundles like that burned through in no time compared with a couple of good logs, but when he’d collected a few to be going on with he’d be able to start cutting up some old trunks that had lain on the ground since last winter. They’d not be perfect, not like the logs he had stored in his pile, but they’d do for now, and later he could organise himself to start a new pile.

He was exhausted. Worry about his bitch and what could have happened to her tore at him. She had been his only friend for so long. And then there was the jumpiness that came to a man who had only a few days before been thrown from his land by violence. There was a cloying odour of burnt wood and tar that stuck in his nostrils and prevented easeful rest.

Sir Odo’s man Walter was still with him, to be at hand in case of further incursions, and last night their slumbers had been disturbed when the two of them had finally managed to drop off. In the middle of the night there had been a dreadful roaring noise and both men had leaped to their feet, convinced that the attackers had returned.

‘Bastards!’ the old warrior spat. He grabbed his sword, and was out through the door like a rache seeing a rabbit. Robert fully expected to hear screams and shouts, but he only hesitated a moment before he took up his billhook and ran out.

There was nothing there. Walter stood with his sword in his hand, head lowered as he scowled around him at the woods, but even as Robert arrived behind him he could see that no one had come to attack them.

‘Where are they?’ Robert asked anxiously.

‘Don’t know,’ Walter said. He stood upright, shoved his sword into the scabbard and thrust his thumbs in his belt. ‘Probably in their beds, if they have any sense. Must have been something else we heard. It came from the end, didn’t it?’

He led the way round the corner of the house and the two of them could see what had made the noise as soon as they spotted the avalanche of dried mud and straw that had tipped on to the soil.

‘I wonder if the rest of the building is safe?’ Robert said.

Walter looked at him, then grunted to himself. ‘I don’t know, but I do know it’s warmer in there than out here.’

Recalling that, he could smile again now, but the idea that the house might collapse was a source of fresh fear to Robert. Where the wall had fallen was directly beneath one of the roof supports, and he had the unpleasant feeling that others were probably as unstable. Walter said he’d seen similar damage before, and that it had been cured by putting a plank underneath the roof supports at the top of the walls. Perhaps that would work — but it was a daunting idea, lifting the roof enough to push planks under.

He was still mulling over the easiest way to do it when he heard the low whine. It was a hideous sound, and he felt the hairs on his upper neck start to shiver to attention. He was bent at that moment, reaching down for a longer length of branch, and he stopped what he was doing as the terror of all things with fangs and claws returned to haunt him. As a little boy he had regularly suffered from mares, and each time it was the same: a wolf, ravening, drooling at the sight of such an easy meal. Even now he thought he could hear the soft padding of paws as it approached him.

With a whimper of fear, he snatched up the branch and whirled.

Only to see his sheepdog, greatly swollen with puppies, stagger towards him and lie down painfully at his feet.