A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (5 page)

All that was long in the past. Hugh had kept his eyes on this one for the last two years, thinking that it was grown too tall
and straggly, and he had begun work here a week and a half ago, cutting out all the dead wood, trimming the smaller branches,
hammering in new stakes. Now he had to hack at the surviving plants so that he could lay them afresh.

It was all but done. He had only a few more hours’ work, and the field could be used again for pasture. That would be a good
day. With luck, the ale that Constance had put to
brew last week would be ready at the same time and they could celebrate their fresh little success with her best drink.

‘God’s blessings on you!’

Hugh peered through the hedge to see the priest from the chapel down the road at Monkleigh. ‘Father.’

‘This hedge is a mess. It must take a lot of effort to keep it clear?’

‘Yes,’ Hugh said, feeling his former sense of well-being begin to ebb away.

‘What is your name?’

‘I’m Hugh. Some call me Hugh Drewsteignton or Shepherd,’ he responded. He swung the billhook at a stem and sliced three-quarters
of the way through the thick wood.

‘Well, Hugh Drewsteignton or Shepherd, are you one of the villeins of Sir Odo?’

‘No. My master lives at Lydford.’

The priest lifted his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Really? What are you doing here, then?’

‘My wife lives here.’

‘Your wife? Who is that?’

‘Constance.’ By now Hugh’s contentment was all but gone, and he wished that this priest would go too. There were some in the
vill who had muttered when he had arrived there with Constance. It was noticeable that one or two had turned away from them
when they went to the church door to be married, as though no woman before had ever wedded her man with a swelling belly.

The priest must have heard the tale, because he gave Hugh a very shrewd look. ‘I have heard much about her.’

‘So?’

‘She is a wise woman, so they say. Good with healing potions and salves.’

‘Yes. She learned it at Belstone.’

‘What did she do there?’

Hugh began to chop at the stems again, concentrating on the work in hand. ‘She was busy learning potions and the like, I dare
say.’

‘Well, you look after her, man. She deserves all the care she can receive.’

Hugh ignored him, and soon the young priest was off again, walking slowly homeward down the Exbourne road, his feet splashing
in the puddles and mud. For a moment Hugh wondered what he had meant, but then he shrugged. He had work to do.

Robert Crokers could have saved himself if he had kept his eyes open. The riders would have been clearly visible coming through
the trees.

He had lived here only a few short months. Born at his father’s house at Lyneham near Yealmpton, he had been sent to Lord
de Courtenay’s household when he was five, so that he could learn manners and humility, and he had hated it from the first.
A great lord’s household was never at rest. When it was newly arrived at a manor there was the noise and bustle of unpacking,
the fetching and carrying of boxes and chests, and the coming and going of the peasants bringing food for men and beasts;
after a few days there would be more uproar as the men set off to hunt morning and afternoon, with raches and harriers snuffling
and slobbering about the place, and horses stamping and chomping at their bits … and when all was done and the stores
were gone, there was the trouble of packing everything up and preparing to leave for the next manor.

When he had heard that this little manor needed a new
bailiff he had seen a chance to escape, and Lord de Courtenay’s steward had been kind enough to let him. Better that he should
be at a quiet manor where he could annoy only a small number of people with his whining and moaning, rather than at Tiverton
or Okehampton, where he could upset many more, the older man had said, and then grinned and wished him all good fortune.

This land was good, Robert told himself now. Up here at his house there was plenty of wood, while down at the vill the fields
were bursting with health. In many parts of the country people were starving because of the terrible harvests, but here in
Devon the populace was a little better provided for. Their diet was geared towards hardier crops, which could bear the dreadful
weather. He sometimes thought that the peasants here were like the oats they grew. Both seemed stoical in the face of the
elements.

His home was a small building, cob-built under a thatched roof, but it was comfortable and snug even during the worst of the
winter’s storms. From the door, he could look over a large garden where he hoped his beans and peas would thrive, while beyond
the beds was a small area of pasture which rolled down the hill south-west towards the river. The ford was in front of the
house, and the lane from it led past his door and on up the hill towards the lands north and east: Iddesleigh and Monk Oakhampton.
The way was cut through thick woodland, and few travellers ever passed this way.

Robert was making his way home, a man of middle height, slightly built, with a slender waist and narrow shoulders. He had
fine features: his nose was straight, his lips were sensuous, and his brown eyes were intelligent and kindly; and he was as
hungry as the peasants on the estate. Food had been plentiful enough through the cold, barren
months, but now that winter was drawing to a close and the stocks were low his teeth were aching badly, as usual, and one
or two were loose in his jaw as the scurvy started to take hold again. It was the same every year, ever since he’d been a
little lad. When the food grew scarce, he began to suffer. If fortune favoured, he would soon recover. He always did when
the weather improved.

He was almost at his house when he heard the drumming of hooves in the distance. The sound was loud enough for him to stop
and turn, frowning. Horses were making their way down the rough road that led towards the Okement river and the ford that
led to the big house over west. Robert had no cause to be anxious, so far as he knew. He was far from the main manor here,
but who would dare to attack him on Lord de Courtenay’s lands? No one would be so foolish. Still, there was something about
the relentless approach that made him turn back and move more quickly towards his door and the promise of safety within.

There was a sudden silence behind him, and he wondered at that. If the riders were heading for Fishleigh they must pass him,
surely, and that would mean the noise of hoofbeats would grow … unless they had turned off and were even now haring off
towards another homestead.

The thought was curiously unreassuring. If there were riders in force around the manor, he wanted to know about them. On a
whim, he went to the edge of his garden, peering up the road through the trees. Sounds could play a man false up here. Sometimes
he had heard voices which sounded as though they were from only a few yards away, and yet when he had gone to investigate,
he had discovered that they were men talking at the far side of the river.

So now he stood frowning, straining his ears to discover
where the riders could be. It was only sensible to be wary, especially with neighbours as unpredictable as the men under Geoffrey
Servington. When he had first come here, he had been warned that Geoffrey’s men were prone to violence. Not long before there
had been a scuffle of some sort, and Geoffrey’s men had killed Robert’s own predecessor.

There was a sharp explosion of noise, and he spun round to find the area before his house filled with horses. He had been
too keen to listen out for the riders coming along the track to think that they might approach another way. Somehow these
men had ridden through the woods and come at him from the river. He moved aside as their beasts stamped and pawed at the soil,
snorting and blowing after their urgent ride.

‘You the bailiff here?’

Robert turned to find himself confronted by a thickset figure on a horse. He nodded.

‘I am Sir Geoffrey Servington. This land is my lord’s, bailiff. So I want you to leave.’

‘This is land of Sir John Sully. No one else’s,’ Robert said, but he was nervous in the face of all these men-at-arms. A black
horse backed, stamping angrily, and Robert moaned when he saw it crush his carefully planted bean and pea plants.

Following the direction of his gaze, Geoffrey shouted, ‘Get off the garden! After all,’ he added, smiling evilly at Robert,
‘when we have our own man living here, we won’t want him to starve, will we?’

Hugh brought the axe down one last time, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and set the axe by the side of his pile
of wood. Gazing about him, he grinned as he told himself that he had never been so happy as since he started to live with
Constance.

This old tree had collapsed during the year before last, when he’d first come here. Over time the other larger boughs had
been cut out, but this one had, for some reason, survived. And then a foul storm had struck and it had collapsed, taking a
lot of the old Devon hedge with it.

It was a problem with older parcels of land in this area. The little holding where Hugh and Constance lived was once part
of the Priory of Belstone’s demesne, but when Constance had been sent here by the prioress it had been empty for some years.
The hovel which had stood here had been all but derelict, and when Hugh first saw it his temper had if anything grown more
sour.

‘Best work on that first,’ he had declared, and stood staring at it while Constance gazed at him anxiously. She had been anxious
a lot of the time back then, he remembered. About her baby, about her life, whether she had made the right choices, whether
she should be here at Iddesleigh at all
… there were so many concerns for a young woman with no vocation.

What else could a moorman do, though? Hugh knew that a place like this needed a man to look after it, just as a woman needed
a man to provide for her. It was all well and good to say to a woman like Constance, ‘Woman, there’s a place at Iddesleigh.
There’s a house and some acres. Go and take it. You can live there,’ as though that was an end to the matter. But no one who’d
ever farmed would think that. No, as Hugh knew, a farm which was left fallow for any length of time would soon be overwhelmed
with weeds and brambles, the coppices overrun with small, useless stems, and the house … well, it would look as this one
had.

Constance was lucky the prioress had given her anything, of course. It was proof of the regard in which she was held by the
prioress – but God’s ballocks, it was fortunate that Hugh had been here to see to it.

The scowl on his face lightened a moment. Being born on the moors lent a man a suspicious nature, and for a moment Hugh wondered
whether that could have been at the heart of the prioress’s suggestion that Hugh should travel here with Constance … the
old woman was certainly crafty enough to see that this servant was already attracted to the former novice. Only it was more
than that. Hugh felt the same adoration for Constance that a sheepdog feels for its master. There was no denying it: he loved
her. She was … well, there weren’t words for her.

He’d even given up his master, Simon Puttock, and his family for Constance. Perhaps if he hadn’t met her, he’d still be in
service with Simon, living with him at Dartmouth. When Master Simon had been given that post – the Abbot Robert’s representative
in the town with full
authority under the Abbey of Tavistock’s seal – Hugh had known so many doubts, it had felt as though his heart was being torn
in two; but there was no choice as far as he was concerned, not really. He’d seen Constance’s new home by then, and although
he’d rebuilt the worst of the hovel, there was too much to be done on the land about it for him to leave her alone yet. Simon,
who knew him so well, had given him a small purse and wished him Godspeed when they last parted. There was no pointed comment,
no demand that he ought to continue to serve his master as he had before, no bitterness: only a wholehearted and generous
wish for his happiness.

Hugh could remember that last meeting.

‘Hugh, make her happy – and I will pray that God makes you as content with her as I always have been with my darling Meg.
Constance is a good woman, and she deserves a man who’ll honour her, so look to her, protect her, and you can always send
a messenger to me if you are in want. Remember that!’

And with that, Hugh could remember the glistening at his master’s eyes. Simon had actually wept at losing Hugh’s company.
It made Hugh feel terrible, but there was no choice. Not really. Hugh hefted the axe again and let its weight draw it down
into a long branch.

No, Master Simon could always find a new servant. He’d said that he had one already – a lad called Rob – who was efficient
and ever cheerful. That was what Master Simon had said: the lad was always cheerful. It was a daft comment. Hugh had always
been cheerful enough, God’s blood! He normally greeted his master with a respectful duck of the head of a morning. He scowled,
remembering: what more could anyone ask?

He swung the axe again, glancing up at the sky. It was darkening in the way that it did in the late winter, deepening to blue
overhead with pink in the west. Looking at the remaining trunk, he sniffed, then slung the axe over his shoulder. There would
be time enough tomorrow to finish the job, and then it would be a matter of carrying all the logs back to the house. He had
a small hurdle which he’d made from the smaller branches, and he reckoned he could lash the logs to that, and hitch it to
an ox. The beast would drag the lot back home.

Mulling over his plans for the next day, he wandered slowly through the gathering gloom to the house. Soon he could smell
the fire, and he snuffed the air happily. It was good to know that he was nearly home. The mere idea of ‘home’ was enough
to make him smile. When he’d been a youngster he’d had a home, of course, but then he’d become a shepherd, and that lonely
life had marked him profoundly.

His path took him over the line of the hill, along the lane westwards, and thence down to the cottage. He stopped once, gazing
along the sweep of hills to the south to where, in the distance, he could see his old haunt: Dartmoor, sitting like a brooding
animal preparing to pounce on the far horizon, dark and dangerous. Sometimes he liked to think of himself like that: a man
of action who rested at present, but only like a moor viper, coiled, alert and ready to attack.

Tonight all he wanted was a quiet evening, and then his bed. The house looked shabby and in need of a fresh coat of limewash
and a new roof, but he stood still and smiled at the sight of it. It was all he had ever wanted. A good, solid house, when
all was said and done, with space for the animals at the bottom of the slope so that their filth would drain through the hole
in the wall, while he and his woman
and child slept in the northernmost portion, up the hill. It was a sight to warm an old shepherd’s heart.

Sighing happily, he strode into the yard, and had gone six paces when he realised that something was wrong; terribly wrong.

There was a smell of burning pitch, and he had none here at the farm. He could smell the fumes as though they were very close,
and it was a few moments before he realised that the odour came from a torch, and that the breeze was behind him.

A warning flashed in his mind, and he began to turn, but he was already too late. There was a shout, a command, he heard a
whirling like a nearby flight of geese, and his head was slammed forward as something smashed against his skull.

He could feel sparks strike at his skull, and as his cheek crashed against the dirt of the yard he smelled the stench of burning
hair, rank and disgusting. A second blow, then a third, and his head was a mass of pain. There were cries, but they seemed
to come from afar, perhaps on the next hill? In front of him he could see the house, and he knew that if he could reach it,
all would be well. He would be safe in there. Constance would come to him and make his head better. He knew that.

There was no strength in his arms or legs. It was only a short distance, made hazy by the smoke and the roaring in his ears.
He lifted his head, and he heard a man cry out. A boot kicked his temple, and then his chest, and he lay wide-eyed and unblinking,
utterly spent.

He could see the open doorway. At the threshold lay his woman. He saw a man drop to his knees in front of her. There was a
muted cry, a sound of grief and terror, and he
saw the man finish, rise, kick, spit, laugh, draw a dagger, reach down. All was a whirl. Hugh was sure he ought to do something,
but his limbs were another man’s, not his. There was nothing his mind could do to command his body.

A boot thudded into his flank and he rolled to his belly, hiding from the blows. A foot rested on his back. He heard a shout,
a scream, saw the babe, Hugh, held by the legs. Mercifully, his eyes closed, and he heard a roar of laughter, then no more
screams from Hugh. A punch in his back, another, and this time he felt an odd sensation. It was as though the punch had gone
through his back and scraped a rib.

Hugh could smell smoke, and he felt warmed. He had left the field to come home, and he must have fallen asleep as soon as
he got here. The fire was lighted: he could feel the hot breath at his face. It glowed at his eyelids, and he snuggled further
down into his bed. It was a lovely bed, soft and yielding, and surely Constance would soon be here with him, her soft body
joining with his.

It was a dream. She was a dream to him, and he smiled in what he thought must be his sleep as he felt himself sliding away,
as though he was slipping sideways into the darkness of the soil itself as unconsciousness enfolded him.

Friar John was footsore, irritable, and not in the mood for another night out in the cold. He’d already covered too many miles
since he’d fallen out with the prior in Exeter, and here he was still wandering about the countryside wondering whether he
had made the right decision in leaving Exeter when he had, let alone in coming this way. It had smacked a little of hypocrisy
to fly from the city in such a hurry, without taking time to consider.

Still, he had caught his prior in a lie, and one which could lead to others being harmed, if not killed. No, he hadn’t had
a choice at the time. It was a shame, though. He’d enjoyed a good reputation there in Exeter. All who met him reckoned that
he was the best fund-raiser the Order had seen.

A shod friar, a Dominican, John was one of those who had given up all his worldly wealth … not that he had possessed much
when he’d first walked to the friary and offered himself. Then he’d been a narrow-shouldered, skinny, rather feeble assistant
to a cutler, who had hoped to earn a place as a man of importance in his adopted city of Winchester.

He had had so little good fortune in his life, he thought now. He was the third son of Sir George, a minor knight from the
Welsh marches, and knowing he would make a dreadful priest he had early on chosen a life of trade and gone to Winchester.
There, when he grew older, he had encountered some of the pitfalls which awaited so many young apprentices in life: a night’s
debauchery, cross words with his master, an evening frolicking with a maid in a tavern of low reputation, more cross words
with his master, and then a blazing row when the maid was discovered in his narrow cot a couple of days later.

Suddenly he was an outcast, adrift in the great city, taking a succession of little jobs that paid him swiftly so that he
had something to take and spend in a tavern. The maid disappeared: he had heard that she had later eloped with his master’s
own son.

During that lonely period he had learned all about the pleasures of life, and almost as speedily discarded them as worthless.
Women he could enjoy, ale and wine would delight, but all were sour in the mouth the next morning.
Especially the women who demanded money as he tried to leave their chambers. None seemed to remember that they’d wanted him
the night before as much as he’d told himself he wanted them. Or, to be more truthful, and John tried always to be truthful,
perhaps it was the ale and wine which told him that they seemed to desire him.

Whatever the truth of it, after a year of splendid excess, he had nothing. There was no job, all the women knew he had nothing
to give them, and while he had a need for wine in the morning, there was no means to pay for it. And one morning, while resting
his back against a merchant’s house, hoping for alms, he saw a friar. The man was dressed in a grubby robe like his own, without
sandals on his feet, and held only a bowl, which he proffered optimistically whenever he caught someone’s eye.

‘Good day, master,’ he said to John. It was the first kindly greeting John had heard in many a long day. When the friar shuffled
off, John found himself trailing in his wake.

It was in the priory that he discovered his true vocation: not to wander about the countryside begging for himself, but to
earn alms for the good of all. And he was good, very good. In a city John could bring the money from every man’s purse, it
seemed, almost with a whistle. In a world in which most friars were educated men, with serious expressions and the look of
fellows who should have been rather above this position in life, but were prepared to suffer a little now for their advancement
later, like a squire who is first taught how to clear out the stable in the hope that one day he’ll understand enough to be
a knight.

John, though –
he
was different, and he knew it. Most Dominicans were keen to amass their alms as quickly as possible, then buy some bread
and go and preach, find a
place to rest the night, and prepare for the next day’s begging and preaching. Not John. He had always been a sharp lad, quick
with a flattering word, and when he stood by and listened to some of his colleagues preach it made him want to wince. There
was no passion, no fire. All they could manage was an injunction to remember the friars (among others) in their prayers, with
maybe a hopeful wave of their bowls afterwards.

No good, Christ in Heaven, no! Christ wanted to save souls, and looking amiably foolish with a bowl in your hand might win
a hunk of bread and some pottage of an evening, but it wasn’t going to maintain a single ecclesiastical establishment. So
John had set out to win over richer men without issue: the lonely and sad, the bereaved and desperate, promising them preferential
honours in the afterlife, provided that they gave over their wealth to the friary in the here and now.