No Law in the Land

Chapter Seventeen

Exeter’s West Gate

Baldwin stood at the gateway with a deepening frown on his face. It was past the middle hour now, and the sun was beginning the long, slow journey to the west, and there was still no sign of Edgar.

That was unfair, he told himself for the hundredth time. The distance from his house to Simon’s, followed by the journey from Simon’s to Exeter, meant that there was little likelihood that Edgar could have reached here yet. And every moment that passed meant it was more likely that he had found Edith there with Simon. So Edith and Simon would have to mount their own horses to make the journey here, which would hold up matters a little longer — all of which meant that it was good news that he had seen no one yet. If there was bad news, Edgar would arrive all the sooner.

He forced himself to sit on a nearby bench and lean against the wall. Every so often in the last week the sun had broken through the clouds, and when it did, the flash of warmth would make a man feel as though he was a king. But not today. Today Baldwin felt more like a pauper who craved any form of succour. It was strange how the disappearance of Edith had shocked him. It was only to be expected, of course, because she was in his care from the moment she arrived at his house, but it was hardly his fault if the wayward woman had decided to leave without telling him.

Ach, in God’s name he prayed that she was safe. It would break Simon’s heart were she to be hurt. She could have fallen prey to thieves or outlaws; she might simply have fallen from her horse, and even now be lying in a ditch, for all he knew. The idea of the poor child sobbing in the dirt made his scalp tighten. He could feel the anxiety as a tightening band over the top of his skull.

It was intolerable! He stood, striding to the gate again. At this time of day, the flow of people in and out was not at its peak — that would be when the gates first opened and all the farmers from around would wait patiently to enter the city to sell their produce — but it was busy for all that, and Baldwin had to curb his tongue as he was jostled and shoved by the peasants who were fighting to get inside.

And then, thank the Lord for His mercy, Baldwin saw a familiar face in among the people pushing their way up the steep hill: Edgar.

Instant relief flooded his soul. At last the others were here. And without a doubt, Simon would be just behind, concealed by the throng. Hopefully Edith would be with them both, he thought, peering around the faces approaching him. He could see Edgar clearly enough, but there was no one else with him, so far as he could tell. No sign of the father or daughter.

The tension in his head grew steadily until Edgar was with him. ‘She was not there?’

‘No, nor Simon either. He’s over at Tavistock, Sir Baldwin. He went there with Sir Richard of Welles.’

Baldwin stared out to the west. ‘Sweet Jesus, Edgar. She could be anywhere, couldn’t she?’

‘I saw no sign on the road. There are not that many roads she could have taken,’ Edgar said reasonably. ‘If you did not see her on your path, then surely she will be either already in the city, or-’

‘She is not. I have hunted for her already,’ Baldwin said.

‘Then perhaps she has halted for some food?’

Baldwin looked at him. ‘What did you tell Margaret?’ he said, not bothering to dignify the comment with a response.

Edgar was patting his mount’s neck as he spoke. ‘Nothing. I only asked whether Simon was there, but when she said he was not, I did not tell her that Edith came to see you. I thought that without Simon there, it would not be kind to tell her.’

‘Good. The last thing we need to do is leave her in a state of fear as well,’ Baldwin said. ‘Dear God, where can she be?’

He walked away from the crowds, away from his servant. There was nothing to be gained by any further remonstration or mental self-flagellation. It would not help Edith. This was a time when action was required. He paced up and down, head down, deep in thought, while he considered options. At last he took a deep breath and returned to Edgar.

‘Very well, we have to raise the posse to search the roads if we can. I shall have to ask the sheriff if he could support the hue and cry being sent along all the paths from here to Furnshill. It is possible that she lies somewhere between Furnshill and Sandford, but we shall have to take that risk.’

‘After all we’ve heard about the sheriff, is he likely to help?’ Edgar said without emotion.

‘We shall have to see,’ Baldwin said.

Jacobstowe

The church had been filled to overflowing as the vicar stood at the altar and went through the formal ceremony that acknowledged Bill’s death, but Agnes knew nothing about that. Her eyes remained fixed upon the funeral hearse and the form of her husband beneath.

Her eyes were gritty from tears and from lack of sleep, and whenever she blinked, it felt as though she was rubbing dirt into the lids, but the pain didn’t concern her. It was almost welcome, as though this was her penance for still living when her darling Bill was gone. How could he do that to her! Just die, without a passing word to say how much he loved her, without saying all those things she’d wanted to hear. There had been no leave-taking, other than the perfunctory form, as though he would only be gone for a few hours. Now he was dead, and she must cope with all the aftermath.

But perhaps it was a justified punishment, for so crassly trying to put all the blame on him for her feelings now, when after all, his poor beautiful face was evidence enough that her man was the one who had suffered and paid for his mortal sins in those last moments of life.

Oh, if only she had been there to take vengeance on the men who did this!

The vicar was motioning to her to turn, and she realised that the hearse was being lifted, to be carried out to the cemetery. In a daze, she followed it, behind the vicar, as he mumbled his incomprehensible words in that weird language.

The graveyard was behind the church, and from here she could see the sweep of the land about. The cemetery was high up, as though the souls would need a tall springboard to make their way to heaven. Not that her man would.

It was a cool day, the sun smothered by grey clouds, and she could feel a shiver run through her body as she looked down. The grave looked so desolate. She would have liked to sprinkle flowers in there. Forget-me-nots, cowslips, poppies, all the flowers he had adored. But this time of year there was nothing. Nothing at all. Even the last roses had given up their petals. All poor Bill could have was his hood. She had brought it with her, tucked into her bosom like a talisman against this hideous ending.

Ant sniffled, and the vicar hesitated, glaring at him as though it was the boy’s fault that he had been interrupted. He should have understood that a child’s despair could not be willed away or thrashed from him. He had to have his cry. It was the natural way.

Anyway, what was the use of the vicar’s words, when no one could understand them? Some said they liked to hear them because they were comforting, like the little rag dolls children would take with them to bed. Well, she had no need of such toys. She would have been happier if he would only talk to her in English, in the good tongue of the land here, the language her husband had spoken, but this gobbledegook was meaningless. It was the language of the priests and vicars who tried to protect souls, and who couldn’t protect her man from those who wanted to kill him. The religious folk were no good to her. She needed a man who could find her husband’s murderers and kill them for her. But there were none about who could do that. The coroner himself had said as much.

At the grave, the body was lifted clumsily and three men helped the sexton to lower it to the edge. The hole looked enormous to her, compared with the frail bundle of linen that had been her husband. Her Bill.

The corpse had been stiff as a plank when they brought him to her. Overnight she had thought it was as if he was gripping hold of his body still, determined not to give up his life, desperate to retain his hold on it. But not now. She could see that his limbs were flaccid and loose. There was no form of life in that wrapping. It was just an accumulation of bones and meat, like the animals killed and butchered each year. It wasn’t her man any more. He had gone. Truly, he had gone.

She wept again now, silent tears that flowed down her cheeks, while Ant began to wail. She had to pick him up and cradle him as he bawled for his incomprehension, for his father, whom he could never know. For the world that had suddenly become so threatening to him.

It was in the midst of her tears that she saw the three men standing and watching. And then, as the people began to depart, she saw them walk towards the vicar: one knight, one monk and another man, with a grim face.

She saw them, but didn’t take notice. Instead she walked to the graveside and peered down with Ant. In her hands she had the hood now, and she took it out, holding it to her face, inhaling his scent as though that would keep him here with her just a little longer. A shred of linen moved aside, and she found herself staring at a small patch of his flesh, just about his cheek. It was the last sight she would have of him.

‘Madam? May we speak with you about your husband?’ she heard, and turned to find the three men nearby. The man who spoke was the grim-faced one. But now, as she looked at him, she saw that there was something else in his eyes, and it made her spark to rage in an instant.

She didn’t want his pity.

Road near Oakhampton

‘You worried about passing through the town again?’

Basil was sitting with one thigh flung over his horse’s withers, picking at a scrap of meat that was wedged between two teeth as he cast a grin at the other men.

Osbert didn’t look at him. There was no need to. He knew all about Basil. He was the sort of weakly creature who’d make fun of those stronger than him when he had men at his back, just to show that he had the greater force with him. Arrogant, foolish, he had grown to manhood with violence all around him. Living rough, as they all had, Basil had never known the gentle comforts of life in a great hall, had never seen the subtle interplay of characters as those with authority negotiated their way around the customs and little delicacies that were so essential to life in a large household. Instead he believed in simple, raw power. And because he was his father’s son, he believed in exercising that power at every possible opportunity.

‘Not scared, no.’

There was plenty to think about. Osbert had been through the messenger’s pouch, looking for the message that should have been there, but there was nothing. It was possible, he knew, that the man had been given a verbal message, but if that was the case, it was so much the better that he was dead. No one would want him to go straight to the king and blurt out something about the offer made to Busse at Tavistock. No, it was probably better this way. And since the monk hadn’t accepted, they’d have to think up some alternative. Sir Robert had more or less hinted that he reckoned that would be the way of things. He expected that they would have to take some other approach to forcing Busse to drop out of the running for the abbacy. He didn’t believe Busse was as corruptible as Despenser felt; perhaps it was merely that Despenser assumed everyone had a price.

‘Oh, I didn’t ask if you were scared, Os. I wouldn’t suggest that. No, I thought you might be a little concerned, though. Anxious, right? After all, that was the town where you showed your ability to lead strangers, eh?’

Osbert groaned to himself. The lad would keep on needling at a man. ‘It’s easy. Told them the road past your father was too dangerous.’

‘And it is, isn’t it? But the way you took them, that was perfect. Just far enough to make them secure for us to catch them. The only problem-’

‘I’m not worried about Oakhampton. It’s not for me we avoid it.’

‘Oh, it’s for my good, then?’ Basil laughed.

There were times like this when Osbert could still see the little boy that this lad had once been.

Before their fall from the king’s household, branded traitors and forced to wander the roads and forests, Basil had been a happy-go-lucky boy. There hadn’t been a great problem with him. He’d been the same as all boys: using slings and bows, practising his swordplay, and most of all enjoying a joke and some fun. But somehow something had loosened in his head or his heart. Osbert reckoned he had needed the calming influence of a woman while he was younger. Too late now. Now he was a man, and he wouldn’t listen to anyone. That had been shown by his capture of the miller’s daughter. They’d had to have the sheriff agree his innocence in court for that, and later see to the death of the miller himself, just to ensure that Basil was safe.

Osbert was sure that Basil would be the last of his line. He would be sure to die before long, once his father’s restraining influence was gone. If he kept up this behaviour for much longer, it would be Osbert himself who killed him. While he kept on making snide little comments about the others all the time, winding a rope about their souls tighter and tighter, until at last a man had to explode, that was one thing; if he tried it with Osbert, he would soon learn his error.

‘Yes. We avoid the town for your good, Basil.’

‘Tell me, how could it be in my interests? There are taverns in that town, aren’t there? Places where the whores go, places where I could catch a smile and a kiss.’

‘That’s why ’tisn’t in your interests,’ Osbert said. ‘If you go in the town, you’ll find a bint and hold us up for hours. We don’t have time.’

Basil nodded and straightened his leg, settling it in the stirrup again. ‘Well, many thanks for your protection of me, but I think I can cope. You hurry on homewards. I’ll probably catch you up anyway.’

‘Your father wouldn’t want you to go and stop in town,’ Osbert said.

‘Well he’s not here, is he?’ Basil said, gathering up his reins.

‘No. But I am.’

‘I don’t give a turd for you, though. You’re only a servant, Os.’

Osbert nodded. Then suddenly his hand whipped out and slapped Basil’s cheeks, first the left, then the right, then the left again. Basil’s hand fell and gripped his sword, and it was half out when he realised that Osbert already had his dagger in his hand, held by the tip in that gentle, relaxed manner Basil had seen so often before.

‘Os, you shouldn’t tease me.’

‘I didn’t. I slapped you, hard. Because I’m older than you, boy, and I’ve the experience you’re lacking. You know what that means? It means I’m faster than you. Faster and more dangerous. You start testing me, and you’ll learn that you’d best respect me, because if you don’t, I’ll see you hurt.’

‘Hurt? What, like those children? Or their mother?’

Osbert shrugged. ‘They were in the way. If we hadn’t killed them, they could have got away and told all about us.’

‘All about you, you mean. None of us would have been seen in the dark,’ Basil pointed out, but already his anger had left him. Now he contemplated the road ahead, a small smile on his lips. ‘It was a grand attack, though, wasn’t it?’

‘Was it?’ Osbert said.

In all honesty, he wouldn’t know whether an attack like that was good or bad. It was only successful or not.

‘That man I spitted on my sword!’ Basil said exultantly. ‘I stuck it in his gut, and it just opened him from cods to collar, all his bowels spilling on the grass!’

Osbert remembered that. The man had been holding his hands over his head, as though that could be any protection! Basil’s sword had almost completely eviscerated him, and then some woman — his wife or sister — had run to his side, and Basil had paused, then ridden back to thrust his sword into her back, a short way below her neck, a cruel blow that had pinned her for a moment to the man. Then Basil had laughed, that high, keening laugh that showed always that his blood was up and his spirits flying, before tugging his blade free and hunting another.

The surprise had been complete, after all. Osbert had led them to the points where they could attack, and the little force had thundered in at the same time, hacking and stabbing all as they rose, befuddled, wiping the sleep from their eyes, before any could grab more than a dagger to protect themselves. Soon there was only the monk remaining alive. And he had endured a bad death, cursing them all in his strange foreign accent as they beat him, cut small incisions in painful locations, and finally, at Basil’s suggestion, took his eyes as well, just to make sure he really didn’t know where the money had gone.

‘Well perhaps you’re right,’ Basil said at last.

Osbert grunted his gratitude. Basil set off again, lolling indolently in his saddle, while Osbert followed a short distance behind. But Osbert wasn’t fooled, and he kept his dagger loose in its sheath.