A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) Read online

  A Friar’s Bloodfeud

  Michael Jecks

  Copyright © 2005 Michael Jecks

  The right of Michael Jecks to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by

  Headline Publishing Group in 2014

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 1981 7

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Jecks

  Praise

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Michael Jecks gave up a career in the computer industry to concentrate on his writing. He is the founder of Medieval Murderers, has been Chairman of the Crime Writers’s Association, and helped create the Historical Writers’ Association. Keen to help new writers, for some years he organised the Debut Dagger competition, and is now organising the AsparaWriting festival for new writers at Evesham. He has judged many prizes, including the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger. Michael is an international speaker on writing and for business. He lives with his wife, children and dogs in northern Dartmoor.

  Michael can be contacted through his website: www.michaeljecks.co.uk.

  He can be followed on twitter (@MichaelJecks) or on Facebook.com/Michael.Jecks.author.

  His photos of Devon and locations for his books can be found at: Flickr.com/photos/Michael_Jecks.

  Also by Michael Jecks

  The Last Templar

  The Merchant’s Partner

  A Moorland Hanging

  The Crediton Killings

  The Abbot’s Gibbet

  The Leper’s Return

  Squire Throwleigh’s Heir

  Belladonna at Belstone

  The Traitor of St Giles

  The Boy-Bishop’s Glovemaker

  The Tournament of Blood

  The Sticklepath Strangler

  The Devil’s Acolyte

  The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

  The Templar’s Penance

  The Outlaws of Ennor

  The Tolls of Death

  The Chapel of Bones

  The Butcher of St Peter’s

  A Friar’s Bloodfeud

  The Death Ship of Dartmouth

  Malice of Unnatural Death

  Dispensation of Death

  The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

  The Prophecy of Death

  The King of Thieves

  No Law in the Land

  The Bishop Must Die

  The Oath

  King’s Gold

  City of Fiends

  Templar’s Acre

  Praise

  ‘Michael Jecks is the master of the medieval whodunnit’ Robert Low

  ‘Captivating… If you care for a well-researched visit to medieval England, don’t pass this series’ Historical Novels Review

  ‘Michael Jecks has a way of dipping into the past and giving it that immediacy of a present-day newspaper article… He writes…with such convincing charm that you expect to walk round a corner in Tavistock and meet some of the characters’ Oxford Times

  ‘Great characterisation, a detailed sense of place, and a finely honed plot make this a superb medieval historical’ Library Journal

  ‘Stirring intrigue and a compelling cast of characters will continue to draw accolades’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘A tortuous and exciting plot… The construction of the story and the sense of period are excellent’ Shots

  ‘This fascinating portrayal of medieval life and the corruption of the Church will not disappoint. With convincing characters whose treacherous acts perfectly combine with a devilishly masterful plot, Jecks transports readers back to this wicked world with ease’ Good Book Guide

  About the book

  The twentieth novel in Michael Jecks’s medieval Knights Templar series.

  March 1323: in the rural idyll of Iddesleigh, a gang of men break into the home of Bailiff Simon Puttock’s servant and attack his family. When word reaches Simon, he and Sir Baldwin de Funshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, hurry to the home, finding it burned to the ground and the bodies from within already buried.

  Could this be the result of a tragic accident, or is a darker force at work? As Baldwin and Simon attempt to uncover the truth, it quickly becomes clear that a terrible evil lurks in the land, and that the pain and bloodshed are far from over.

  This book is for dear old

  Don Morton.

  A friend for life to all who knew him.

  He’s sorely missed.

  Cast of Characters

  The Officers

  Sir Baldwin de Furnshill

  Once a Knight Templar, Sir Baldwin is a Keeper of the King’s Peace and occasionally a Justice. In his time as a law officer he has gained a reputation for being an astute investigator of crimes.

  Lady Jeanne

  Baldwin’s wife, Jeanne has been married before, to Sir Ralph de Liddinstone, but is a great deal happier with her second husband.

  Bailiff Simon Puttock

  Baldwin’s closest friend, Simon was bailiff of Lydford, maintaining the peace over the moors, but now he has been given a new job as Abbot Robert of Tavistock’s man in Dartmouth.

  Edgar

  Originally Baldwin’s sergeant in the Knights Templar, Edgar has remained Baldwin’s servant and steward of his household since their departure from the Order.

&n
bsp; Hugh

  Once a shepherd, Hugh has long been Simon’s servant. Always loyal, if morose and sullen, he is devoted to Simon’s family. When he married Constance and left Simon’s household, it was a wrench on both sides.

  Emma

  Jeanne’s maid since their youth in Bordeaux, Emma has still not been able to accustom herself to the weather and manners of the English. She sees herself as superior to all pastoral folk, having been raised in a city.

  Fishleigh

  Sir Odo de Bordeaux

  The keen servant of Sir John Sully for many years, Sir Odo is now master of Sir John’s manor at Fishleigh, and his jurisdiction extends to the vill of Iddesleigh on the other side of the river. He sees to the land’s profit and protects his territory jealously. Sir John Sully is a vassal of Lord Hugh de Courtenay.

  Robert Crokers

  Under Sir Odo’s stewardship, Robert is the bailiff or sergeant, charged with the maintenance of the lands. He oversees the harrowing, planting and cultivation of the crops, as well as harvesting.

  Walter

  A man-at-arms who serves Sir Odo, Walter is an older man who is used to warfare.

  Iddesleigh

  Constance

  Wife of Hugh, Constance was once a novice at the priory at Belstone, but she had been allowed to leave by the prioress (see Belladonna at Belstone). She has a two-year-old child whom she has also named Hugh.

  Father Matthew

  The local priest, Father Matthew has lived in Iddesleigh for many years and has grown to sympathise with the natural suspicion shown by the locals to all ‘foreigners’.

  Jankin

  Owner of the local inn as well as a farmer, Jankin is an excellent host, and a fount of knowledge about the people in the area too.

  David

  Known as ‘Deadly Dave’ for his ability to kill men with boredom, David is a lonely local man.

  Monkleigh

  Sir Geoffrey Servington

  Steward of the Despenser lands, Sir Geoffrey is an older warrior. In his youth he gambled all on tournaments, and lost. After that it was only the support of the Despensers that saved him from ruin.

  Ailward

  The sergeant of the Monkleigh estates, Ailward is bitter at his sudden fall. His father and grandsire were both squires, and he longs to be recognised as such.

  Adam of Rookford

  Known as ‘Adcock’, the new sergeant of the Despenser manor of Monkleigh is keen to make his mark. This job is a great advance for him, and he’s excited at the opportunities it offers.

  Nicholas le Poter

  A man-at-arms, Nicholas is not impressed by Sir Geoffrey and is certain he could do the job more effectively.

  Mary

  Known as Malkin, Ailward’s wife adores her husband.

  Isabel

  Malkin’s mother-in-law, Isabel is used to bereavement, having lost her father to the Irish wars and her husband during the recent civil war between Mortimer and the Despensers.

  Pagan

  An old servant of Isabel’s family, Pagan feels adrift without the two men he had served.

  A Map of Iddesleigh

  and area

  in the early 1300s

  Chapter One

  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 h
ave 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 …