No Law in the Land

Chapter Thirteen

Lydford

Simon woke with the blessed feeling that all was well with the world. He stretched languidly, aware that there were birds singing loudly outside, and smelled fresh bread baking. His head felt fine, his arms were unstrained, his shoulders worked easily, and his eyes, when he opened them, focused.

This was the best morning’s wakening he had known while staying with Coroner Richard. It was almost as though the coroner had not been with him yesterday.

Simon was soon in his old hall, which felt odd. Last night it had been different. Perhaps it was because he had arrived here as a stranger, and was invited in. This morning, though, it was more peculiar. He had woken in his house, but not in his bed, and walked down to the hall which was his, and yet was filled with different people, servants and clerks who were entirely unknown to him. It made his breakfast feel rather unsettling.

‘Ha! Simon, glad to see you surfaced! Can’t keep a trout from snapping at the bait, eh? I said you’d be here as soon as you smelled the food. Don’t suppose you slept too well, though, eh? Not enough wine,’ added Sir Richard in an undertone. ‘Pox on the clergy for keeping their booze to themselves.’

‘So, Bailiff, I hope I see you well?’ the cardinal said.

Simon nodded, bowing low. ‘Very well, my lord.’

‘And have you considered whether or not you would like to take on the duty I asked?’

‘I would be very happy to see what I can learn about the death of your man, if it was him.’

‘There is an easy way to find out. Inspect the body, and if it is poor Pietro, you will find a ragged scar as long as my hand’s breadth on his right thigh. Just here,’ he said, resting his hand on his upper thigh. ‘He was kicked by a mule once, and the brute had a worn shoe that was as sharp as a razor. It made a most impressive scar.’

The steward hurried to his side, and the cardinal nodded as he whispered in his ear. ‘Most interesting. There is a messenger from the king.’

Simon nodded, and he and Sir Richard stepped back as the dishevelled messenger appeared. He had clearly set off on his journey very early to have arrived here already.

‘Where did you come from, messenger?’

‘I was at Bow last night, my lord, and left there as early as I could to bring messages for you and for the abbey at Tavistock.’

‘Please refresh yourself while you are here, then. I am sure a little wine and bread would be good? You should not be travelling today, though. Today should be a day of rest.’

Stephen of Shoreditch nodded, but he could not say that he was travelling because he was far from keen to remain in the castle at Bow. He was sure that he was not safe there. ‘I shall take my rest when I reach Tavistock.’

‘Good. Good,’ the cardinal said. ‘In the meantime, you can join us as we go to the church, yes?’

‘I would be delighted to,’ Stephen said.

Simon thought he looked worn out, but so often, he guessed, most messengers must look like that. They had to travel at least five-and-thirty miles each day, and still be bright enough to relay verbal messages or instructions, as well as being prepared to collect a reply. It wasn’t the best job in the world.

There were worse, of course. And just now Simon didn’t envy the cardinal. He was clearly a man who was putting on a good face as he strode along the road with his clerks behind him, their gowns flying in the wind like so many bats, while the servants struggled behind. The breeze was gusting viciously every so often, and the women were forced to hold on to their wimples, the men their hoods and hats, as they walked down the road, past the great blockhouse of Lydford Castle, the stannary prison and courthouse, to the church just beyond.

Simon had always loved this church. Once Lydford had been a great focus for the rebels against King William, so he had heard, because the townsfolk refused to accept that they must lose all their privileges and customs to the upstart king. This town, which had stood for a hundred years or more, and which was so highly regarded by the ancient kings of Wessex that they had granted the place the right to mint coins, would not listen to this new king from Normandy.

They were crushed, of course, as all the rebellious towns and cities were; as all were still. The use of force, that was the most effective power a king possessed. That was why, when Bristol refused to pay the king’s tallage in 1312, King Edward II had sent the posse of the county against the city, and forced it to submit after a lengthy siege. And then his punishment of the city folk was exemplary.

But that was the way kings proved their right to rule — by regular exercise of overwhelming force. And this king was no different from his ancestors in that way. He was different because he used ruthlessness and vindictiveness on a scale never before seen. If a man was thought to have slighted him or his favourite, that man would be humiliated at best. Many were simply executed. But Edward took the whole concept of revenge to a new level, imprisoning wives, daughters and sons, and disinheriting boys for the infractions of their fathers. There was never a king who had used such formidable authority against his subjects before. Not in English history.

These reflections were enough to distract Simon from the sermon, which was, in any case, more lengthy than he would have liked, and the time passed moderately swiftly until the end of the service, when he found himself hemmed in by Sir Richard on one side and the messenger on the other.

The messenger looked not at all refreshed, Simon reckoned. ‘You look like you could do with a rest,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you stay with Cardinal de Fargis here for the day? You’ll get no answer out of the abbey today anyway — they’ll all be involved in their prayers.’

‘I thank you,’ the messenger said, ‘but I must deliver this message, and that urgently. I would return to London as soon as I may.’

‘No need to break your cods over it, though,’ Sir Richard declared, earning a scandalised hiss from a cleric in the cardinal’s retinue. ‘What? What did I say? Did I say something amiss?’

‘Do not worry about him,’ Simon said, trying not to laugh. ‘Do you only have one message to deliver, then?’ he asked. ‘I know the king’s messengers will often have entire circuits to cover, but I suppose this is the end of yours?’

‘Yes. And now I must be gone,’ Stephen said shortly.

Simon looked over at the coroner. ‘If you must, then God speed. I wish you well on your journey.’

‘Thank you. And I you,’ Stephen said, and strode off towards the cardinal’s house and stables.

‘He is lucky, that fellow,’ Coroner Richard said thoughtfully. ‘If he’d spoken to me like that, I would have had his ballocks in a bucket.’

Jacobstowe

It took a little time for her to waken again. As she gradually appreciated that she was lying on the floor, she had to shake her head to clear it of the roaring sound in her ears, and then the strange conviction that there was a weight pressing down on her breast, holding her to the floor.

She tried to rise, but there was no strength in her arms, and she must strain and strain to try to get up.

‘No, no, stay there, mistress! Wait, let me help you!’

‘Hoppon!’ she recalled. It was him. He had come to the door, two men behind him, and had drawn his cap off, twisting it between his old hands as he told her of the death of her man. Her Bill. Her Lark. Her life. Beaten to death. It was that word, ‘beaten’, that had made her breast start to spasm, made the sound roar in her ears, made the breath hot and raw in her throat. ‘Help me up.’

One of the men had set her pot on the fire with water, and stewed some mint leaves for her. He passed a cup of it to her now, and the fragrance seemed to rise in her nostrils, clearing her mind and refreshing her. But not enough. Nothing could ever be enough, not now. ‘Bill, oh my Bill!’ she said, dropping the cup and gripping her stomach in a paroxysm of grief so intense she thought her heart must burst from her breast. She felt it like a clenching deep inside her, a tearing, desperate agony. Never to hold him to her, never to see his slow smile, his serious eyes turning tender and gentle when he held her, when he held the Ant. All was turned to misery and grim despair.

‘Mistress, do you want him in here, or shall we carry him to the church now?’ Hoppon asked.

She flung her head back. ‘In here. Let me clear the table for him.’

It was something to have a reason to be busy. She stood, and for now the feebleness seemed to have left her. It took a little time to move the bowls and spoons from the table, and the pastry she had been making for a pie, and then it was clear. She took salt and a brush and scrubbed the wood until it was bleached white. The men offered to aid her, but she snapped at them. This was her grief; it was her last duty for her man.

At last, content that all was as clean as it could be, she curtly commanded Hoppon to bring in the body.

They had him on an old plank of elm. That, she thought, was suitable. There was a great elm down in the hedge at the bottom of their plot, and he had always been fond of that tree, sitting underneath it for shade on the hottest days, and taking refuge beneath it when the weather turned to rain. Once he and she had made love against the trunk, both standing, both too taken with urgent lust to walk the fifteen or twenty yards to the house. He had been such a good lover. Such a good man.

And now he was as dead as the elm plank on which he lay. The men set the plank on the table and gradually tilted it until he was lying on the table itself. Not that it was large enough to accommodate his frame. He overhung it by a good few feet, his legs dangling from the knee.

Ant sidled across the floor on his backside, gurgling, and reached out for the nearer leg. Agnes had not the heart to stop him. Instead she turned to the men. ‘You have my gratitude, all of you. And now I would like to prepare him for his grave.’

‘I will ask my wife to-’

‘No. I will do this alone. He is my man. I will see to him,’ she declared with absolute determination. ‘It is not for anyone else.’

They left soon after, and she stood for a long time staring down at his face. His poor, bloody, ravaged face. She wanted to speak to him, to ask him what he had been doing, to rail at him for having the temerity to die when she hadn’t expected it. But the only words that came were, ‘It was only until next Michaelmas, you fool. Couldn’t you have stayed alive that long?’

Ant was on the floor, looking up at her with a face that showed only utter concentration, once more as always, assessing her mood, ready to fit his own to suit hers. And as she gradually subsided into sobs, deep, womanly sobs for the life lost, the future snatched away, he began to wail too.

Furnshill

Baldwin watched, almost hopping from foot to foot, as Jeanne ministered to the girl.

Given a sword in his hand, an enemy charging towards him, a horse beneath him, Baldwin was in control. He knew his strength, he knew how to fight, he understood the points at which to aim his weapon, how to reverse his blade, how to fight in unison with others, how to deceive and slash or stab to win swiftly — but in a situation like this, with a young woman weeping and desolate, he was as useful as a wooden trivet over a fire. ‘Do you want me to-’

‘No,’ Jeanne said curtly. ‘Go and sit down. You are being a nuisance.’

‘I don’t understand, though,’ Baldwin said, once he had taken himself away a short distance. ‘How can they think that your husband is involved in some form of treason?’

‘I don’t know! I wish I knew — I wish I could find out! Sir Baldwin, you will help us, won’t you? Peter’s father is doing all he can, but he says he has no influence with this new sheriff. He said I should ask you. You are Keeper of the King’s Peace, and you have been to London to see the king himself — can’t you help us?’

Baldwin looked at her. She was weeping all the time, her face red with her distress, and he felt his heart torn. ‘I will do all I can,’ he said, ‘but you have to understand, I am not so popular with the sheriff or others. They think of me as an enemy of their master, Despenser, and would prefer to see me hurt and broken. If they thought it would offend me to keep your husband in gaol, they would do so. It is hard, I know. What of your father? Simon must be told of this too.’

‘That was what they said. They said that they were holding Peter because of my father. Something about Peter being taken because of him. They said he wouldn’t have been arrested if it wasn’t for Father!’

Baldwin slowly walked to a stool not far from Edith and sat, studying her seriously. ‘You are sure of that?’

‘It is what my father-in-law said. As soon as I saw him and told him what had happened, he went straightway to see the sheriff, and the man said that it would have been better if Peter had never … never met me!’

Baldwin’s face hardened. His sympathy for Edith knew no bounds, because he had known her since he first arrived here nine years ago, when she was only a child, and looked upon her as a man would a favourite but occasionally wayward grandchild. There had been times when he had been made angry by her rudeness to her father in recent years, but he was forced to admit to himself that most of those had been situations in which any young woman would tend to illogical humours. Even his own darling Richalda would probably display the same kind of intolerance of her father when she grew to become fourteen or more. It was the way of young girls.

No matter how often Edith had insulted Simon, she was still Simon’s daughter, and Baldwin would do all in his power to protect her.

‘I will go and see this man. In the meantime, Edith, you must rest here. Jeanne, we should send Edgar to Simon’s house to let him know what is happening and have him come to join me travelling to Exeter to see the sheriff.’

‘Will you both be safe?’ Jeanne asked quietly. She was afraid that her husband and Simon could both be arrested in their turn.

‘Simon and I will visit Bishop Walter first,’ Baldwin said. ‘We shall be safe enough.’

‘Perhaps Edith would prefer to be with her own mother when you ride to the city,’ Jeanne considered.

‘Quite right. What do you think, Edith? Do you want to remain here, or ride to your father’s?’

‘I must ride to Exeter,’ Edith said without hesitation. ‘My husband is there — he needs me.’

‘You cannot go before us,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘When we leave, you can join us, of course, but until then you will have to wait here. It would be too dangerous for you to travel alone.’

‘I reached you here,’ she pointed out.

‘That is true, but the roads are too dangerous. The fact that you managed this far is no reason to compound your danger by riding back,’ Baldwin said with a smile. ‘Better by far that you wait here and rest. If not, you may of course come with me and Edgar when we go to speak with Simon.’

‘I should be at my husband’s side,’ Edith said fretfully.

‘And you will be, Edith,’ Jeanne said. ‘As soon as we can get you back there safely. But you know it’s not safe for a pretty young woman to travel the roads here all alone.’

‘And you cannot go back to Exeter now, in any case,’ Baldwin said. ‘You are plainly exhausted. You must rest. I am sure that would be for the best. Meanwhile, I’ll have Edgar go to Simon’s.’

‘Could you not send me back to Exeter with one of your men? Wat is a big fellow,’ Edith said. ‘If you are worried about my safety, he would be a deterrent to all but the most determined of attackers.’

Baldwin had to smile at the thought. ‘Wat may have the build of an ox, but he has a mind to equal it. If he was attacked, he’d have not the faintest idea what to do about it,’ he chuckled. ‘No, if you are to be safe-’

‘Sir Baldwin, I know you mean well, but what you are asking me to do is to wait here until you have sent a man to my father’s house, wait for him to return, and then go to Exeter. That means at least a whole day. And in that time, my husband lies in gaol. I will not do it, Sir Baldwin,’ Edith said, and in her face Baldwin saw the resolution of her mother. Margaret, usually so gentle and calm, would every so often display the stubbornness of a mule. Edith was demonstrating a similar temperament.

‘I do not think that we have any choice, child. The roads between here and Exeter are too dangerous.’

‘Then let me go with Edgar to my father’s house. At least then I will be doing something. We can all ride straight to Exeter afterwards and meet you there.’

Baldwin considered. She was clearly desperate to be kept busy, rather than sitting about. She was young and resilient, as he knew. But when he glanced at his wife, Jeanne shook her head slightly.

Jeanne touched Edith’s arm. ‘You need to rest. And Edgar can ride faster on his own. Do you let Edgar fetch your father, and then you can go with them to Exeter when you are rested.’

Edith’s chin became more prominent. ‘I will not rest. If nothing else, I shall ride to my father’s house. It is my husband who is captured, and I would tell my parents myself.’

Jeanne was about to argue, but Baldwin shook his head. ‘Very well, Edith. You shall ride with Edgar and me when we go to fetch your father in the morning. However, we are not going to go anywhere today, because you are already exhausted.’ As Edith began to argue again, he held up his hands. ‘Enough! I believe this is best for you, and I will not have dissent. This is only because we wish to ensure your safety. Rest, and tomorrow I shall ride with you to Simon’s.’

She looked away, and then gave a curt nod. Clearly she was not persuaded by all his reason, but Baldwin believed that she would at least obey.

He would have cause to regret his simple faith.