A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (42 page)

Coroner Edward knew that he would not remain in his post for very long. Not when the full details of the matter were aired.
And they would be. He had Sir Baldwin de Furnshill’s personal assurance of that.

He had tried his best to explain how important it was that he was kept out of the story – after all, the matter was little
to do with him. He had been an unwilling accomplice at best. He had accepted a small retainer to be in the area when he was
called, but that was all, really. The errors of his inquests over the body of Constance and the others were just that: mistakes.
He was new to the post of coroner, and these were very difficult times, what with so many people being involved, and Sir Geoffrey
trying to demand favours.

Lord Despenser was keen to see that his men worked together well, too. He would hardly expect a hard-working man like Sir
Edward to ignore requests for help from a man so senior as Sir Geoffrey, would he? No, of course not.

It had looked for some while as though Sir Baldwin was being swayed by his arguments, but then he’d made the little slip of
offering a sweetener to him. At once the shutters had
fallen behind his eyes. It was just as though Edward had become invisible to him all of a sudden. Baldwin was looking at him,
focused, and then he was looking through him unheeding. All because he had asked that justice be allowed to be
flexible
on this one occasion.

‘Are you ready yet?’

‘I have been ready for some while now,’ Sir Edward lied. He disliked Sir Geoffrey more and more each time he saw the man.
Now, with the remnants of the men who had served the steward, they were to leave Monkleigh Hall. And a good thing too! Sir
Edward could hardly wait to be well shot of this place. It held only foul memories.

Sir Geoffrey, to his surprise, seemed to be sad to be going. Well, probably not a surprise. Once the Despenser heard of the
mess that this manor was in now, he’d not be best pleased.

That was important, too. Sir Edward had to have his story planned so that when he was asked for his version, he had it ready.
The truth would work – in places … but there were plenty of aspects which he had to hone.

After all, he didn’t want to be sunk with Sir Geoffrey. Perhaps he might even be able to rescue something from it all. Maybe
even a small manor of his own, if he was credible enough and managed to put all the blame on Sir Geoffrey.

Yes. That was the way forward. He would have to see how he could deny all knowledge and responsibility. Then, even if Sir
Baldwin told some different story later, he could deny it, saying that these were the words of a man who was a natural enemy
of Lord Despenser, and who would be delighted to slander and malign Lord Despenser’s loyal supporters. With any luck, Sir
Baldwin would be too busy
to do anything for quite a while, and by the time he did, Sir Edward’s story would already have been commonly accepted.

What story could he tell? That he was asked to come down here, naturally, and wanting to help another vassal of Lord Despenser,
had hurried down to protect Lord Despenser’s interests, but then, when he arrived, had learned that the deaths could have
been caused by Sir Geoffrey’s dreadful relations with his neighbours. Being suspicious, he didn’t return home, but stayed
nearby so that he could fly back quickly if there was more trouble, and when a fresh body was found … Yes, that would do
it. With luck, soon he would be Lord Despenser’s hero, and would have a larger manor, or some other form of recognition. Yes,
he told himself. Life was good. Sir Geoffrey could sulk and complain, but Sir Edward was going on to better things.

Hopefully he wouldn’t have to carry on his duties as coroner, either.

He would have been much less happy if he had known of the messenger Baldwin had sent ahead of him with a sealed package that
held a full explanation of all that had happened, including allegations that the coroner had offered him a bribe to conceal
the details.

Walter was amerced before Baldwin left the vill, and forced to deposit a large sum to guarantee that he would turn up at the
next court.

He had been to courts before, and just now he wasn’t of a mind to expand his knowledge of the system. In the old days, it
could be ten years before the Justices might arrive to try a case in a vill like this. That was how long it took them
on their Grand Eyre, constantly on the move from one county to another, hearing all the felony cases put to them by the juries
of every Hundred.

No longer, though. One of the changes which the old king had implemented was the change in the court system, and now the courts
were held more regularly. That was not a result which appeared attractive to Walter.

Tonight there was a celebration to be held at the manor to celebrate the departure of Sir Geoffrey and his men from the ruin
of their hall. While the peasants of Monkleigh were forced to clear up the mess and rebuild much of the place, the men of
Fishleigh were intending to hold a big feast, sponsored in part by the treasure which some of the men had secreted after their
attack on Sir Geoffrey’s hall. Walter had been told he wouldn’t be welcome there, and he had volunteered to help look after
Nicholas while the normal guards went to drink.

He wasn’t alone, but there were only two others, and he knew their routines. One was at the far side of the church, and by
the middle hours, he would be snoring. The second was a little more reliable, but he liked his ale too, and he’d be at the
inn for much of the early evening, so just now, Walter told himself, quietly opening the door, just now was the ideal time.

The figure at the altar stirred and blearily looked up. ‘Who’s that? What do you want?’

‘Don’t panic, Nick. It’s me, Walter. Come on, let’s get away from here. If you’re here when the coroner arrives you’ll be
forced to surrender or abjure the realm. Do you want to swing, or leave the country for ever? No? Then get your backside off
the floor there and come with me. I can’t stay, because if I’m still here for the next court, I’ll hang
too. So I’m running, and if you want to, you’d best make the most of it.’

‘Why should I come with you?’

‘Well, Nick, if you come with me, you and I can watch over each other, and when we get to a town, we can separate if you want.
But for now, while we are on the run, two minds and two pairs of eyes are better than one.’

Nicholas considered, but only for a moment. ‘All right!’

And meanwhile, outside, Matthew grunted his approval. ‘Godspeed, Nicholas!’

His companion grunted. ‘You were right.’

‘It was only a matter of time. I’m just glad that Walter took my hint,’ Matthew said. ‘It cost me a lot to donate a barrel
of ale to Fishleigh. I wouldn’t have been happy had it been drunk and the fool didn’t take advantage!’

Humphrey nodded, then sipped from his jug again. There was some comfort in being here in a vill far from ecclesiastical courts.
When the bishop’s man had arrived a few days ago to speak to Matthew about the chapel and whether a man should be selected
to fill the post left vacant by Isaac’s death, Matthew had turned and looked at him, and Humphrey had been sure that he was
about to be denounced in front of this cocky clerk; but Matthew had merely asked, ‘What do you think, Humphrey?’

‘Me? I don’t know, Father.’

‘And neither do I,’ Matthew said to the clerk. ‘You pick a man you feel most suitable. Anyone will find it hard to stand in
Isaac’s shoes. He was so kind and perspicacious. But we shall make any replacement most welcome. Humphrey here used to help
Isaac. Perhaps he could do the same for a new man, too?’

‘Do you think she will be safe?’ Jeanne asked her husband as she played with her daughter.

‘Is that a serious question?’ Baldwin asked with frank astonishment. ‘How is your belly?’ he added nervously. He was not squeamish
about the dead, but the reality of birth terrified him, and he was still anxious that Jeanne could have been hurt by such
a long journey homewards to Furnshill.

‘Don’t be silly. I am fine. Now, come – poor Emma’s not really all that bad,’ Jeanne said.

‘My lady, your maid was more venomous than a viper, more ferocious than a tiger, more cunning than any fox, more cruel than
…’

‘No. Not cruel. Loyal.’

‘Noisome, harsh, loud, complaining …’

‘Kindly, devoted and …’

‘Entirely unrestful.’

‘Did you really hate her?’

‘No! Not in all truth. But she was no comfort to me. I am happy that she is also happy, and I am content that she lives with
a man she loves now. Far better that than remaining here and ruining what little peace we have known.’

‘Yet she stayed with me to see to my happiness even though it meant leaving her own lover behind. I never knew that.’

‘Nor did I.’ Baldwin admitted to himself that it put a different complexion on his view of her. ‘It showed a great deal of
generosity on her part.’

‘Yes,’ Jeanne said. But she could not help wondering if Deadly realised how his life must change with Emma as his wife. After
a short while, she said, ‘I wonder what happened to that friar?’

‘John?’ Baldwin said with a smile. ‘I hope he lives long and happily. He stopped Hugh from killing a man, and that was a good
act. Hopefully he’ll be preaching somewhere.’

‘He murdered Sir Odo, didn’t he?’

‘His sister was avenged. I saw no evidence that Sir Odo was murdered.’

‘You told the coroner to go and view the body, but you didn’t go with him,’ Jeanne pointed out.

‘There was no need,’ Baldwin said. ‘Sir Odo fell from his horse and his head was crushed.’

‘You believe that?’

‘It is what the records say, so surely it must be true,’ Baldwin said, and smiled to himself. Sometimes, he reflected, justice
was not perfect – yet the best result could be achieved by men who intended to achieve it.

It was early afternoon when Simon and Hugh arrived back at Simon’s house at Lydford. For his part, Simon was sore and weary,
and he felt as though he needed a week’s rest before he would be recovered, but he forced himself to forget his own aches
and pains as he glanced at Hugh on his pony.

Riding was one of those pursuits which Hugh had gradually come to accept as necessary, but it was not one in which he excelled.
There was something about a horse that he found unnatural. A beast so large, so dangerous, was not the sort of creature he
would want to sit upon. They were too powerful for him to control them, and he disliked intensely being so high from the ground
on them. Still, there were times when a horse was necessary, and while travelling he must ride.

After the last few days, since Odo’s death, he had found himself suddenly weeping for no apparent reason. The
slightest reminder of his wife was enough to set him off. Once, in Iddesleigh, he had seen a young maid with her lover, and
the way she had set her hand upon his forearm, and gazed into his eyes, was so entirely like Constance’s way of looking up
at him that the sight made his tears flow once more. Then, on the way here, Simon had suggested that they should pause for
a while at Exbourne, but outside the tavern by the roadside Hugh had seen a girl gracefully swaying, her hips moving gently
as she scattered grain for chickens, and the scene was again so reminiscent of Constance that it brought tears to his eyes.

‘Don’t worry, old friend,’ Simon had said kindly. ‘It’s good to remember her. She loved you as you loved her. It’s only right
that memories of her should come to you. Better by far than that you should just forget her and the happiness she gave you.’

He was right, Hugh knew, but it didn’t help.

Simon tried to offer consolation at first as they rode southwards towards Lydford, but after Oakhampton it seemed pointless
and heartless. Hugh was happier with his own thoughts.

At last, when they drew up outside Simon’s house and Meg appeared in the doorway with Edith, Simon was reassured. If anyone
could effect a cure for Hugh’s broken heart, it was Edith. He watched indulgently as his daughter went straight to Hugh and
helped him from his pony.

‘Simon, I’m afraid I have some terrible news,’ Meg said.

He smiled down at her. ‘Now I am home, I am sure that there is nothing that can spoil my day.’

‘The Abbot, Simon – Abbot Robert. He’s died.’

Simon closed his eyes. ‘May God bless him,’ he said.

It was sad, but he didn’t realise yet just how much the death of his patron would affect him and his family.

In Barnstaple, the sun gleamed from the sea. The little port was warm today, and the clouds were few and high, so the sun
shone almost uninterruptedly.

There was a festive atmosphere to the place, and as the scruffy, bedraggled man stood up in the churchyard, many cheered and
applauded.

‘My friends,’ John began, ‘some of you have families. You should never forget your families. It may be hard for you to realise,
but even I had a family once. I loved my brothers, but most especially I loved my sister. And when she was taken from me,
I learned what loneliness was. But from God’s good grace, I have realised that I have a larger family now. And it is to you,
my brothers and sisters, that I have come to speak today.’

Not his best start, he reckoned, but hopefully he’d get more fire in his belly later, and then he’d be back on form. There
was a good little friary here, and he was sure that they could make use of his skills.

He hoped so.

And at the inn, Jankin threw open his door with a feeling that all was well with the world. His purse was full after the last
few weeks, Deadly was spending less time at the bar, which meant that others were spending more time there, and he had a new
delight.

‘How is she?’ he said as his wife came in.

‘She’s fine. I think she’ll be a marvellous little thing.’

‘I should hope so. The little monster’s had a hard enough beginning,’ Jankin said, and he picked up the little pup and
peered into the dark blue eyes. ‘You fight on, little one. You’ll have plenty of work to keep you busy later in life. For
now, you concentrate on being healthy, eh?’