A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (23 page)

‘Harrumph! Don’t see what you’re so upset about. It’s not like the little family up the road were close to you, is it?
That scruffy tatterdemalion Hugh was ever a foolish little man, you used to say.’

‘Perhaps I did on occasion,’ Jeanne said with spirit, ‘but I never took pleasure in denigrating him like you, and I would
prefer not to hear any more insulting words about him now the poor man is dead.’

Emma snorted and gazed about her once more, her small eyes seeking fresh amusement. ‘Shame about his wife. Her being a nun
and all.’

Jeanne winced. She could almost hear the necks creaking as all the men in the room turned to stare at the two women. ‘Emma,
be silent!’

‘Why? She was a nun. Don’t you remember? Hugh met her at Belstone, and she …’

Jeanne leaned forward and removed her cup of wine. ‘You have had enough.’

‘But I haven’t finished it!’

‘I think you have!’

Emma sank back and sulkily cast an eye about the room again. ‘Look at this place! What do you want?’

This was addressed to a boy who, intrigued by the conversation which all had heard, was leaning round to peer at Emma from
between two older lads.

‘You stick to your drink and leave two ladies alone,’ Emma said haughtily.

‘Was it true?’ called a man from the bar near Jankin. ‘Was she really a nun?’

Jeanne glared at Emma, but failed to catch her maid’s attention.

‘Yes. Of course she was. Poor chit, she won’t have a chance to confess her sins now, will she?’

‘Shouldn’t have buried her, should you, Matthew?’ said
another man. ‘If she were a runaway, she shouldn’t be put into the churchyard, should she?’

‘Specially if she had a bastard!’ another called. ‘She had a boy, didn’t she? If she was a bride of Christ, that lad was a
bastard. Stands to reason.’

Matthew cast a look at Jeanne in which several emotions were mingled, and Jeanne held her chin up with a supercilious look
in her eye. She would not have Hugh’s wife’s memory impugned. ‘Yes?’

‘May I speak with you a moment, my lady?’ he asked, slipping from the bar and crossing towards the door.

Jeanne remained seated for a moment or two, before nodding and standing, gently shifting Richalda to her shoulder. When Emma
moved to join her, she hurriedly held out her hand and shook her head. ‘You wait there,’ she commanded sternly. ‘And this
time keep silent, as I said. I don’t want any more trouble!’

Emma glanced about her with a slightly curled lip.

‘Not much chance of me causing trouble in here, is there?’

Hugh left the house for a moment, wondering how well his leg was healing. To his surprise, it held up well as he crossed the
ground outside, and he felt a sudden burst of confidence. He would be able to use it, and that meant he could seek to avenge
Constance. It was all he wanted.

She had been so good for him. He’d learned the delights of family life, the joys of a home filled with the sounds of a child
at play. Resting before his fire, his exhaustion seeping away, the glowing flames warming his face after the chill of the
wintry wind, he had known real happiness. It was a strange sensation, one he had never fully experienced before.

The worst of it all was this feeling of guilt. If only he
had returned to the house earlier and not dallied at the hedge, perhaps he could have saved her, protected her from the attackers.
He could have done – he
should
have done; he should have been there for his woman.

He could feel the hot tears of frustration and rage prickling again. The idea that she died alone, crying for help while …

But he was not so far away that he could have missed her screams, surely? She had a good voice, and when she scolded her son
Hugh could usually hear her from up in the field. Yet that day he had heard nothing. She must have called for him, though,
because she must have known that no one would go to her rescue if she didn’t. Constance was no fool. She must have realised
that Hugh could have heard her if she had cried out. He wasn’t that far away. She knew that.

Surely, though, he must have heard her screaming.

Suddenly Hugh tottered. He had to reach out an arm and support himself against the wall. As his legs weakened and he slowly
sank to the ground, he felt the sobbing start again deep in his breast.

If he hadn’t heard her, it was because she had not called for him. And she hadn’t called for him because she didn’t want to
have him there to witness her shame. Or, worse, because she didn’t want him to be hurt. She had kept quiet as the men took
her and killed her, accepting her fate while her man worked so near. She had died quietly so that he wouldn’t himself be hurt.

He covered his face and tried to keep the sound of his heartfelt weeping as quiet as possible.

John found him there later, his arms outstretched against the wall like a man on the cross, his eyes cast up to heaven; a
man who sought for help in his despair.

Jeanne was quite prepared for a fight. There was no priest alive who could scare her. She knew too many good men of God to
be fearful of a fellow like this, a lowly vill’s vicar. If Matthew had been bright enough to have any prospects of enhancement,
he wouldn’t be here in this little parish. He’d be in Exeter with the bishop, or studying in a university.

He stood waiting outside, and when Jeanne saw him he glanced at the inn, then beckoned her to follow him.

To her surprise he did not walk to his church, over to the right. Instead, he led her down the left-hand track to the roadway,
and then further eastwards, along the path towards Hugh’s burned-out house. When he reached it, he stood with his hands tucked
in the sleeves of his robe against the chill.

‘Father?’ Jeanne prompted.

‘When I came here, I was only very young,’ Matthew said inconsequentially. He was gazing about him at the place, almost as
though he had forgotten that Jeanne was there with him. ‘At the time this was the home of the manor’s cowherd. He was a good,
bluff man, old Sandy. Named for his hair, he was. Quite a yellow-golden colour it was, although by the time I came here it
looked as though the
colour had been washed out. He was an old man. His wife had died a long time before, although I can’t remember why now. Sandy
did tell me, but whether it was a fever or an accident, I can’t tell. There have been so many deaths since I first came here.’

He looked back at the building. It was a sad sight. Once it had been a thriving place, with the cowherder coming home at the
end of his day to see all his children running towards him, his wife perhaps in the doorway, wiping her hands after her day’s
work: looking after the children, cleaning them, washing soiled clothing, cooking … and he would be exhausted after working
in his fields or seeing to his master’s herd with his oldest boy. It was a life Matthew could understand. His own father had
been a cattleherd.

‘Do you think that the house will be rebuilt?’ Jeanne asked, seeing the direction of his gaze.

He sighed. ‘I hope so. It’s dreadful to see a home broken down like this. Shocking somehow to think that it could be so easily
destroyed.’

‘Surely someone will see the walls and put up a new roof. There are not that many spare plots with good walls.’

‘I shall see whether I can persuade Sir John Sully to restore it.’

Jeanne frowned. ‘Wasn’t all this land owned by the prioress of Belstone?’ The prioress had given this little holding to Constance,
she recalled.

‘It was, but over time much land has been sold to support the priory in its trials. The priory has little money, and must
shift for itself most of the time. I’ve heard that this holding was sold off some eighteen months ago. The prioress retains
rights to the church and to some of the land, but mostly Sir John Sully is responsible now. I shall have to tell the prioress
what has happened, though. The poor woman. She had been a nun, you know.’

Jeanne smiled sadly. ‘Please tell the good prioress that Constance is dead. But be in no doubt, the prioress knew of her and
released Constance herself. She had been made to swear her oath before she was old enough. And when she fell in love, her
prioress was kind enough to remind her that her vows were not valid. It was the prioress who gave her this land, and when
Hugh joined her she was no nun.’

Matthew searched her face with a narrow-eyed intensity, but at last he drew a huge sigh of relief and gave a small smile.
‘That, my lady, is a great weight from my mind. I dislike the idea of punishing the dead, and in all honesty I didn’t think
that the child could have been so sinful as to have renounced life in a priory. She seemed too good and kind to me. I had
feared when I overheard your maid that I had married a woman who was already betrothed to Christ, and the idea terrified me.
If you are sure that …’

‘Write to the prioress. She will be pleased to confirm that I am right.’

‘That, then, is one problem out of the way.’

She glanced at his face. ‘You still seem perturbed, Father. Is there anything I can help you with?’

‘No, I think not.’

‘Are you worried that you might have to explain to the men of the vill about her?’

‘I shall have to explain to them that she was no nun. That will please many of them.’

‘But something is yet worrying you?’

He smiled wearily. ‘There is always something to worry a man when he has several hundred souls to protect. But yes,
if you will have it, there is one thing: I am perturbed that poor Constance could have been killed because a man desired her.’

‘And who could that have been?’

‘There are many men in the vill, but I do not think it was a man from here.’

‘You think that they are all uniquely good?’ Jeanne asked with a raised eyebrow.

He grinned at that. ‘No. I have my share of cowards, bullies and evil ones. But I find it hard to believe that any of them
would dare to risk Hugh’s revenge, and still fewer would dare to risk their souls by murdering both of them and their child.’

Jeanne saw no reason to advise him that the child was not Hugh’s. It would unnecessarily complicate matters. ‘So who?’

‘There is one man …’

He stopped and stared at the ground at his feet, uncomfortable. Then he looked up again and met her gaze resolutely. ‘I was
worried about a runaway here because I feared that this woman could be the second in the vicinity.’

‘There is another?’ Jeanne gaped.

‘I believe so. The coadjutor at the chapel at Monkleigh.’

‘I don’t understand – you mean that he is about to run away?’

He showed his teeth again. ‘No. I mean that he already has. I think he was a friar, and now he’s arrived to take advantage
of a rather foolish old man, Isaac the priest.’

‘What has alerted your suspicions?’

He shrugged. ‘Little things at first. When he arrived, his hands were clean and not horny. They had never seen hard labour.
He was clearly a man who had spent his time in a
cloister or scriptorium rather than a field. Yet he told me that he had run his own parish church with his own glebe. That
was plainly untrue, for he knew nothing of farming. The vill’s men had to help him with everything. I was concerned when I
heard that and other rumours, concerned enough to contact a friend at Exeter. He deals with diocesan matters, and I asked
him what he could tell me about this Humphrey.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘That as far as he knew there was no coadjutor sent to help Isaac. No one at Exeter had any knowledge of a younger priest
being sent here to help, but of course the bishop could have acted alone in this.’

‘So he might be a felon?’ Jeanne said.

‘Perhaps, but if he is, he is a felon with an unusually good grasp of Latin and the Church’s rites. I thought to test him,
so when I was passing I dropped in to witness a service he was conducting, and he was word-perfect so far as I could tell
… it is some years since I was taught myself, and it is possible that a little of my own service is not so correct as I could
wish, but I comfort myself with the thought that I do try hard to be a good priest. I think that is all most of us can aspire
to: being good enough. If I can direct some of my parishioners away from the paths of folly or evil, I have done my job.

‘But so far as I can tell, Humphrey is a trained churchman, although he is not the vill’s coadjutor as people had thought.
Which leaves me with the interesting question of who he is and why he is there.’

‘Have you arrived at an answer?’

‘I am afraid not. I can only assume that he left his abbey, priory or church under a cloud of some sort; but what does that
matter? If he is a good priest to the men of his parish, surely that is sufficient?’

‘Perhaps. What does your heart tell you?’

He looked up at the sky. ‘In God’s name, I do not know. He seems a sound parish priest, but he may have a good reason for
showing that face. What if he is concealing another aspect in order to gain an advantage? I am very concerned that there might
be some ulterior motive here. That is why I was going to write to the bishop to ask him whether he sent this man. But Isaac
stopped me. He said Humphrey was
his
concern, not mine.

‘And in the meantime?’

‘In the meantime I am trying to watch him. And I do so. But while the two vills are at daggers drawn, it is hard.’

Sir Geoffrey was in a cold rage as he walked along the hall and out to the rear. The second building was constructed at right
angles to the main part of the house, a long, low block with narrow windows set high in the walls and one doorway in the middle.

It was the way he’d demanded it. When he’d first come here at Earl Hugh Despenser’s request, the accommodation had been simple
and old fashioned. All the servants and men-at-arms lived in the main hall with him. He had the solar and all the privacy
that implied, but meals would be taken in the hall, just as with any other old lord.

Not Sir Geoffrey, though.

One of the first lessons he had learned in his journeys was that money was becoming more important than a man’s oath of service.
In the past a man would kneel before his lord and put his hands together. His lord would put his own hands about the vassal’s,
and the two would swear their vows; one to serve and honour, the other to reward with food, drink and clothing, as well as
as much booty and money as he needed.

But in the last few years that whole structure of service owed and repaid had begun to fall apart. Sir Geoffrey had seen it
first some little while ago when he started to see the mercenary gangs forming. Then it hadn’t seemed a threat, and yet Sir
Geoffrey had wondered about them – he wasn’t sure how he’d react if someone offered him a large treasure of money instead
of an honourable life of service to his lord. No, he wasn’t at all sure.

So when he was sent here as steward to this little manor, with the clear instruction that he should build it up to help form
a barrier against Lord de Courtenay’s ambitions, he had insisted that there must be a separate building to house the mercenaries.
The men weren’t there for the benefit of Sir Geoffrey or Lord Despenser, they were there solely for their own profit, and
couldn’t be trusted.

Most of the men were out of the place at this hour. He knew that. There was only one man who would still be there, and that
was the man he had thrashed. Sir Geoffrey threw the door wide and stormed in. To the left was the main stable area, but on
the right was the accommodation for the servants and men-at-arms who had been hired by Sir Geoffrey.

It was a noisome room, this. The odour of piss and sour ale filled the place, along with the reek of filthy clothing. Small
beds had been set out on either side against the walls. These were not mere palliasses spread over the floor, but well-built
cots with rope springs and thick mattresses. No expense had been spared when the carpenter had come here, because the men
had insisted that they should have decent beds and bedding. Just one more sign of the greed of their kind, Sir Geoffrey thought.

As he peered about him in the gloom, Sir Geoffrey saw
that one of the beds still had a figure lying upon it. He strode to it and stared down at the snoring shape.

Lying on his belly, his back bared, Nicholas le Poter was breathing stertorously through his wide mouth. The reason for his
snoring was plain enough. At the side of his bed a large jug of ale had toppled over, the remaining drink spreading over the
rushes on the floor. Sir Geoffrey looked down at it, then back at the sleeping man.

Le Poter was useless to Sir Geoffrey. He had come with good recommendations from another knight in Despenser’s service, but
all he had done so far was foment trouble. There was no doubt in Sir Geoffrey’s mind that this man wanted his position, but
he wasn’t ready to give it up yet. He had wanted to remove le Poter for some time because of the fool’s machinations, and
now he felt as though he had little option. The murder of the Meeth widow, and the fact that her body had been found here
on the demesne, meant that Sir Geoffrey’s position was badly undermined. And it was Nick le Poter who’d suggested that the
mire be drained. That, to him, meant that le Poter might well have killed her and dumped her body there to throw suspicion
on Sir Geoffrey and ruin his reputation. If Sir Geoffrey could be removed from the manor, who knows? Perhaps Nick le Poter
could take over his job.

He kicked the mattress. Hard. There was a squeak of protest from the bed itself, but the carpenter had known his job, and
it survived, although it moved several inches over the packed earth of the floor, nudging into the wall.

‘Wake up, you dog’s
shit
!’

‘Wha …?’

‘I said, wake up! You’ve no reason to be asleep, have you?’

‘What’s the matter? You feel you left too much skin on my back?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Sir Geoffrey snarled. ‘And I have a need for more than just your flesh, man! Do you know what happened today?’

‘So the men found a little body in the bog. What of it?’

‘I don’t think I like your voice, le Poter. I think you seem to know all about this woman’s death.’

‘What I don’t know, I can guess,’ le Poter spat. He raised himself on all fours and made as though to clamber from the bed
and on to his feet.

Sir Geoffrey didn’t hesitate. He swung his boot and caught le Poter in the belly. The breath left the man’s body in a single
gasp, and le Poter arched, and then crumpled. He collapsed on his side among the rushes, and stalks pricked at his scabs like
fine daggers. He moved to escape the agony, but only succeeded in driving some straws deeper into his tormented flesh. He
moaned with the pain, unable even to gather breath enough to scream.

‘You know
nothing
! You are insignificant, Poter. If I wanted, I could kill you here and now.’

‘It doesn’t matter – the Lord Despenser will soon learn what you’ve been doing!’

Sir Geoffrey hesitated. ‘What?’