A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (4 page)

But now he was sure that there was something else up there, and he’d a suspicion that it was the reason for Ailward’s presence
that day.

The climb was hard, and he felt as though he had aged a
good few years in the last half-day. It was one thing to have a fancy about seeing something in the middle of a fight like
the one today, and another to make his way up here in the dark when his feet were chilled from the frozen earth, his arm was
stinging with each thud of his heart, and his mouth felt as if someone had hit him there with a hammer. Quite another thing,
he thought, and he hesitated as he reached a furze bush halfway up the hill, in two minds whether to continue up, or abandon
the search and get back to his bed. He glanced over his shoulder longingly, thinking of his palliasse only half a mile away,
but then he set his jaw and carried on up the hill.

Breasting the ridge, he easily picked out the place where he had fallen, just as he could easily see where Walter had stood
before launching himself at him.

Now he stood where he had been knocked down, staring about him. The rock was there, and there was a flat patch of heather
beyond it, but that meant nothing. A deer could have lain here.

A deer which had bled.

Perkin had a strange empty feeling in his throat as he frowned at the ground, reaching down to touch the viscous liquid. It
was definitely blood: the tinny odour, sickly and sweet, was clinging to his fingers when he brought them to his nose. It
was possible that Walter and Ailward had killed a deer, he knew, but it was unlikely. Much more likely that Ailward had .
. . but why should Ailward harm anyone? Perkin had never seen anything to suggest that the sergeant would hurt another man.
It was his way to swagger and bully, but surely not to kill for no reason. Perhaps it was something to do with money.

One thing was certain. Ailward had not been up here
because of the game. He had been involved in some other activity when the game had approached him.

The moonlight caught something moving about some three feet from the rock, and Perkin saw a fluttering piece of material.
He picked it up and looked at it. It wasn’t a working man’s cloth – this was a fine piece of wool from a rich man’s gown.
Or a woman’s.

He’d seen enough. Walter and Ailward had killed someone up here, perhaps to rob him, or to rape her. Perkin had to return
to the vill to call for help.

Turning on his heel, he hurried back to the ridge, and it was only when he was over the brow, taking a direct line to the
vill, that he stumbled and fell.

‘Pig’s
turds
!’ he hissed through gritted teeth as his arm stung and flamed. He was surprised it wouldn’t light his way, it seemed to burn
so hotly, but then his curses were stilled on his tongue as he saw what had tripped him.

The dead body of Ailward lying among the long grasses.

It was a chill morning in early March when Hugh’s family was so brutally torn apart.

Hugh rose, as was his wont, in the hour before light, leaving his woman in their bed, her child snuffling and mewling in his
sleep beside her.

He and Constance his wife had lived here for two years now, since they had first met early in 1321, and the birth of her son,
young Hugh, had set the cap on their happiness, even though he was not Hugh’s child. He was the illegitimate son of a priest,
but Hugh cared nothing for that. He adored Constance, and loved her child as if it were his own. An experienced shepherd,
Hugh felt he had had more to do with the babe than its real father. When little Hugh was born, he had been there to help;
when the infant first turned to suckle, old Hugh had held his head and guided mother and child; when little Hugh was old enough,
it was Hugh who first took him outside, Hugh who first made him laugh, Hugh who had introduced him to the mangy dog, Hugh
who had cleaned him through the long night when he had an attack of vomiting … Hugh adored the lad.

The fire was dead now. Hugh would need to fetch a faggot of wood from the store at the back of the house. He
glanced back at the bedding. There was a visible lump where Constance lay, her sweet body clearly outlined under the blankets
and skins, the child’s smaller figure almost hidden in her shadow.

Outside there was a definite chill in the air. The frost had held off, which was a relief, because Hugh was anxious about
some of the plants he’d already set out in the vegetable plot, but with luck they’d survive. It wasn’t as cold as some of
the mornings he’d woken to when he’d been a lad on the moors.

A lean, dark-haired man with the narrow, sharp features of a ferret, Hugh had been raised in a small farm near Drewsteignton,
and his early years had been spent on the hills protecting the sheep. He had loved mornings like this out there. Yes, it was
freezing for a man, and when you sat wrapped up in a thick cloak as well as a warm sheepskin jack, you still felt the cold
seeping into your marrow. A man could die up there and no one find him for days; men
had
died like that. Hugh could remember one from the next vill, an older shepherd whose huddled figure was found by the boy who’d
been sent into the hills with some bread and cheese for him. He’d been stiff as an oak staff when Hugh saw him, frost over
his beard and eyebrows, and they’d had to carry him down to the vill like that. There was no point leaving him to thaw on
the hill.

It was his time up there on the moors which had shaped the man he had become. For most of his life he had been dour and morose,
unbending to the wind and the rain. He was known as one who would protect his flocks from any danger, whether it be men, beasts
or the elements. Anyone who grew up on the moors learned self-reliance above all else, and a man who survived the depredations
of the
wandering gangs of trail bastons, the ‘club-men’ who robbed and killed with impunity in the last years of King Edward I’s
reign, was one who was strong in spirit. He could cope with the worst that God could throw.

From the logpile he had a clear view of the moors several leagues south –
his
moors. Usually a line of hulking shapes that loomed on the horizon, today they gleamed in the low sunlight, and he felt a
strong affection for them. He loved them as any man loves his homelands.

Hugh stood still, staring, struck with a strange emotion. Not a man prone to sudden fancies, he was aware of an unsettled
feeling, as though he might never see this again. A melancholy apprehension swept over him, leaving him with a curious desolation.
He was filled with uneasiness, a presentiment of evil, and the worst of it was, he had no idea what lay behind it. It was
almost as though the moors were calling to him to leave his home and return to them, but he had no idea why the sight of a
winter’s chill morning sun on the hill should make him feel so.

He shivered, an uncontrollable spasm that racked his compact frame, and he muttered, ‘Someone walking over my grave. That’s
all.’

Crossing himself against Dewer, the Devil, he bent to his task and began to collect logs and a faggot of old twigs. He cast
one last glance at the moors, and surprised himself by realising that he had a poignant longing to see again the rough, scrubby
grasses, the heather, furze and rock. Even the black, square keep of the castle at Lydford would be a welcome sight. Not that
he could go there just now. His master, Simon Puttock, wasn’t there. He was down at Dartmouth, the port all those weary miles
away on the southern coast. Perhaps Hugh could return to Simon’s house
for a little. He was still Simon’s servant, after all. He could visit to see that all was well with Simon’s household . .
.

What was all this about? He wasn’t leaving Constance and young Hugh on their own just now. Maybe when the weather warmed and
there was a little less to do. He’d wait until then. It was plain daft to think of going at this time of year. He was mazed.

He turned from the view and trudged back towards the house, a small figure, easily missed in the great landscape about him,
many miles from any town, his lands enclosed by the woods on the north, west and eastern sides.

Hugh didn’t mind. He liked being far away from other people; he had no need of them most of the time. As he shoved the door
open and dropped the logs on the hearth, the vague feelings of concern faded.

This was his home. He was safe here.

The way led him along the road from the inn where he had stayed the night, and all Adam of Rookford could think of was the
itching.

They must have been fleas. That grotty little tavern was probably alive with the damned things. In all Adam’s years, he’d
never stayed in a hovel that was more likely to breed them.

He scratched at his neck and shuddered with the cold. Adam, always known as Adcock by his friends, was a man of two and twenty
years, slimly built, with a face that would have been pleasing enough if it weren’t for the marks of the pox which scarred
it. He had regular features, large, wide-set eyes under a broad forehead, a slender nose and rather full lips. His hair was
dark, and already receding at the temples, so he knew well enough that before too long he’d
look like his old man, Jack, who’d lost almost all his hair by the time he was thirty. Adcock could vaguely remember seeing
him with hair when Adcock had been very young, but all his other memories had his father looking more like the vill’s priest
than a servant in Sir Edward Bouville’s household.

Servant he had been, and proud, too. Adcock’s father had been with the Bouville family all his life, and the old devil had
been justifiably satisfied with his position. He had new clothes each summer and winter, a gallon of ale a day, food, and
money when he needed it. When he married Adcock’s mother, he was given a small plot not too far from the manor, and he was
regularly granted time to go and visit it and see his wife, when his duties allowed. Adcock had only good memories of the
old man.

Feeling another itch on his back, he grimaced and swore quietly. He’d not sleep in a cheap place like that ever again. Hopefully
he wouldn’t have to. Not once he’d taken up his new position.

It was his own fault. If he’d set off when he’d meant to, leaving Oakhampton early in the morning, he’d have reached his new
home by evening. As it was, there was the rush to say his farewells, going to see his mother at the last minute and accepting
her offer of bread and cheese washed down with some of her best ale – well, he didn’t know when he’d see her again; she was
getting quite old now, and wouldn’t live for ever: God willing, she’d still be alive when he next came this way – and after
that he had to go and visit Hilda at the dairy, sneaking up behind her to grab her bubbies as she stood working the butter
churn, making her squeak with alarm, silencing her scolding with kisses. It was hard to leave her behind – but they’d agreed
she’d
best remain until he had saved some money and they could wed.

That was a daunting prospect. Many of his friends had married, but somehow Adcock had never thought of himself as a husband.
Yet here he was, ambling along on his pony and already considering how Hilda would look in a small cottage somewhere near
the manor. He could install her there and go to visit her regularly, with luck. Perhaps, if the steward was an amiable, understanding
sort of man, Adcock could find a place very close. With proximity he could see her more often, perhaps even stay with her
each night?

But first, he told himself, he must take charge of his manor. Under the steward, he would be the most powerful man on the
demesne.

The steward was Sir Geoffrey Servington, a man whose name inspired respect. He’d been a warrior for many years, and he and
Sir Edward had been in all the important battles of the last thirty years. Now he was all but retired, of course, as was Sir
Edward himself, although that did not dim his reputation. By all accounts he was a demanding, ruthless taskmaster, determined
to squeeze the very last drop from his serfs, but that was what was sometimes needed. When they lived so far from their real
lord, some peasants would grow lax and idle. It needed a man with a vigorous manner to keep them under control.

It was daunting to someone like Adcock, though. He only prayed that he might find in Sir Geoffrey a man who was accommodating
and reasonable.

He was almost there. Through the trees that grew thickly on either side, he could see smoke and some buildings. They were
the first he’d seen since he left that dreadful
alehouse in Exbourne that morning. The memory made him scratch again at his neck.

There was not much to see. If he hadn’t spotted the buildings, he wouldn’t have guessed that this was a thriving little vill.
He knew of Monk Oakhampton – the manor was owned by the monks of a great abbey, Glastonbury, and he had heard that it was
a very profitable little place. It was no surprise, looking about the area here. There was the ribbon of silver-grey river
on his left, promising drink and fishing, and the soil looked darkly rich. From the look of the fields, in which the crops
were already creating a fresh lime-coloured carpet, the place was one of those in which farming never failed.

It boded well for the manor he was to join. Close by, surely it would have a similar lushness. Good husbandry and management
of the land was all that was needed to make a place like this rich, and he would see to it that the manor where he was to
be sergeant would grow in fame for its harvests.

He rode past the small cotts of the Glastonbury estate, and then on for another mile or so, until he came to a clearing in
the trees from where he could see his new home.

It was a long, low building, looking a little grubby now where the limewash had faded and started to turn green, with a thickly
thatched roof and the aura of wealth. Massy logs lay piled at one end, a makeshift thatch over the top to protect the wood
from the worst of the rains. Smoke drifted from beneath the eaves, and there was a bustle about the yard as men darted here
and there. Adcock could see that the buildings at the side were where the stables lay, because as he sat on his mount studying
the place, he could see horses being brought out by grooms, all saddled and ready
to be ridden. Soon a group of men stepped over the threshold and stood eyeing their beasts.

The man in front took Adcock’s attention. Even from this distance the fellow clearly had commanding presence, a round-shouldered
man with grey hair already turning white. His face was grim, square, and broad as he donned soft leather gloves, and he contemplated
Adcock from half-lidded eyes as the newcomer approached the hall. It was a cold, devious look, and when Adcock noticed an
archer with a bow at the ready, an arrow nocked on the string, he felt a rush of fear flood his soul. He was suddenly aware
that this man was dangerous.

‘Who are you?’ the commander called as he drew near.

‘Adam of Rookford, master,’ he answered quickly, feeling himself flush a little under the amused gaze of so many men.

‘Oh, aye, the new sergeant,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘You’ll be wanting to hasten inside, then, and find some ale after your journey.
There’s bread and meats. Shout for the servants for anything you need.’

‘You are off?’ Adcock looked about him for the raches and other hunting dogs, but there were none about other than the odd
sheepdog and cattle-herding brute.

‘Yes, we go to visit a neighbour or two,’ Sir Geoffrey said.

‘I thought you were hunting,’ Adcock said. He felt the eyes of all the men on him as he reddened and began to stammer. ‘I
was looking for dogs, but then I realised there weren’t any for hunting. Not out here, anyway.’

‘You want to see my dogs?’ Sir Geoffrey asked, and a strange smile came over his face. ‘Perhaps later, eh? For now, you rest
until I return.’

He took the reins of the horse brought to him by a shorter, narrow-shouldered youth, and swung himself into the saddle,
adjusting his sword until it was more comfortable on his hip, tugging at his glove again, settling himself in his seat. Then
he grinned at Adcock, and the new sergeant felt a renewed apprehension.

At his bellowed command, the other men clambered on their horses, and then, when he whirled his arm about his head and set
off at a smart canter, the others followed behind him in an untidy, straggling mass.

Hugh was lost in contentment as he carried his tools down to the road where the hedge stood.

It was an old one, this. A good local hedge, with solid moorstone inside to support it, covered with turves. Earth had been
piled at the top, and the first farmers would have thrown acorns and berries on to it, or perhaps planted young whips of hawthorn,
blackthorn, rose and bramble. Anything that would help to form a prickly, dense mass. And as the years passed, the thin little
plants had grown strong and tall, and when they were thick enough the farmers had come back with billhooks and slashers and
axes, and had cut half through the inch-thick stems and laid them over, fixing them in place by weaving them between stakes.
And the hedge had grown, solid, thick, impenetrable, self-renewing.