A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (27 page)

Now, his scalp crawling, he realised what had made the place appear so pleasingly homely: the odour of wood smoke. Now he
could see that there was a good little fire of dry wood burning in a makeshift fireplace ringed about with small rocks in
the middle of the room, and he felt his
fear return to flood him. Slowly, cautiously, he leaned over to peer through the doorway.

And he shrieked as he caught sight of a mad, glowering face only inches from his own. Then he felt the crunch of a cudgel
at the back of his head, and he forgot his panic as he slumped headlong into a vast pool of blackness.

Baldwin had heard their last exchange and he looked at Malkin now, asking, ‘Do you think Sir Geoffrey could have been personally
responsible for your husband’s death, or was that an act by one of his men, then?’

‘I am certain it was him. He could have paid one of his men to thrust the knife home, but it was his order that led to my
Ailward being killed.’

A man had entered now, a tall man with greying hair. He stood in the doorway scowling suspiciously at the men talking to the
two women. ‘Who are you?’

‘Pagan, don’t worry. These men are here to learn what happened to the master,’ Malkin said.

‘We know what happened to him,’ the man spat. ‘He was killed so he couldn’t claim his lands back.’

Baldwin pricked up his ears. ‘Was there a chance that he might?’

Malkin drew a deep breath. ‘I had lodged a complaint at the king’s bench to demand my own lands be returned to me. Part of
the manor was my own dower, and I wanted it back. And Ailward had never stood against the king. He had always remained a loyal
vassal. Yet he was being punished for what his father had done. That was wrong – and I think that the king must have realised
it before long and offered to return to us all of our lands. Sir Geoffrey knew that. So he had Ailward killed.’

‘It is a serious allegation to make against a man who is so strong,’ Baldwin commented.

‘You think I don’t know that!’ she hissed, and she met Baldwin’s look with eyes that seemed to blaze with a sudden green fire.
‘I have lost my husband and my lands, my servants … my future. All gone – and you tell me I make serious allegations because
I want justice against the man who was responsible?’

‘If he had your husband killed, you should be careful. He may try to do the same to you,’ Baldwin murmured.

‘If he tries, he’ll find we’re not so easy to kill!’ Pagan declared. He stood with his arms crossed and jaw jutting defiantly.
‘Any man tries to break in here, he’ll find more than just two widows …’

Isabel held up her hand and spoke gently. ‘Pagan, that is enough. There’s no need for more rancour here. Besides, you don’t
sleep here overnight. That could be … indecorous.’

‘You don’t have a man to sleep here with you?’ Baldwin asked.

‘We are in a strong enough group of buildings. If any tried to break in here we would be able to protect ourselves,’ Isabel
said. ‘And Sir Odo has promised support if we need it. All we need do is send for help, and he and his men would be here.’

‘It may be safer to let Pagan stay here,’ Baldwin said.

‘It would not be right to have a man sleeping in our household. We are two widows. There are plenty of others here to protect
us.’

Baldwin nodded, unconvinced. Turning to Pagan, he said, ‘You were servant to Ailward?’

‘I was servant to his father, then to him. I made my vow
to serve his father and I haven’t faltered. I’ll protect their memory just as I did their bodies when they lived, and now
both are dead I’ll protect their women as well as their honour.’

Baldwin watched Isabel as she smiled at Pagan. He guessed that there was a closeness between them, and it was no surprise.
How often had he heard people in Crediton talking in hushed, shocked tones about widows who had married their stewards? Time
beyond count. And yet he found it a little surprising in this case. Isabel did not look the sort who would be inclined to
mix with a man like Pagan. She was too haughty by nature.

He nodded. ‘That is good, Pagan. If someone were to come here to attack and rape or kill your mistresses you would naturally
be right to protect them. Now, is there anything any of you can tell me about the death of Ailward? Anything you have remembered
since the coroner came?’

Pagan looked from Malkin to Isabel and back. ‘There is nothing I can think of. Ailward was found lying up on the hill leading
towards Whitemoor. It was near to the stream, I think. Up at the top of a little rise.’

‘I do not know this area well. Is there someone who could take me there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Such as the man who found him,’ Edgar suggested.

Baldwin nodded. ‘Yes, that would be best,’ he agreed.

‘That’s easy enough. You need Perkin from Monkleigh. He’s one of the men who used to be ours,’ Pagan declared. ‘If you tell
him I said he should take you up there, he’ll do it.’

Baldwin smiled thinly. ‘I think I can make sure he does. What does he look like?’

While Pagan described him, Simon stood and stretched
his legs. It was good to think that they’d soon be leaving this sad little hovel to return to the inn. He wanted to get away
from this house and the feeling of cloying misery that hung about it. After losing Hugh, he had enough sorrow already, and
he didn’t need to share in other people’s.

Outside the light was fading quickly, he saw, and he found himself wondering how well this place really could be protected
against an attack. If a force of men were to ride through the vill and assault the house, they must succeed speedily. It took
little time to hurl flaming torches on to a roof and set the whole ablaze, after all. Sir Geoffrey seemed a ruthless enough
man. No doubt he would destroy this place with the women inside it in a moment if he thought that they were a threat to him.
Just as, maybe, he had killed Hugh.

Hugh had lived on a patch of ground that was not on Sir Geoffrey’s manor, but was contiguous with it. If a man was to try
to expand his holdings, stealing a plot like Hugh’s might make sense. Especially since Hugh was without a defender. Others
about Iddesleigh were no doubt villeins, peasants who owed labour to their master in return for his protection: but Hugh was
a free man. He had no one to defend him.

It seemed curious to him that the women were keen to have Pagan sleep away from their house. It would be more sensible to
have their most loyal man sleeping in the hall with them. Yet it wasn’t distrust, surely, because they were happy for him
to remain with them during the day. Their fear for their reputation could end with their being captured.

‘One thing,’ he asked on a whim. ‘You mentioned, Madam Malkin, that part of the manor was your dower. Where was that?’

‘It was the land nearer the river north and west of here. My husband’s family owned Monkleigh and the lands east of it, but
mine owned the river and the banks for a mile or so. The fishing alone was worth a fortune. We used to harvest the salmon
each year. Now we have nothing.’

Baldwin frowned. ‘But surely that is the land which is now disputed by Sir Geoffrey and Sir Odo?’

‘Yes. I think Sir Geoffrey has sold our lands to Sir Odo – and I gave no permission for that!’

At that moment, Sir Geoffrey was feeling very little like a threat to anyone. He sat on his horse and bellowed while the grooms
and hounds milled madly in the yard behind the hall. There was an insolence about the villeins today, a sulkiness that was
not normal.

‘You! Get the men ready, damn their souls!’ he roared at Adcock. Then he struck with his lash at a hound which had approached
too close to his mare’s legs. ‘Get back, you devil!’

Adcock eyed the men unhappily and, catching sight of his master’s expression again, hurriedly limped over to join them. ‘Come
on, you heard Sir Geoffrey. He wants us all to help find Nick.’

He felt sick to think of the poor man out there in the wilds and the cold, stumbling onwards through the gathering gloom,
knowing that at any moment he might be spotted by Sir Geoffrey’s men. It was a dreadful thought: being hunted like a wild
animal, the full complement of Sir Geoffrey’s foul companions riding after him, shrieking and whooping in glee as they saw
their quarry, while all the time Nicholas le Poter’s terror increased and he forced himself to run, run, run …

Beorn answered. ‘We don’t want any part of this.’

‘You refuse to join a legal posse? You can be punished for that. You know it, don’t you? Come on, you’re all grown men. All
you have to do is show willing.’

‘Willing? And willingly help chase a man to death?’ Perkin said. ‘If he’s guilty, then it’s as likely as not that your master
is involved, sergeant.’

Adcock shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. ‘Don’t speak so loud,’ he pleaded. ‘You don’t know what he’s capable of!’
God, but his ballocks still ached so much! He couldn’t bear the thought of another beating.

‘We’ve seen enough, of him and his men,’ Rannulf declared. His legs were apart, and his arms crossed, but he looked ready
for a fight. From all Adcock had heard, he usually was.

‘If you don’t go and help him, all that’ll happen is the man will be caught anyway and probably he’ll die. There’s nothing
much we can do to stop that. But if you stay here, he’ll make life for all of you hell. You know he can. He’ll impose new
fines, take most of your crops, stop your women marrying who they want to … there’s no end to his power. You know that.
Make a stand if you want, but think of how it’ll hurt your womenfolk.’

Perkin stepped closer. ‘You know that Sir Geoffrey is saying that le Poter killed Lady Lucy? Why’d he do that?’

‘Just to rape her, I suppose.’

‘Which is why she was tortured? Whereas if it was Sir Geoffrey, he could end up with her lands and manor, couldn’t he? Which
do you think is more likely?’

Adcock desperately sought for the words that would allay this man’s suspicions without declaring his own doubts, but none
came to him. He saw Perkin give a grim nod.

‘You think the same, don’t you? Why should we go and seek to punish someone for Sir Geoffrey’s crimes, just to help deflect
any blame from Sir Geoffrey? He’s no lord of ours.’

‘You won’t come?’ Adcock asked desperately. He hated to think how his master would react if all these men refused.

It was Beorn who snorted long and loud. He hawked and spat out a gobbet of phlegm. ‘Damn Sir Geoffrey, and damn Nicholas le
Poter. They’re two of a kind. I suppose if we’re all there, we can decide whether to protect le Poter if we want. We can’t
do a thing if we leave him to Sir Geoffrey’s mercy.’

Perkin grunted, and Rannulf scratched at his ear. One or two other men shuffled and refused to meet Adcock’s eye. It was that
more than anything that told him they’d go with Sir Geoffrey’s posse. They knew what sort of retribution Sir Geoffrey could
demand from those who thwarted his will.

Adcock went back to his little horse and climbed on to it unhappily, sinking down very gently and carefully. He had his dad’s
old sword swinging heavily at his hip, and a coil of rope was tied to his saddle, with which, he guessed, they might bind
the man while he still breathed, and bring him back to the hall. It left him feeling most uncomfortable.

As the hounds were released, he set off towards the rear of Sir Geoffrey’s party. The sun was low in the sky, but at least
up here with so few hills to the west, there was still enough light to see by.

A few of the hounds had gone off to follow the trails of badgers or rabbits, and had to be whipped into line. Sir Geoffrey
had given an old bloodstained shirt of Nicholas’s to the master of the hounds, and the man had thrown it to all of them before
setting off. Now there was a conviction in
their voices as they gave vent to their excitement, and the men were soon clattering down the lane from the hall, over the
roadway, and southwards towards the little chapel.

‘He’s gone to claim sanctuary,’ Perkin guessed from Adcock’s side.

Adcock couldn’t disagree. ‘But what’ll Sir Geoffrey do if he’s inside?’

‘He doesn’t care about the niceties, our master. I expect he’ll send us in to haul Nicholas out.’

Adcock shivered. He couldn’t do that. It was not just cruel and unfair to drag a man from sanctuary, it was blasphemy. He
couldn’t break the sanctity of the altar just to satisfy Sir Geoffrey’s bidding.

He looked up at Sir Geoffrey’s back. It exuded confidence, and Adcock knew that the steward would break any man who stood
in his path. A picture of Nicholas’s back flashed into his mind. The flesh ripped apart, the blood oozing thickly …

Edgar rode along easily. Their path took them east to the main road from Exbourne to Iddesleigh, and he was looking forward
to a pot of ale when he reached the inn again. The thought of a good, hot fire was appealing, especially when associated with
a bowl of pottage and maybe some rabbit or pork to go with it. He jogged along contentedly enough.

The setting sun painted the sky with pinks and purples, and he reflected how much his wife would have enjoyed the scene. Petronilla
was always looking for beauty: she saw it in flowers, in water, in bird feathers, and here she’d have found it in the sky.
It took little to make her happy. So long as he was behaving, anyway!

It was a sobering reflection that while he was here still,
happy with his wife, poor Hugh’s family was gone. Edgar was at bottom a pragmatic man, and he knew that if someone tried to
rape and kill his wife, they’d have to kill Edgar first. The idea of living knowing that someone had done that to her was
so appalling that he could feel a shiver of revulsion travel down his spine at the mere thought. It would be unbearable.

He wanted to know who had done this to Hugh’s family so that he could look them in the eye and try to understand what sort
of man could perform such a foul act. Oh, he had seen plenty of felons in his time, and all too often they were dim, gormless
men who saw an opportunity and took it. That explained only too many sudden attacks and killings. But that wasn’t what had
happened at Hugh’s place. There it hadn’t been a sudden, random assault. It had been premeditated, as far as Edgar could see.

There had been a party at the inn, which had concealed the attack – but everyone in the vills about here could have known
about the party at the inn that night. There was nothing secret about it.

Simon and Baldwin were silent as they rode and Edgar did not see any reason to break the peace. They ambled along, the twilight
darkening the country about them, hearing the screeching of a blackbird as they disturbed her from her perch, the sudden clatter
of a pigeon overhead, the distant mournful call of a fox. There were so many noises. Even the wind seemed loud as it whistled
in his ears.

And then he heard the other noises. With ears that had been attuned for almost all his adult life to the sound of potential
danger, he heard a squeaking of leather, the high-pitched jingling of metalwork, and then, as he turned his
head and frowned in concentration, the cries of men and the baying of hounds.

‘Sir Baldwin! Listen!’

Sir Geoffrey was annoyed with the delay. Trying to gather all the villeins together had taken an age, and then the miserable
curs had tried to avoid their duty. They wouldn’t get away with that sort of shirking, not while he was master of the manor.
No, they’d damned well learn to obey.

Nicholas le Poter was a fool. He might have thought he could evict Sir Geoffrey, but it was the last mistake he’d make. When
this posse caught up with him, he’d be pulled apart. Literally.

‘Sir Geoffrey? There are men ahead.’

He swore quietly under his breath. Round the curve in the road, he suddenly saw three men on horseback. They stopped at sight
of his little force, and one horse reared as the hounds reached them.

‘Sir Baldwin!’ he bellowed. ‘I am glad to see you, sir. I am chasing the man who killed Lady Lucy. Have you seen him going
this way?’

Baldwin and Edgar exchanged a look. Simon was glowering down at a hound that kept darting under his mount, making the rounsey
skittish.

It was Baldwin who responded. ‘We’ve seen no one on this road.’

Sir Geoffrey swore under his breath again. This was not turning out as he had planned. Surely the hounds weren’t mistaken
…

‘Sir Geoffrey, they’re going down towards the chapel,’ his huntsman suddenly called.

‘After them! He’s trying to reach sanctuary!’ Sir Geoffrey shouted and set spurs to his horse.

He was aware of his posse springing into the chase behind him. Yes, as he passed by the angry-looking bailiff, whose beast
was dancing like a tamed bear, he saw the main part of the pack turning off the road and taking the little lane that went
down the hill to the chapel. That was where the fool had gone, thinking he’d be safe down there. Well, he was mistaken. Sir
Geoffrey felt his lips pull into a snarl of satisfaction as he urged his horse down the incline towards the chapel.

It was quiet. The dogs were at the door, sniffing and protesting, although two or three had trotted off towards the fields
nearby. He ignored them, but bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Nicholas le Poter – come out and surrender or I shall have
you pulled out.’

‘You will not!’

Sir Geoffrey turned to see the calm face of the Keeper at his side. ‘Sir Baldwin, this is a matter for my manor. It’s none
of your concern.’

Baldwin was quiet for a moment. He glanced about Sir Geoffrey at the men with him. There were some few, he thought, who looked
like ordinary peasants from the vill, but others … others were different. He recalled the widow’s words about men who
would keep to the hall in daylight and only appear at night, and he told himself that the careers of some of these fellows
would bear little scrutiny. He had not seen so many dangerous-looking characters together in many a year.

‘I think you are wrong,’ he said at last. ‘If there is a man in there who has committed murder, it is very much my concern.
It is my duty to seek felons and murderers. And it
is not your place to command a man to leave a place of sanctuary, either.’

‘It is not sanctuary. It’s a chapel, and it has never been declared sanctuary to my knowledge.’

‘Perhaps not. Nevertheless, it is a holy chapel and you will not desecrate it by entering with armed men and pulling a defenceless
man from within.’

‘I can do what I like on my estates,’ Sir Geoffrey declared more quietly, his voice dropping.

‘Not while I am here, Sir Geoffrey,’ Baldwin said calmly.

‘Out of my way!’ Sir Geoffrey grated and reached for his sword’s hilt.

As he did so, he heard a swift rasp of steel from his right. Glancing down, he found himself staring at a naked blade held
by Baldwin’s man.

‘You dare draw steel against me?’ he growled.

‘Against any who threaten my master, yes,’ Edgar said happily.

‘You will regret this!’

‘I doubt it,’ Baldwin said coolly. ‘Now, please, do you wait here while I go inside. Edgar, you stay with him.’

Jeanne was still at the inn, although she would have been happier to leave and go for a walk. Richalda had fallen asleep,
and Jeanne had set her down on a bench nearby. From experience she knew that Richalda could sleep through a charge of cavalry.
The noise in this bar would be nothing to her.

The racket was growing, too. First Emma declared that she needed more wine, then that she needed food, that she was starving,
that her head ached; all of which were interspersed with comments on the local population, the
quality of the staff, especially Jankin, and the general lack of amenities.

In the end, from sheer embarrassment, Jeanne left her to it. She slipped out of the inn and stood outside just as the sun
was fading. As the door closed she distinctly heard her maid demanding a quart of wine, and ‘None of that pissy water you
call wine round here. I want a good dark red. Quickly, man!’

Jeanne closed her eyes in shame. If there was ever a time when she could have cheerfully discarded her maid, it was now. Even
when she had first been introduced to Baldwin, she had not been quite so appallingly rude. Not that Jeanne could remember,
anyway. Admittedly the woman was atrocious in any company, but her behaviour today had been even worse than usual.

At a burst of raucous laughter, Jeanne shuddered, convinced that someone was gaining revenge for some of Emma’s foul comments,
and she walked quickly away from the inn. The church was a short walk away, and she felt the need for a little spiritual comfort
just now. She was almost at the small gate which barred the entrance to the vill’s pigs and dogs when she heard panting and
rapid footfalls. Turning swiftly and frowning into the gloom, she saw a figure lurching up the lane.

Jeanne was a lady of quality, and the thought that a man could be approaching her at this time of night in a distressed state
was hardly pleasing, but she was only too aware of the responsibilities laid on a Christian who found a fellow being in a
state of need. She was tempted to go to the inn’s door and pull him inside to the warm, but something in his manner told her
that it would be pointless. He came past the inn with his gaze fixed and staring, almost lunatic from the look of
him. Jeanne shivered to see how his face was so set, like a man who was already wounded to death, but retained just enough
energy in his legs to carry on. In fact, she thought he looked like a man who must keep moving, as though he must die as soon
as he stopped.