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‘That is very kind of you, Brother. I think,’ Humphry said consideringly, ‘that if you preach away from the church here, and not right in front of the alehouse at the top of the road, you will be unlikely to cause him offence.’

‘He spends much time there?’

‘It is easier for me to leave him in the alehouse than alone in the church while I do the work.’ Humphrey shrugged. ‘I prefer to know that he is safe. If he were to remain in the church all day, he might fall and harm himself.’

‘You are a good man, my friend,’ Friar John said. ‘And now, if you do not mind, I think I should seek out the tavern — not to preach, but to beg a little bread.’

‘Brother, if I had anything with me, I would …’

The friar held up his hand. ‘Friend, please. I would not impose further upon you. No, I shall go to the tavern. No doubt they earn enough to subsidise a poor wanderer without harming their own pockets! Where is this place?’

Humphrey gave brief directions, and then smiled and nodded as the man carried on his way towards the vill of Monkleigh. He watched until the friar had disappeared round the bend in the road and was hidden by the trees.

‘Some wandering preacher?’

Humphrey felt the breath catch in his throat, and he spun on his heel, his heart thundering. ‘Pagan! In God’s name, man, where did you come from?’

‘I was going to the inn to buy a barrel of ale. Why?’

‘You half emasculated me, man! Walking up behind a fellow like that …’

‘What did he want?’

‘Permission to preach. Nothing more.’

‘You should be wary of such men. No good comes of having those preachers wandering about the place,’ Pagan said.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘When I was young, they found a friar who’d killed a young boy. He claimed the protection of the Church, of course, but we all knew what he’d done.’

‘I hadn’t heard of that,’ Humphrey said.

‘Before your time. If you have a man like that about the place, there’s no telling what might happen.’

‘It can scarcely be worse than it already is,’ Humphrey said. ‘Had you not heard about that poor man up east of Iddesleigh, with his wife and child?’

‘I’d heard. And there is still Lady Lucy of Meeth. No one knows where she is.’

‘So one friar can hardly do much harm,’ Humphrey said.

‘A friar can always cause more harm,’ Pagan said, and he looked at Humphrey with what appeared to be a cold challenge in his eyes that made Humphrey feel quite chilled. ‘I would have thought you’d know that.’

Late that night Perkin and Beorn met at Guy’s house.

The weather was bitter, and all three were glad of the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. They squatted on their haunches, holding their hands to the flames. Today they had been working on the manor’s land, and all were desperate for refreshment.

Guy was married with four children. He had been lucky, and ever since the famine he had waxed wealthy. His strips produced a good crop each year, and so far he had been able to feed all his family without too much difficulty. Last week his wife had brewed a fresh barrel of ale, and the others were here to test its quality. It was commonly agreed that Anne was one of the best alewives in the county, so all three of the men were keenly looking forward to sampling her brew.

Perkin took a long pull from his mug. The house was very crowded, with Guy’s wife and children all asleep on the low bed in the corner, while smoke billowed from the central hearth. There was a table, with one low bench running down one side, and a stool for Anne. Apart from that, the living space was filled with the assorted rubbish that houses full of children tended to gather: a rude hobbyhorse, dolls made of straw and clothed in scraps, sticks with cross-guards tied in place in imitation of swords, a single small chest with clothes piled on top to save them falling on the damp floor. A vast black cauldron sat nearby, with all the house’s plates and wooden spoons protruding from it.

It was small, crowded, and none the worse for that. From here, Perkin knew that his friend could sit and view his wife and children as well as the ox that stood quietly in the far end of the place snuffling at a pile of hay. It was good that a man could contemplate his life.

There was a price to be paid for sitting here and drinking a man’s ale. Both the visitors had their knives out and were whittling busily at the bits and pieces of wood Guy had given them. He had need of more spoons for his children, and it was common for men like them to carve as they chatted. There was always a need for a new spoon, a trencher, or a cup, and while the women spun wool their men might as well work too.

‘What did you make of the coroner?’ Perkin asked Guy.

‘A knight. What else?’

Beorn snorted. ‘A friend of our master, I reckon.’

‘Sir Geoffrey? Why say that?’

‘Didn’t you see the long streak of piss who wanted to talk to him after the inquest?’ Beorn demanded.

Perkin’s ears pricked up. ‘I saw him, but didn’t know him. Who was he?’

‘Adam, our new sergeant, although he’s always called Adcock, apparently. He went up to the coroner and asked him to go to the big house.’

‘You think the master’s got an idea about Ailward’s death?’ Guy asked anxiously.

‘The coroner said it was someone else, not us. That’s enough for everyone,’ Perkin said firmly. ‘The master won’t want to have a load of accusations flying around here disrupting things. His job is purely to take money from us. He can’t do that if we’re in gaol.’

Beorn shot him a sidelong look, but said nothing.

Guy frowned, then looked down at the spoon he was carving. ‘What of the poor devil up the way?’

They all knew whom he meant. There had been little else discussed in the vill since it had learned of the attack up in Iddesleigh. A whole family wiped out.

Beorn scowled at the fire. ‘Who’d have done a thing like that? It looked like a bunch of felons.’

‘We know who was out that day, though, don’t we?’ Perkin said in a low voice, glancing over his shoulder to see that the children and Anne weren’t listening.

Guy glared at him. ‘I won’t have that sort of talk in my house, Perkin.’

‘You can try to ignore it if you want, but it’s not going to help when Sir Odo comes to defend his own, is it?’ Perkin hissed.

‘He won’t dare,’ Beorn said confidently. ‘What could he do? Raid and kill a few men from Sir Geoffrey’s household? The retribution would be terrible.’

‘Sir Odo has the reputation of being a strong, fierce warrior,’ Guy said.

‘Aye,’ Perkin said. ‘And I think he’d spit in Sir Geoffrey’s eye for a penny. This will leave him sore, you mark my words. You can’t attack a peasant in another manor without the lord coming for compensation.’

‘If he had proof, you’d be right,’ Beorn said, ‘but I’d bet a sack of oats that there’s no one will own to seeing Sir Geoffrey’s men, and that any man who tried to take a matter like this to court would soon find himself out of pocket, and without his lands either.’

‘A whole family,’ Perkin said, shaking his head. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Guy’s sleeping children. The sight was warming, and the idea that a lord could decide to wipe them out was terrifying. ‘Why’d he want to hurt them, anyway? They hadn’t been here that long.’

‘I heard that the woman was a nun who’d left her convent,’ Beorn said. ‘Good-looking wench.’

‘They had a little boy.’ Perkin had seen the lad once. He didn’t often have need to go so far as Iddesleigh, but he’d once had to walk up past it, and he could vaguely recall a tall, elegant fair woman, with a little boy on her hip.

Guy shook his head. ‘What could they have done to deserve an attack like that?’

It was Beorn who sighed and shook his head. ‘Whatever it was, it’s probably died with them.’

‘I saw Pagan earlier today,’ Guy said slowly. ‘He said that there was a stranger in the area. A friar.’