‘So, you young reprobate. You’ve been misbehaving again, have you?’
‘No, Father. But I like to come and pray. You know that.’
‘Pagan, you pray more than most others in here. It is good to see you. When I think of the godless, murderous sons of whores at Monkleigh, I could burst with anger. Your penitence is an example.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘I will be dead soon. You know that?’
‘You have many years …’
‘No, I’ll soon be dead. And when I am, the lad will be in charge.’
‘Your coadjutor?’
‘Humphrey.’ The rheumy old eyes took in Pagan for a moment. ‘The lad will need help; protection. You help him. He will think he’s not good enough. God knows, he might even try to run away. Stop him. Keep him here. He has a good heart, I am sure of it. He may even come to realise it himself, given time.’
Pagan frowned at him with confusion. ‘What do you mean? He’s a priest, isn’t he? Why would he run away from his people?’
‘Because not all men are what they seem, Pagan. Sometimes a man may be in a job which he’s not supposed to have. But he’ll make a good priest. Don’t worry about that. You just look after him. I won’t be able to for much longer.’
On the second day, the Monday, when Hugh was less stiff and more able to make the distance, John woke him at dusk and the pair of them crossed the river to the woods at the other side, and up the lane to a ruined cottage John knew of: a shod friar and the man he’d rescued. Sitting in the ruins of an old house, with a fire that was smoking more than John liked, at least the two of them were warm enough.
Hugh was in a dreadful state. He was pale and in much pain. His face was twisted with it, and with his terrible desire for vengeance on the men who had destroyed his life. He wanted them to die. All the time he slept, his hands gripped his weapons, and his features moved alarmingly as he ground his teeth, whispered sweet words as though to his wife, and then shrieked with horror and rage … Still, the wound in his back appeared not to be serious, which was a relief. It was only shallow, a blow struck by a man standing above him, thrusting down. His blade had caught a rib and glanced off it, saving Hugh’s life. It took away a flap of skin, but that was all. There was some weeping now, but no pus.
John wiped his face with his eyes closed. It was impossible to rest just now with Hugh requiring all his attention during the day, and then crying out and weeping at night. John could not take his ease, and it was impossible to ask anyone else to come to help him. Hugh had begged him to send a messenger to his master’s friend at some place called Furnshill, and it was sheer good fortune that he had found a stableboy from Exbourne who was leading a horse back to his inn after a guest had borrowed it. John had promised him a reward once he had delivered the message. The fact that he was not from Iddesleigh or Monkleigh was a reassurance. Someone from the locality might have gone straight to the men who had tried to kill Hugh.
It was hard to concentrate now, though. So much despair, so much fear. And John knew the same terrors. He could understand how desolate Hugh must feel, having lost his family. After all, a friar gave up his own relatives when he joined the convent. John himself only had the one member of his family left now, and it was years since he’d seen her. In fact he was quite scared at the thought of ever meeting her again. She’d probably give him hell for his behaviour in the past. Always convinced of being right, she was a hard woman to argue with. Still, her husband was a good man, and perhaps he would have worn off some of the rougher parts of her nature. Who could tell? She might even be a mother.
He shook his head and smiled. It would be good to see her again.
Then he opened his tired eyes again as Hugh burst into sobs of grief. No, he must stay here a little longer, to make sure that this poor injured man was safe. This was no time to go gallivanting across the country to find a sister he hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years.
Nicholas le Poter felt as though his back was on fire. The slightest movement made each scab pull at his flesh; it was like having burning pitch tipped over him.
It could have been worse. In his anger, Sir Geoffrey could have done more if he’d wanted: had his nose clipped, or his ears cut off for offering insult to a man there to parlay. Not that it was much comfort knowing that. The son of a whore had done enough damage as it was. It would soon come to the younger Despenser’s ears that Sir Geoffrey had been meting out unjust punishments to those whom he trusted.
Not that Sir Geoffrey knew that Lord Despenser had put Nick here to watch the steward’s behaviour. Lord Despenser was no fool, and he wasn’t going to trust even an old man who’d spent years in his father’s service like Sir Geoffrey without having someone else there who could keep an eye on things.
At first it’d seemed the place was well run and effective enough. The peasants certainly seemed to have their lands well in hand, and it was easy enough to see that they were completely docile under Sir Geoffrey’s control, but there was a weakness to his authority, so Nick thought. He’d wanted to laugh when he saw how Sir Geoffrey tried to negotiate boundaries with Sir Odo. That was ridiculous! The men who ran the estates for the Despenser need not ask for favours or make offers. They could demand what they wanted.
It was sensible to take the land east of the river from Sir Odo. Odo couldn’t keep it if they demanded it, and scaring the fool of a bailiff from the place was the first stage in grabbing it. Next would be to get the lands farther up, all the way to Iddesleigh and beyond, if possible, so the Despenser territory would be more or less self-supporting in manpower. If they had the Meeth lands as well as Iddesleigh and Monkleigh, they would be able to begin to threaten Lord Hugh de Courtenay.
Of course, if the lands expanded, clearly Lord Despenser would need a man with more brains than this burned-out old fool in charge. Lord Despenser would want someone younger, more ambitious — and ruthless. Someone like Nick.
Nick grimaced and shifted himself uncomfortably. His back felt dreadful. Still, he hoped that he would soon be in a position to offer Lord Despenser additional territory and influence, and when he did, Sir Geoffrey would be out of his post, and Nick would have it. He’d make certain of that.
But there was something strange about all this. Nick had heard something about the old lands when he was last talking to Ailward, on the day Ailward died. It was something he’d been trying to find out about, because it could explain the negotiations which Sir Geoffrey kept holding with Sir Odo — and why Sir Odo still held lands east of the river.
The two of them had stolen the Despensers’ lands.
Simon reached Iddesleigh a few minutes after leaving Adcock, and as soon as he arrived at the inn he flung himself from his horse, shouting for an ostler, and marched up the steps to the great oaken door.
‘Where’s the master here?’ he bellowed as he walked in.
‘He is here, Simon,’ Baldwin said mildly, standing and crossing the floor. ‘And I have to tell you how sorry I was to hear about Hugh.’
Simon could say nothing for a few moments. He took Baldwin’s hand and held his gaze for a moment, and then cleared his throat gruffly, turning away, ‘So was I. It came as a great shock. Why should he expect danger here? In a quiet rural vill like Iddesleigh?’
He had wandered to the table where Jankin still sat. Jankin looked up at him and half shrugged his shoulders. He had seen plenty of distraught men: men who had lost their wives, men who had lost their sons or their daughters. It was one of his jobs as the innkeeper to try to offer some solace where he could, and he did so now.
‘Master, you’ve travelled far. Sit, let me fetch you some ale, and then some food to break your fast. I will tell you all I know about your servant.’