He was almost at the bog, swamped with feelings of melancholy, when he saw the rider in the distance.
Whoever it was, the man was riding fast, and Adcock peered with interest at the approaching figure, forgetting his own woes for a moment.
The fellow rode hard, like a man with a terrible mission, but when he saw Adcock standing by the roadside he made for him and reined in hard, making his rounsey skip and slither on the icy surface.
‘Friend, I am seeking Iddesleigh — can you tell me where I may find it?’
‘Of course — keep on this road, and you’ll soon be there. It can only be a mile or two distant. You are looking for a friend?’
‘I am looking for my servant’s killer! Someone has murdered him, so I’ve heard!’ Simon spat. ‘You know of the murder?’
‘You were the master of Ailward?’ Adcock said. ‘I am here in his place, and …’
‘Who? No, I’m here because of Hugh. Hugh Shepherd or Hugh Drewsteignton, he may have been called. Someone has told me that he was killed along with his woman and child.’
Adcock felt a sharp pain in his breast. ‘When was this?’ he gasped.
‘I don’t know! You say the vill is up there?’
‘Yes, just stay on the road and you’ll soon be there.’
‘My thanks. Godspeed!’
Adcock stood staring after him as the man shouted at his mount, spurring it to a gallop again, and with sparks flying from the shoes the beast leaped away like a bullet from a sling.
There was a dreadful sense of conviction in his breast. He remembered the coroner’s visit three days ago, and Sir Geoffrey’s insistence that Adcock should invite the man to lunch at the hall before going on. There had been mention then of deaths at Iddesleigh, but Adcock knew no one up there and had paid little attention as they spoke of a family murdered in the next village. It had meant nothing to him at the time.
But now he had seen the pain that those deaths had caused. A man, his woman and his child, all dead. And who could have committed such a crime?
Adcock knew too well which band of men in this area was most likely to carry out an attack of that kind.
Friar John, too, was fully aware that there were dangerous men in the area.
He sat and poked at his fire, feeling curiously disconsolate. He had come here hoping to find some sort of sanctuary for a little while, and instead here he was, hiding in a rude shelter, a more than half-ruined cottage, with a man who had been near to death for the last few days.
The fellow lay on a thin blanket, his eyes wide and staring. His face was fixed into a glower of such malevolence that several times when John caught a glimpse of it, he had been tempted to cross himself: the man looked so much like a demon. Even now, as the flickering flames caught his features, John had to shudder. There was something in his eyes that spoke of a mind driven to lunacy, and as the light caught them, the reflection almost looked as though the fire was in his soul. It made John think that the poor fellow was already living in a hell of his own, and the idea was fearfully compelling.
He knew little enough about him. When he picked him up from the ruins of the house, the man had been unable to speak. He’d merely sat, his head in his hands, rocking slowly back and forth and moaning to himself. John had pulled him away from the wreckage of the building, uttering kind, soft words to calm him, and then settling him on the ground with a few blankets he’d found hanging from a branch. The woman must have washed them and left them hanging to dry. And all the while the flames began to take hold in the house.
‘Wait there, I’ll fetch help.’
‘No! No! No one else!’
‘Man, you need a room to sleep in and some help. I can’t do much for you. I don’t have the knowledge.’
‘No one. I must keep away, somewhere safe … can’t go to vill. Must stay away …’ His voice trailed away while he stared about him with wide, anxious eyes. ‘They killed her, my Constance! Raped her and killed her! Where’s my boy? Where’s Hugh …’
John shook his head. Inside the doorway he had seen the child tossed into a corner. ‘Let me fetch the watch. There must be someone even in …’
‘No. No one.’
‘Man, that’s foolish. I have to fetch a priest, maybe, or a leech. You aren’t well. I’m sure you need a bleeding.’
That was when the injured man had reached up and grabbed his robe with a fist that shook as though the fellow had the ague. ‘No one! They’ll kill me too!’
‘Who will? Who did this?’
But the man had used his grip on John’s robe to pull himself up, and he had no energy, seemingly, to speak further. Instead all his will and energy was devoted to hobbling along on John’s arm towards the lane, where he stooped and picked up a billhook and an axe. He thrust both into his broad leather belt, then stumbled and all but collapsed. John helped him up.
There had been few times in his life when he had seen a man so badly in need of aid. From his crabbed gait it was clear that he was in pain from a number of wounds, although mercifully there appeared to be little blood. What there was seemed to be on his back, but the man wouldn’t allow John to look at it. ‘Later. Got to get away from here.’
His right leg was giving him trouble, but he still half hopped, half staggered along, clinging on to John with the desperation of a man, so John thought at the time, who was petrified with fear for his life. That was the only reason why John had helped him, really, and why he’d agreed not to call for the hue and cry or the local bailiff. He reasoned that if the man was so shocked and scared, it would be cruel to force him to go to speak to the law officers. Better, perhaps, to take him somewhere where he might recover himself. John himself could speak to the officers later, when this man was settled.
‘Can’t stay Iddesleigh.’
It wasn’t a statement that invited debate. John could understand why, of course. If the man thought that his attackers were from that vill, he’d be unlikely to trust to folks there to look after him. ‘What of Monkleigh?’
‘No! Can’t … can’t stay near here. I’ve got to get away.’
‘Man, you are not going to travel far with that leg,’ John said reasonably.
‘Hugh.’
‘What?’
‘My name: it’s Hugh.’ The man turned and looked at him, and although it wasn’t quite madness, there was a terrible purpose in his eyes now which shone through them even here in the darkness. ‘I’ll travel as far as I need, Friar.’
‘I don’t blame you. I’d want to run away too, but …’
Hugh turned and gave him a stare from feverish, maddened eyes. ‘I’m not running away. I need to get better so I can find them.’
Chapter Thirteen
Pagan walked into the chapel and knelt at the altar. It was chill in there, and the tiled floor was uncomfortable, but he was used to it. He’d been coming here to pray all his life, and he tried to do so every day, although he treated the Sunday Mass with a special reverence.
He had never understood the way of so many people today. They all hurried from one place to another and paid little attention to their souls. Even Sundays, which should have been days of rest, were treated with … flexibility. The priest himself, old Isaac, had often told them that God wouldn’t mind them hurrying to fetch in the harvest before church, provided they all listened to the service and didn’t doze.
So many of them seemed to think that the chapel was a quiet refuge from nagging wives or the troubles of the manor, where they could forget all their worries for a little while. It shouldn’t be like that. God expected more from his people, surely.
Pagan himself liked to pray for the men he had known. There were so many who had died in the famine eight years ago, and then there were the masters he had loved. He liked to pray for them all.
It was while his rosary was slipping through his fingers and he was saying some words for poor Ailward that he heard the door rattling. He finished his prayers and made the sign of the cross. As soon as he stood, the old priest chuckled drily.