A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (33 page)

‘Are you well?’ John asked.

‘I’m fine. Be all right in a while. Leave me.’

John nodded, understanding his confusion, and went to Humphrey. He glanced at the man’s wrists, where the thongs had cut into
the flesh. It was fortunate that Hugh had removed them when they had, or else this man could have lost his hands.

There was no longer any point in keeping him captive. He had admitted to his crime, and although it was shocking, it was not
so rare. When so many men worked for the Church, occasionally anger would flare and a man would die. Jealousy or rage could
consume an entire community. Yes, John could sympathise with this man.

‘What would you do, Humphrey?’ he asked. ‘Stay here, or move on to another place where you’ll have to scrape a living again?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remain at the chapel now, so I suppose I’ll have to wander again,’ Humphrey said mournfully.

‘You can keep moving, I suppose, but it would make for no life,’ John guessed.

Humphrey shook at the memory. The nights he had spent
on the run … Once he had been lying under a hedge, mournfully reminding himself of his miserable fall, when he had noticed
a shrew or a mouse in the stubble of the field not far from him. He watched, entranced, while the little figure scraped and
muzzled about the ground searching for gleanings. Every so often it would rise to its hind legs and sniff the air as though
convinced that there was someone watching it, but not sure who or where.

And then Humphrey all but leapt from his skin as a silent, pale, wraithlike figure swooped down and took it. He could have
died in that moment, the way his heart thundered in his breast. It was so sudden, so terrifying!

The barn owl took off again, effortlessly rising through the cool night’s air, and he watched it go with genuine terror, expecting
a similar shape to appear at any moment and haul him away to hell.

There were very few nights when he had managed to make use of a rick, hayloft or barn. After a month he was rancid and exhausted.
His bones ached, his feet were worn, and he was close to collapse. That was when he had arrived in Hatherleigh and seen Isaac
for the first time.

‘There may be a better way,’ John said. ‘Perhaps we could persuade the bishop to give you a trial at the chapel?’

‘He will give me a trial,’ Humphrey said bitterly.

‘It is possible with the support of a local magnate and other priests in the area that you may receive a happier hearing than
you might expect,’ John said. ‘It is worth trying, I should think. Better than living as a felon for the rest of your days.’

‘Perhaps.’

John turned his attention back to Hugh. The morose
figure was cross-legged on the floor near the fire. ‘Have you eaten yet?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

John crouched at his feet and fixed him with a firm eye. ‘If you want revenge and justice, my friend, you will need to keep
your strength up. Now eat, while I tell you what I saw and heard in Iddesleigh this day!’

It was a long, scrubby plain, with furze bushes sticking up here and there, a stunted tree, and rocks all about as always.
The soil was good, but here on the moor there was only pasture. ‘No plough would cut into this without breaking in the first
yard,’ Baldwin muttered, looking about him.

Perkin had taken them along the track past Hugh’s house, and out the other side to the moor, and then led them across the
rough ground to the top of the ridge from where they could look down into the stream.

‘This is the way I came, you see. They expected us all on the plain there, because then we could have rushed them in a solid
mass. But if we’d done that, they could have encircled us and done us great damage. So instead we sent a number of our men
up that way, while Beorn and I came up here. It was out of the way, but we thought that the change of direction would confuse
them. It looked as if it was going to work, too.’

‘What happened?’

Perkin walked a little way along the ridge until he found a mess of mud. ‘That’s where we came up. Our feet churned the soil.
Then I came over here, and I was running at my fastest to reach their goal over there.’ He pointed. ‘That’s
when I saw Walter and Ailward. Both of them were down here. Walter jumped up and went for me, and that was that.’

‘So you were knocked to the ground where?’ Baldwin asked.

Perkin shrugged, but then he slowly grinned. ‘There, on that blasted rock. See this scrape on my arm?’ he asked, pulling up
his sleeve. ‘That rock there gave me that. Christ, but it hurt! Felt as if a rat had nibbled all down my forearm.’

‘Where was Ailward?’

Perkin closed his eyes and turned his head a little, as though orientating his mind with the reality of the landscape. ‘Over
here,’ he said. ‘And when I came back here, this was where he lay, too.’

‘It’s only a half mile from Hugh’s house, if that,’ Simon muttered.

‘Yes. And I think that this could be giving us a stronger clue about his death than we have had so far,’ Baldwin said. ‘What
do you think the two men were doing up here, Perkin?’

He looked away, over the rolling lands to his home. It was there, over at Monkleigh, a low, thatched house like all the others.
It was not much, but it was all that he had ever known, and suddenly he found himself wondering whether he would be able to
remain there for much longer. The only witness to murder was not in a strong position.

‘I thought that there was a body here. Where Ailward stood. I only caught a glimpse, and that while I was in the air, but
I could swear that there was colour at his feet, like a body wearing a tunic. And I thought that I saw redness, a deep redness,
like blood.’

‘Did you not tell anyone?’ Baldwin asked disbelievingly.

‘What, at the time? No – my brain was partly addled, my
arm was in great pain, and the only memory I have is of stumbling back down that hillside there to get to the tavern and try
to forget the pain in my head. But all through that afternoon, my conviction grew that I was right, and there was a body at
Ailward’s feet.’

‘You said you wouldn’t speak ill of the dead,’ Baldwin reminded him.

‘That’s right. Ailward tried to be a friend and companion, but his frustration and despair gnawed at him. He should have been
a great knight with a destrier and all that, but instead he was a serf here. The best serf Sir Geoffrey could have hoped for,
it’s true, but still a serf to his mind, and a serf is only a pale reminder of a real man, sir. Isn’t that what knights say?’

Baldwin flashed his teeth in a smile. ‘Perhaps some do. Since I cannot grow a stalk of wheat to feed myself, I find I appreciate
those men who can.’

‘I wish you were my master, then,’ Perkin said sadly. ‘Here we are not respected.’

‘Ailward was a serf, and he let his jealous nature get the better of him on occasion?’

‘Too often.’

‘This man Walter,’ Simon said. ‘What was he doing with Ailward? Is he also from your manor?’

‘No. He is one of Sir Odo’s mercenaries.’

‘Yet the two were together up here? What did you think of that? Two enemies together?’

Perkin had the decency to be embarrassed. ‘I thought … well, I wondered, really, whether Ailward might have caught a woman
and killed her in a rage when she turned down his advances.’

‘You mean Lady Lucy?’

‘She was in all our minds at that time, Sir Baldwin. There was a great deal of concern for her since she had disappeared.
I don’t know exactly what I thought, but I reckoned that Ailward being up there meant he was up to no good. And then Walter
hit me, and my thoughts went back to the game.’

‘And later you returned because you thought you’d seen something?’ Simon asked.

‘Well, yes. I just thought, if I could find some blood, then that’d prove that Ailward had killed someone.’

‘And as you say, everyone was thinking of this Lady Lucy.’ Baldwin nodded.

‘But when I got back, all there was was Ailward himself, and his gore smearing the furze.’

‘Was he in the vill after the camp ball match?’ Simon frowned, kicking at the soil.

‘No. He never appeared. We all thought he was gone home.’

‘So Walter and he were up here, and they had a body with them. Why? Where were they going to go with it?’ Baldwin said. He
looked carefully all about them. ‘That, north, that is where Hugh’s house lies. What of those houses east of us?’

Perkin followed the direction of his pointing finger. ‘That’s where Pagan lives. It was his father’s old smithy. He was an
armourer, you know.’

‘An armourer?’ Baldwin said. ‘And the house next door?’

‘That is Guy’s.’

‘Perkin, you have been most helpful, and I have one last task to ask of you. Could you tell us the way to the farm where Crokers
lives?’

‘Of course. Now?’

‘No – in a moment.’ Baldwin paused and studied the land before them. ‘It looks as though Sir Geoffrey is off hunting. I wonder
what quarry he’ll seek today? So long as he avoids the church at Iddesleigh, I’ll be content.’

He peered about in all directions, but there were three that kept attracting his eye: southwards to the hall of Sir Geoffrey,
east to Pagan’s house, and north towards Hugh’s ruined cottage.

‘But what were they doing with a body on the day of the camp ball match?’ he said at last. ‘They must have known it was going
to happen.’

‘Yes,’ Perkin said. ‘Everyone in all the vills knew about it. They came from two or three miles away to watch it.’

‘So they must have known that they would be seen up here,’ Baldwin said. ‘Why would they run the risk of discovery by carrying
a corpse over here after executing the poor woman?’

Simon looked over at the houses east. ‘They had tortured her, hadn’t they?’

‘They wouldn’t do that in the open air,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘You say that the man Pagan’s father was an armourer?’ Simon said.

‘Yes.’

‘So there is a forge up there?’

‘Always used to be, yes.’

‘Let’s go and take a look, Baldwin. It won’t take long.’

It was good always to feel the wind in your hair. Sir Geoffrey expected a token resistance at best; urgently fleeing peasants
would be more likely. There was no point in their trying to protect this chunk of land from him. All the men down there would
know full well that he was more or less their legitimate
master, so they’d not dare raise even a thumb to bite at him.

He had disposed his host adequately. The two sergeants, his bodyguards, would take their little forces to the mill down by
the chapel and to the ford further up. Meanwhile, Sir Geoffrey would lead the main force down the main road to Crokers’s house.
If all went well, without bloodshed they would win the whole of the old lands on this side of the river. Then they could start
to move northwards and begin to loosen Sir Odo’s stranglehold on Iddesleigh itself. That would be a sweet cherry to pluck,
with the inn in the middle. On this road it would not make so much money as, say, a tavern on the Oxford to London road, but
it would bring in a small fortune compared to Ailward’s inheritance.

The fool. Sir Geoffrey wasn’t sure what had happened, but he was fully aware that he was being set up as the clear and obvious
suspect in a series of murders. He would not submit to any man, not even the suave and polite Sir Baldwin, to be tried for
murder. That would mark him for life, even if he received a pardon in due course.

But it hurt unbearably to think that Sir Odo could have been so cunning as to think up this scheme when all the time Sir Geoffrey
had thought he had the upper hand.

The houses were little more than sheds: simple cruck-built frames with cob used to fill the spaces. Perkin took them to Guy’s
house first. It was empty, because Guy himself would be in the coppice with his children. He lived the outdoor life of a charcoal-burner,
and even now he had a great pile smoking away. Perkin told them that his wife was off helping Beorn’s wife brew ale. It was
often a collaborative task.

Baldwin glanced at Simon as they moved towards the
farther of the two properties. For his own part, his hand kept straying to the hilt of his sword, as though seeking comfort
from it. But there could be no comfort in a place like this. Baldwin was aware of a heaviness in his soul at the thought that
this was a place where a young woman could have been dragged, perhaps screaming and desperate, only to be bound and tortured
to death.

‘This Pagan,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Perkin: does he work for Sir Geoffrey?’

‘No, never. He was always devoted to Sir William and Sir Robert.’

‘Lady Isabel’s husband and his father?’

‘Yes. Pagan would spit on money offered to him by Sir Geoffrey – he still thinks that the family should return to their own
house. As do most of us.’

‘A bold comment, friend,’ Baldwin noted.

‘Our new master is a leader of thieves and felons. How can we be loyal to him?’ Perkin snapped.

‘If I am right you will not have to compromise your loyalty for long,’ Baldwin said. ‘If he has a part in this murder, I shall
see him taken to Exeter, I swear.’

‘You think he does?’ Perkin asked hopefully.

Baldwin shook his head ruminatively. ‘All I can say for certain is that Pagan appears to have some explaining to do, as does
this Walter. This is the house?’

They had reached a ramshackle building with green walls and a roof composed of chestnut shingles – a rare sight in Devonshire.
Baldwin put his hand to the door and opened the latch. He pushed. There was a squeak and a scraping noise as the timbers moved
over the rough flooring.

It was a small chamber, perhaps only twelve feet by ten. A hearth lay in the middle of the floor, a cauldron nearby.
There was a stench of rancid ale about the room, and on the single low table there was a hunk of dry bread and some ancient
cheese, on which the flies were eagerly prancing. A palliasse was rolled neatly and rested on a shelf, while in a hollow dug
out of the wall there stood all the man’s most prized possessions: a small crucifix, a shell and lead pilgrim’s badge. There
was also a malformed horseshoe.

Baldwin picked it up. ‘This is a terrible piece of work.’

‘What of it? It’s not for sale.’

‘Ah! Pagan, I was wondering whether you would join us here,’ Baldwin said, eyeing the old but well-polished sword in his hand.

‘So what are you doing in my house?’ Pagan demanded.

‘Looking for evidence that you are a murderer,’ Baldwin said.

‘Me?’ Pagan’s face seemed to fall, but then he held his head at an angle and pointed the sword more aggressively. ‘You dare
to accuse me?’

‘Man, I would put that sword down,’ Baldwin said firmly, and waited until he had. ‘We know that your father was an armourer,
and that you are living up here. When Lady Lucy was killed she was tortured to death. Her body was taken all the way down
to the camp ball game, and then over to the mire at the back of Sir Geoffrey’s house – a mire you would know all too well
since you used to live there with your master – and thrown in.’

‘Why should I do all that?’ Pagan blustered. ‘She was no enemy of mine!’

‘It is just possible that you decided to throw her in there to place suspicion on to Sir Geoffrey so that he would be removed
from the manor. Perhaps you thought you might be
able to win it back for your lady, if you first had him evicted from it.’

‘I had nothing to do with her death. I only heard of her murder after she was found,’ Pagan said.

‘Show us your father’s forge.’

Pagan wavered, then rammed his sword back into its sheath, and led the way back out through the front door, round the building
to a small lean-to shed that stood at the rear. A square chimney of steel projected from the roof, and the ground here was
all darkened with black dust. Lumps of clinker lay about; deformed, sharpened pieces of hardened stone or metal. They had
been trodden into the ground all about here as a means of keeping the mud at bay.

Pagan opened the door and shoved it wide. ‘Go on, take a look.’

Baldwin glanced at Edgar, who stood near the door with his eyes fixed on Pagan while Baldwin and Simon walked inside.

It was dark, but when Baldwin had released the two shutters and allowed the light to enter, he found himself in a room that
was perhaps six feet by ten. There were racks of metal, mostly rough pigs of steel, and a sturdy little anvil that stood on
a large oak block made from a single log. Staples had been hammered into it, and a series of tools hung from them: pincers,
pliers, shaped devices to grip and twist hot metal. Baldwin looked about him and felt his flesh cringe. It was so like the
rooms he had heard of in France during the torture of the Templars.

‘Nothing here, see?’ Pagan said.

Baldwin did not hear him, and it was only when Pagan touched his arm to repeat his comment that Baldwin reacted.

He spun, his hand reaching out and taking Pagan’s shirt
in his fist, while his other hand flew to his dagger and pulled it free. While he wrenched at Pagan’s shirt, forcing him back
against the wall, his dagger’s point was under Pagan’s chin.