A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (6 page)

Of course it had worked. It had been so successful that in Exeter, where he had ended up, he had caused a certain amount of
friction between the friary and the cathedral. Still, that was all in his past now. He had left when he saw some of the corruption
of the city, and he was well out of it.

It had been shortly after he had joined the priory that he had heard from his mother that his older brothers were both dead,
killed in the wars that ran up and down the marches at all times. The Welsh were a froward, cunning foe, and his brothers
had been tricked into a narrow valley by the offer of treasure before being slaughtered by Welsh arrows. Ach, the Welsh were
ever cowards. They wouldn’t stand and fight.

By then, it was too late to tempt him home. His life had the purpose it had lacked before, and he was content. The manor would
go to his remaining sibling, a sister. At least
the estates would make for a good dowry when she was married.

His reflections were cut short by a pebble. He was wearing boots which a kind donor had given him, but the thin leather was
little protection against the ragged stones. The soles of his feet were cracked and throbbing, and every so often he would
stub a toe on a lump of moorstone or semi-frozen mud, which would give him a stab of exquisite pain.

It was as he leaned on his old staff with his face twisted, having managed to do this yet again and stemming the tide of curses
only with an effort of will, that he saw the light up ahead.

There were many places out here where a man should be cautious, but even the most devil-may-care felon would think twice before
harming a friar. In the first place a friar was useful because he might take a man’s confession and shrive him; in the second,
he had no possessions. There was no point in trying to rob him.

Still, thieves were not the only threat to a man in the darkness. A law-abiding farmer could be as dangerous if he thought
that a dark figure in the shadows was possibly a man come to ravish a wife or daughter. Many out in assarts miles from any
neighbours would strike first and ask questions later if practicable. John had little desire to court any more grief than
he already endured, so he peered ahead, his narrow face screwed into an expression of intense concentration, while his sharp
eyes gazed from under his beetling brows. There were no signs of dancing shapes, no screaming or shouting thieves, only a
warm glow amidst the trees, and overhead, now he glanced upwards, a thick pall of black smoke. Occasionally a shower of glinting
sparks would rise in a rush, only to disappear.

John gripped his staff and started to make his way towards the blaze. The hour was late for a fire in the woods. People tended
to douse the flames so that the trees were protected from stray sparks. Even now, when winter had not yet given way to spring,
there was still the threat of wholesale conflagration if men were careless, and men were rarely careless.

It was a good half-mile to the fire, and he had plenty of opportunity to survey the area on his way.

He had come from Upcott towards a place he was told was called Whitemoor, in the hope that the tavern at Iddesleigh might
offer him a space on the floor for the night. The fire appeared to be close to the vill itself, set away from the path by
a short distance, and he approached it slowly and reluctantly, his staff tapping on the ground firmly with every step he took,
until he reached the burning buildings and saw the bodies lying all about: chickens, a dog, cats, and then, last of all, the
body of a man.

‘Sweet Mother of Christ,’ he breathed.

As he stood at the door to his cottage, Pagan could see the men moving about at the big house, and he felt himself slump wearily
at the sight.

That house had lots of fond memories for him. It had been the place where he had grown; his father had been the armourer to
good Squire William, and when the squire rode to war in Ireland with his lord, Pagan’s father had ridden with him. A lord’s
host needed men who could wield a hammer or an axe. The old man had died there when they reached Kells. There the Scots persuaded
the despicable de Lacys to turn their shields and become traitors to Mortimer, their master – Squire William’s master. Kells
fell and there was a terrible slaughter.

Squire William too died that day, and the family which Pagan had served so long had been thrown into turmoil. It was all very
well for William’s son, Squire Robert, to be born to a title, but without money a title was worthless. And the family had
nothing. Pagan had remained to serve Squire Robert because he could imagine no other function, and all he could do was act
as steward to the people he knew so well and hope that their fortunes might change.

As they had – but not in the way he had hoped. With the
death of Squire Robert at Bridgnorth, still fighting on the side of his master, Lord Mortimer, there was little the family
could do to defend itself. Robert had died in the service of a rebel, and the king’s rage at such people knew no bounds. Whole
families were punished for their heads’ loyal service to their lords; bodies still hung on gibbets even now, years afterwards,
and the king’s own advisers, the Despensers, saw that they could seize the advantage. They cheated, they stole and they killed
to take what they wanted.

That was when the family lost their house. Squire Robert’s widow, Isabel, was forced out by that thief, that deceiver, that
disgrace to chivalry, Hugh Despenser. He took everything, leaving them only a hovel in which to live. It was fortunate that
Pagan still had his own cottage, for there was hardly space in hers for the squire’s widow, her son Ailward and her daughter-in-law,
Ailward’s wife. Only Sir Odo had tried to help, riding over occasionally from Fishleigh to visit her. Not that Pagan would
stay when Sir Odo was there. He knew why Sir Odo wanted to see the widow, and it wouldn’t be seemly for Pagan to be there
to watch.

Yes, from up here he could see what Despenser’s lackeys were up to. Last afternoon they had ridden off to the west, returning
only late, after dark, and Pagan knew what they had been doing. Everyone knew. All had heard of the attack on the poor sergeant
of Sir Odo’s over towards the ford.

Someone must stop them.

Sir Odo was a man who liked routine. Each morning he would rise with the dawn, and call for his horse while he drank weak
ale and ate a hunk of bread broken from a good white loaf. By the time he’d finished, the stable boys should
have finished preparing his old grey rounsey, and he would walk out to take his early morning ride round his estate.

Today he stood in the doorway and snuffed the air while he pulled on heavy gloves; a middle-aged man of only some five and
a half feet tall, he made up for lack of height by his breadth. In his youth he had been a keen wrestler, and he had maintained
his bulk over the years: his neck was almost the same diameter as his skull, and his biceps were fully larger than most men’s
thighs.

His temper was foul today. The grief that had afflicted Lady Isabel on hearing of the loss of her son had naturally affected
the manner in which she dealt with everyone else. Sir Odo felt that grief keenly. He was a long-standing friend of Lady Isabel,
and to see so noble a lady reduced by the death of her only child was dreadful.

He sniffed and closed his eyes. Seeing a lad of only five or six and twenty die was always sad, but this case was worse than
most. Sir Odo had thought that Ailward would shortly be finding his place in the world, that he might recover a little of
the family’s fortune, but instead he had been struck down by a murderer. Perhaps a killing committed after too many drinks,
or a falling out with a stranger, or a local peasant with a grudge against the man who ordered who should work when, and for
how much. There were so many men who could have a reason to kill a sergeant.

There was an icy chill in the wind that came from the north and east. It was always easy to tell when snow was threatening,
because the wind seemed to come straight at the house, along the line of the Torridge River, and today was no exception. Sir
Odo wasn’t fooled by the clear sky and bright sunshine. If he was any judge of the weather here, there would be snow before
long.

He crossed the yard to his mount and used a block of stone to help himself up. Ever since he’d been stuck in his thigh by
a man-at-arms with a polearm, he’d had this weakness. It was all right when he was up in the saddle, because then he seemed
able to grip well enough, but the ability to straighten his leg to spring up was almost entirely lost.

It had been a little skirmish, really. Not a real battle at all. A lowly squire, he’d been fighting for Hugh de Courtenay
in the last king’s wars against the Scottish. They’d reached the Solway Firth, and had laid siege to Caerlaverock Castle at
the turn of the century. Now it seemed such a stupid thing, but at the time … he had been near the oddly shaped triangular
castle when there was a shout that the Scotch murderers were about to make a sally, and he saw the great drawbridge lowered.
Immediately, he ran forward with a few others, and reached it as the defenders were starting to make their way from the gatehouse.

Odo felt that old thrill, the excitement of battle, as he sank his blade into a man’s throat and saw him thrash for a moment
before tumbling down, choking. Four more fell to him during that short action, though there were no more deaths. A small fight,
almost negligible. Probably most of the other men there that day had forgotten it, but not Odo.

The men with him kept up a great roaring shout, and with sheer effort they managed to force the enemy back towards the sandstone
gatehouse. Odo’s opponent stumbled and fell, and suddenly Odo realised that they could push into the castle itself. He slashed
at the man’s face twice, then turned and roared to the men at the siege camp to join them, and at the same instant felt something
slam into his leg. It was a shocking sensation, and the effect was to knock his knee away, so that he collapsed.

After that his battle grew confusing. He had flashes of memory: not because of pain – there was none – but because he was
desperate to climb to his feet, to escape before he could be hacked to pieces. A man on the ground would be as likely to be
attacked by the men of his own side as his enemy; a fellow on the ground could be preparing to thrust up with a weapon at
the unprotected underside of the men battling above him, and there was little opportunity to distinguish friend from foe.
Yet he
couldn’t
stand. He panicked, overwhelmed with terror as he recognised his danger: he was defenceless here in the mêlée. Trying to
crawl away, he was stunned as a crashing blow caught his head, and he felt his skull shake as he fell forward, blood washing
over his eyes. He was convinced that he was about to die, and began a prayer begging forgiveness for his sins (which he freely
confessed were legion), which was cut short by his passing out.

Later, he awoke to find himself being cleaned by a squire. He was lying on a rich bed, a
real
bed, with soft woollen blankets and marvellous silken hangings.

He coughed, then rasped, ‘Have I died?’

‘I hope not. He’ll have my guts for his laces if you have,’ the squire said drily. ‘How’s your head?’

The squire looked ancient to Odo. He must have been in his forties – couldn’t remember his name now – and must have realised
how confused Odo was, because he refused to discuss anything with him until he’d rested.

‘The best thing after a knock like the one you took is plenty of rest. Have some wine, then sleep.’

‘But where am I?’

‘You’re safe. And being well looked after.’

‘My leg,’ he remembered. He tried to get up to look at it,
but the shooting pain that slashed through his skull at the movement made him want to heave. He sank back on to the sheets.

‘You’re fine. The leg’s still there, although it took a grievous cut. Don’t worry, friend. You’ve made your name today.’

Yes. Of course I have, Odo thought to himself cynically. There must have been thirty or forty men on that drawbridge, and
he was sure that he’d heard the gates slam even as he sank down on to his face. ‘The castle wasn’t won?’

‘No. Now go to sleep.’

The next thing he remembered was being dressed in a new tunic, and Hugh de Courtenay and Sir John Sully being there to help
him on with his sword. His leg hurt like the devil, but he was all right apart from that. If he turned too quickly, he would
feel dizzy, but that would pass, he knew. He’d been thumped about the head often enough when he was a child and learning his
fighting techniques, and he recognised this wound as one of those unpleasant ones that would leave him feeling tired and wanting
to throw up if he wasn’t careful.

Not today, though, he had vowed. Because today he was being taken to see the master of the fourth squadron, the team he had
served with. And the youth who was in charge was waiting for him.

Only seventeen he was, but you could tell he was a prince from his courtly disposition. He was polite, handsome, and a strong
fighter. Even as Odo stumbled towards him, the future king drew his sword and held it aloft, while trumpets blew and the men
all cheered. Odo the squire walked to Prince Edward, but
Sir
Odo left him.

It had been a great day, and although Odo felt much the
older man, he had been impressed with Prince Edward’s calm and unassuming nature. He and his companions had been bold enough;
certainly none of them seemed wary of fighting, or fearful at the clamour of battle.

Which was why Odo clung to that memory. It was good to recall the prince the way he
had
been.

He rode eastwards, and then north, crossing the ford under Crokers’s place. He’d heard of the attack there, but there was
no sense in approaching it now, just in case Sir Geoffrey had put in a force to guard it. It could be hazardous to go unprotected
to a place like that.

Instead, he left the track and took his horse up the hill to the old road, which, muddy, stone-filled, with tall hedges on
either side and a thick wood on his right giving glimpses of fields between the trunks, was pleasant enough. It was this land
that the Despensers wanted, from what Odo had heard. They wanted to take all the manors owned by John Sully on the east of
the river, making their own holdings that much more extensive.

It was always the way: when a man of ambition grew rich, his first inclination was to increase his wealth. Odo couldn’t understand
it. Hugh Despenser was fabulously rich. Odo had heard men speculate on his worth, and the general view was that he was the
richest man in the country after the king himself. A terrible man, avaricious and ruthless. He would take men and torture
them for sport, or to make them sign away their inheritances. Not only men, either. It seemed strange that the prince Odo
had met all those years before could have grown into a man who tolerated advisers like Despenser.

There were the other rumours, of course. That the king was infatuated with his friend; that his friend had supplanted
the queen in the king’s affections, that he was the king’s lover. It was possible. Odo had no opinion. He did not care particularly.

A twinge of pain in his thigh made him frown, and he massaged his old wound with his fist. It always played up during the
winter. Warmer weather was needed, rather than this bleak coldness.

Sir Geoffrey, Despenser’s tool, was not difficult to deal with. Not if you knew his mind and understood what he looked for.
He was no fool, and he wouldn’t risk upsetting people for no reason. No, that wasn’t his way. He’d be much more likely to
wait until he had his master’s instructions, and then he’d obey them to the letter – provided it didn’t put him in any danger.
And what danger could there be for a man who was in the pay of the king’s best friend? None. So if Sir Geoffrey thought he
was acting on the advice of his master, he would do anything.

Odo did not need to guess at Despenser’s ambition. He and Sir Geoffrey had discussed it often enough in the past. Being neighbours,
and having known each other before that for several years, they were realistic about whom they should trust. Yes, both had
their loyalties to their masters, but they were in a unique position here, far from their lords. They had a duty to try to
get along.

Sir Geoffrey was entirely his master’s man. He had joined Earl Despenser’s entourage many years before, when the earl was
still a lowly knight. Odo for his part was devoted to Sir John Sully. Although the two stewards could have been at loggerheads,
they had avoided disputes, and recently had even joined in small ventures together. Sir Geoffrey could trust Sir Odo – he
was different from most neighbours, simply by virtue of the fact that he had been knighted
personally by the present king on the field of battle. Sir Geoffrey knew that he must be more inclined to assist the Despensers,
because they were King Edward’s most devoted friends. Helping them meant helping the king. That was what Sir Geoffrey had
said to him once, and Sir Odo had not seen fit to deny it. In these troubled times it was safer for a man to keep his own
counsel.

Which was why Odo was surprised that Sir Geoffrey was making difficulties about this parcel of land. They had discussed it
when Geoffrey took the old manor from Ailward, but Odo thought he had persuaded Geoffrey that this piece was truly Odo’s.
Ailward’s estate had been carved into two, and Odo had only taken a small part. Just enough to protect the ford. That way,
hopefully, very few people would be hurt.

Still, if Geoffrey wanted to launch an attack, Odo had no objection. He would relish a little action; he was bored with idly
sitting by. It had been a long time since he had known a dispute like this, and he was looking forward to it with an especial
excitement. With any luck, once the land was gone and the dispute ended, Sir John would release Odo from Fishleigh, and he
could go and rest in his own home.