No Law in the Land

Chapter Nine

Road near Bow

There were few times in Stephen of Shoreditch’s life when he had been made to feel quite so fearful. In his experience, most men were more than happy to treat him with a degree of respect, because a man who insulted the king’s messengers insulted the king himself. A messenger was a representative of the king.

These men hardly appeared to accord him any respect whatsoever. They didn’t talk to him, nor offer him any refreshment, but insisted that he dismount and walk with them. Another man behind them had his horse now, while he walked in the midst of his captors, glancing about him on occasion, hoping against hope that they were speaking the truth and would take him to Sir Robert de Traci. Certainly he had little expectation that he would be able to escape. Although these felons had left him with his dagger and short riding sword, they were hemmed closely in on him, and the likelihood of his being able to run from them was remote in the extreme. They looked more than capable of bringing him down in a matter of yards.

It was while they were on their way that he saw the event that was to make him certain that he was in the company of dangerous souls.

They had taken a little turn, and were now walking down a hill towards what looked like a fair-sized hamlet, when Stephen heard a squeaking and rumbling sound. It wasn’t ahead of them, but over to the left, somewhere towards the south. Before long he was able to make out a little lane that appeared to interest the men with him. They wandered up to it, slinking along quietly, and crouched at the edge, where it met their own road.

Soon Stephen could see what was happening. Even as the scarred man grasped his shoulder and pulled him down, he could see that the noise was a man on an ancient cart.

‘Messenger boy, if you want to live to deliver another note, you’ll keep your mouth and your eyes shut!’ the man said, and his dagger was already unsheathed, the point at Stephen’s throat, in the dent below his windpipe.

There was nothing Stephen could say. He merely nodded his head slowly, and watched.

The man was a farmer, so far as he could see. An ordinary farmer on the way to the market at Bow, likely. He had some produce in the back of his little cart. A pathetic amount, but enough to justify the journey. The man was almost asleep as he knelt in the cart, his head nodding with the cart’s jerking, his eyes all but closed.

‘Old man, what have you got in there?’

Stephen looked over to see that one of the men had grabbed the horse’s rein and was grinning up at the farmer.

‘Who are you? I’m-’

‘No, old man. What have you got in there, is what I asked.’

‘Nothing. Just some beans and cheese for market. What do you want with me?’

‘We are taking tolls for the market,’ the man said smoothly, and nodded to one of the others.

Immediately Stephen saw this fellow slip around the cart and grab for the back of it. The farmer scowled and turned, watching as the fellow eyed the goods and reached in to take a cheese.

‘I’ll see you in hell before you take that or anything else of mine,’ the farmer snarled.

‘Pox on your threats, old man,’ the man at the reins said.

‘Leave my goods, you shite!’

‘Who do you think you are, peasant?’

‘I am Jack Begbeer, you little hog, and I won’t be robbed!’

‘Hey, Osbert, look at this! There’s a good barrel of ale here too!’ the man at the back said, and was soon clambering over the cart.

The farmer glanced at him, and then reached down to his side. He came up gripping a whip; flicking his wrist, the long end rose, curled around and lashed out. The man at the back of the cart gave a cry, and his hand went to his brow. As he stood, hands cupping his face, blood began to ooze from a slash across his forehead, and he sprang down to hide from the stinging whip.

‘Old git!’ the man at the reins bellowed, and ducked as the whip end came towards him.

Stephen saw it as it passed over the man’s head. It had been cut and woven into a fine point, and when it touched flesh, it cut like a razor. Already the farmer was thrashing it about him with abandon, standing warily on his cart, keeping the men at bay, snarling defiance at them all. ‘You think you can rob any man passing here? We all know you and your evil master. Well you won’t take my things, not without some of you getting hurt, you sons of dogs! Go to hell, you soulless devils! The pox on you and your children, if you can father them!’

In front of him, Stephen saw that the scarred man had laughed at first to see the men trounced by an old peasant, but his humour was fading now. ‘Old man, get down from the cart. You’ve hurt one of Sir Robert of Traci’s men, and that means your toll has become more expensive.’

‘You? You think to steal all my goods? You think I don’t know you, Osbert? Son of a whore, your father was, and you too! Think you that you can scare me? I’ll be damned if I’ll let you rob me like you rob so many others, damn your soul!’

As he spoke, he flung back his arm, then lashed. The whip sprang towards the scarred man like a viper. He swore, stepped aside, and let the whip fly past him, and as it rose a second time, he darted forward, under the horses, and reappeared on the other side, his dagger held by the point. He hefted it, took his aim, and hurled.

The dagger spun lazily in the air, and Stephen could see its flight as it turned over and over and then sank to the hilt in the old farmer’s throat. He dropped reins and whip, clutching at the hilt, spinning as he tried to pull it free, eyes wide with horror, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to breathe. Then he fell backwards, dropping heavily on to his backside near the front of the cart even as the blood began to dribble from his lips.

‘Stupid old peasant! Couldn’t you restrain yourself? Eh?’ Scarface shouted. ‘You had to keep on, didn’t you? See where that gets you, you old git! Straightway to hell. Well, give my regards to the devil!’

The farmer slumped, his body jerking and writhing as he died slowly. Gradually his efforts to keep upright became too much of a struggle, and he toppled over the cart’s wall, ending up on his back beside his carthorse, his eyes fixed on the man he had called Osbert. The man with the scarred face walked to the farmer, reached for his knife and jerked it free. A fine spray of blood erupted from the dying man’s throat, and Osbert laughed to see the way that the horse pulling the cart neighed and tried to jerk away from the warm blood.

‘Come on, fools!’ he bellowed, and kicked the farmer’s body from cart’s path. He took up the reins and cracked them to get the beast moving again.

Stephen felt a hand on his elbow, and submitted to being pushed along. He couldn’t help but glance back at the body in the dirt at the side of the track. The farmer’s face was already mottled with death, the blood staining his clothes, while a red, oily sheen lay upon his face. Stephen was sure that he could see the man’s lips working, but it was impossible to tell what he was trying to say. Perhaps it was ‘Avenge me!’

If that was what the old peasant hoped, he would have to remain hopeful. Stephen wanted nothing to do with fighting those devils.

St Pancras Lane, Exeter

Edith waited at the table until her husband arrived, and then rose to greet him.

‘My sweet, you shouldn’t have waited,’ he protested.

The maidservant was still in the room, and his greeting must remain cordial but restrained, he felt. Although he had grown up with servants in his household, it was a novel experience still to have his own maid.

Edith smiled. ‘God speed, husband. Sit, please, and let me serve you.’

‘I am most grateful for your attendance, my love. Send the maid away,’ he added in a hiss.

At Edith’s gesture, young Jane curtsied and left, walking carefully as though she might break some of the wonderful carvings on the cupboard.

‘Thank you, my love,’ Peter murmured, and pulled his wife towards him.

‘Oho, so you want to let your food get cold?’ Edith protested.

He had her by the waist already. ‘Not half, my precious! Come here, and let me …’

Edith fell back over his lap to sit with a low chuckle. She pointed her chin to the ceiling while he nuzzled at her throat, his hands roving over her simple tunic, feeling the firmness of her body beneath, the rounded swelling of her breasts, the smooth flesh of her flanks. ‘Oh, my love. I have been dreaming of this all day!’

‘Well you will have to continue dreaming for a little longer. I am petrified with hunger,’ she said, and was about to climb from him when there was a loud knocking on the door. She looked down at him. ‘Who can that be?’

‘Christ’s bones, but I don’t know, I swear,’ Peter said with conviction, standing and walking to the door.

It was dark out, but as he threw the door wide, he could see the lanterns shining, the candles flickering in their horn boxes. ‘What do you want?’

The nearest man was a stout fellow with an ancient-looking cap of steel. He had shrewd dark eyes set widely below a strong forehead, and a beard that was very dark. He was young enough not to have any frost on his head or in his moustache. He looked at Edith. ‘We’d heard that Sir Richard de Welles was here. Have you seen him? Or Sir Baldwin, the Keeper?’

‘Why do you want them?’ Peter said, aware of Edith behind him. He felt her hand rest on his shoulder.

‘There’s been a murder over towards Oakhampton, and Sir Peregrine has asked for them to go to him,’ the man said.

‘You must send for him at Furnshill, then,’ Peter said. ‘They left here early this morning. They will be there by now, I’d imagine.’

‘Then God speed, master,’ the man said. He motioned with his hands, and the others began to filter back up the alley towards St Pancras. ‘Was the bailiff with them too?’

‘Who, my father?’ Edith asked. ‘Simon Puttock? Yes.’

The fellow nodded and set off after the other men. The last Edith saw of them was their backs as they made their way to the top of the alley and took the path left, wandering southwards. She caught a fleeting glimpse, so she thought, of another face, one that made her blood run cold for an instant, but then it was gone, and she knew that it must be her imagination. William atte Wattere, the man whom she had encountered at her father’s house on the day she had gone to ask his permission to marry, was surely nowhere near here now.

Peter shut the door and rested his hand on it for a few moments, frowning. ‘I do not like that fellow.’

‘Why, my love? He was only a watchman, wasn’t he?’

‘He didn’t look like any man from around here. He was one of the guard with the new sheriff at Rougemont Castle, I’d swear.’

Edith shrugged and led him back to their hall. ‘What of it?’

‘He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d be sent for a simple message delivery. It was almost as though someone wanted to make sure that the coroner and your father had actually left the city.’

Road near Bow

Roger had made good time walking back down to the south coast. Embittered, chilly, sore footed and hungry, he was glad to have met a farmer just outside Winkleigh, who, after studying him a while, invited him in to sit before a fire, and fed him warmed milk sweetened with almonds, and some good thick maslin bread. Even better, he had allowed his guest to stay the night on the floor near the fire.

It was astonishing how well a man could feel when he had been rested and fed. Roger had known times in Guyenne, and in other parts of France, when he had been fighting, terrified for his life, and he and the others had found a little farmstead to take and sleep in, where the bliss of the peace was almost unbearable.

Walking here from that little farm had been much faster, and he had reached the outskirts of North Tawton the previous day. Somehow he had missed his path back to Jacobstowe. And although he knew he should have simply hurried on, down to Oakhampton, which was apparently not too many miles away, and thence to the coast and the busy port there, he had idled the day away. This morning, waking, he had been determined to get away from the area, but somehow he found himself still here. It was not until late afternoon that he decided to leave, but now, rather than seek out and walk through the woods at Abbeyford, he turned eastwards on a whim. There was no reason to go that way, other than the fact that he would have to take an easterly route at some point to get to Dartmouth, but he had an urge to take a slower path. He was enjoying the feeling of being on land too much to hazard the dangers of the sea followed by the hardship of fighting.

As he was strolling along, looking at the view from the roadway, he suddenly heard a force of men-at-arms approaching.

Most men, on hearing such a sound, would simply continue on their way. There were men on horseback all over the realm, and many of them warriors. It was a normal sight, natural in its way. So many magnates wanted to take their loyal men with them when they travelled so that any daring felons would be dissuaded from attempting a robbery. But Roger had a different attitude to such noises. In his mind there was an appreciation of the danger such men could represent. In Guyenne, the flat, treeless landscapes sometimes meant it was harder to conceal yourself, but here there were so many opportunities, it was difficult to pick the best.

The riders were approaching quickly. Gazing about him, he caught sight of a convenient tree branch at the side of the road, and used it to clamber up and over the hedge. He was just in time — as he landed, gently, on his feet and allowed his legs to fold beneath him so that he was almost flat beside the tree, he saw through the twigs and stems of the hedge the first flash of mottled armour, and heard the sound of hoofs suddenly grow louder. He saw a one-eyed warrior, and a fearful-looking man hemmed in by all the others, and reckoned that he was not a willing companion.

The damp was soaking into his tunic and his hose felt sticky and uncomfortable, but as they rode past, he allowed only his eyes to follow them. Any sudden movement could attract attention. He wasn’t worried about making a noise; it was enough to let a man catch a glimpse from the corner of his eye, and if he was an experienced warrior, as these appeared to be, he would investigate.

He watched and listened until the men were fully out of sight. Only then did he realise he had been holding his breath. As he clambered back over the hedge into the grassy roadway, he felt strangely light headed — and oddly exhilarated as well. It could have been the usual delight at escaping danger, but there was also the undoubted thrill of near action again. He was a fighter, when all was said and done.

And although in this case he had neither master nor money, he hesitated only a moment before darting off after the horses.

He would learn where they had come from.

Sandford

Simon walked up and down, while his wife watched with her blue eyes wide and anxious.

‘Well, I suppose we’ll continue together, then,’ Sir Richard said after a while. He was looking from one to the other of them with some concern, but mainly with a scowl of incomprehension.

‘Are you going to go?’ Margaret asked.

Simon threw a look at her. ‘Meg, I have to. I don’t want to any more than you do, but I have to obey a direct command like this!’ he said, and slapped the note in his hand.

They had been talking about the message all the afternoon, and Meg was no more keen to think that he was about to have to leave again than she had been before. Their son Perkin had already left to run and play in the yard after listening to the wrangling back and forth, and Sir Richard was only there because he thought it would be rude to leave the two to their discussion. Simon was glad that he had remained. The presence of the coroner forced Simon and Margaret to maintain a moderately calm demeanour.

‘Isn’t it enough that they have our house?’ Margaret asked quietly.

‘This isn’t from the man Despenser sent to steal it from us,’ Simon said wearily. They had been over this already. ‘It’s from the Cardinal de Fargis. He is living there, but not with the approval of Despenser. When we were thrown from our house, Bishop Walter had already offered it to the cardinal, and he will maintain it whether or not Despenser wants him there.’

‘Simon, I don’t want you to go.’

‘I don’t want to. But look at it sensibly, Meg. The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be back. The worst that can happen is that I’m asked to help with some matter for a few days, and then I’ll be back. I will not accept another post abroad, no matter what they offer or threaten.’

‘You said that in the summer. And then they sent you to France.’

‘That was the king,’ Simon reminded her. ‘And after the way the king reacted to Baldwin, Sir Richard and me last time he saw us, there’s not the remotest chance he’ll want me around again. I think I’m unlikely to be sent anywhere other than Tavistock now.’

‘He’s right there, lady,’ Sir Richard said.

‘We will leave in the morning,’ Simon said, more firmly.