A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (10 page)

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.’

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.’