No Law in the Land

Chapter Seven

Ashridge, North Tawton

Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple was grateful for the peace. He sank into the chair with a grunt of contentment and closed his eyes for a moment. This was a pleasant manor, made all the more delightful by the absence of the knight who owned it. Although Sir Peregrine would usually be reluctant to enter the house of any man when the master was away, Sir John of Ashridge was rarely here, and always made it plain that he would be delighted were the coroner to visit when he had need of a roof. And rarely had Sir Peregrine had more need than tonight.

The bodies at Jacobstowe appeared to be the beginning of a small epidemic of corpses. There was the son of a merchant who’d slipped on a stone and entirely accidentally struck his head on the wall surrounding a well; a miller who’d stumbled on his way home from the alehouse, only to fall into his own mill pool and drown; a farrier who had been kicked by the destrier he was trying to shoe — that had been a messy death, with his ribs all crushed and blood everywhere. Yes, all in all there had been a flurry of unpleasant deaths and he would be glad to escape the area shortly.

He had only recently been given his duties. For many years he had been a loyal servant of Sir Hugh de Courtenay, the Baron of Devon, and his family. But Sir Peregrine had been so determined to see to the overthrow of Despenser and the other hangers-on in the king’s household that he had eventually made Sir Hugh anxious for his own safety. Although the two men had not fallen out, it became clear in the aftermath of the battle at Boroughbridge that it was not safe for a man to continue to agitate for change. As the bodies of those who had opposed Despenser were tarred and hanged over the gates to all the cities of the realm, while others were quartered and hung in chains at York, London and elsewhere, Sir Peregrine had been forced to leave Sir Hugh’s household.

However Sir Hugh was still his friend. He had managed to see to it that Sir Peregrine was given a number of duties that, while not compensating him for his position in Sir Hugh’s entourage, would at least give him a means of sustaining himself. And he had made it clear to all the knights in his household that those who sought to continue to be viewed favourably by Sir Hugh would do well to look after Sir Peregrine’s interests.

Sir Peregrine ordered food and wine and settled back as a servant boy came in and lighted the fire. Before long, sparks were flying from the tinder and the small sticks set over it, while the lad blew carefully and then began to construct the beginnings of the fire over the top.

It was one of those tasks that always made Sir Peregrine feel intensely sad. This was the sort of duty he would have enjoyed teaching a son. In his life he had met many women, but none had survived to marry him, although many had won his affection. If there was one thing that could have made his life complete, it would have been to be married with a son. A lad he could teach and educate, someone who could take his name and become heir to his little manors and farms. Without an heir, all was pointless.

Later, as the fire roared and he sat before it with a goblet of hot wine and water, feeling the warmth coursing through his veins, he had the call to the next body.

It was to become the most serious murder of his year.

East Gate of Exeter

The man arrived at the gates just in time, cantering as fast as his mount would take him. ‘Urgent messages,’ he called desperately as he saw the gates beginning to move.

The heavy oak timbers squeaked and groaned, but even as Stephen of Shoreditch wondered whether he would be too late, he saw the man peering around the first of the gates.

No one would want to be left out here, he told himself, riding on, casting about him. There were suburbs in all cities, of course, but few had the atmosphere of lowering danger that this one bore.

Riding up the roadway from Heavitree, he had been happy with the sight of all the well-built houses, but here … all was empty, all desolate. No inn or tavern, only a lowering sense of threat. He didn’t like it. Nor did he like the fact of the rumours that even king’s messengers had been captured and killed within the city walls. The life of a man like him was worth nothing after dark and outside a city’s security.

‘Let me through. Urgent messages for the castle,’ he shouted, and drew back his cloak to show the king’s arms on his breast.

‘You’re too late. Come back in the morning.’

‘You want that? You want me to report you to the king? I’ll be pleased, porter. Tell him how I was delayed from delivering his messages. You know what the king does to those who thwart him?’

There was a moment’s silence, and he felt the dark eyes on him. ‘Best get in,’ the old man said at last with a bad grace. ‘And I’ll have you taken to the castle, since your business is so urgent.’

‘God save you, porter.’

‘He’ll have to. No other bugger will,’ the gatekeeper muttered, but drew the door open a little.

St Pancras Lane

Edith felt as though she was going to burst with pleasure to see her father. ‘Come in, Father, come in! God you keep! And Sir Baldwin? I am so glad to see you again.’

Her father saw her hesitation. ‘This is a good friend of ours, daughter. Sir Richard de Welles, the Coroner of Lifton. Sir Richard, this is my daughter Edith.’

‘Mistress, I am delighted to meet you. I have heard much of you from your father. He said you were a beautiful and accomplished woman, and I see he was telling nothing less than the truth.’

‘Please, my lords, come into my hall,’ she said, trying to conceal her delight at his words. Clapping her hands, she summoned a young maidservant. ‘Jane, fetch my husband’s wine.’

She could see her father’s eyes going to the hangings on the wall and the picture at the further end. She was proud of her house, naturally, but it was a delight to see how his eyes gleamed to see such wealth displayed. Not because she wanted him to be jealous, but because she knew he would be happy to see that she was as well off as he could have wished. The house was a proof of that. He need have no fears for her future.

As soon as the maid was back, Edith stood in the middle of the hall and dispensed wine to the visitors. ‘You will excuse my husband. He has been out working with his father, but I am sure that he will soon return, and he will be so pleased to see you, Father.’

‘Aye, well, I’ll be pleased to see him too,’ her father said gruffly.

His tone made her smile. ‘And now, what are you doing here? I had heard from Mother that she was moving back to the old house, of course. I was sorry about that, Father.’

He nodded.

Edith had seen the effect of the man sent to bully her family from their home in Lydford. The man, William atte Wattere, had been in their hall, fighting her father, when she entered with her fiancé to ask Simon’s permission to marry. The sight had terrified her. It was the first time she had witnessed her father in a fight, and although there was a fierce pride in her heart when she saw him knock the sword of his enemy away and force the fellow to submit, the scene had petrified her. Afterwards she had upbraided her husband-to-be for not leaping to the defence of her father, but as he had reasonably pointed out, he was not trained in the use of a sword, and Simon was. If he had joined in, he would have been as likely to be killed as to help Simon.

‘We are just returned from France,’ her father said.

As he spoke, telling her about travelling with the bishop all the way to Paris to protect the king’s heir, and their dangerous adventures while over there, Edith sat and listened attentively.

It was good. She hadn’t seen her father since May, when she had been married, and now, perhaps for the first time, she felt as though she was being treated as an adult, equal in maturity with him. Always before she had felt that Simon was humouring her, as any father would, but not now. With her marriage, she had crossed a great gulf, and where before she was a child, now she was a woman. Patting her belly, she knew how true that was.

Simon didn’t notice, but she saw Baldwin’s dark eyes flash towards her. He was always so understanding, she thought. He had a quick intuition that was almost feminine. Now she said nothing, but merely smiled. It would be wrong for her to tell Sir Baldwin before her mother.

‘So you are on your way home again now?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Simon said with a quiet stillness that she understood only too well.

She leaned forward and rested her hand on his. ‘Father, I know it was awful the way that man behaved, but you are better at Sandford anyway. I’m happy to know that you are nearer us.’

‘It was just the thought that he could evict me so easily, without any compunction,’ Simon said.

Baldwin shot a look at Edith. ‘It is the way of such men, Simon. You have to appreciate that there is no safety for any man in the realm while Despenser holds so much power. At least now he has done all he intends, so far as we can tell. Go home to Sandford, run your farm and enjoy life.’

‘Sir Baldwin is right, Father. And the good thing for me is that I can visit you sometimes. It’s only half a day’s journey from here, and it will be very pleasant to see you and Mother more often.’

‘Have you seen Meg?’ Simon asked.

‘She is fine, Father. If anything, I think she is happier now than she has been for a long time.’

‘Yes. I can imagine that,’ Simon said quietly.

‘And I am happier,’ Edith repeated. ‘I know that while you are closer to us here, we can help you if you need anything.’

‘I don’t think you need any help anyway,’ Simon said with a smile, turning the goblet over in his hand.

Edith smiled. ‘My husband is a good man,’ she said with quiet certainty.

Fourth Friday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael^*

Sandford Barton, Sandford

Simon saw the smoke rising from the chimney as he breasted the hill and could stare down at the house.

‘A goodly home,’ Sir Richard said.

‘But what is that for?’ Simon said.

‘It is a house, Simon,’ the coroner said with some surprise. ‘What else is it for but to help old devils like you and me to rest weary bones in front of a fire. What do you mean?’

‘That thing! The chimney!’ When he had last been here to his old home, it had been a simple longhouse, with the stable block at the eastern end, living accommodation on the western, and the happy sight of smoke billowing from the eaves at either end. Now it appeared to have sprouted a large red sandstone chimney. ‘I don’t understand it. What was she thinking of?’

‘Does it matter? So long as there is some ale down there, and a bite for lunch, I don’t care about the position of a chimney, old friend,’ the coroner said pragmatically.

‘No, of course,’ Simon said, smiling, and spurred his mount down the road towards his home.

His feelings had nothing to do with the chimney, if he was honest. It was the unsettled feeling he had had since leaving Exeter. Somehow all the while on the journey here from London, his problems had seemed to be fading. All he had been aware of was the sense of relief that he would soon be reunited with his wife. And the fact that Sir Hugh le Despenser was more than a hundred miles to the east. There was no escaping the fact that Simon felt the poisonous fellow was the source of all his woes and hardship.

But now, almost home again, he was aware of a sudden increased anxiety. It was almost as though the realisation had hit him that this house was no more safe from Despenser than his last one. Could Despenser have taken over here and installed a chimney for his own comfort, leaving Simon nowhere to go?

It was terrifying to feel this panic at the mere sight of his old home. Coming here again should have been a delight. He had spent so many years here — happy years. It was where he had brought his wife when they were married; it was where his daughter had been born, and where he had been told that he was to be made a bailiff on Dartmoor to protect the Stannaries, the ancient tin mines where the king controlled all production. But as soon as he had been given that post, he had been forced to move from this happy hillside and go to Lydford, so that he could be closer to the moors where he was to earn his living.

‘You all right there, Bailiff?’

Simon felt the coroner’s shrewd eyes on him. He tried to clear his mind, to explain a little of his trepidation. ‘She truly enjoyed living at Lydford at first, you know,’ he said, his body rocking with the motion of the horse as it walked cautiously down the steep incline. His house was set on the northern side of a natural bowl, and they must ride down this, the southern side, and then up to the house on the opposite slope. ‘It was only when I was moved that life grew more difficult.’

‘Eh?’

‘The Abbot of Tavistock wanted to elevate me, because I had done so well for him. So he gave me a new post — that of his officer in Dartmouth. But to go there would have meant uprooting the whole family. Edith was not happy to be taken away from her friends, and Meg herself was unhappy at the thought of moving so far from all that she knew — and didn’t want our son to grow up surrounded by sailors. They aren’t the best of companions to a well-bred lad.’

‘I can imagine that. I still remember my first exposure to the folk of Dartmouth,’ Sir Richard reminisced with a smile of contentment.

He had already told Simon about his affection for women of loose morals, and Simon suspected that the reason for the grin on his face was not one that should be discussed with his wife. ‘Yes, well, that was why I had to move there all alone,’ he said. ‘Meg had to stay back at Lydford. And then we had the house taken away from us.’

‘Well, Bailiff, perhaps it is all for the good. At least now you and I are free of political troubles. Hopefully Baldwin too. Wonder how he’s getting on.’

‘He should be home by now as well,’ Simon said. ‘Furnshill is about the same distance from Exeter as Sandford is.’

They had reached the bottom of the hill now, and clattered through the small stream that ran along the bottom.

‘You know, it’s been such a miserable year or two, and I hardly feel I know my wife any more,’ Simon said.

‘You know her well enough, man,’ Sir Richard declared. ‘It’ll be easier to remember her when you’re near her, though. Come on!’

He spurred his beast on, and the great horse sprang up the hill like a pony with a child on its back, rather than the prodigious weight of Sir Richard.

Simon grinned to himself. It was good to be travelling with the Coroner of Lifton. The man was loud, rumbustious, a perfect danger to a man when it came to drinking, but for all that, he was a fellow who inspired loyalty in a man. He was generous and kindly, and provided he did not feel as though he was being insulted, he was as affable as Wolf.

Simon clapped his heels to his own beast’s flanks, and felt the surge of power as he was thrown forward by the first explosive movement, but already he had his balance and could lean down over his mount’s neck, and he grinned as he felt the cool air wash over his face.

Road outside Bow, Devon

As he jogged along the trail, Stephen of Shoreditch looked about him with ever-increasing anxiety.

It was a standing rule that all roads should have their verges cleared for a hundred feet on either side, and it was one of the duties of the Keeper of the King’s Peace in all jurisdictions to see that rule enforced, so that no one could make an ambush against another on the king’s highways, but this was not one of those fast, well-maintained roadways. Here in the middle of Devon, the roads tended to be thin, winding paths with hedges that stood so high on either side that on occasion a man couldn’t see over them. To Stephen, the whole idea of a track like this was anathema. He would prefer to walk by a footpath in the open, across fields and moors, than pass along a dangerous route like this, where a felon could drop a stone on his head at any moment.

Devon was one of those shires he had always tried to avoid. Down here in the wild western lands, everyone was truculent, suspicious and acquisitive, he had heard tell. It was said that civilisation ended at Exeter, and beyond that was a wilderness in which feral men squabbled and fought. Dear Christ in heaven, from all he had seen so far, it was easy to believe. This land looked about as cultivated as the Scottish marches, and the people as cultured as the poor churls living up there. Mean, ill favoured, the lot of them.

At least they appeared to be dressed. One messenger had told him that the folk about here were all so backward that they had no concept of clothing. But that was one of the hazards of asking another messenger about an area: it was impossible to tell whether the stories were true or not. Often a man would take pleasure in giving tales of strange, abnormal folk, so that all the advice must be taken with a large pinch of salt. The idea of a messenger needing to have accurate information about the places he must pass through, as well as his destination, was not new, but in the court, men had grown more and more frivolous over the years.

Not that all were persuaded to humour now. Many were looking more to their own protection and safety. The intrigues at the king’s court were growing ever more hazardous to a man. There was always the risk that a joke played on another could have repercussions that couldn’t be spotted. One man, so Stephen had heard, had been told that a wood was a safe passage, only to be captured and hanged in quick succession. The man who had told him of that path had been taken there and hanged alongside his companion. That was a joke that had seriously backfired.

He was fairly sure that here he would be safe, though. He had escaped from Exeter, which was itself a relief. The sheriff was out of the city, but Stephen had been able to deliver his messages and beg a space on the floor for the night, after some prevarication. No strangers were welcomed any more. There were too many rumours of the king’s spies — or, rather, Despenser’s.

Stephen shivered. Sir Hugh le Despenser was growing ever more wild in his behaviour — more erratic. There was a strange look in his eyes that seemed to show that he was becoming more and more divorced from reality. He was less cautious, more extravagant in every way. Not too many people would see that side of him, perhaps, but little was ever hidden from the messengers. They had contact with the king and his advisers at all times. Stephen was a messenger for Sir Hugh as often as for the king. And he was sure that Despenser was losing control.

The road was winding gently now, the hedges less tall. They appeared stunted. Stephen had seen bushes and trees like this before, especially up north, when he had travelled up to the colder lands near the Scottish. Yes, this was much like those damned, accursed marches. Just like there, the wind here seemed to scour the vegetation, often blighting one side or another, and forcing trees to bend away from the cold blast, turning them into tortured shapes. Now, looking to the south, Stephen could see over the hedges all the way to rounded hills in the distance, hills without any apparent trees. They were only moor and waste, and he thought that they must be the king’s forest of Dartmoor. He hadn’t expected them to be so vast, nor so deserted. Nor so repellent.

‘Hold, rider!’

Swearing aloud, at the man and at himself, Stephen struggled to control his rounsey, which had reared up at the voice.

‘I am a king’s messenger,’ he shouted, pulling at the reins and trying to stop the plunging motion. ‘Sweet Mother of Christ, couldn’t you warn a man before shouting?’

‘Ah, but if we did that, you might not wait to talk to us, might you?’

Stephen brought the beast under control, and could at last pay attention to the men. ‘Who are you?’

Before him stood a man with a badly scarred face. His hair was grizzled, his beard more salt than pepper, and his left eye bright with intelligence. He looked as though he had been hit in the face with a sword: his nose was slashed, the line of the blade passing through an eye that was now gone, and cutting a notch in his right eye socket. He stood in front of Stephen’s horse, a sword in his own fist, smiling with a calm, easy malevolence. ‘Get off the horse.’

‘Be damned to you! Didn’t you hear me? I’m a king’s messenger!’ Stephen blustered.

‘A pox on you! I didn’t ask what you were, I told you to get down!’ the man bellowed, and spat into the road. ‘Let’s see if you have any money on you, king’s messenger.’

Turning, Stephen saw to his dismay that there was another pair of men behind him. Glancing about, he saw two on his left and another on his right as well. Six of them. There was little chance of escaping these outlaws, because that was clearly what they were. ‘You had best not assault me,’ he tried. ‘I have urgent messages from Sir Hugh le Despenser for Sir Robert of Traci.’

With that the man in the road gave a short bow. ‘Oh, in that case, I must be more careful! Come, let us take you to him, master. Sir Robert de Traci is our lord.’