No Law in the Land

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Nymet Traci

The stables were well afire already when Wattere pushed through the press of men and entered the hall.

He felt a fool. Over to the straw he had gone, collecting a little pile in his hand, and then taking some charcloth and striking his flint until it had begun to glow gently, a mottled series of little red blooms on the black surface. Then he began to blow on it, encompassing the cloth with some straws, and adding a little fine tinder on the glowing dots, until the tinder caught, and then the straws as well.

He was just finished and had risen when he heard the voices at the gate. Walking out slowly, his hands in his belt, the picture of ease and innocence, he had realised that Basil and his father were both up on the wall above the gates. It was galling to think that all his efforts had been pointless, but then he heard the sudden moaning of the fire as more straw caught light, and he began to sidle away.

It was shortly after he had reached the door that he saw other men begin to look about them. Before, most of them were up on the walls, staring out at the strangers. Others were down in the yard, and as the blaze began, they were all occupied. It was one man up on the wall who first noticed. Wattere saw him sniff the air, puzzled. The odour was not the same as clean woodsmoke. No, the sharp, greasy tang on the wind was that of hay and straw, rich and grassy, and for a moment he was confused. Turning, he stared hard at the house and the little kitchen beside it, but the smoke was not emanating from either chimney. Next his eyes were drawn to the thatch on either building, but a short while later the wind gave a low soughing, and then it was that the first sparks began to soar and he caught sight of the flames erupting from the stable blocks.

That first guard gave the warning shout, and soon others had joined in, men rushing to the fire from all directions, grabbing buckets, barrels and even helmets, anything with which to carry water and try to help put out the fire. In a short space of time, only a few men were left up on the walls. Even Sir Robert himself was in the thick of it with the men on the ground, bellowing himself hoarse as his servants and fighters all exerted themselves before the fire could reach the main hall. The noise of crackling mingled with the creak of tormented wood and the shrill, horrified shrieks of the horses remaining inside. Two men took axes, wrapped wet cloth about their heads, and darted inside, hacking at all the tethers holding the beasts, and in a short while the maddened creatures had bolted from the stalls and escaped, all bar one piebald rounsey, who was so deranged that she galloped at full speed into the farther wall, instead of towards the door. They found her later, burned badly, her neck broken.

Wattere eyed the men rushing witlessly in the yard and nodded grimly to himself. He would have liked to have pushed Basil into the fire if he could, but the arrogant prickle was there at the back of the press. Instead Wattere pushed on through the door and ran over the floor to the solar where Edith was being held.

Her chamber was up a short flight of wooden stairs, and he was soon at the door. There was a latch, and a bolt to lock it. Basil and his father had not thought anything stronger would be necessary to hold a dull-witted wench, and in any case, with the gates shut and barred, what was the need? She was as caged whether she was in the room or wandering the yard. She could attempt to leap the walls, but that would likely break her legs, and not many would be prepared to run that risk.

He pulled the bolt open and shoved the door wide. ‘Maid, come quickly. I think I can save you.’

She had risen, and he saw her hopeful expression, but as he beckoned urgently, her face changed, and he saw the blank terror return. He tried to duck and move out of the way, but Osbert’s blade sank into his shoulder before he could, and Wattere clenched his teeth against the horror of that slick, sharp steel wedged deep in his shoulder and collar bone.

It was the shouting that attracted Edgar’s attention at first. As they rode away, his sharp ears caught the sound of barked commands, of shrieks, and then the whinnying of animals in dread. The flames were clearly visible when he glanced over his shoulder, and he halted his mount to stare for a moment before calling to the others. ‘Sirs! Master Puttock! Something most odd is happening.’

‘What in Christ’s name!’ Sir Richard muttered. Then a gust of wind blew, and the angry orange flames were fanned. There was a loud crunching and rending sound, and the flames rose still higher. ‘Sweet Mary’s tits! The place is on fire!’

He was already the last. The others were all riding pell-mell for the castle, Simon and Baldwin racing almost neck and neck, while Edgar galloped behind. Even Mark was reluctantly clinging to his own seat, his mount having decided that this was a good day for a race.

‘Oh,’ Sir Richard said to himself, and then yelled, ‘Ya hoi!’ and clapped spurs to his weary beast’s flanks.

The gates were still shut and barred as they rode, but then Simon saw a chink between them. He scarcely dared hope that they were actually opening, and for a moment tried to convince himself that all he had seen was the gleam of light through a natural gap in the wood, but then the little flash of light broadened, and he saw the gates open wide. A trio of horses appeared, led by a stable boy, then four more, two rearing wildly, while an older lad tried to calm them. After them came more, all driven mad by the nearness of the fire, all desperate to get as far from there as possible.

Baldwin looked about him, over either shoulder, and then smiled with a gleam of his teeth as he whipped his mount on at the gallop, in through the smoke and sparks, under the gates and into the yard.

Sir Robert coughed, a hand held up to protect his eyes as smoke gushed through the doors of the stables and blew at him, a foul, reeking gust of the devil’s own wind. It felt as though his face’s flesh was being seared away, and he could hear his own hair brittlely smouldering. He must close his eyes against the bright glare. All about him the men were carrying buckets filled with water, hurling their contents at the fires and retreating.

At least it would be safer with the horses out of here. Already three men had been injured trying to release the terrified beasts. Old Hamo wouldn’t get up again. A flailing hoof from a terrified palfrey had sheared away the whole of the side of his head, exposing the brain. Two others nursed dangerous injuries, one a badly broken arm, the other a crushed hand. All in all, this was a hideously expensive disaster. ‘What the shite is happening here?’ he muttered, staring about him. There was a clattering of hooves, and he saw that the last of the horses was being taken out at the run by a little tow-haired youth. The lad was one of the guards’ sons, he remembered. That was good — at least all the mounts would be safe then. The boys were taking them away from the castle to calm them down.

He had turned back to the fire, but as he did so he heard a rough bellow from the house. Shooting a look at the hall, he saw Osbert in the doorway, grinning with pleasure. In his fist he held Wattere by his jacket, which was thickly clotted with blood.

‘Thought you’d like this piece of turd, Sir Robert. He was up there trying to get his fists on the wench.’

Wattere could not answer. He was close to collapse, and the agony that was his shoulder was enough to make him want to vomit. He could only stagger as Osbert hauled him out, and then he was suddenly thrust forward, and his legs could not carry him. His right folded under him, and he fell stiffly, his torso twisting to keep his ruined shoulder from the ground, but the jolt of falling was enough to make him scream shrilly with anguish. It was like a dozen swords slashing at him simultaneously. The sort of hideous torment that a soul in hell would expect. He could feel the hot, bubbling vomit hit the back of his throat, and then he puked a fine, thin acid.

‘Trying it on, were you, Wattere? Despenser will be disappointed,’ Sir Robert said. He rested his booted foot on Wattere’s shoulder. ‘Let me see. We have a fire, and in the middle of it,’ he pressed down hard, ‘you rush to the maid.’ He listened as the scream faded, bubbling. ‘If I was less than intelligent, I might think that there was no coincidence. Do you think I should?’

‘It was not to rape her …’

‘Hmm? You wanted to say something?’

‘I didn’t bring her here to see her raped by your son. That little prickle was going to force himself on her and-’

‘And it’s none of your business. But what is my business is that you committed arson on my stables. And even now, all I can hear in the yard is the block burning.’

‘Don’t let your son-’

‘You still talking, then?’ Sir Robert said. He kicked once, hard, and then again. ‘I don’t like arsonists, Wattere. You know what? I think they ought to be shown why what they do is so dangerous. So I’m going to let you find out. Osbert, show him to the fire.’

Osbert looked at Wattere, then over at the fire. He snapped an order at one of the other men, and picked up Wattere by his bad shoulder. The two men hefted him between them as Wattere shrieked with the pain, and then began to walk him to the burning building.