A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (21 page)

‘And the sergeant of Monkleigh was killed,’ Hugh grunted as he let himself slip down to the floor. ‘Ach, my leg hurts still!’

‘We could soon have it looked at,’ John said. ‘There must be someone about here who has skills with medicines.’

‘No. I’ll not go about in full view until I’m well enough,’ Hugh declared sourly, staring at the little fire with a lowering
expression.

He wouldn’t. Not until he had recovered enough to know that he could kill the men who were responsible for his Constance’s
murder.

Never before had Hugh felt such a consuming rage. It was a ferocious, burning fire in his breast, and it made him feel as
though the fact of his desire – no, his
lust
– for revenge alone was fuelling him. Nothing mattered to him apart from that. He had to find the men who’d killed his woman.

Friar John turned to glance at him. ‘Are you well, friend?’

‘I’m fine,’ Hugh muttered. In his mind’s eye he could see the figure stooping over Constance again. He was sure that she’d
been raped, too. No man would have minded doing that to a woman with her looks. She’d been so beautiful … Hugh could feel
a choking sensation in his breast, and moved his thoughts on to other subjects. He couldn’t submit to the all-encompassing
horror of her death and the emptiness of his own existence without her.

Being alone was a fact of life to a moorman, of course. He’d been used to his own company for much of his youth, and the idea
of a woman of his own had been a very distant dream when he wandered the moors above the River Teign. His thoughts had been
geared to a place of his own, perhaps his own small flock, and maybe some years later, when he’d saved enough money, he could
think of negotiating for a woman’s hand. Not for love, though. Mainly so that he’d have help to work his land. That was the
way of things.

After he met Constance, everything changed. He wasn’t a farmer – that dream had faded when he first began to work for Simon
Puttock and realised he could be happy as a servant to a kindly, sensible man. Margaret was a good mistress, too, and their
children had been as good as his own, he’d thought. And then he met Constance and learned
that the respect and affection of a woman of his own was more attractive even than the stability he’d enjoyed with Simon and
Margaret.

When she gave birth to her child, it had capped his pleasure. The lad wasn’t his, but he didn’t care. The father was long
gone, and Hugh would be all the boy would know. Little Hugh had been a happy, smiling boy, always into everything as soon
as he could walk. He’d only been up and about for two weeks when Hugh saw him toddle uncertainly into the pool at the side
of the house. If Hugh hadn’t been there that day, little Hugh wouldn’t have lived beyond it.

The idea that the child could have been killed was a weight on Hugh’s heart as he sat and stared at the fire’s flames. If
only he’d been nearer … yet he had not been far away. Surely he should have heard her screams.

‘Master Hugh? Please, eat some of this sausage. It’ll do you good.’

‘I don’t want it to do me good!’ Hugh snapped, but then took the proffered food with an ungracious snort. He didn’t want the
stuff, but he did want to be fit and healthy again so he could find the killers. ‘Did you learn anything about the attack
on my house?’

The friar shot him a look, then sighed. ‘I did ask at the vill over the way there, but they knew little about it. All they
said was that there’d been a fire.’

‘What about the coroner?’ Hugh pressed eagerly. He had known several coroners from his work with his master and Sir Baldwin.
‘Who was it?’

‘A man called Edward de Launcelles, apparently,’ John said with a sigh. ‘It’s not a name I have heard before, but he was already
here for the inquest into the death of some other man.’

‘Must have been Ailward,’ Hugh guessed. ‘He was found just before all this.’ He shot a look at the friar. ‘Didn’t he look
at my place?’

‘Yes,’ John admitted heavily. ‘Apparently he took it to be an accident. They all think you’re dead – you were burned to death
in the house, they say.’

Hugh gaped with dismay. ‘They say I died? That it was an accident? How can they say that? It was murder! There were men there,
they killed my Constance, and left me on my face in the dirt! Why would they say I died with her?’

‘Perhaps, my friend, because they knew how devoted you were to her,’ John said gently. ‘No man could have missed that.’

‘The coroner should have realised I was alive,’ Hugh said, uncomforted by his tone. ‘Why’d he think I was dead?’

‘He must have been in a hurry and confused. You know how often the coroners are changed. All they do is keep records so that
the justices know how much tax to impose when a man or woman dies. They don’t concern themselves with details,’ John said,
hungrily watching as Hugh slowly devoured the sausage. It was Friday, and John was fasting as always. He would eat no meat
today.

‘It’s not right,’ Hugh muttered, and then the grief passed through his soul like a wave of ice, freezing, jagged, cruel, and
his head fell on his breast as he wept for his woman, her son, and the life he had loved so dearly. ‘It’s not … it’s
not
!’

‘My friend, life rarely is,’ John said sadly, and he turned away as Hugh sobbed, for he did not want Hugh to see the tears
in his own eyes.

Robert Crokers felt good that morning. He had slept better, and as his bitch lay patiently waiting he knelt nearby, watching.

‘Poor old girl,’ he whispered.

‘You mooning after your bitch again?’ Walter called.

He was not a sentimental man, this Walter. So far as Robert could make out, he’d been a wandering man-at-arms for some while,
and only fairly recently had come into the de Courtenay fold. It was a surprise to Robert, because he knew that Lord de Courtenay
and his vassal Sir John Sully were both reluctant to take on mercenary fellows. Far better that they should have men who were
long-term servants, those who owed allegiance from their oaths rather than selling it for a few coins. Nobody liked a mercenary.

‘She’s always been a good bitch,’ Robert explained as he left her in her corner and walked over to join Walter.

‘So she should be. If a dog don’t work, it has to be made to. If it can’t, has to be killed. That’s how dogs are,’ Walter
said unsympathetically.

‘You don’t like their company?’

Walter pulled a face. ‘I’ve been bitten too often to trust the damned things. No, give me a good rache and I’m happy.
An animal that’ll hunt for the pot, that’s a useful thing – but a sheepdog? What good’s that to me? All they ever do is snap
at your heels or worse. I had one go for my cods once. Damn near got them, too. Had a great bite out of my tunic, and I had
to kick it to get it to let go. Damned thing.’

Robert wondered idly what Walter could have been doing when the dog took such exception, but it wasn’t the sort of question
a man could put to a mercenary. It was all too likely that he’d hear something he’d really prefer not to know. ‘How long do
you think it’ll be before they come back?’

Walter shrugged and glanced out through the doorway. ‘If they feel sure of their ground, it’ll be a long time. If they’re
nervous, they may try to come sooner. Doesn’t matter which. They won’t want to kill us. We’re not important to them, and there’s
no point killing those who aren’t a danger.’

‘If we’re unimportant, surely that makes it easier to kill us?’

Walter looked at him pityingly. ‘If we were at war, our lives wouldn’t be worth a penny, but as it is, with us over here and
no real threat to anyone, they’ll just chase us off the land, and by the time we’re gone word’ll have reached Sir Odo and
twenty or thirty men will be here to take the place back again.’

‘So how will it end?’ Robert asked. ‘From what you say, we’ll be harried away, then come back, time after time. Where can
it end?’

‘It’ll end when the Lord Despenser comes and forces his case,’ Walter said with another shrug.

‘But if Lord de Courtenay comes and defends the place …’

This time Walter’s glance held more contempt than pity. ‘You think so? Say de Courtenay comes here – what of it?
Oh, he’s been here in Devon for many years, and he owns much land, I’ve no doubt, but he’s never been a close friend of the
king’s, has he? He’s no relation either. So if he comes and tells my Lord Despenser to leave the place, who’s going to have
to go in the end?’

‘Lord de Courtenay has more men here, though,’ Robert said confidently.

‘And there are many who’d prefer to stay on the side of the king and his personal friend and companion, too. And that means
my Lord Despenser. If Despenser decides he wants this land, mark this, friend, there is no one who’ll be able to keep it away
from him. And if it comes to that, you and I’ll be irrelevant. We’re only pawns.’

‘Sweet Christ!’

‘So I wouldn’t worry so much about that hound of yours. Rather, I’d be looking to sharpening any knives or swords that I had
about the place. And then thinking about getting the dog ready to fight again. She isn’t much use lying on her flank all day,
is she?’

Robert looked out through the door at the small trampled area of garden. ‘How long? How long before it’s over and I know whether
this is to remain my home or is going to be stolen from me?’

Walter snorted and hawked, spitting into the angle of the wall. ‘I’d reckon we’ll know in about the next month or so. If Despenser
decides he wants this, he’ll make it plain.’

‘What would you do then?’

Walter hunched his shoulders as he considered. He’d been here only a year and a half or so, and by Christ it had been good.
In the past he’d served in the king’s host, even travelling to the king’s lands in France for a while, but in a life of fighting
he’d never found such … such ease of spirit
as he’d found here. That was it, yes. Ease of spirit. In other places he’d fought and been scared, and sometimes his companions
and he had won and they’d taken much booty; at others they’d been thrashed and they’d lost everything. There was always the
chance of being ruined at any time.

Here, though, he’d learned that there could be benefits to peace. He hadn’t had to take up weapons against men who were bigger
than him, or fight with a band of fellows who were likely to desert him just when the battle grew harshest. Instead he’d discovered
that the lands about here were conducive to relaxation. There was little work that truly had to be done today.

‘I’d stay with Sir Odo for as long as I could, I reckon,’ he said at last. ‘That’s it. He’s been good to me. I – I like him.
I can respect him. I think I’d stay with him even if he lost everything.’

‘You’d be that loyal?’

Walter stirred himself, irritated by the questioning. ‘Why? Do you think that I’m just a mediocre felon because I don’t have
a master? I am a free man, not tied to some land. I am as loyal as any man deserves. Sir Odo saved me when I needed help.
I’ll repay that. What’ll you do? If the Despensers decide to take this manor, they’ll still need a bailiff here, so you may
well find yourself wanted anyway.’

‘But I’m Lord de Courtenay’s man.’

‘You can protest all you want, but you’d best think about that if you want a home to live in. If Despenser chooses, Lord de
Courtenay won’t have any household to be loyal to. Look at Earl Thomas, the king’s own cousin. He’s been executed like a felon.
Then there’s King Edward’s favourite general, Lord Mortimer. He’s under threat of execution if he’s ever found again. Those
two were loyal to their king
too. How long do you think de Courtenay can survive if Despenser takes against him the way he took against those other two?’

Baldwin eyed this knight with the same cold, dispassionate interest with which he studied any other man he suspected of murder.

Sir Geoffrey was a confident, square-jawed man with the manner of a natural bully. Baldwin had known many like him, although
usually there was one clear flaw in their character. A bully would usually give himself away with bluster and arrogance. Not
so this knight. He hadn’t threatened or sworn at the sudden interruption of his privacy. Perhaps it was because he was intelligent
too, that he offered wine and allowed them to remain in his hall without calling for guards to remove them as he could have.
After all, even the Despenser’s men had to be wary of insulting the king’s own officials … in public, at least.

There was more, though, Baldwin reckoned. This man was no fool, and he wanted to know what the Keeper knew. He wanted to trade
information, perhaps, or was it only that he wanted to win Baldwin over, if that was at all possible?

‘Come with me,’ Sir Geoffrey said, tilting his head slightly to one side and giving a self-deprecating grin and shrug, like
a peasant who’d been caught out in a little ruse.

That manner of his made Baldwin wonder whether the man was actually as intelligent as he had initially suspected. If he had
thought to conceal a crime he himself had perpetrated, surely the worst thing he could have done would have been to bring
the body here. To attempt to hide her in his own hall would immediately have the effect of adding to any suspicions about
him.

But Sir Geoffrey had no foolish delusions that he might be free of suspicion, of course, Baldwin told himself. Sir Geoffrey
was an astute man. If he had been involved in this woman’s murder, he would have made sure already that his men were briefed
to give him an alibi; if another man had killed her, surely he would want to make sure that the killer was speedily discovered.

She lay on a door on the floor of the solar. Her body had spent some time in the water, Baldwin reckoned: although he was
no expert in bodies retrieved from mires, the flesh of her hands appeared almost like gloves, and looked as though it would
pull away at a touch. Simon, he realised, had walked straight in and now stared down at her at Baldwin’s side.

Thinking again of how Simon had kept back from the ruins of Hugh’s house, Baldwin was surprised. Simon could usually be relied
upon to remain at the rear of any investigation like this, but today he was right beside Baldwin, and Baldwin wondered why,
until he saw Simon’s face. The bailiff had wondered whether there could have been any error, and whether this could have been
Hugh’s wife. That it was not was not in doubt. This lady was dark-haired, with probably a dark complexion in life; Constance
had been very fair of skin and hair. Simon took one look at her and subsided, moving behind Baldwin, his head hanging.

‘Who has identified her?’ Baldwin demanded of the knight.

Sir Geoffrey shrugged. ‘I have men here who know her well enough. I can find others, if you wish. There’s a local priest who
knew her. If you don’t trust our word, you will believe a priest, I suppose?’

Baldwin turned and gave him a long stare. The man was insufferably confident now that the men were all in here
looking at the body, but whether it was the confidence of the innocent, or the bluster of a guilty man, Baldwin could not
tell. ‘Which priest?’

‘Humphrey or Isaac down nearer the river. Anyone will tell you where you can find them.’

‘Why did you remove the body to this room? You know the law. She should have remained where she was found.’

‘How often would a coroner demand that a drowned man be left in the river where he was found? Don’t be ridiculous. She was
in a pool of water. It would be stupid to leave her there. And in any case, this poor child was a neighbour almost. I could
not let her remain there. I fear that if the law demands that an innocent young woman like this should be left in the wet
grave in which she was discovered, the law deserves to be ignored.’

‘You did not intend to see whether you could hide her?’

Sir Geoffrey grinned more widely. ‘Sir, is she hidden? How many men did I tell to keep silent about finding her? None! I merely
sought to protect the body of a dead neighbour from being consumed by wild beasts, because no matter how much I tried to have
her person guarded, in this weather my peasants would have left her alone while they went to find more adequate clothing,
or sticks for a fire, or a hovel in which to shelter from the rain, and in the meantime she would have been eaten.’

‘When was she last seen?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Oh, I don’t know. You need to ask her household.’

‘I shall. She came from Meeth?’

‘Yes. She was Lady Lucy of Meeth. Husband died in the war against the king, so she had no one to protect her.’

His gaze had gone to her as though regretfully, Baldwin thought, but that should be the natural reaction of any man
who learned of a poor widow who was taken and killed.

Baldwin subjected the corpse to a close examination, speaking all the while. ‘Edgar, see this? Her left arm is broken – above
and below her elbow. And the right is broken below the elbow. Both legs have been broken too. There is a great wound under
her left breast. Someone stabbed her, but not with an ordinary weapon. It is grossly opened … a terrible wound. The poor child.
This looks like torture, followed by a stabbing. At least her death was swift enough. Would you have any idea when she could
have been put in that mire, Sir Geoffrey?’

The steward shook his head decisively. ‘Of course not. She was probably thrown there by someone passing by. It’s an easy place
to reach from the road, as you saw today, I expect. Anyone could have flung her in and ridden on to Monk Oakhampton or Exbourne.
There is nothing to make me suppose that she was put there by someone from my household.’

‘Yet she was tortured. Somebody must have had reason to do that to her.’

‘Someone who might, for instance, have desired her?’

Baldwin smiled without humour. ‘You think so? A man who craved her body so much that he was willing to destroy it in order
to prevent another having it? Or someone who wanted to make her a compliant bed-mate? How many women have you known who would
willingly sleep with a man who had tortured them?’

‘What else could it be?’

‘Oh, I am sure we can come up with some suggestions to cover the facts,’ Baldwin said mildly. ‘But I think that there is little
more to be learned from this poor child’s broken body. You have sent for the coroner, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he is a knight who owns his loyalty to Lord Despenser. As you do. That will make matters much more convenient.’

‘That is the second time you have mentioned that we both owe allegiance to the same man,’ Sir Geoffrey commented. His eyes
looked lazily at Baldwin, the lids falling until he seemed close to dozing. ‘Does that mean that you have some comments you
wish to make about my master?’

‘Not at all. He is not here,’ Baldwin smiled.

‘Then, perhaps, you have something to say about me?’

‘No. I am simply intrigued that so much should be happening here, and by the coroner’s assumption of an accident up at Iddesleigh.
That was a very convenient decision, was it not?’

‘Iddesleigh?’

‘The coroner suggested that the house fire was an accident. I think it was a murder. Men went there and murdered a woman and
child.’

‘I heard of that. Yes, a man and his wife and child died, so I heard.’

‘Certainly the woman and child are dead.’

Baldwin was aware of Simon throwing him a look, but Baldwin refused to return it. He was watching the knight in front of him
very carefully to see whether his words had affected him.