A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (19 page)

He could see the body even now. The man with a slice through his skull as though Humphrey had swung an axe at him, and an
obscene flap of flesh and bone, the blood shining bright and viscous to mark the injury.

There was no doubt that he would be held responsible as soon as the tragedy was discovered. It was his fault. He was a murderer,
in God’s name! The truth was so appalling, he stood there a while simply staring at the body, unable to appreciate the depth
of his crime. And then he had allowed the spade to drop from his fingers and slowly turned as though in a trance to head to
the main gate. He walked through it and just kept on walking. He had walked ever since, until he reached this little rural
backwater.

And now, with this second body, he must move on again. There was no time to waste, either. At least this time he would have
belongings to take with him. Few enough, but there were a few. He must pack.

Jankin had just finished serving the small party when a sudden burst of noise announced some more customers, led by the sturdy
figure of David atte Moor.

As a landlord, Jankin knew that he must try always to be friendly and accommodating. He had lived in the area all his life,
and by and large there were very few men with whom he couldn’t get on, but there were some … and David was one of them.

His voice was pitched always to irritate Jankin’s ear: it was a kind of braying noise, which always made Jankin think of donkeys.
Which was why one nickname for David was ‘David the Donkey’. Then again, on most evenings, when David had drunk his first
ale, he would get maudlin drunk, and woe betide any man who was within earshot then, because they would invariably receive
a full and detailed summary of his life so far, how unfair it was that his father died when he did, leaving David with such
terrible death fines to pay that he almost lost all his farm as a result, that he suffered more than anyone during the famine,
and that women never understood him (whereas Jankin knew damned well that they understood him only too well). It was this
ability to talk a man to near-suicide that had led to Jankin’s other name for him, which
was ‘Deadly Dave’. Few names he had invented over the years had seemed quite so suitable as that one, somehow.

David was broad-shouldered, pot-bellied, and had a long but chubby face that wore a constant look of blank incomprehension.
Today he was leading Oliver and Denis, and all were talking so quickly that a man might have thought them already drunk, except
that they all took one look at the party of strangers and went silent in a moment, eyeing them as suspiciously as only a Devon
man could.

Jankin took his place at the barrel of ale, a jug at the ready, and waited, his eyebrows raised enquiringly. The three joined
him at the bar, but as usual it was Deadly who monopolised the conversation. Oliver tried to speak a couple of times, but
it was a pointless exercise.

‘You should have seen the lad’s face,’ Deadly started.

‘Well, he always had a nervous …’ Oliver began.

‘He had that. Now, though, the poor fellow’s broken. I’ve seen boys like him before, when they’ve had a shock. Never any good.
One boy was never any good again. Remember Rance? Laurence Millerson, from over towards Hatherleigh? He saw something scared
him, swore it ruined him. Couldn’t stay in his house after that.’

‘Rance saw a mare, he said. A ghost, and he …’

‘That was what he said at the time, but he wasn’t sure. Anyway, if it were a ghost, that’d be one thing, but seeing a body
covered in filth and all, just exposed like that. Terrible. If Rance had seen that, I dare say he’d have fallen dead on the
spot.’

‘Well ’Tin didn’t, he just …’

‘Yeah, just you wait, though. He’s all right just at the minute, but he’ll soon be unwell. You mark my words, he’ll be faint
and sickly for a day, then he’ll start to fade. Always happens.’

Jankin glanced at Oliver. ‘What’s happened?’

Oliver opened his mouth and spoke in a hurry. ‘It’s young Martin down the way. He found a dead body. Reckons it’s Lady Lucy,
from …’

‘Meeth. You know she went missing a while ago? Well, poor chit, looks like she didn’t go far,’ Deadly said, shaking his head.

He seemed to be aware always when someone else was about to speak, and leaped in with his slightly raised voice, deadening
all conversation. This was no exception. As Jankin saw Oliver take a breath as though to speak again, Deadly moved slightly
so that he blocked Jankin’s view of the other man entirely. ‘And you know the worst? Not just where they found her, but what
those bastards had done to her. You’d hardly credit that even that mad group of unchivalrous murderers and serf-whippers would
do something like that, would you?’

Jankin shouldn’t have done it, but he had had enough of Deadly in his inn over a number of years. He frowned a little, turning
his head to one side as though slightly hard of hearing, and peered at Deadly enquiringly. ‘Keep on,’ he said, moving away
a short distance to refill the jug.

Seeing him walk away, Deadly did what he always did. He spoke louder to dominate the conversation and prevent anyone else
from providing the gossip when he could himself impart it.

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Those mad fools at Monkleigh captured her to steal her lands. She was tortured, Jankin. Tortured
to death, if the truth be known, and her a poor widow, too. It’s shameful that a man who calls himself knight could behave
like that. Shameful!’

Jankin fitted a scandalised expression to his face. ‘Now who do you mean? Not Sir Geoffrey?’

‘Who else, Jankin? I swear this, if that poor girl hadn’t been discovered, her lands would have been taken by Sir Geoffrey
and absorbed into his manor within the week. Perhaps now she’s been found, maybe, just maybe, her unfortunate soul will receive
justice, eh? Not that it’s very likely. The poor chit had no family to speak of, did she? There’s no one to ensure a fair
result even if Sir Geoffrey were to be uncovered as her murderer.’

Jankin could see Deadly’s expression subtly alter as the rest of the room went silent. Suddenly Deadly appeared to realise
how loudly he had spoken, and Jankin felt a little ashamed at the way he had led him on, but if he hadn’t, he knew that Deadly
would have been unable to keep his mouth shut anyway. There was no point crying over a fool who put himself in harm’s way.

There was a long moment’s hush, as though the walls of the inn were themselves waiting for the blast of condemnation that
must surely follow such an atrocious allegation from a man of so lowly a class, and then the silence was broken by the drawn-out
rasp of a stool’s feet against the packed earth of the floor.

‘My friend, I would be very grateful if you could join my friends and me.’

‘I don’t think I can, master. My apologies, but I have to … um …’

But looking into the serious dark eyes of the knight, Deadly suddenly found that he could defer his departure. And would do
so.

Friar John heard about the dead girl at almost the same time as Baldwin.

He had been walking up towards Meeth, breathing in the
cool air and feeling that although the last few days had been traumatic, at least he had done all he reasonably could after
finding that burning hovel.

The land was so delightful here. He remembered it clearly, and the low, unwarming wintry sun was of a mood to light everything
with a contrasting golden hue, while the shadows were longer and darker than at any other time of year.

It was cold, yes, and his fingers felt as though they were close to freezing entirely as he walked up the slope. They had
turned blue, and he thought that if he were to clench his fists too swiftly they all must shatter and fall off. The wind made
his robe feel as insubstantial as a linen shirt, and he could feel his breast’s flesh contract, his nipples so cold that it
almost felt as if they were suffering from the opposite mortification: being gripped by red-hot pincers. Strange how freezing
weather could make a man’s body react so agonisingly.

Still he had experienced worse. He was only glad that he had a pair of boots to wear, for if he had to rely solely on his
old sandals, he didn’t like to think what would have happened to his toes by now.

To reach Meeth from the shelter where he had left Hugh he had to climb a hill, and then traverse its edge, the river on his
right. From here he could see the small town clearly. A good, pleasant little place with the spire of the church rising prominently
over it. There, over on the far side, was the hall he’d heard of. Broad, clean, with yellow-gold thatch and a number of outbuildings,
it was a picture of calmness and comfort. The sort of place a man might go to when he was determined to rest from the world:
quite idyllic.

He stopped. It called to him, but he wasn’t ready. He wanted to go down there, but something told him he
shouldn’t yet. There was a dragging weight at his feet that prevented his continuing. It had been so long … No, he would
go elsewhere.

Returning the way he had come, he gazed about him. When he saw Fishleigh, he paused, and then made his way towards it, crossing
the little wooden bridge and wandering up to the hall.

Fishleigh was a good-sized manor, and John stood puffing for a moment at the bottom of the little hill on which it stood.
A wide house, it looked well cared for, with a fresh coat of limewash, although the thatch had been patched so often that
it would need to be replaced in the summer. However, it didn’t look as though it had suffered over the years. God Himself
knew how long it was since John had been down here, and in that time he had travelled so widely, it was a miracle he still
had any feet. It would be interesting some day to sit down and consider how many shoes’ soles he had worn out in his wandering:
how many oxen’s hides he’d caused to be used just to protect his feet.

He continued up the hill, leaning more and more on his staff as he went. The trouble was, friars tended to be on their feet
so much. His were enormously painful: his heels were split and cracked, like wood beaten too often. And heavens, but they
hurt.

The place was as he remembered it. In fact, the years might not have passed at all, so little changed did it appear. The only
difference was, there was more of an armed presence noticeable, but that was the norm nowadays. He saw men-at-arms wherever
he went.

It was dreadful to admit it, but the whole country was enfolded in fear. The king’s appalling treatment of his enemies after
Boroughbridge had left the kingdom in a state
of terror, feeling as though it was waiting, tensely, for the next page to be turned in this chronicle of fear.

The path up to the door of the manor was quite steep, and now John could see that the approach was further controlled by a
high wall about the front of the house itself. It gave an aura of preparedness, as though the house was sitting and waiting
for a force to arrive. Even the actions of the men about the place bore it out. There were several serfs working in the garden
immediately in front of the hall, and they all stopped their digging and raking to stand staring at him as he approached.

John was worried about the man he had left in the ruined cottage, but he knew that there was little he could do. He’d promised
the fellow that he wouldn’t divulge his whereabouts, and he’d rather tear out his own tongue than forswear that oath. But
there was a need for food for them both, and perhaps a little wine or ale, so he must beg something without betraying the
existence of his charge.

The great door did not have an alms bowl, but in a manor like this, so far from the nearest town, that was no surprise. In
a town, each merchant would put out a bowl containing at least a tenth part of every meal, so that beggars and the homeless
could count on something to eat. Here, though, there were few itinerant people. Spare food from the master’s table would be
allocated to the poorest of the parish, or more likely sent straight down to the pigs. There was no waste in an efficient
manor like this one.

‘Friar?’

It was a short, round-faced man with a paunch like a lord and a grin like a conman. He stood a short way from John and apparently
gave him a close inspection.

‘My friend, I am desperate. I have come all this way, and
have been without food or drink since yesterday. If you have anything to spare, I would be very grateful. Perhaps I could
preach to your master and his men for my food?’

‘Friar, I’m the master here. I’m Sir Odo, and I am very happy to offer you my hospitality – but no preaching, thank you. I’ll
wish you Godspeed, but I’d be happier if you didn’t slow the idle sons of the devil in their work!’

‘Of course. I understand. Perhaps I should come back on Sunday,’ John said.

‘You’d be most welcome. The men go to Hatherleigh for their preachings. Will you be there?’

‘Perhaps. I am walking all over. If I am still in the neighbourhood, I shall make my way there,’ John said with a smile.

‘Be careful, Brother. This area is not so safe as once it was,’ the man said, suddenly serious. ‘I’m afraid that it’s growing
more dangerous every day. Less than a week ago a family was wiped out, and my own bailiff was attacked and driven from his
home.’

‘It is a terrible thing when a man decides to turn to evil,’ John said sententiously. He made the sign of the cross over his
breast. ‘I have heard that there have been attacks about here. Poor serfs have enough to contend with without seeing their
comrades and neighbours killed.’

‘It’s not only them, Brother,’ Sir Odo said confidentially. ‘My neighbour here has been murdered too. The body of Lady Lucy
from Meeth has been discovered on Sir Geoffrey Servington’s estates at Monkleigh.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid fear runs through
every heart in this county.’

John could only agree. He himself was feeling as though his own heart must stop from sadness. He had so looked forward to
seeing her again – and now his sister was dead.

Led to the little group sitting at the table, David felt as though he was being taken to stand before the justices of gaol
delivery. There was the same sombre atmosphere about them, the same steady, grim faces staring at him, the sense of violence
being held on a tight rein, but only for a little while. These men and women looked on him with undisguised suspicion, even
though he knew he’d done nothing. Not that it would help to know you were innocent, as he told himself morosely, if you were
dangling from a rope.

The man who’d come to fetch him was the grimmest David had ever seen. He was tall and good looking, with a well-trimmed beard
that looked out of place – beards were so rare today. His eyes were so dark that in this room they looked plain black. When
he caught sight of those eyes, David felt as though every secret he had ever concealed was laid bare. It would be impossible
to gull this knight … and he pulled his gaze away from the other’s as soon as he could, just to avoid being snared by
it. But in so doing, he found himself fixed by the unblinking stare of the taller of the two men sitting at the table, a grey-eyed
individual with an expression that teetered between rage and devastation.

Thankfully, there were two women at the table, too. One
was nursing a child, and did not look up, but the other met his gaze with a still more truculent expression than the men.
It was a relief to look away from her and see that the second man at the table was smiling. His open, contented appearance
gave David a moment’s comfort, until he saw that behind the cheery exterior there was a cold determination. He would be the
fastest of any of them to pull a sword and sweep a man’s head from his shoulders, David reckoned, and he felt as though the
ale he’d just drunk had turned to acid in his stomach.

‘You are called David?’

That was the first one again. He hadn’t seated himself again, and David felt intimidated. He shuffled his feet and stared
at the ground as he nodded. This was turning out to be one of the worst days of his life.

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace. This is my friend, Simon Puttock, Bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock.
We heard you talk of a body being found, and you mentioned that a man in the near vicinity might be guilty of killing this
girl. Is this so?’

‘Master, I don’t …’

‘Yes or no?’

David lifted his eyes unhappily and met Baldwin’s grim expression. He nodded. ‘It could be …’

‘Were you making up the crimes of which this man was guilty?’

David didn’t know what to say. If he were to repeat the accusations, he would almost certainly die before long, because the
steward of the Despensers was always eager to repay any man who dared to blacken his name. If Davie retracted his words or
denied them, news that he had uttered them would get out, and he’d still be hunted down by Sir
Geoffrey, more than likely, to be made an example of, and these rich strangers wouldn’t be about the place to protect him.

‘He doesn’t seem to have much conversation, Sir Baldwin,’ the smiling man said. ‘Shall I take him outside and ask him again
in private for you? I’m sure I could help his memory.’

‘No, Edgar,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Will it, David?’

‘Master, I don’t know what to say!’ David burst out.

This was worse than he could have imagined. Now he was being threatened by this determined-looking brute, as though he was
some mere scruffy felon picked up in the street. He wasn’t like that. He was a good man! If he’d had more luck in his life,
he could have been a bailiff, or even the vill’s reeve. It didn’t take a huge brain to do that, and he could keep tally of
the grain harvested each year, he could maintain the peace on the demesne if necessary, and make sure that all the peasants
performed their obligations to the lord on their days.

But no, he hadn’t been fortunate enough to achieve even that. He’d never been elected at the annual court which allocated
responsibilities to the men in the vill, even though he had tried to make them understand he was quite capable. There was
a clique of men who ran everything here, and he never got asked to help because they didn’t like his face or his manner or
something. He didn’t understand why.

All he ever wanted was to be popular. That was why he got straight to the heart of any gathering, so that he could not only
join in, but also let people see what sort of man he was, so that they would
like
him. He had learned early on in life that to remain shy and nervous would only lead to
loneliness. Better by far to go to others and chat to them as an equal.

‘Well?’ Baldwin asked again.

He mumbled, ‘Um, all I know is that the lady was found, sir, and there’s been enough men wondering how she might have got
there.’

‘Where exactly?’

That was the empty-eyed man. He looked as though he’d died, but no one had told him yet. David threw him a quick look, but
it was only when the large woman nearby spoke that he realised he must respond. She had a rough, harsh voice.

‘Answer him, you fool. Do you think we all want to sit here watching you squirm for no reason? We all heard you, so it’s too
late to regret saying villainous things about him, lord or not!’

He cast her a poisonous glance, but there was no denying the truth of her words. The ugly bitch had warts on her warts, and
her foul face was lowered like an enraged boar’s, while her massive bosom rose and fell alarmingly. It attracted his unwilling
and fearful attention, no matter how much he tried to look away.

‘Well? Or do you want my man here to take you outside and give you an incentive to talk?’ the knight said.

‘She was found in the bog on Sir Geoffrey’s lands, like I said,’ he said at last, defiantly holding his head a little higher.

‘And there is already gossip about who might have killed her?’ Baldwin pressed him.

‘Of course there is,’ David said, more quietly though, and glancing over his shoulder to see who else might be listening.
‘Who wouldn’t believe it of a man who worked for the Despensers? We know of them even here.’

‘You will take us to where this body was found,’ Baldwin stated.

David’s mouth fell open. ‘Me? But what will they do to me when they see that I’ve brought you to them?’

Baldwin eyed him with distaste. ‘You have a duty to take me and the bailiff to the scene of the crime, man, and you will do
so. If there is danger for you in this, there is far more danger in not doing so, because then a dangerous murderer will remain
at large in this area. So you should take us to the scene, no matter who the killer was, so that we can find him.’

‘And in the meantime,’ Edgar said, leaning forward, ‘what do you know about the family just over the way there?’

‘What, the foreigner and his woman?’ David asked, genuinely surprised. ‘What of them?’

‘You know that they were killed and their house burned down?’ Baldwin asked.

David glanced over his shoulder again, but Jankin, the only man within earshot, seemed to have developed a fascination with
a bit of dirt on a drinking horn, and was spitting on it and rubbing it against his sleeve. David unwillingly turned back
to the knight. ‘The coroner decided that they’d had an accident.’

‘An accident? It was rather an uncommon one, surely?’ Baldwin retorted.

‘That was what the coroner said, not me,’ David said reasonably.

Baldwin looked past him to the innkeeper. ‘Jankin – is this true?’

‘Yes. The coroner happened to be here because of the murder of another man, Ailward, the sergeant up at Sir Geoffrey’s manor.’

‘This same Sir Geoffrey who David says …’

‘I didn’t actually say he did anything!’

‘Very well, the same man on whose land the latest body has been found? This Ailward was his man?’

‘Yes. So the coroner was here for Ailward, and since he was in the area, he came here to view those bodies too.’

‘What did he find?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘That the hearth fire hadn’t been banked and the house caught light.’

‘Is that what you thought?’ Simon burst out. ‘Where is the man’s body?’

‘If I believed it, do you think I’d have been so open with you?’ Jankin said calmly.

Baldwin nodded. ‘So why have you been so frank?’

‘Because …’ Jankin looked away, out through the unshuttered window at the rolling grassland and trees in front of his
inn. When he began to speak again, his voice was quiet and reflective. ‘Perhaps because I could see that you cared, and I
thought others should care too. The coroner didn’t – he didn’t give a damn about them. He knew what answers he wanted, and
he made sure he got them. All the while, Sir Geoffrey’s men were waiting nearby, watching and listening to all that was said.
It wasn’t
right
, sir. That’s what I reckoned.’

Baldwin nodded slowly. ‘You are right, good keeper. You are right. But we shall make this right none the less. I shall see
to it.’

Walter was leaning against a tree when he heard the sound of hooves.

It made his heart flutter, and he felt a sharp pain in his breast for a moment or two, while the sweat broke out on his forehead.
He knew too well what hooves could mean. The
picture of the woman’s dead face sprang into his mind, and he felt the bile rise in his throat, just as it had during the
camp ball game when they had heard the men running towards them.

Even when the hoofbeats passed away, his anxiety remained. Ridiculous that the mere sound of hooves could have such an impact
on him.

Christ’s pain, but that day had been terrifying. They’d thought they’d be safe up there. Ailward had said that no one would
run out that way – everyone would be down at the main field. They always went that way. And then there had been the sudden
roar from all those down on the plain and Walter saw the fixed, straining face of Perkin rushing up the hill towards him.

It was the work of a moment to spring on him, knock him down, and hurl the ball away. With all the other men behind him, it
was impossible to try to do anything else. Ailward hid the dead woman, Walter threw the ball and shoved Perkin back down the
hill after it. Then, when the men were all out of the way, they’d lifted the body again and carried on their way. They had
to get rid of her before they did anything else. If they were found with her, they would be hanged for certain.

No one would protect them.

They had ridden up the road so quickly beforehand that Baldwin was pleased to have an opportunity to see how the land lay
round about. He had not taken any notice on the way here.

The vill of Iddesleigh lay on the side of a low hill, the land dropping away gently to the south. From the road it was impossible
to see much, for on the right was a stand of trees which obscured the whole view, while on the left there
were fields for a short way, and then another section of woods. There was plenty of sound timber here, Baldwin reflected.
It was good land, with plenty of space for cattle and sheep, pasture and arable. Perfect for a lord who wanted to make his
holding pay its way.

Jeanne and Emma had stayed at the inn. There was little point in their coming with the men to view this young woman’s body.
Better that they should remain safe, in case this knight Geoffrey should grow angry at the appearance of a Keeper of the King’s
Peace. It would not be the first time that a man had taken offence at Baldwin’s arrival.

‘How far to this place?’ Baldwin asked David.

He trudged on disconsolately. ‘I don’t know. It takes me a short while to get there. It’s only over there. Maybe a mile or
so more.’

Baldwin smiled thinly at his tone. He could all too easily understand the man’s disgruntled mood: David had gone to the inn
for a quiet drink, hoping to impart a little gossip to his companions, and had instead been caught up in this investigation.
There was every probability that it would lead to great trouble in the future. Still, his irritation was nothing to Baldwin’s
concern at Simon’s appearance. The bailiff looked quite exhausted. It was one thing for Baldwin to wince every so often as
he flexed his muscles and felt that terrible pain in his breast again, but quite a different matter to see Simon so wearied
and upset by the loss of his man.

It made Baldwin wonder how he would cope were he to lose Edgar. Edgar had been such an intimate part of his life for the last
thirty years or more, it was hard to imagine how he could survive without the man. Edgar was not merely some servant who remained
with Baldwin from reasons of loyalty; he had shared the key moments of Baldwin’s career.
Edgar had been there at Acre with him, had joined the Templars with him, and then had remained with him when the Order was
betrayed and dissolved. If Edgar were to be murdered, Baldwin would feel the same as a man who lost a brother, or a son.

That was clearly how Simon felt too. He had lost a close companion whom he had trusted for many years, and he felt the guilt
of not having been there when Hugh needed him. If Hugh had indeed been killed. Now he thought about it, Baldwin wasn’t sure
why it was that he had been so convinced that Hugh must have been murdered. Perhaps it was simply some confusion: wasn’t it
possible that Wat passed on a message that Hugh was
dead
, and Baldwin had assumed he’d meant
murdered
? Or maybe Wat himself had made the error; on being told Hugh was dead had made the natural assumption, for Wat, that there
must have been something unnatural about the death.

Yet men did die daily from accidents. There had been the prints of many men outside Hugh’s burned-out house, but they could
have been trying to help … or gawping at the smouldering remains. There were always a lot of people who would go to stare
at another man’s misfortune. They’d drink ale while watching a poor soul hang; they’d travel miles for a good execution, especially
if it was a noble who was to be killed. An accident like this was meat and drink to most peasants. They’d all seen death,
and this one was the death of a man who was a ‘foreigner’ and therefore not of any great social importance – it wasn’t as
if he was related to anyone at all. He was dispensable. Easily forgotten. Irrelevant.