A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (17 page)

He would visit this chapel and learn what he could.

Perkin winced and wiped at his face with his upper sleeve. The smell here was appalling, and he was reluctant to reach down
and pick her up, but someone would have to. Beorn was standing at the other side of the body, and now the two
of them reached underneath the corpse’s torso and lifted her from the shallow, muddy grave. They were up to their groins in
the thick mud still, but it was a relief that the worst of the filth seemed to have drained away. Perkin had the black mess
up to his breast from falling into a deeper pool, but Beorn had managed to avoid the worst of it.

‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ Beorn said quietly.

‘Looks like it,’ Perkin responded shortly.

They both knew her by sight. Lady Lucy had passed through their vill often enough. She had been a slight woman, attractive,
with a snub nose and long fair hair that somehow had always escaped from her coif or wimple when she was out. Perkin could
remember the way that she had smiled as she snared a stray tress and tried to tuck it back neatly. Somehow she always ended
up with more loose than before, but she’d always grin at her failures, as though it didn’t matter anyway.

That was before her old man died, of course. After that, she had grown a great deal more reserved, and her rides tended not
to encompass the Monkleigh roads, as though she knew she was in too much danger there.

As she had been. Someone had taken her and broken her limbs, and then killed her. This was no accidental falling into a bog
and drowning – not unless she had bound the rocks to her waist herself. She had a great blackened wound in her chest.

Adcock was already waiting at the edge of the bog, and Perkin and Beorn carried her to dry land and set her down as gently
as they could.

‘The poor woman!’ Adcock said in a hushed voice. ‘Does anyone recognise her?’

‘Lady Lucy of Meeth,’ Perkin said, and although his voice
was cold, he knew that Adcock had to be innocent of this killing. He only arrived here after she had disappeared.

‘She was in there?’

Perkin forbore to answer.

‘She must have been murdered and thrown in,’ Adcock said.

‘She was resting near the middle of the bog. Someone knew this place and chose to carry her there and drop her in,’ Beorn
said.

‘He was a brave man, then,’ Adcock guessed. ‘Most would fear to enter a bog – especially carrying a heavy burden like her.’

‘There were ways to cross it which were safe,’ Perkin said shortly. ‘Many of us knew them.’

‘What is all this?’

The familiar bellow startled the men. There was a slow clopping of hooves as Sir Geoffrey rode up to join them, and sat on
his horse staring down at the body.

‘Sweet Jesus! What is this?’

Adcock began, ‘The men say it is Lady Lucy of …’

‘I can see who it is, man! What in God’s name is she doing here?’

‘She was murdered, Sir Geoffrey,’ Perkin stated, bending his head respectfully.

‘How can you tell that?’

Perkin could scarcely keep the contempt from his tone even though this was his master. ‘She has had all her limbs broken,
sir. Then someone stabbed her, tied rocks to her, and threw her into the mire here.’

‘Probably a raping, then,’ Adcock said. ‘She must have been a pretty little thing.’

‘Rape?’ Perkin repeated.

‘Yes, rape. Quite right,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘Who pulled her out of there, though? The coroner will have something to say
about that.’

‘We couldn’t leave her in there, Sir Geoffrey,’ Perkin said.

Sir Geoffrey looked down at him. ‘And who found her there?’

Martin stepped forward nervously. ‘Sir, I saw her first. It was as the water fell away from round her.’

‘And who ordered that the mire be drained?’ Sir Geoffrey demanded, but his eyes were already on Adcock.

‘I did, sir. It’s my job to make the land as profitable as I can, and there’s little enough money in bogs.’

‘You may think you were doing the best for the manor,’ Sir Geoffrey said sarcastically, ‘but I hardly think that forcing us
to call the coroner and incurring a fine for murder is very helpful. Perhaps … we could simply throw her back in.’

‘It’s drained now,’ Perkin reminded him coldly.

‘There is still the second bog,’ Sir Geoffrey mused.

‘No, sir. We must send for the coroner,’ Perkin said bluntly. ‘He must come and examine the poor woman. She has been murdered
at the least.’

‘ “At the least”? What else has happened to her,’ Sir Geoffrey scoffed.

In answer Perkin took her hand and moved it. ‘Her arms are broken, and look at her hands! The nails were pulled from this
one. Do you think she did this all to herself?’

When Simon first saw it, he thought that the house on which Hugh had lavished so much attention might have been empty for
years: the walls had crumbled, and the roof was entirely burned away, showing blackened timbers thrusting upwards like the
ribs of an enormous animal. There was nothing to indicate that this had until recently been the home of a contented little
family.

When Baldwin, Jeanne and he reached it, all of them spattered with mud from the track, they were struck by the sense of sadness
that lay about the place. Someone had already started to remove stones from the walls, and bits and pieces of wood from the
little fence Hugh had built to protect his vegetables had been taken. It was natural enough that local people would come and
liberate useful items, but it only made Simon feel an increased anger, as though they were deliberately eradicating any memory
of his servant.

Baldwin was peering at the track beyond the property, and now he walked a short way up it, his eyes fixed on the muddy path.

Jeanne knew how his mind worked in situations like this, and left him to his careful perusal of the land, instead going to
Simon and putting her hand on his shoulder.

‘I am so sorry, Simon. I don’t know what Baldwin would do without Edgar. I can imagine it must be terrible after knowing a
man so well for so long.’

‘I just wish I’d been here to protect him … he looked after me so well for so many years …’

‘He would have known you’d have been here to protect him if you could have been,’ Jeanne pointed out. ‘He was loyal to you
because he knew you loved and respected him in turn.’

‘It wasn’t enough to save him, though,’ Simon said bitterly.

Baldwin joined them. ‘There have been a few horses here, but not for a long time. More recently there have been several men
on foot, mostly passing up and down the lane. I would guess some six or seven in total. Wait!’

He had seen some marks in the mud, and now he darted from the lane up into the wide garden of the house. At one point he stopped
and slowly walked towards the house, his eyes fixed to marks in the soil. That done, he shook his head, and walked along to
the fence. At a point where some stakes had been taken, he studied the ground carefully, then wandered back towards the lane,
but once there he shook his head.

‘This is impossible. I can see perhaps as many as eight feet, but of course they may have come here when the fire was seen
– to try to help douse the flames or save the people inside. Some were definitely here afterwards. One man’s feet certainly
led up to that fence. He stole bits and pieces from it. Some of the prints are undoubtedly those of the men who took the rocks
and wood from the house.’

‘I suppose someone will have had the bressemer already,’ Simon said.

‘A good lintel is hardly likely to have been left behind,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Do you mind if I have a look inside, Simon? I
want to see if there’s anything to learn.’

‘Just don’t step on his bones if they’re there,’ Simon said. He gave a humourless half-chuckle. ‘It sounds like a joke, doesn’t
it? It’s hard to imagine that he was burned away completely.’

‘Yes,’ said Baldwin shortly. ‘It is.’

Simon turned away as Baldwin set off towards the door. Baldwin knew that his friend was squeamish about dead bodies generally,
but today he was surprised – he would have expected Simon to show more interest in the scene of Hugh’s death. And then he
recalled that the first time he had met Simon had been during investigations into fires and murders near Baldwin’s home. Simon
had often said how he had found it hard to eat pork afterwards, because the odour was so similar to that of scorched human
flesh. The idea of finding part of Hugh’s body would be naturally revolting – perhaps ‘horrific’ would describe it better.

Baldwin had more experience of death and the destruction which men could wreak on each other. He had a belief that any murderer
left clues about his motives and his personality at the scene, and he hoped that there would be something here for a man with
a naturally enquiring mind to learn. Outside all was a mess of mud and footprints, but perhaps inside there would be less
disturbance.

In his life he had seen many men who had been killed by burning, and there was much about this story which he found frankly
incredible. He had witnessed Jacques de Molay being burned at the stake, and he recalled how many of the people of Paris had
swum the Seine to reach the spot where Jacques had died in order to collect fragments of his
bones. They were saved afterwards as relics. That thought was uppermost in his mind as he stood in the doorway gazing at the
devastation inside.

Many feet had been in here, stirring the fine ashes that lay all over. From the threshold he could see the main chamber of
the building, although there was a second, smaller room on the right which could be entered through a narrow, doorless archway.
That led to what had once been the storerooms, Baldwin guessed, the buttery and pantry. This main room would have been Hugh’s
living area.

Looking about him, Baldwin could see a larger patch of slightly different-coloured ash lying in the middle of the room. That,
he thought, must be where the hearth had been. From there he began to make out certain details about the place. There were
a couple of thicker charred timbers, which looked as though they could have been the legs of a solid bedframe. To the side,
right in the angle of the wall, there was an area that was significantly scuffed, and there, he guessed, was where the child
had been found. Jankin had said that he was found lying in a corner, and the disturbed area looked about the right size for
a little boy. It made Baldwin feel inexpressibly sad to think that the child might have crawled there, away from the noise
and terror of attacking men. Perhaps the lad had seen Hugh die, and his mother fall. Being a realist, and remembering the
woman’s soft beauty, Baldwin had to wonder whether the lad had also witnessed her rape. It was more than likely.

The ashes appeared uniform over the floor, and Baldwin crouched down to view them from a lower angle to see if there was anywhere
a lump which could have been a body, but there was nothing. The only thing he did notice was that the ash appeared to have
worn in a channel from this
doorway to the room at the back of the house. It led close to the wall, all the way round the room until it reached the archway.

A man walking might make such a little gutter in the surface, Baldwin thought to himself. Footprints wouldn’t last in this
soft, feathery ash. A faint gust of wind would remove definition from all edges unless the ash grew damp, and this was still
very dry. Slowly he rose to his full height. Taking a grip on his sword’s hilt, he pulled it a short distance from its sheath
as he started to follow the trail. No, he could see no footprints, but the ash was so light it blew about his ankles even
as he walked. Any prints would have been blown over and concealed in moments. Baldwin stepped slowly towards the open doorway.
Inside the chamber it was darker, but suddenly Baldwin saw that there was a flickering. Someone had lit a fire in there. Even
as he realised that, Baldwin could smell meat cooking. He set his jaw, drew his sword fully from his sheath, and was about
to spring inside when he was stopped by a voice.

‘Sir Baldwin, please don’t prick me with that. Steel’s no good for my digestion.’

Humphrey closed the door behind him as he heard the men approaching. He froze a moment, thinking that someone was coming to
fetch him, but he told himself not to be so stupid. No one could have seen what lay inside the chapel. He glanced over his
shoulder and scowled at the party. ‘What is it?’

Perkin was not of a mind to be spoken to so churlishly, not after his morning. ‘There’s a dead woman at the manor. We want
a priest to speak the words over her.’

Sweet Jesus! It had been a long time since Humphrey
had spoken the
viaticum
over the dead. He hesitated and licked his lips. ‘Who is it? I didn’t know there were any women unwell?’

‘There aren’t,’ Perkin said gruffly. ‘It’s Lady Lucy, the woman who disappeared a little while ago at Meeth. She was found
this morning. Someone killed her and threw her into our bog.’

‘Good God!’ Humphrey said and crossed himself. He shot a look at the chapel. ‘Um – very well. I shall come, but keep quiet
out here. Father Isaac is asleep.’

Perkin shrugged. ‘He’s an old man. He deserves a little rest. We’ll keep silent, don’t worry.’

Humphrey hurried back inside, fetched his purse with the bottle of holy water, glanced at the altar and crossed himself hurriedly,
then joined the men outside. By the time they were all walking up the lane towards Monkleigh, his mind was working quickly.
‘If she was on your lands, did no one see her?’

Perkin could hear the false casualness in his voice. ‘It’s none of us, if that’s what you think, Father. I had nothing to
do with it, and I don’t think any of my friends in the vill did either. She was …’ He paused, seeking the right words,
but could find no subtle phrase to hide the truth. ‘She was tortured before she died. Someone broke her bones and hurt her
before he killed her.’

‘Who would do a thing like that!’ Horrified, Humphrey stopped in the lane to stare at him. ‘You have been listening to stories
put about for children!’ But no one replied, and Humphrey felt a hollowness in his throat as the import of their silence struck
home.

All had heard of the brutality of Sir Geoffrey’s master. The Despensers were ruthless in pursuit of their ambitions.
Everyone knew the tales of people run down on the roads when they were recalcitrant; the king’s brother, Thomas of Brotherton,
had been coerced into renting lands cheaply to Despenser, and later he had to give them over entirely; even the king’s niece,
Elizabeth, Lady Damory, had been forced to surrender the lordship of Usk, despite being Despenser’s sister-in-law. Lady Damory
herself had been left with almost nothing of the vast inheritance she should have been able to enjoy.

Humphrey was silent as they walked up the lane towards the field which had been drained, but now it was the silence of dawning
horror.

It had seemed such a simple plot at first. He’d arrived at Hatherleigh a penniless outlaw, constantly on the run, and at first
he hadn’t noticed the shambling old man behind him. When he turned and spotted the clerical robe he had wanted to bolt. It
was only when he saw that the priest was almost blind, and very obviously in pain, that he had slowed and considered his options.

The trouble was, for a renegade like Humphrey, it was very difficult to survive. What openings were there for a man like him
– the life of a thief and draw-latch? Spending the whole of his life from here on fearing the steps behind him, wondering
whether it would be an officer hoping to catch him? Or should he find a nice quiet location where he could hide for a while,
unconsidered, unnoticeable, gathering his resources until he could run again, take a ship abroad, make a new life somewhere
else?

But for him it would be difficult to find somewhere to hide. There were no easy places of concealment, and in any case he
had no money. Everything he had once possessed was still with the men who had taken it from him.

This priest was clearly ancient. He shuffled along the street like a beggar himself, stumbling into people, peering at them
with eyes that were almost blind, apologising for his clumsiness. Humphrey began to follow him, watching him closely, because
already a faint glimmering of an idea was forming at the back of his mind.

Isaac soon wandered off the main thoroughfare, and seemed content to wait by a cart in an alley nearby. Humphrey took his
post in a darkened doorway. He peered at the old man, wondering how old he was, a speculative frown wrinkling his brow as
he sucked his bottom lip. Yes, this man could well be his escape from this miserable existence. He looked at Isaac and saw
a bed, food, a fire … Isaac was a refuge of sorts.

A youngish man arrived, short, stout, with mousy hair and a cast in one eye, belching happily. ‘Sorry, Father.’

‘It was a sound to be proud of, my son. The ale house?’

‘Yes. It was good in there. No dancing, though.’

‘Good. Dancing is a terrible thing. It’s the devil’s way of tempting youths and maids into sin, you know.’

‘Yes, Father,’ the man said. He was plainly unbothered by the warning. This was one of the old-fashioned priests, then, opposed
to singing and dancing at any time, one of those men who would baulk at the thought of a maid and a man indulging their natural
desires. So be it. Humphrey could act his part.

The cart moved off, lumbering slowly, and Humphrey let it go a way before he set off in pursuit … little realising how
far he would have to walk. Yet it had been worth it. He trailed along after the cart until it left the town, and then he was
fortunate enough to see the carter wave to a watchman at the edge of the market. He hurried to the watchman and
said, ‘Excuse me, friend, but that cart, was that the miller?’

‘Him? No, he’s Guy from Monkleigh. There’s a mill there, but he’s not the miller.’

‘And the priest with him? He is also from Monkleigh?’

‘Yes. Poor old sod. He is from the chapel out there, but he’s as blind as a bat; deaf too. Can’t keep that job for long.’

‘Thank you.’

And that was that. A few days later, he walked into the chapel, freshly tonsured, clad in his old garb, and with a happy smiling
visage to present to the world. When the old priest appeared in the doorway, Humphrey carefully checked behind him to see
that he was alone, and presented his parchment. ‘Here I am, Father.’

While the milky eyes peered at the letters, then rose again to Humphrey’s confident, smiling face, Humphrey could scarcely
keep his joy from bubbling over. At last he was safe.

Since that glorious day, some seven months ago, he had been here, and he had performed a useful service. Isaac was incapable
of fulfilling his priestly functions, let alone looking after his fields. Everything was left to Humphrey, and it was lucky
that he had the training for it. He took the services, married many youngsters, blessed the living, baptised the newborn,
and in every way conformed to the locals’ perception of a good priest. He pandered to Isaac’s views on all aspects of life,
stopping dancing and music in the little chapel’s yard, loudly condemning those who gambled with dice in the nave during his
Mass, and living up to the tiresome old bigot’s expectations in every way he could. The fact of Isaac’s deafness and his blindness
were merely bonuses. They made it all but impossible for Isaac to realise what Humphrey was up to.