A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (2 page)

A Map of Iddesleigh
and area
in the early 1300s

Simon Puttock, bailiff to the Keeper of the port of Dartmouth, sat alone in his chamber listening to the wind howling about
the houses. Shivering, he sipped his spiced wine with a feeling of unfocused anxiety, thinking of death.

In part perhaps it was his loneliness. His wife and family were still in Lydford, almost a day’s journey across Dartmoor,
and he missed them all dreadfully; the weather only served to add to his sense of trepidation and dislocation.

There was a storm blowing in from the south, and every gust made the shutters rattle alarmingly, while rain and hail splattered
loudly against them. Indoors the tapestries and hangings rustled and shivered as though being shaken by demons who mocked
him from the darker recesses of the room. Outside there was a wild shrieking and thrumming from the rigging of the ships,
a sound he would never grow accustomed to. It was too much like insane creatures screaming and gibbering.

Such thoughts would never have occurred to a man such as Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. Simon knew himself to be less worldly than
his friend, who often laughed at Simon’s nervousness about passing certain places of ill-fame and his
cautiousness regarding old wives’ tales – Baldwin called them ‘superstitious drivel’. ‘Only a child could believe such rubbish,’
he had once said contemptuously when Simon had told him the story of the Grey Wethers.

The tone of his voice had shown Simon how comprehensively Baldwin rejected such old moor legends, but it was different for
him. Baldwin had been bred up in the gentle, soft lands north-east of Crediton; Simon had been born on the moors, and a moorman
was always more aware of their history and atmosphere than foreigners. Simon could feel the mood of the moors in his bones.
As he grew older, he found that he was ever more attuned to the brooding nature of their spirit.

It was that which tonight made him start and shoot a glance over his shoulder, then round at the blacker corners. There was
a sense of foreboding which he couldn’t shake off, no matter how hard he tried. He felt sure that it must be something to
do with the passing year, the terrible things he had witnessed: the murders in Exeter, Baldwin’s own near-death, and the despair
of so many people at their bereavement; and he looked forward with hope to a new year that would be happier for all.

If he had realised what was to come, he would have been less keen to see the old year pass by. Yet at the outset that was
his only hope: that the events of 1323 would soon fade in his memory and the new year would dawn bright and full of hope.

He was to be disappointed. The year of our Lord 1324 held only more horror and misery. And of all the grim events of those
months, it was the first, the loss of his servant Hugh, that was to cause him the most despair.

She whimpered as she heard the man approach. He brought with him a rattling, slow little handcart, laden as before. He didn’t
need it: she knew as well as he did that she was ruined already. There was nothing more he could do that could increase her
terror.

It was a cold room. No matter how hot he made the fire, the warmth failed to reach her. She knew only the damp, the feeling
of freezing stone underfoot, the rank smell of rottenness from soggy sacking. It was odd how she felt the chill and moisture,
while all the time her nostrils told her that the air was filled with the foul exhalation of flames and heated steel.

A place dedicated to destruction, this. She knew what had happened in such chambers: Christ Jesus, all knew what went on.
When the rich and powerful desired something, people were brought here screaming and begging for mercy; later, much later,
if they were lucky, they were pulled hence not too badly broken. The still more fortunate were never seen again. Many died
while their torturers tried to wring the last sensation of agony from their bodies.

She was not ready for this. She had made prayers to Holy Mother Mary, pleading that she might be saved, but nothing had happened
– neither an increase in her courage nor the blessed relief of death to save her from what she knew must be coming.

The man himself had nothing about him to tell what sort of evil lurked within him. Just an ordinary countryman, a little older
than most, he stood now beside the little cart piled with its steel tools, the heavier devices collected about the outside
like a smith’s ranged around his anvil, and looked at her with his unfathomable eyes.

She wondered what colour those eyes would be in daylight. Here they looked simply empty, as though the cell
absorbed all colour from him, just as it had sucked away the kindness and compassion. Nothing was left but an enquiring calculation.
And she must stand with her arms shackled high over her head, terrified, while he contemplated her like a butcher eyeing a
fresh steer.

They wanted her money. All she had in the world was her little manor, and now this murderer was going to take it from her
and leave her destitute. She could try to hold back for as long as she might, but in the end he would have it. He would flay
her, break all the bones in her limbs, burn her naked flesh. Just as had been done to poor Lady Baret.

He wore a stained and worn linen shirt, and now he drew a smith’s apron over his head. It was thick ox-hide, a good shield
against fires and burns, and she watched with tense, draining horror as he pulled a long brand from his cart, and set it to
lie with its end among the coals.

While it rested there, he eyed her, his face lighted by the orange glow of the fire, making all the creases and wrinkles stand
out like the devil’s. It gave him the appearance of total evil. Her heart was frozen with fear, and she felt certain that
he could sense her dread. And then she became aware of something else. Although it was a dark and gloomy room, she saw a smile
break out on his features.

Then he turned away and bent over the fire, and when he faced her again he held the brand pointing towards her.

Lady Lucy of Meeth shrieked as the heat approached her breast, but even as she begged and pleaded for mercy she could see
that there was still nothing in his eyes: no lust, no triumph – just a boundless emptiness as though she was nothing, less
even than an ant in his path.

Her last thought was, ‘This man has no soul’ – and then the steel entered her breast and she knew nothing more.

‘Perkin! Perkin! Throw it here, here …
here
, you son of a goat!’

‘Rannulf,
run
!’

‘Beorn! Beorn!’

The men slipped and slid in the chill mud, legs already beslobbered, hosen frayed where thorns had ripped, shirts torn where
hands had grabbed, and two already bloodied about their faces.

A man was in front of Perkin. He rammed a hand out, catching the fellow above the eye, and thrust him away. Then everyone
was converging on him, and he could see the top of one fair head, a darkly bearded face grimacing in determination, a fist,
an arm gripped by two hands, a shred of torn shirt … and all the while the rushing of blood in his ears, the screeching
of men in battle, the slap of bare feet in the freezing mud, the damp splashing of puddles, the panting, the grunting, the
groaning …

They’d started in the middle of the pasture between the two vills, twelve men and six women from Monkleigh, fourteen men and
nine women from Iddesleigh, with a nervous-looking reeve from Monk Oakhampton between them. He looked little more than two
and twenty, and his pale hazel eyes flitted from one face to another as he handled the ball. Then, when he felt he could take
the tension no longer, he’d reached right down, and then hurled the bladder up as high as he could, immediately bolting from
between the two sides.

There had been a moment’s silence. All eyes were on the ball, slowing as it rose, spinning gently in the clear, cold air.
It was heavy, a pig’s bladder stuffed full of dried peas, stitched tightly, slippery to the hand. But as it started to fall,
both sides had rushed forward to grab it.

They had strained there in the field as they always did, and when the break came, it was a thoughtless moment on the other
side that gave Perkin his chance.

A woman scratched and tore at Beorn, and he grew furious with the pain of the welts she raised on his face. Others would have
knocked the vixen down, or retreated before her, but not Beorn. He grasped her arms, then ducked and lifted her over his shoulders.
With a hand at the breast of her tunic and the other at her groin, he hefted her high overhead, and then threw her at three
of the men from Iddesleigh.

Two of them tried to avoid her. The third, braver or more stupid than they, held out his arms as though he meant to catch
her, and took the full weight of her on his breast. The breath gushed from him like water from a broken pipe, and he collapsed,
crushed, while she swore and cursed Beorn for fondling her, shrieking her rage as she clambered to her feet.

It was enough. Her words, and the vituperative tone in which they were screamed, made all the other men stop in their tracks
and turn to stare at her. Even as Beorn bit his thumb at her, Perkin could see more men and women from Iddesleigh squaring
their shoulders and starting to move towards the middle of the field. It was going to end up just as so many other games had.

But as Beorn turned and faced them all, Perkin had seen his opportunity. Martin from Iddesleigh had the ball, and he and two
others were pushing forward against two Monkleigh men, Will and Guy. Hearing the woman, they’d turned and become spectators
instead of participants, and in that moment Perkin nipped in under their legs, set his hand atop the bladder, and spun it
quickly so that it turned from the holder’s hands.

Martin turned back to see what had happened in time to meet Guy’s fist coming the other way, and he fell back with a curse,
blood pouring from his nose. Perkin was already on his knees as Guy and Will set upon their opponents with gusto. They were
equally matched, and as their fight raged, and Beorn hurled abuse at the men approaching him, Perkin kept his head low on
his shoulders, wrapped a fold of his shirt over the ball to hide it and make it easier to hold, and set off on the path they’d
agreed. It took the rest quite some time to realise that he was escaping.

Perkin was fast for all his girth, but as he paused to take stock he saw that the others were gaining on him. The dampness
wasn’t helping; the ball was slick and difficult to hold when the weather was miserable like this, but he must get the damned
thing to the goal, and that quickly. He shot a look heavenwards, grimacing as he saw black clouds coming closer, shivered
briefly, and then hared off down the hill again.

It was a matter of honour that they should succeed here where they’d won the prize so often before. If they were to lose,
it would be a dreadful reflection on their manhood. After all, it was four years since the men of Monkleigh had lost a game
of camp ball to the men of Iddesleigh, and the idea that today their run of success should come to an end was insupportable.

Wouldn’t be a surprise, though. There was something about this weather, with the fine drizzle falling like sparks of pure
ice, dark clouds overhead, mud everywhere, and sudden scratches from dripping furze and thorns as they pounded on, that took
away any confidence.

Someone had told him that this game had started back in the days when giants had lived here. That was why the field
of play spread so widely. Other places, so he’d heard, used a single pasture or maybe a couple of meadows, with the goals
set up at either end; not here at Iddesleigh, though. Here the men had to battle their way over a mile of desolate land. The
game would range from Furze Down to Whitemoor; that meant two hills, two streams, and a vicious climb uphill to finish, no
matter which side had control. Starting with the battle for control of the bladder, followed, invariably, by at least one
fight, and culminating in a run of at least half a mile, much of it uphill, it was no surprise that by the end both sides,
winners and losers, would be equally knackered. If they were horses, they’d be killed out of kindness.

‘Perkin!
Perkin!
’

He was startled from his musings by Beorn’s shout. The younger man’s bare legs were like oak trunks covered in dark moss,
and his thick black hair lay lank over his brow, almost covering his dark eyes. Perkin had no idea what Beorn’s warning meant,
but he took the easiest defence and hurled the ball to him.

‘Behind you!’

Perkin feinted quickly right, then shot off to his left. Someone snagged his shirt, and he felt it rip, but then he was free,
and he heard a satisfying grunt and muffled oath as his attacker fell. Looking over his shoulder, Perkin saw that it was Oliver,
the smith from Iddesleigh, who sat up now, disgruntled, a scowl marring his square features. Perkin knew him well, and rather
liked him when the game wasn’t on, but today he was only glad that he’d escaped the man.

He was almost through the stream at the bottom of the gully now, and he started the slow clamber up the other side. Beorn
was alongside him, and he grinned at Perkin, hurling
the bladder back to him. Perkin caught it with a grunt and gave Beorn a baleful glower. The man had to throw the thing so
cursed
hard
! It all but winded him.

This was the line they’d agreed on: it was steeper, and harder to negotiate, than the usual way, but by coming up here to
the hill east of the main flatlands, the men from Monkleigh had slipped round the defending line of Iddesleigh, and although
they had set off in pursuit Perkin was already comfortably ahead of even the fleetest of foot. He clutched the bladder under
his armpit more tightly and gritted his teeth as the rain began to fall more heavily.

Up and up, until his thighs were burning and his lungs felt as though they must surely burst. There were rocks and projecting
bushes up here, and he was sure that his ankle would snap if he misplaced his step at any point. And then, blessed relief,
he was at the top of the steepest part of the climb, and he could pause, staring back down the hill.