No Law in the Land

Prologue

Second Saturday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael, nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II^*

Nymet Traci, Devon, England

Sir Robert de Traci woke that morning knowing that the men would soon die, and all of them solely in order that he should reap a good reward. It left him with a sense of contented restlessness. He was keen to be up and about, but the warmth of his bed was a delicious distraction even without the benefit of a woman beside him. His wife was long dead, and it was a while since he’d enjoyed a willing wench.

It was a glorious morning. He rose and padded over to the window, staring out. The shutter was wide, and he could see from here all the way south over the tops of the trees in the little coppice a mile or so distant, to the dull greyish-blue hills that were Dartmoor. Often at this time of day he would find it impossible to see more than a foul mistiness, but today was most unseasonally clear and bright. Still, from the tang in the air, he had a suspicion that the weather would alter before long.

He dressed quickly and made his way down the steep stairs to his underchamber. There, to his mild surprise, he found his son was still snoring, alone. Sir Robert left him to it. The sot had been singing and whoring the night away again with some slattern he’d acquired from his last riding, and it had been late when he returned to his own bed at last. Sir Robert had been much the same when he was a youth, and he didn’t begrudge his son such pleasures. They were natural to a man.

Walking into his hall, he looked about him quickly, making sure all was normal. There was no sign of rebellion in his men, he noted. A man could not take his fellows for granted, unless he wanted to wake up one morning with a knife in his throat.

There was one whom he trusted above all of them: Osbert, the man who had served with him the longest, and with whom he had lived in virtual exile, an outcast on his own lands. Os was reliable, trustworthy and honourable. But he was off with the men who would be Sir Robert’s victims — it was he who was to lead them to the trap — and their deaths.

There had been a time, only a short while ago, when Sir Robert had thought his fortune had sunk into the sea. He had once been a member of the king’s household, known for his honour and largesse, proud and determined, a knight of perfect chivalry. But then he had made one error, allowing his friendship with Bartholomew Badlesmere to colour his judgement. Bartholomew had become known to be a traitor, and instantly all his friends were suspect. And one of them was Sir Robert.

Those days had been bleak. Instead of the comfort he now enjoyed, he had been cast out. He had seen this little castle of his taken over by his enemies; he had been forced to accept the shame of losing the reputation he had once considered his by birth. Shunned by all those who had once been his friends, Sir Robert had been forced to turn outlaw, robbing and stealing all he might, occasionally killing too.

And then, earlier this year, the surprise proposal.

He had never been a great ally of Despenser, but after this year, he might reconsider his position. For it was Despenser’s offer that had brought him back into the king’s favour. Once he had been beneath Edward’s contempt, but now he was returned to the circle of friends and allies, his lands and castle restored to him, and all was just as it had been. Although this time he was taking fewer risks. The king radiated sunshine to those upon whom he smiled — but it was only ever a short passage to the black thunderstorm that was the opposite side of his nature. Edward accepted him for now, but there was no telling for how long that would last. Soon, very soon, he might decide that the knight in that far-away county of Devon was no more to be tolerated. Some snippet of a rumour, some poison whispered in his ear, that was all it would take, and suddenly Sir Robert would wake to learn that he was again without lands or home.

Well, next time it happened, he would be vastly better prepared. Next time he would have money on his side, and he would collect all he might while he could.

Today, if he was fortunate, he might increase his wealth. Os was with the travellers who were passing near here. They were rumoured to have silver with them, silver that they were carrying to Exeter. Well, with luck, soon they would be dead and Sir Robert would be that much the wealthier.

The land was dangerous. A man had to fight to keep what was his — and take what he wanted from others. There was no other rule in the country. The King’s Peace was a nonsense now. All that existed was the power of the strongest. And Sir Robert intended to prove that his steel was as sharp as any other man’s.

He did not know that it would lead to his death.

Second Sunday following the feast of the Archangel Michael^*

Oakhampton

Old John Pasmere had already seen his son in the town when he set off homewards.

The sight of the little market town was not impressive to him. He’d seen Oakhampton before, and he’d even been to Crediton a few times in his life. Once, he’d gone as far as Exeter, although it hadn’t appealed to him. The place was too loud, too crowded and mean. The people were suspicious and made no attempt to hide the fact, and he felt all the while that he was likely to be hit over the head and robbed at any moment. No, he didn’t like the place. It felt too dangerous.

Oakhampton was no better than Exeter, except it was that bit smaller, but it made a pleasant difference to go there once in a while, mainly for the market, but also for the church. He liked the priest there, who gave stirring stories about the men in the Gospels, and enduring examples of the devil and hell itself. There weren’t that many as could do that, John reckoned. No, in his local chapel up at Jacobstowe, the fool kept prating on about the goodness of man and how Jesus wanted all to see the good in each other. Well, if Jesus was willing to see the best of all men, that was fine, but John Pasmere was happier keeping his own counsel and his dagger near to hand. There was much to be said for the man who was good and kindly all his life, but in John’s experience, such men died young and painfully. For himself, he’d keep an eye on the dangers of life and a hand on his knife.

But a priest who could stir the blood with stories of death and glory, that was different. And in Oakhampton the lad could even make John feel almost young again. There were lots of examples from the Gospels of fighting against oppressors, whether they be Egyptian, Roman or any other race, and John took from that the truth: that God was on the side of those who were downtrodden through the ages. If a man was put to great hardship by those who ruled him, then he was entitled to take back what had been stolen.

That was fine for most. But when a man lived in England today, there was little chance of justice. Be he knight, freeman or serf, he was allowed to live only at the whim of the king and his friends. If a man took against another, who had the ear of an associate of the king, he could find himself gaoled, or worse. A peasant would often be discovered dead in his home, or lying in a ditch, while the more wealthy would end up hanging in pieces on hooks at a city’s gates.

John Pasmere was not willing to trust to the justice of the men who ruled this country. He had known too many of them.

Trust was a very overrated trait. Most of those who put their faith in it would die painfully. A man who trusted his lord; a woman who trusted the lord’s son; any man who trusted my lord Hugh le Despenser; and most of all, any traveller who trusted guides and guards.

Those putting their confidence in such people were fools and deserved their fate.

Abbeyford Woods, near Jacobstowe

Sweet Jesus, the monk told himself, have mercy on us poor sinners!

The weight of the cart was immense. He had thought the Godpoxed things were easier to push, but the wheel-hubs kept getting caught in the brambles and bushes. There were so many little saplings, too, all pushing up through the murk, some of them so thin he could hardly see them at this time of night, others thicker and substantial, so massive that several times he squeaked to himself, fearing that they were men sent to catch them and bring them back.

It had been so terrifying, when he had woken and learned that the man had done it already. So many weeks of planning, and yet now that the one-eyed man stood before him with his dagger dripping gore, Brother Anselm was struck with terror. He could only moan gently, as his entire world fell away.

This wasn’t his place. He was a happy man, cheerful. All knew him to be the contented, amiable one of the abbey. It was the others who were greedy, fractious and truculent. Never Anselm. It was his part usually to calm the others. He’d been doing it for so many years that finding a new role was peculiar.

Surely it was that which had tempted him. He had been lured by the anger constantly rising in his breast as the rest of the community sparred and bickered. ‘Oh, it’ll be fine. Anselm can soothe them all later,’ was the attitude. And until now, that was what he had done.

When poor Abbot Champeaux died, though, yes, that was when all changed. First he had begun to realise how divided the monastery was growing, with factions forming about John de Courtenay and Robert Busse, the two brothers who were seeking election to the abbacy; it was enough to blunt the loyalty he had once felt to the institution where he had lived for so long.

It was not only the abbey, though: it was the entire realm. No matter where a man was to go, there was no confidence. After the queen’s departure to France to negotiate a truce, the belligerent attitude of the country towards the king had become ever more evident. People were terrified. They knew that she had been treated like a felon by her own husband, with her lands stolen and her household broken up. If the royal family itself harboured a festering dispute that could drive a wedge between king and queen, no one was safe.

No more were they. All over the realm men were living as outlaws, where once they had been loyal servants of the king. The dispossessed now formed a great mass in the land, and there was no possibility of their being reconciled to the law. The law itself was false, unequal to the struggle of controlling so many disputatious people.

‘Oh, shit!’ he muttered as the left hub caught a new tree trunk and the cart slewed round.

‘Shhh!’ hissed his companion.

There was no arguing with him. Anselm had not met him before, this old man. He looked frail and rather pathetic, but in fact he was as strong as many youths. His body might be ancient and twisted, but his muscles had the resilience of old hemp.

Besides, the old man’s companion had already petrified Anselm. In the past, his worst nightmares had involved the ghosts said to occupy the moors and the abbey. Now they included the third man in their party.

This man, Osbert, was fearsome-looking, with a huge scar that ran from his temple across his face. It had put out his eye, but that only served to make the remaining orb look still more brutal and lunatic. When he stared at Anselm, the monk felt his guts turn to water.

‘Shhh!’

Anselm froze as his companion held up a hand. There was no sound for a while. Nothing but the slow soughing of the wind through the trees, the creak of the cart, and the thundering roar of Anselm’s heart. And then the little snuffling sound at his breast.

‘Come on, then! What, you going to wait there till Christmastide? Get a move on, monk, move your arse!’

Anselm would have given him a short instruction on the merits of politeness towards a brother in Holy Orders, but he didn’t like this man, and nor did he feel sure that any comments wouldn’t be rewarded by more than a curt word. He held his tongue as he and the other two pushed, heaved, sweated and swore.

‘You push like a woman, monk,’ the man snarled as Anselm slipped in the mud.

‘Damn you …’

‘Aye, and damn your soul, little monk. Sold it for twenty pounds of silver, eh? The devil drives a hard bargain, you’ll find. You won’t be getting your soul back intact.’

‘I am still a man of God. That confers privilege!’

‘Not here it doesn’t. And if you think …’ Osbert crossed to the other side of the cart and came upon Anselm suddenly, grabbing his robes and bunching them in his fist, pulling the monk to him so that their faces were only a matter of an inch or so apart. He held him there, his one eye staring into Anselm’s fixedly, while Anselm had the unappealing view of the empty socket. The man was so close, Anselm could smell the garlic on his breath, the staleness of old sweat in his clothes, the fetid odour of his unwashed body, and he curled his lip, wanting to be away from there.

The man’s voice was low, sibilant and menacing as the devil’s own trident. ‘If you think you can keep your robes on and use them to get away, and maybe later denounce us while you try to save your neck, monk, you’ll soon learn that my dagger has a long blade. Doesn’t matter where you try to go, I’ll find you, and I’ll put you to so much pain, you’ll wonder what’s happened to you. You’ll even forget who you are. You understand, you little prickle?’

Anselm nodded, but even as he did, he felt, rather than heard, the scrabble of paws at his breast.

‘What the …?’

He was shoved away, and the man stared uncomprehendingly as Anselm opened his robe. Inside nestled the puppy. ‘I couldn’t leave …’

The man swore, quietly but with utter venom. ‘What of the bitch?’

‘I didn’t bring her, I thought that-’

‘You thought? Did you think that she’ll soon wake and begin to wonder where her little puppy has gone?’

‘I took the pup from her last night. She slept without him!’

‘Did you not think that she’ll whine and howl and wake the camp? Did you not think she’ll come after us as soon as they release her from her leash? Did you not think they would follow her to us? Did you not think at all? Sweet Jesus, save me from mother-swyving churls like this one. I’ll have to take her back.’

‘You can’t go and-’

‘Monk, shut up! You will have to push the cart back while I do this. You won’t be able to. So put your back into it, and get the cart back safely. You hear me?’

Osbert stepped quietly and very cautiously as he returned to the camp. The body of the pup lay still in his hand now. He had snapped its neck like a coney’s. It would be a short while before he reached the camp, he thought. The smell of burning wood was in his nostrils already from the fire the evening before. Now it had been banked, there was but a dull glow from the mass of the embers. Nothing to give him even the slightest of shadows.

All about there were the peaceful sounds of sleeping people. A child up with the travellers had a sniffling whimper — he recalled that the brat had a cold — and his mother gave a murmured remonstration before rolling over again. The remaining archers were snoring, while Anselm’s companion was whiffing out little breaths as though he was panting in a dream. He lay in the midst of the archers, the seven about him guarding him better than they had their precious cargo.

There was no guard. Not now. Only one sentry had been set, a man who was content to wander about the camp with jealousy, eyeing the sleepers, but not one of them. When Osbert had offered to join him and keep him company until his watch was changed, he had been pathetically grateful. Then Osbert had grabbed him from behind and his dagger had made short work of him, plunging into the man’s liver five times, while Osbert’s hand stayed clamped over his mouth, stifling the desperate screams for help. No one heard anything, not out here at the edge of the camp where the man had gone to relieve himself. Osbert had left the body out there so that it couldn’t be immediately discovered, were someone else to wake.

No one had. As he stood here, near the archers and their master, it was clear that there had been no alarm. All was as he had left it.

The dog was awake, though. She lay with her head resting on her paws, just as she had every night. It was no bad thing that Anselm had chosen to keep the pup in his robe when they had left Tavistock, Osbert reckoned. It made the bitch less distressed to sleep without him. She had grown accustomed to having her pup back during the day, but sleeping alone.

Osbert silently made his way to the bitch. He heard her stir, and then give a low growl. It was as he had expected. Quickly he threw the puppy’s body to her, and he saw her move in a flash, turning to sniff at the little corpse. As she did, he stepped forward and slipped his dagger into her back, grabbing her muzzle as he did so. The surprised yelping lasted only a moment or two, and then there was nothing to worry about.

In some haste now, he retraced his steps to the bushes, and was soon in among them, moving fast for a man of his age and size. But for all that he was over two and forty years old, he had lived here in this area for most of his childhood, and he knew the land well. The cart, he knew, had gone off northwards from here, and he would meet it later. Rather than head north, he would take the steeper, slightly more swift route east, down the valley’s side to the river, and up the other side. The cart would rejoin the trail a full half-mile further on.

He made his way down the slope, slithering on the soggy grasses, almost tripping twice in thick tussocks, and then splashed his way through the river, which was quite full after the rains. On the other side, he was about to make his way up the slope when he heard the hoofs.

There were twelve of them. The man in front he knew, and the son at his side. He knew that they were noted for their ruthlessness. Across this land, these two were feared by all the peasants and farmers. No man passing near their castle could hope to be permitted to continue without paying tolls for the use of the roads. A man who refused soon found himself watching his blood pool on the ground as he died.

Aye, he knew these men. How could he not? He was their servant.

‘Is that you, Osbert?’ the leader called.

‘Aye, Sir Robert, it’s me. They’re in the camp as we planned. Encircle them, and you have them all.’