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

That word made Baldwin’s back stiffen. The thought that a man – even a miserable, whining, froward son of a cur like Hugh,
and God knew how often Baldwin had cursed him
under his breath – could be thought of as
irrelevant
was a disgrace. There were some, he knew, who believed that it was worthwhile hanging any number of men to make an example,
but Baldwin was not one of them. Only the guilty should be condemned, he thought. The innocent should always be protected.
If the innocent were forced to suffer, there was no justice. Justice existed to protect all: the strong, the weak, the innocent
and the poor. There was no point in justice if it provided for only the strong and the wealthy.

Which made him look more sympathetically on David. The man was tedious, and Baldwin had taken a dislike to his sullen manner
at the inn, but now he felt guilty at his initial reaction. ‘David, where do you live?’

‘Back up there.’ He pointed to their left, eastwards. ‘I’ve a small cottage up there.’

‘It’s good land.’

‘We grow enough to live.’

That was the proof of a plot of ground, Baldwin knew. It had to provide. That was how a man measured his space: could he live
there. Nothing else mattered. ‘On the day that the family was killed, did you hear anything or see anyone?’

‘Nothing. It was Saturday night. I was up at home.’

‘Was there anyone with you?’ Simon asked sharply.

‘Why should there be?’ Davie whined. ‘I’m not married.’

‘So no one can vouch for you?’

David looked at Simon, and then a smile spread over his face. ‘Yes! Pagan was there. He lives a short way from my house, and
he was there that night.’

‘Pagan?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘He’s the steward to Lady Isabel – the woman who used to own all the lands about here, from here down to Monk Oakhampton and
the river.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Down there now. Since Sir Geoffrey took her hall,’ David said.

‘And where is the hall?’

‘There it is. Up on the hillside there.’

There was a strange feeling about this place, Jeanne thought. She sipped wine as she sat at the table rocking Richalda in
her lap, listening as Emma slurped.

It was very sad to think that Hugh and his woman were dead. She had liked Hugh a great deal, and she knew full well that it
was rare for a man like him to find a companion. Sometimes a shepherd or peasant farmer would meet a woman and marry, but
a man like Hugh?

‘I never liked him,’ Emma said. ‘He was uncouth.’

‘You should remember that you are talking of a dead man, Emma,’ Jeanne said sharply.

‘There is no point in hypocrisy,’ Emma said, and burped.

Jeanne recalled that her maid had already been in the buttery for some while. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘Me?’ Emma exclaimed horrified. ‘I hope I can hold my drink, my lady.’

‘Then do so. Hugh was a kind man, and he was honourable. That is all that matters.’

Emma sniffed. ‘He still took a nun from her convent.’

‘That is nonsense!’ Jeanne said hotly. ‘He only helped a poor woman when she had already left her convent because she should
never have been there in the first place.’

‘So you say. I believe that a woman who has become a Bride of Christ should not resign her position. She chose her path and
renounced it when it suited her.’

‘She was not there legally, Emma. She was taken in there
when she was too young to choose,’ Jeanne said with a cold anger. This kind of small-mindedness was no more than she should
have expected from her maid, she knew. Emma was a strangely cold, unkind woman, but she was a habit now as much as a companion.
‘If you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, then best it isn’t exercised.’

‘It’s not my fault if the chit betrayed her God and her vocation,’ Emma grunted. ‘But if you prefer me to keep my thoughts
to myself, I’m sure I don’t mind.’

Jeanne snorted and turned from her. Emma’s unforgiving, almost brutal nature sometimes made her so angry, she could have happily
told her to return to Bordeaux. But then she had to remember that Emma herself had given up everything for Jeanne, her home
in the city with all its beautiful cloths and decorations on display, and come here to this miserable, cold, wet land where
the nearest thing to civilisation was the monthly visit to Tavistock. Emma had decided views on Tavistock.

Just for once Jeanne wished that Emma could have shown a little compassion. Sitting here, she saw that Matthew the priest
had entered the inn and now stood at the bar with a quart jug in his hand. He turned as Jeanne glimpsed him, and she was sure
that he was surreptitiously trying to watch her from the corner of his eye.

Somehow Jeanne felt deeply unsettled by the sight of him. She was certain that he had overheard at least a part of her conversation
with Emma, and something about the set of his shoulders made her think that he was not impressed with what he had heard.

David grew more disconsolate as they approached the channel of thick, brackish water that trailed down from the drained pool.

There was a small group of men hanging about the place. Baldwin noticed one in particular, a brute of a man, rather like a
bear, who reminded him of someone. It was a little while before he realised that the man was very like the hunter and tracker,
Black, whom he had used so often in his early days as keeper in Crediton. There were the same strong features in his face,
the same thick dark hair, the same strength in the shoulders – and then there were the differences.

Black would never have looked away as though already cowed. He’d always meet a man’s eye, no matter what the station of the
man concerned. There was something about the hunter that made him confident in the presence of anyone. That couldn’t be said
for any of the fellows here. There was a consistency in their nervousness in the presence of strangers that seemed wrong.
It was almost as though they were petrified of any man in authority.

Baldwin snorted and dropped from his mount. ‘You! Come here.’

The large man glowered, but obeyed. ‘Sir?’

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace. I have heard that there’s a dead woman here. Where is the body?’

‘Sir Geoffrey has taken it, sir.’

Baldwin was still for a moment as he digested this. ‘Where has he taken it?’

‘Back to the manor, I expect. He wants to have an inquest as soon as possible, I think.’

‘Interesting,’ Baldwin commented. ‘He wants an inquest, so he removes the evidence first.’ He could feel the anger beginning
to boil within him. This was intolerable! Everyone knew that a dead body should remain where it was until the coroner had
been to view it. That was the king’s law. He made to return to the saddle, but Simon shook his head and slipped from his own
mount.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What’s your name?’

‘I am called Beorn.’

‘A good name. I’m Simon Puttock. Show us where she was found.’

Beorn led them to the brackish pool, what was left of it. ‘She was there.’

‘How?’ Simon asked ‘On her belly or her back?’

‘Back. Her hand stuck up, as if she was waving to tell us she was there. It was terrible. Poor young Martin found her.’

‘Is he here? Can he tell us more?’ Baldwin asked eagerly.

‘No, sir. He threw up three times, and now he’s back at home. I saw her there, though, and helped bring her to the land, so
I can tell you all you want to know.’

‘You know who she was?’

‘Lady Lucy of Meeth, yes.’

‘And she was a widow?’

‘Her husband died a while back in battle, yes. She’s been making the best of things ever since, so I’ve heard.’

‘She disappeared a while ago?’ Simon asked. ‘That was what we heard in Iddesleigh.’

‘Yes. She went to Hatherleigh market, and on her way back we reckoned she was attacked.’

Simon shook his head. ‘She was alone?’

‘No. She always had a servant with her, usually a swordsman. That day it was her steward. He was found by the side of the
road later. There was no sign of her, though.’

‘Was she the sort of lady who would trust a stranger?’ Simon asked.

‘No woman is that trusting, is she? No, she was taken against her will. She must have seen her man die, and then she was taken
away. And later killed.’

‘Do you think she’d died a long time ago?’ Baldwin said.

‘No. You know how a body can be when it’s been stored under water? She was foul-looking because the skin of her hands and
feet was loose and ready to fall away, but for all that she was well preserved.’

‘It is scarce surprising,’ Baldwin observed, looking about him and blowing in his hands. ‘It is so cold, any body would survive
well.’ He gazed about him at the land again. ‘This is a curious place. It is far enough from the house. Where is the nearest
homestead?’

‘Probably my own, sir, over there beyond those trees to the east,’ Beorn said.

‘And you saw nothing, heard nothing recently which could have been a man bringing her here?’

Beorn’s dark features rose to Baldwin’s. ‘If I’d heard someone bringing her here, I’d have told you by now.’

Simon burst out, ‘What about when you found the body,
though? Would you have sought out a king’s man to catch the killer if we hadn’t appeared here?’

Beorn met his stare calmly. ‘Of course not. If I was to go to any man it would be to him, Sir Geoffrey. This is his land.’

Baldwin smiled drily. ‘And no point going to a murderer to tell him about one of his victims, is there?’

Sir Geoffrey supervised the carrying of the body to his hall. The peasants had gone to Beorn’s house, which was nearest, and
fetched his front door to use as a stretcher. Sir Geoffrey had them take her through the door at the rear of his hall and
deposit her in his solar. He stood at the back of the little chamber as the men gently set her down and glanced at each other
with that embarrassment which men have in the presence of death when the dead bore no relation to them. When Sir Geoffrey
gave an irritable gesture with his hand, they all trooped out.

‘You poor fool,’ he whispered thoughtfully, looking down at her. ‘You couldn’t do what was safe, could you?’

It was sad. He left her there and went into his hall, pouring himself a large mazer of wine and moodily throwing himself down
into his chair. The discovery of her body boded badly for him and the manor.

A man walked past the door and peered inside. Seeing Sir Geoffrey seated there, he hurriedly removed himself, and the knight
felt a slight grim satisfaction that at least his reputation was intact. None of the men would dare to infringe his privacy.

Not yet.

But there were signs that his grip on the place was starting to dissolve.

Whenever a man grew to power, there were always others who desired his position. Here Sir Geoffrey had a number
of men who were vying for his post. Some, like Edmund Topcliff, were content to wait until Sir Geoffrey was already gone before
trying to grab the stewardship; Nick le Poter was less patient. If he had an opportunity, he would pull a dagger at Sir Geoffrey’s
back some day, and try to take the place by force. That was the true reason why Sir Geoffrey had punished him the other day.
The damned eunuch was as much use as ale without malt – he wanted power here, and would do anything to undermine Sir Geoffrey
to win it. Well, Sir Geoffrey wasn’t going to let him take his seat.

They were such cretins!
Idiots
the lot of them. It never seemed to occur to them that a man like Sir Geoffrey, who had fought in a hundred battles and skirmishes,
who had controlled men all his adult life, would understand their plans. He had seen through Nick’s little attempt to remove
Sir Geoffrey’s closest sergeants almost before the fool had cooked up the scheme. And what was the point? Maybe he’d succeeded
in killing Ailward, but Sir Geoffrey had simply replaced him with someone who was nothing to do with Nick’s camp.

And Nick was certainly a snide little man. Clearly determined to advance himself, Sir Geoffrey thought. He’d happily see the
estate ruined for his own profit. If it was down to him, he’d have captured Lady Lucy and tortured her an age ago, determined
to rob her of all her property and inheritance. All the men knew how the Despensers had treated Madam Baret. Sir Geoffrey
had been forced to explain to them all that Lady Lucy was a useful buffer for now, and if they were to attack her it would
provoke Sir Odo. He would have the approval of all, including Sir John Sully and Lord de Courtenay, if he was to espouse the
chivalric excuse of protecting a defenceless widow who’d been attacked by an unscrupulous man in the pay of Despenser.

No, Sir Geoffrey believed that to harm her could only serve the interests of his master’s enemies, and sought to persuade
his men that they should leave her alone.

Nick wouldn’t have had the gumption to do that. Just as he hadn’t the intellect to see how necessary it was that they should
maintain the attacks on the de Courtenay estates, but meanwhile continue holding discussions with Sir Odo. Odo was no fool,
and he’d know that it was a means of holding him at bay, but while they kept up the pretence of discussions, neither side
could entirely satisfactorily claim to having a reason for a fight. And Sir Geoffrey could bide his time until he was ready
to launch an attack on Sir Odo. Meanwhile, Odo’s men were demoralised and irritated, seeing the regular attacks by Geoffrey’s
men going unpunished. Sir Geoffrey had heard that three or four of Odo’s men had left the hall recently, disgusted by what
they saw as the pusillanimity of their master.

Poor Odo. Sir Geoffrey knew too many men just like him. He imagined he was still living in the times when a man could get
by through life knowing who was a master by birth. He was older, too old perhaps for this modern age. Today the men who were
reaching the heights of the government were the men who were younger, thrusting, more energetic, more determined. You didn’t
get to a position of power and stay there just because you were the king’s cousin or even because you were noble by birth;
now you had to work to show the king that you’d pursue his interests, no matter what. Piers Gaveston had been an unknown when
the king elevated him to control of Cornwall and Ireland; Hugh Despenser was an impoverished knight when he took the king’s
fancy and now he ruled the realm with little if any interference from the king himself. And so it was all down
the line. Those who wanted power and were astute and ruthless enough to try to seize it were the ones in authority now.

Those were the watchwords of the day: ruthless and astute. Sir Odo was neither. He’d been here too long, growing old among
these peasants. He’d lost his edge.

Hearing the door open, a shout and a scuffle of feet from the yard behind the hall, Sir Geoffrey turned his head to listen,
and soon heard the regular thrumming of cantering horses: several of them. It didn’t sound like a massive force; not like
Sir Odo coming with a host to repay the manor for the damage done to that bailiff ’s hovel, and he relaxed. If there were
so few horses, his men could defend the place without difficulty.

He had to protect his manor, because that was the only way to defend his own position. And he must expand the territory, so
that his master could be sure that his own authority was growing to match his importance in the country.

‘Sir Geoffrey?’

‘What is it?’

‘Some men … one says he’s Keeper of the King’s Peace. He wants to look at the woman found up there.’

‘Tell him to …’ Sir Geoffrey bit back the rest of his words when he saw three men in the doorway.

They were not an immense force, but something in the way that one stood by the door on the balls of his feet, smiling coldly,
while the other two approached him at a distance from each other, like men who were prepared for a fight, made him reassess
their threat. These were men who could use their weapons.

‘Who are you?’ he asked coldly. ‘Why do you threaten me in my own hall?’

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. You may have heard of
me. I am Keeper of the King’s Peace. This is my companion and friend, Simon Puttock.’

‘In that case you are welcome,’ Sir Geoffrey said. It was always best to show courtesy to a king’s officer. ‘Do you want some
wine? I have some here.’

‘We want to view the dead body before the coroner arrives. The coroner has been called?’

‘Yes. I have asked him to visit us.’

‘He seems to have been here a lot just recently.’

‘We have been unfortunate.’

‘Yes. A murder and a fire before this present murder. It is most unfortunate, as you say,’ Baldwin said. ‘It was lucky that
the coroner was on hand to investigate both.’

Sir Geoffrey frowned. ‘Ailward, my man, was murdered; but the other, that was a mere accident. The coroner told me so.’

‘This coroner, his name was?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘Sir Edward de Launcelles. Do you know him?’

‘There are not so many coroners in Devon and Cornwall that one could remain unknown to me. Yes, I know him. He is a vassal
of Hugh Despenser, isn’t he?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘As are you, of course,’ Baldwin said. He remained standing very still for a moment. ‘Now, where is this body?’

Hugh stood when he heard the footsteps outside. He could do so now without a need for his staff, and he listened intently
as the steps approached. They were like the friar’s, but Hugh, with a shepherd’s ear for detail, could tell that they were
not as confident as they had been earlier.

‘It’s me, don’t worry,’ John said as he entered and saw Hugh’s staff in his hands. John carried a small parcel wrapped
in linen. ‘They were very good to us,’ he continued. ‘Eggs, some bread and a small portion of sausage. They were more generous
than many. Um.’ He carefully placed the package on the ground at the side of their hearth and stood staring down at it. He
was at a loss to know what to do.

The shock of hearing of Lucy’s death had seemed to dislocate his world. He was the same man; he still had his responsibility
to Hugh, and he wanted to do all he could to help this stranger with his loss, to aid him in his recovery if possible; and
yet all he wanted to do just at this moment was run to seek out her body and weep over it. He had already lost his home since
his argument with the prior – now he had learned that the last member of his family was also dead. There was no one but him.
He was the last of his line.

‘You seem quiet,’ Hugh commented.

He watched the friar as John knelt and opened his parcel. To his eye the friar had grown suddenly distant. Before this, John
had been talkative and cheerful, as though determined to lift Hugh’s spirits by any means available, but now he was quieter,
like a man who’d realised he should be more cautious.

‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ the friar said. He remained looking down at the food. ‘Well, I suppose that’s not strictly
true. It is something to do with you. I have heard of another death today. A young lady.’