Perkin glanced up at him. ‘So? You don’t say a friar could have done that to the family?’
‘There are always stories … She was good looking.’
‘Yes, there are always stories,’ Perkin scoffed. ‘And there is silliness wherever you look. But that man’s family was wiped out in the same evening that Robert Crokers was forced from his home. And you know as well as I do that Sir Geoffrey has looked with interest at all the lands this side of the river. How better to leave a message about his intentions than an attack on a defenceless family?’
Beorn shook his head as he held up his spoon and studied it critically. ‘I wonder what did happen to that poor woman from Meeth?’
‘I suppose she’ll be found someday soon,’ Guy said. ‘At least she wasn’t one of our own born down here.’
Perkin sighed. ‘She was a widow. No one to defend her. And her lands must be as attractive as any other to Sir Geoffrey.’
It was no more than the truth. Women were rarely taken and killed here, but it wasn’t unknown. To think that a widow like her could be kidnapped and killed was awful, though. Perkin only hoped she had died before she could suffer too much. ‘I dare say we’ll soon find her, Guy, just as you say.’
Chapter Nine
Sir Geoffrey was in his hall.
This was a good place to live. In his youth, Sir Geoffrey had been an unknown knight in Gascony, and when he had won his spurs he left his home to seek his fortune. Travelling all over Christendom with a lance and the determination to make himself a name, he had won fabulous sums at tournaments, eventually finishing up at a tourney in Fontevrault in Anjou. It was a quiet affair. The French king of the time, Philip IV, felt less strong than he should and wanted to prevent any gatherings of armed men on his lands, and had decided to ban all tournaments from his domain. Of course the County of Anjou was not a part of the royal demesne, but it was felt better not to advertise the tournament too widely at the time. The count didn’t want to antagonise the king — but he did wish to celebrate the knighting of his eldest son, so he would have a tournament.
Only a select number of knights were invited to participate, and Geoffrey felt certain that he would be able to make enough money at this last bout to retire. In the year of our Lord 1297, it was time he stopped his idle ramblings about the countryside, and found himself a place he could call his own. Perhaps he could go on pilgrimage with the Teutonic Knights and see what the lands were like in the heathen country they were suppressing? With a good purse earned from this last fight, he could perhaps buy a small castle — or take one, if he could form a small force. Capturing a small town or castle was always a good way to enter the nobility.
So he had gone to the tournament, had wagered heavily on himself, and had lost all his money when he was unhorsed and ransomed by the sniggering Count of Blois. Reptilian man. He’d been lucky: Geoffrey’s horse had stumbled on a molehill or something as he went into the gallop, and that little misstep had made the beast slow, turn his head and stamp before Geoffrey could take control, and in that time the count had covered the distance between them. To Geoffrey’s horror, he saw the lance almost on him, and before he could move his horse plunged once, and the lance caught him on the breast. His cantle broke, and he was pitched over his mount’s rump to land, winded, on his back.
As quickly as he could, he rolled over on to all fours and stood, but even as he did so, a ringing crash on his helm sent him headlong. This time there was no mistake. The count had his sword at Geoffrey’s visor, and it was all over: his successes were set at nought.
And yet there had been one good piece of fortune that day. Unknown to him, there had been another knight present at the tourney, a tall, well-formed man: Hugh Despenser. To Geoffrey’s relief, Despenser had ransomed him, returned his arms and mount, and offered him a place in his household.
That was long ago, of course. Long before his son grew powerful in the king’s favours — and, most guessed, in his arms, too — and long before Hugh Despenser the elder became the Earl of Winchester.
Geoffrey preferred the old Hugh, the man to whom he had been so indebted on that sunny afternoon in Anjou. Immediately, his life had changed, and now he felt it was all for the better. He had been reduced to penury, dependent upon another once more, and all dreams of finding a small town, sacking it and living in the castle were gone, to be replaced by a post as an effective steward in a vill down here in Devon.
First Despenser had taken him with him on the campaign to Flanders with the English king’s host. That pointless failure did the king no good, but Geoffrey managed to capture two burgesses and ransom them for a goodly sum, and soon he was a man of some wealth once more.
Many would have thought it odd that one who had aspired to own his own castle should have been content to remain in my Lord Despenser’s household. Geoffrey did not care what they thought. He had a warm hall, comfortable clothes, rich tapestries, new tunics every summer and winter, and the life of a minor noble. All without risk. He was happy with that. He had everything he needed from life.
His new sergeant entered, and Geoffrey looked up at him. ‘So, Adcock. Are you hungry? I’m about to eat.’
‘I think it’s a little late to eat now,’ Adcock said with a quick look about him.
It was just as though he feared to be attacked in such a den of thieves, Geoffrey thought, and he felt a rush of anger against the man. These were his men, and some piss-legged sergeant like this had no right to look down on them. ‘Sit here with me. This is the time I learned to eat when I was fighting with the last king, God bless his memory, and what’s good for a king can’t be bad for a sergeant, can it? Sit here.’
‘Thank you,’ Adcock said as he took his place on a stool at Geoffrey’s side.
He was pale and anxious-looking. Geoffrey knew that since his arrival he had been looking more and more fretful, as though he suddenly realised he was among dangerous men. He looked like a lamb who had woken to find himself in the midst of a wolf-pack. Well, he’d best make the most of his position here. He would be here for a good long time. Lord Despenser had heard of his skills and wanted him here to help Sir Geoffrey, and if Lord Despenser wanted a man, he would have him.
‘Boy, you should learn to enjoy yourself more. This solitary life is no good for you. Perhaps we could find you a woman?’
Adcock flinched and looked away. In his mind’s eye he saw Hilda bending over her work, her lovely body encased in her old tunic, turning and smiling at him with that tender look in her eye … it was enough to make him want to weep. ‘I don’t want a woman.’
‘Aha! So you have one, do you?’ Geoffrey said with delight. ‘I’m glad to hear it. You should bring her here, then, show her to us, so we can see what she’s like. Tell me: is she fair or dark? Long in the leg, or a short-arse? Big breasted or small?’
Adcock felt himself colouring under his questions. It was demeaning to his memory of his woman that this knight should quiz him about her so crudely in front of all the men.
‘Answer me! What is she like?’ Geoffrey demanded.
‘She is my woman. Mine. That’s all you need know,’ Adcock stated flatly. He would not discuss the woman whom he intended to marry in this manner. She was worth more to him than his post here.
‘You won’t tell me about her?’ Geoffrey growled.
‘I do not offer her to you — why should I describe her to you?’
Geoffrey’s face blackened for a moment, and he leaned towards Adcock, but then the food was brought into the hall, and he relaxed. Adcock was sure that the older man’s hand had strayed to his dagger’s hilt, and his heart was pounding uncomfortably with the conviction that he had narrowly escaped death. He tried to sit a little farther away from Geoffrey without moving too ostentatiously.