A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (26 page)

But this was potentially stupid. If this woman had a brother, a cousin, an uncle, who would be prepared to defend her memory
and take back the lands which would now pass to him, Sir Geoffrey could soon find himself challenged personally. A man so
appallingly wronged would have few scruples about making the torture and murder of his relative a cause for feud.

Unless, of course, Sir Geoffrey had already assessed the risks and learned that there was no other man involved. That this
woman’s lands would be unclaimed once she was removed. Then it would be easy to see why Sir Geoffrey might throw caution to
the winds and attempt the theft.

Sir Edward’s respect for Sir Geoffrey’s daring and craftiness grew with every step on the way to the manor.

Isabel sat on her stool, and the three men were waved towards the table. As in so many peasants’ homes, there were only stools
for the master and mistress, which meant that when Ailward had come home from his work he must have found himself perching
on the edge of the table, because Baldwin was somehow convinced that no matter how strong the man had been he would have been
hard pushed to it to gainsay the formidable woman who was his mother.

She was clad in grey wool, a heavy cloth that sagged shapelessly above her belt. In her youth she must have been a handsome
enough woman, though. Baldwin could see through the years to when the high cheekbones and steady, firm brown eyes would have
been attractive. Her lips would have been less thin and grey, too, more full and rosy, while her hair, now entirely grey,
would have formed a thick brown mane. Her hands were callused now, but the fingers were long and elegant, and Baldwin was
sure that she would have been an enticing catch for her man.

‘We are both poor widows now, you see,’ Isabel said quietly as the men chose places to rest. Simon crossed his arms and leaned
next to Baldwin at the table, while Edgar took up a languid pose at the doorway, ankles crossed and
thumbs stuck in his belt. As always, his face wore an accommodating smile, but Simon knew that his eyes were cold. A killer’s
eyes.

‘When did your husband die, madam?’ Baldwin asked. He had often found that early on in an inquest it was better to have people
talk about any matter rather than leave periods of silence. Then, when they were used to speaking, he could suddenly allow
gaps to return; invariably the questioned person would speak hurriedly to fill them. In this way he often gained his most
valuable information.

‘He was a brave man. A squire. But the mad Scots saw to him in Ireland when they invaded the king’s lands there.’

‘He was killed in Ireland?’

‘While the traitor Bruce was harrying our men in Scotland, he sent his brother to Ireland to attack the king’s servants there.
My father-in-law, Squire William Monkleigh, said farewell as soon as the call went up for men to join the king’s host. We
never had any doubts that he’d be back soon enough. But he was slain at Kells.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘That was a fearful battle, so I have heard.’

‘As have I,’ she said slowly, nodding to herself as old women may. ‘And my husband was also slain. Squire Robert. He was a
fierce-hearted man too, and he likewise was killed in his lord’s service.’

Baldwin nodded and shot a look over his shoulder at Edgar, then at Simon. His face was serious. ‘He was also a squire?’

‘Yes. But he was poorer. When his father died, much of his wealth was with him, as is natural. We lost his horses, armour,
and much treasure. My husband and I struggled, and we intended to make up for the losses, but it was hard. Very hard. And
then he too died.’

‘How?’

‘At Bridgnorth,’ she said coldly, looking away.

Baldwin could see the tear form in the corner of her eye, and followed its path as it moved slowly, as though reluctantly,
down her cheek. It found a crease in her skin and followed it to her jaw, where she irritably wiped it away. ‘So your husband
and his father were vassals to Lord Mortimer?’

‘He was our liege. When he asked my men to go to him, they obeyed.’

Which explained a lot. Baldwin nodded. ‘My lady, I am sorry to hear of your losses. Your men were honourable to their commander.’

‘My family is poor now, but we had our pride. My men never lost that, and no one can take it from me.’

‘But then your son too was found dead?’

‘It was wrong!’ she declared hotly. ‘How could they murder him like that and hope to escape justice? They weren’t content
with taking my husband, now they have killed my son too! I damn the Despenser family! I damn them to hell for eternity! Thank
God some men here still have some honour. Sir Odo will protect us.’

‘You know him?’

‘Sir Odo has lived there at Fishleigh for many years now. He was there before Ailward was born, and he’ll still be there long
after the brutal rabble in Monkleigh are all gone,’ she asserted.

‘He has said he will help?’ Baldwin pressed her.

‘He visits me here, to make sure we are all right. We need all the compassion we can be given in this sad time!’

As she bowed her head to her hands in grief, Baldwin’s attention returned to the other widow.

She had set aside the little basket of the eggs she had
been seeking when they arrived, and now sat with her eyes downcast as her mother-in-law spoke. She looked the kind of young
woman who had never been able to speak in the expectation of anyone’s listening, Baldwin thought.

‘Who do you think could have been responsible for his death?’

It was the older woman who answered for her. ‘Sir Geoffrey, of course. Who else could it have been?’

‘Why?’ Simon demanded. ‘You told us that Ailward’s father was a vassal to Roger Mortimer, but Ailward was steward to Sir Geoffrey.
Why should Sir Geoffrey want to harm him?’

‘You know what has happened to Mortimer in the last few years! First insulted, then forced to go to war against his king,
and all because of the Despenser. And now the bodies of Despenser’s enemies hang all over the kingdom like common felons.
Despenser has no hesitation in killing those whom he sees as his natural enemies, and any friend of his enemy is his enemy
also.’

‘My husband’s fate was sealed as soon as Lord Mortimer ran from the king’s gaol,’ Malkin said softly.

Simon glanced at her while Baldwin continued to question the older woman. This woman Malkin was very attractive, and it made
her grief all the more sad to witness. It made Simon realise that his own sense of being overwhelmed by the loss of Hugh was
perhaps out of proportion to his loss. Yes, Hugh had been a close companion, and a good, loyal, and usually truthful friend.
This woman, though, had lost her husband. From now on she would be alone in the world unless she could win herself a new man.
Her grief was the mature heartache of a wife whose life must soon change.

‘Is this your property?’ he asked quietly.

Malkin glanced at Isabel, who was now denouncing Despenser and all his henchmen with no restraint and less subtlety, as if
she wondered whether she ought to speak without asking Isabel first. ‘No. It is owned by Sir Geoffrey and the manor.’

‘What will happen to you if he throws you from the land?’

She shrugged. ‘We shall leave.’

‘If your father-in-law and his father were both squires, then surely they had their own demesnes?’

‘When he died in Ireland, Isabel’s father-in-law lost much; her husband scraped together enough to arm himself by mortgaging
his lands, and when he died too, all those who had debts owing from him came to demand their money.’

‘With him dead, surely the debts were unenforceable?’

She met his gaze. ‘A man who has died while serving a rebel who’s holding his banner against the king’s has few friends to
fight even unfair actions. Especially when the Despenser decides to take over the debts.’

‘How so?’

‘He sent this Sir Geoffrey, and as soon as he arrived he told us that the king had made over all our lands to Despenser. They
were forfeit and added to the Despenser’s holdings.’

‘So – you mean that the whole of the Monkleigh estate was yours originally?’

‘Yes. And they forced us from our home and made my husband work for them as a menial, their bailiff. They couldn’t even recognise
him as a steward. They had to make him suffer for his father’s actions.’

‘I had no idea of this.’

‘You know the grossest insult? They have blackened the name of the vill with their depredations. Raiding other tenants’ holdings
nearby in an attempt to force people from their own lands so that Sir Geoffrey can steal it for himself, and more: he has
taken to hiring many felons in the hall. Most of them stay hidden behind his walls because he cannot allow them to be seen
in public in case they are denounced and arrested for the common thieves and cut-purses that they are.’

‘They are surely there in the hall for all to see,’ Simon said lightly.

‘You think so? He has some five and twenty men there, I think. How many do you see when you visit them? If you are lucky,
you may see one man-at-arms and his sergeant, but all the others who are about the manor in daylight are his villeins. There
are none of his draw-latches, rapists or murderers in evidence while the sun shines. They only come out at night, like mares!’
She had paled, and as she spoke she clutched at the neck of her tunic with a fist clenched in anger and dread.

It took Nicholas le Poter some little while to realise that the place was empty, and as soon as he did, he stood and gazed
about him with panic setting in.

This little chapel was surely the only safe place for him. He had to find a place of sanctuary where even Sir Geoffrey’s men
would be fearful of entering. Then he could wait until the coroner arrived and gave him protection to escape. That was all
he needed, a place to wait, but if there was no priest here, if Humphrey was gone, there was nowhere for him to stay! He thought
even now that he could catch something at the edge of his hearing, as though there was a mass of
hounds being collected, and he remembered what Sir Geoffrey had said – that he could run now, but his men would be along to
hunt him.

He’d seen enough hunts. There’d been a villein who’d been accused of stealing from the hall, taking a wooden spoon. The man
had denied it, but Sir Geoffrey hadn’t believed him and they’d let him run, setting off shortly afterwards with the hounds.
The body had been dragged back, its heels bound to Sir Geoffrey’s saddle, and when the man’s widow had seen it, she’d fainted
dead away. Someone had said she’d died a week or so later from the horror of seeing her man’s body flayed of all the flesh
on his buttocks and back where he’d been dragged over the stones. Nicholas wasn’t sure that he’d been dead at the start of
that return journey, although he had been pricked by two boar-lances already, but he was certainly dead by the end of it.

The chapel was silent and as cold as only an empty building can be. He’d shouted as he first bolted up to the altar, gripping
the cloth anxiously as he stared about him wildly.

He had two choices: remain and be caught and killed, or flee again and find another, safer refuge. Where, though? There was
nowhere else … unless he managed to get to Iddesleigh. There the church would offer greater protection than this little
chapel. Here, without the priest in charge, he could be dragged out without trouble; even if Isaac and Humphrey had been here,
it would have been touch and go whether the pair of them could have defended him against Sir Geoffrey’s men … but if he
could reach Iddesleigh, he’d be safe enough. The way would be hard, and he’d have to hurry, but he could make it.

In the distance he was almost certain he could hear the
squeaking of harnesses and the baying of hounds. It decided him. He let go the altar cloth and fled through the door and out
to the road, and then, staring wildly and fearfully up at the hall, he set off at as swift a pace as he could manage towards
the little vill that stood out so prominently on the hill ahead, without noticing that he had left his pack behind.

While Nicholas bolted, Humphrey was already almost at his chosen resting place. He followed the roadway down the hillside
towards the river, and at the bottom, where the river cut through in its shallow, rocky path, he splashed through the water
with a grimace against the freezing cold.

Over the river the hillside was fairly thickly wooded, and with the sun already very low in the western sky, he knew a faint
trepidation and a chill that felt as though his bones were sensing the cold before his flesh. It was a superstitious sensation,
not a rational one, he told himself. There was no point in fearing ghosts and creatures of the night, not when he was more
likely to suffer from the worst of what men could do. And their worst would be extremely unpleasant.

He wanted to get into a place where he could rest for the night and sleep. There was a path which led off through some trees
towards a small assart, and, spotting it, he sighed with relief. He’d thought he’d missed it. Picking up his feet more quickly,
he scurried up the track towards the little place he recalled from several months ago.

When he was last here, he had been exploring, partly to understand the lie of the land in this little parish, but also because
he knew that it was possible that one day he would need to know how best to escape the vill. He’d stumbled upon this little
deserted assart by pure chance, and at the time he’d instantly thought that it could be a useful location
to bear in mind, should he ever need a quiet, secure place of concealment.

It stood in a tiny clearing, he remembered. An old, slightly tumbledown cott with the thatch holed and rotten, it wouldn’t
provide any shelter from the rain or much from the wind, but for a one-night stay, it had the benefit of being off the beaten
track and safe from investigation.

When he caught sight of it, he heaved a sigh of relief and stood a moment. There was an atmosphere of homeliness about it
that tore at his memories, making him feel sad that he had lost his own home so many years ago. It was ruined, though. Worse
than he remembered from when he’d last been here. The roof was almost all gone, and the door which had stood here had rotted
away, and fragments of the planks that had constituted it lay haphazardly all about.

Hearing a crack behind him, he recalled what he was doing here, and darted into the clearing, then headed straight for the
door. There was another crackle of broken twigs behind him in among the trees, and Humphrey felt the blood course more urgently
through his veins. There was someone there! He must have been followed. For a moment he stood, irresolute, staring wildly
over his shoulder at the thick boles of the trees, now smothered in their own twilight. Then he shot forward to the doorway,
entered, and sprang back to stand with his back to the wall, panting heavily. ‘God’s blood,’ he muttered.