A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (11 page)

‘So am I,’ Abbot Robert said quietly. He coughed painfully, then sipped wine. ‘This cold weather is going to take me away,
I fear, but I should have liked to see Compostela. It is supposed to be very beautiful.’

He had turned away from Simon, and Simon saw that his gaze was gone to the window that looked out over the river and the bank
on the far side. In the past, Simon had stood in this room discussing business, and the abbot had all too often been hard
pressed to keep his mind on their discussions, for his attention would fly off to the window
whenever there was a flash of russet in the trees that spoke of a deer coming for water. The abbot was an inveterate hunter,
and prized his horses and his raches as among his most valued possessions. Now his mournful expression resembled that of one
of his mastiffs.

‘You will hunt again, Abbot,’ Simon said softly.

‘No, friend Simon. I fear I shall not,’ the abbot sighed. He looked up at Simon and smiled. ‘It is as I said, I long to set
down my burden. I meant it. You go and see your wife, man. You don’t want to be here in a dying man’s room. Go and see your
family, but come by here on your way back in case there is anything we need to discuss.’

‘I shall,’ Simon promised. He stood, but only reluctantly. This man had been good to him for so many years that leaving him
today was a wrench.

He walked to the door and glanced back. The abbot was slouching in his chair again, his eyes on the fire. To Simon, he looked
like someone who was already dead.

Robert Crokers heard the sound from a distance as he stood in the trees.

With no logs, he had to shift each morning to prepare enough timber for his fire, and it was fortunate that this piece of
land had not been worked by the coppicers for some little while. He could collect plenty of sticks and thicker twigs to form
faggots, and bind them with some old straw twisted to make a twine. He’d need a lot of them: bundles like that burned through
in no time compared with a couple of good logs, but when he’d collected a few to be going on with he’d be able to start cutting
up some old trunks that had lain on the ground since last winter. They’d not be perfect, not like the logs he had stored in
his pile, but
they’d do for now, and later he could organise himself to start a new pile.

He was exhausted. Worry about his bitch and what could have happened to her tore at him. She had been his only friend for
so long. And then there was the jumpiness that came to a man who had only a few days before been thrown from his land by violence.
There was a cloying odour of burnt wood and tar that stuck in his nostrils and prevented easeful rest.

Sir Odo’s man Walter was still with him, to be at hand in case of further incursions, and last night their slumbers had been
disturbed when the two of them had finally managed to drop off. In the middle of the night there had been a dreadful roaring
noise and both men had leaped to their feet, convinced that the attackers had returned.

‘Bastards!’ the old warrior spat. He grabbed his sword, and was out through the door like a rache seeing a rabbit. Robert
fully expected to hear screams and shouts, but he only hesitated a moment before he took up his billhook and ran out.

There was nothing there. Walter stood with his sword in his hand, head lowered as he scowled around him at the woods, but
even as Robert arrived behind him he could see that no one had come to attack them.

‘Where are they?’ Robert asked anxiously.

‘Don’t know,’ Walter said. He stood upright, shoved his sword into the scabbard and thrust his thumbs in his belt. ‘Probably
in their beds, if they have any sense. Must have been something else we heard. It came from the end, didn’t it?’

He led the way round the corner of the house and the two of them could see what had made the noise as soon as they
spotted the avalanche of dried mud and straw that had tipped on to the soil.

‘I wonder if the rest of the building is safe?’ Robert said.

Walter looked at him, then grunted to himself. ‘I don’t know, but I do know it’s warmer in there than out here.’

Recalling that, he could smile again now, but the idea that the house might collapse was a source of fresh fear to Robert.
Where the wall had fallen was directly beneath one of the roof supports, and he had the unpleasant feeling that others were
probably as unstable. Walter said he’d seen similar damage before, and that it had been cured by putting a plank underneath
the roof supports at the top of the walls. Perhaps that would work – but it was a daunting idea, lifting the roof enough to
push planks under.

He was still mulling over the easiest way to do it when he heard the low whine. It was a hideous sound, and he felt the hairs
on his upper neck start to shiver to attention. He was bent at that moment, reaching down for a longer length of branch, and
he stopped what he was doing as the terror of all things with fangs and claws returned to haunt him. As a little boy he had
regularly suffered from mares, and each time it was the same: a wolf, ravening, drooling at the sight of such an easy meal.
Even now he thought he could hear the soft padding of paws as it approached him.

With a whimper of fear, he snatched up the branch and whirled.

Only to see his sheepdog, greatly swollen with puppies, stagger towards him and lie down painfully at his feet.

Adcock was awake early the next day, and as he prepared himself for an expedition over to the eastern edge of the manor to
look at the pastures and assess their quality, he could hear bellowing from inside as Sir Geoffrey readied himself for his
ride. It served to make the sergeant’s desire to leave the place all the more urgent, hearing that hoarse shouting.

He was still shocked at the way the messenger had appeared yesterday. He’d entered haughtily proud, walking straight down
the hall, round the fire, until he stood in front of Sir Geoffrey. All the while Sir Geoffrey sat with a shoulder of mutton
in his hands, tearing at it with his small, square teeth until only the bone remained. This he held in his hand and studied.
Meanwhile the other men in the hall were laughing and calling the messenger names. At first they had been quiet, but as they
grew in belligerence some started to shout obscene suggestions at the man, one even throwing a piece of food at him.

At last Geoffrey had stood and lifted his hand. ‘Will you all be silent, please, for our guest?’ he cried with mock seriousness.
‘This poor fellow has ridden many miles to be with us tonight. He is tired. Would you like some wine, fellow?’

‘I am well enough, Sir Geoffrey. I have a message for you from Sir Odo.’

‘Oho! Have you!’ a man shouted from a bench. Adcock glanced up. It was Nick le Poter again. Always trying to foment trouble,
Nick was. He scared Adcock, because he was the sort of man who might kill to settle a dispute, and he was undeniably ambitious.
He wanted power for himself here in the manor, and if he ever took over from Sir Geoffrey the whole place would grow even
worse, as far as Adcock could see. He only seemed to understand brute force and bullying, nothing else.

Geoffrey leaned slightly to get a clearer view of the man who had called out. He pointed with his chin, and Adcock saw two
men from the doorway nod. They walked towards Nick.

‘Well, sir? What message does Sir Odo wish me to receive?’

‘He sends you his best wishes. He heard that you enjoyed your ride on Saturday, and hopes you enjoyed the hospitality of his
manor, but would remind you that it is the custom of visitors and guests to leave a room in the manner in which they found
it. He is disturbed that you appear to have broken down the walls, slaughtered cattle and sheep, and threatened the bailiff.
He would like you to make restitution. Naturally, he would like an apology too. He will inform Sir John Sully of the offence
given to his estates, and will appeal to Lord de Courtenay for support if necessary.’

‘He will, will he?’ Sir Geoffrey chuckled. Then he glanced to the side.

The man who had shouted abuse was gripped by the two men now, one at each arm. Sir Geoffrey nodded to him. ‘Lordings, this
fellow was rude to our guest. We can’t
have that, now can we? How should we punish him?’

Adcock frowned. This was peculiar behaviour even from the little he had seen of Sir Geoffrey. The man, Nick, now held by the
two guards, suddenly gave a convulsive heave, and managed to throw off one of them, but in a moment he was grabbed again,
and he could only stand mouthing futile imprecations while others gloated and laughed at his predicament.

‘What will we do with him?’ Sir Geoffrey asked again. ‘Well, if no one else will help me, I’ll have to think of a suitable
punishment myself. You! Fetch me a lash.’

At his command, a fellow from the far table hurried from the room, returning a few moments later with a thin lash. Sir Geoffrey
took it and swung it a few times, listening to its sharp hissing. ‘I don’t want my men being disobedient,’ he said lazily,
and then walked to the culprit. ‘What exactly did you say again?’

Nick said nothing, but only spat on the ground between them. Sir Geoffrey said not a word, but his face paled with rage. He
nodded to the two guards, and the unwilling victim was taken to the top table. While Adcock watched in horror, the man was
thrust over the board in front of him, scattering bowls and trenchers, until his bearded face was a scant foot from his own.
The guards sprang over the table, still holding his arms, and stood gripping his wrists, pulling his arms outstretched. Sir
Geoffrey drew his dagger and ran it up Nick’s shirt from his arse to his neck, incidentally snagging the man’s back a couple
of times, and pulled the shirt from him.

He looked straight at Adcock as he pronounced, ‘I will not tolerate disobedience in my manor. Not from any man.’ And then
he began to whip the fellow’s back until it was raw with blood.

Simon had reached his home before the third hour of the morning, and he clattered loudly down the roadway to his house at
an easy walk, anticipating his breakfast.

It was always good to ride along the ridge here towards Lydford in good, clear weather. The little town had been a centre
of tin-mining for many years, since before the Normans arrived even. The old houses could most of them do with being knocked
down and rebuilt, but for Simon there was some charm in the fact that this old outpost seemed to be unchanging. It was a part
of the delight of the place.

His house was towards the town’s heart, not far from the prison that had been his place of work for so long. He meandered
along the road, and then stopped outside the long Devon house that had been his home since he’d been given the job here eight
years ago.

Little around here had altered greatly in those eight years. They were lucky indeed that the wars that had so scarred the
kingdom had not reached this far west. The fighting had all been on the Welsh March, or farther north at York, Boroughbridge
and beyond. There the slaughter had been terrible after the Scottish invasions, so he’d heard.

Here, though, life had continued as it had for decades. His house stood solid and comforting, and beyond it, in the clear
morning’s air, he could see for miles to the north-west, over sporadic grey wastes of low-lying mist. He swung from his horse
and led it round to the back of the house, removing the saddle and bridle himself before slapping the beast on the rump to
send him running. Before long the rounsey was pulling at the grasses and chewing contentedly as though he’d never left this
place.

Simon left him there and made his way inside. The
ceiling was low and he had to stoop as he entered. He met a serving-girl, who gaped to see him. Winking at her he pointed
upwards, and she nodded emphatically, so he stepped quietly to the stairs and mounted them as quietly as he might.

In the solar upstairs, he could see that his daughter was still asleep, while his wife was kneeling with her back to him,
playing with his young son. Simon stood a moment staring at them, his heart feeling as though it had swollen to twice its
normal size. Peterkin was growing so quickly now, Simon felt as though he was missing too much that was important. But there
was little to be done about it. He had to work.

‘Dadad!’

He saw his wife’s startled expression as Peterkin ran past her and into Simon’s arms, and then she was with him too, her mouth
on his.

‘You have a strange idea of a place to meet,’ Sir Geoffrey said as he kicked his mount forward. ‘This is too much in the open.’

‘It was hard to pick somewhere in a hurry, sir,’ Sir Odo said calmly.

The two were at the bend in the Torridge river just below Brimblecombe. Neither was in a position to entirely trust the other,
and both remained on their horses, speaking low and quiet.

Sir Odo glanced about him as he asked, ‘You came alone?’

‘Of course! You think I want others to know we discuss things like this?’ Sir Geoffrey snapped.

Sir Odo considered him. ‘It’s as dangerous for me as it is
for you, Sir Geoffrey. I can’t afford for my master to know that I’m here any more than you can.’

‘Then let’s stop pissing in the wind and get to business!’ Sir Geoffrey retorted.

‘Very well. The attacks must stop. It’s getting out of control. It’s one thing to burn the bailiff from his place, but the
killings up at Iddesleigh won’t be so easy to cover over.’

‘Very funny.’

‘What?’

Sir Geoffrey said nothing for a moment. His eyes narrowed, and his face coloured, and then he faced the other knight. ‘Is
that a joke? If it is, I think it’s in poor taste.’

‘Those were your men, weren’t they? It’s the talk of the whole area. The man and his woman and child, so I heard. All murdered,
their holding burned, the livestock stolen … everyone is saying it was you and your men, that you rode to Iddesleigh immediately
after the work you did to Robert’s place. Do you mean it wasn’t you?’

‘What possible interest could I have had in attacking some peasant in his dwelling?’ Sir Geoffrey tore his gaze away from
Sir Odo, and he stared along the line of the river northwards. ‘I assumed it was you and your men.’

‘If I was going to retaliate, I’d do it with an assault on one of your manors,’ Sir Odo said reasonably. ‘I’d hardly attack
Iddesleigh, on my own lands, would I?’

‘It had occurred to me and my men that you were thinking of blaming us for a second attack. That was why we arranged for a
good alibi after we heard about it,’ Sir Geoffrey said musingly. ‘So if you wanted to make a point of putting the blame on
me, it would be a good place for you to attack – somewhere that looks like yours, but which wouldn’t upset your master at
all.’

‘It wasn’t me or my men,’ Sir Odo said flatly, and now he too was frowning at the view. ‘But if it wasn’t either of us, who
could it have been? Is there a band of outlaws that you’re aware of? I’ve heard nothing.’

‘No, nor I. But if there were a small band, they might be keen to avoid upsetting either of us. Perhaps this was merely a
short incursion by felons and they took what they could and fled?’

‘Perhaps,’ Sir Odo said, unconvinced. ‘But I should go cautiously for a while. We don’t want the balance we hold here to be
disturbed. If there is trouble, it will escalate to our lords, and there is no point in that. Your master and mine must baulk
at the thought of war over such a tiny piece of land. Provided we continue to niggle at it, they’ll be happy. But we don’t
want actual battle. Besides, it is not in our interests to have the land disputed seriously.’

‘Not while it is in our hands and we can profit from it,’ Sir Geoffrey agreed. ‘We can leave matters as they are for a while.
Let the peasants think that we have a truce, and then occasional little attacks to satisfy my master.’

‘Good,’ Sir Odo said.

He extended his hand. Sir Geoffrey hesitated, and then the pair sealed their pact with a handshake.

Then Sir Odo asked, ‘By the way – did you ever learn who it was who killed your sergeant?’

‘No. That is still a mystery to us. No doubt we shall learn, though.’

‘Have you heard that the widow, young Lucy of Meeth, has disappeared too?’ Sir Odo asked keenly.

‘No – I’d heard nothing about her. I have enough on my plate just looking to my own affairs without worrying about other people’s.’

Sir Odo nodded. ‘True enough. Godspeed!’ He wheeled his horse about, and set off at a canter southwards.

Sir Geoffrey considered him as he rode out of sight, and then he shook his head and touched his beast with the spur, and set
off at a gentle trot. It was a shame he had to destroy Sir Odo. When his master declared that he wanted a new piece of land,
it was best to obey him. Those who disobeyed the Despenser tended to have their lives shortened.

When the hammering came at the door, Simon heard the maid going to answer it, and idly ran his hand down his wife’s naked
flank, then leaned forward and kissed the curve of her waist. ‘I could lie here all day just making love to you,’ he whispered.

‘You have done before now,’ she chuckled throatily. She reached out to him and pulled his face to hers, kissing his lips.
‘I miss you so much,’ she said seriously.

‘I miss you too. Hopefully it won’t be long. How is Edith?’

‘She is in love with him, Simon. She says she won’t leave Lydford unless it’s as his wife.’

Simon looked away. It was too painful to accept that his daughter was already a woman and ready for marriage. ‘She seems so
young.’

‘I doubt not that I seemed too young to my parents when you wooed me.’

‘Perhaps,’ he sighed.

She smiled and rolled over on to her back, pulling him on top of her. ‘Do you remember how we used to make love all afternoon?’

‘Master?’

The shout up the stairs came just as he was preparing to
demonstrate that he could indeed recall those not-so-far-off days, and he frowned at his wife as she attempted to suppress
her giggling at his frustration. ‘Shall I go and send them away, Simon?’

He snapped over his shoulder, ‘What is it?’

‘A boy has come … a messenger, a man from Sir Baldwin, bailiff. It’s very important, he says. Urgent.’

Simon kissed Meg a last time, then grunted as he left her body. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

Dressed, he found the messenger warming his hands before his fire.

‘Wat?’

‘Sir … I am so sorry, sir,’ Wat burst out. ‘It’s Hugh. I am sorry, we’ve heard he’s dead, sir.’

‘No!’

‘Will you go to help Sir Baldwin at Hugh’s house?’

Simon did not bother to answer, but hurried up to tell his wife.

Robert Crokers was still weeping as the pups were born.

Someone had tried to kill his poor old bitch and she might never work again. The poor thing was ruined. She had a long cut
along her flank, where someone had plainly slashed at her as she ran past, and she must have spent the last few days in terror,
not daring to return to her home. God only knew what she had managed to eat, although from the look of her it wasn’t much.

As soon as he saw her he picked her up in his arms, buried his face in her neck, and carried her gently back to the house.
He laid her by the fire and gave her a little of the meaty soup he had made for himself, watching anxiously as she wolfed
it down. She was terribly weak, and her eyes
were haunted like a child’s who had lost a parent. Whenever there was a noise she didn’t recognise, she started and stared
fixedly at the door. When Walter walked in, she was petrified, growling low and rising painfully on her haunches at the sight
of the stranger.