No Law in the Land

Chapter One

Third Monday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael^*

Farmstead near Jacobstowe, Devon

On the day the murders were discovered, old Hoppon grunted as he rose to his feet and kicked the charred sticks together, then hauled the log nearer, before bending down to blow steadily. Tab, his dog, stirred and stretched, wagging his tail hopefully as Hoppon limped to the door and peered out.

‘Another shite day, feller,’ he muttered, reaching down. Tab had arrived by his side already, as always, and his fingers found the slim ears, scratching at the rough, wiry coat at the base of the dog’s skull. ‘You think Noah’s coming back? It’s wet enough, I’d swear. Christ’s ballocks, what I’d give for a day of sun for once.’

It had been like this for so long now, he could scarce recall a time when it hadn’t been damp underfoot. Hoppon could remember the worst years when the rain fell all through the summer, the dreadful years when all starved more or less. The famine had struck ten years before, and lasted on and off for the next seven years, although it was the first two that had been the worst without doubt. Especially for him with his badly burned and damaged leg.

Tab wandered out and cocked a leg at the edge of the little clearing, and it was then that Hoppon saw the smoke rising through the trees.

‘The poor bastards. Foreigners aren’t safe,’ he said, peering through the thin drizzle with a scowl.

Hoppon thought no more about it. He had enough work to be getting on with without worrying about others who had incurred the wrath of the local magnates. In any case, he had the unpleasant conviction that the smoke was not from a camp fire. Last night, late, he had heard horses. Only one kind of man travelled in darkness, and it was not the kind of man he wanted to offend.

No. He had much to do, and so he wandered outside to his chickens and began to sprinkle a few grains for them, but even as they squabbled and bickered, his eyes kept being drawn up to the column of smoke, wondering what was happening over there.

Abbeyford Woods, south of Jacobstowe

Roger, a thin-faced man in his middle twenties, was early to rise that morning. It was his way to be on the road as dawn lighted the way for him. He was happier to be busy, and in his life that meant walking. It was lonely, now, without her. Better to keep walking than think about her. It wasn’t like she was his wife or anything.

There were many trees here, and that was itself a relief. As he went, he gathered up some tinder for his fire that evening. It was the usual start to any day, collecting thistledown in handfuls, then birchbark, thin, papery strips that curled into little cylinders. All were carefully wrapped in the remains of an old shirt, and then thrust inside his clothing, next to his belly, so that they should be dry by tonight for his fire.

When he saw the smoke, at first he was happy that he was near people with food. After sleeping in the open, with only his ragged old cloak to cover him, the thought of sitting at a friendly fire with a bowl of hot minted water or posset was enormously attractive — especially if it meant he could hear some news or just share some conversation. He had been walking alone for a long time now. And a party of travellers would hardly look upon a single wandering sailor as a threat to them, so surely they would be hospitable.

His road here was a narrow, grassed pathway. He had walked all the way from Dartmouth, hoping to get to the north coast, where he had heard that there were jobs for skilled seamen, but the weather had slowed him. Every day seemed to bring more and more rain, and the rivers had all swollen while the roads had grown more and more clogged with mud. For Roger, it meant that his pace had been reduced to a quarter of his normal progress. What had looked like a four- or five-day march, with luck, had already taken him a week, and he was only halfway. It was no surprise that the thought of a little company and a warming fire was so attractive.

The road here led along the top of a ridge. He had come here from Oakhampton, hoping that the river would have subsided a little. He’d been waiting for two days now, and at last he had been able to cross. That was late in the day last evening, and after that he had made his way up the heavily wooded side of the hill, and built himself a shelter of sorts with fallen boughs set against a tree. It wasn’t warm, nor dry, nor comfortable, but at least he could feel that there was a roof over his head, and once he had a small fire burning, he had been as content as he could be.

He passed a second roadway to the east, which fell down the side of the hill towards the river, and then he was following a pleasant, straight route with trees on either side that did not fully obstruct his view. The direction seemed to him to lie directly north, and he was happy to be able to speed his pace at last, lengthening his stride to suit the firm ground.

The smoke he had seen seemed to lie some few hundred yards ahead when he first set off, but as he marched on, he realised that it must be a half-mile distant. He passed a crossroads, then his road began to descend, although only shallowly, and the smoke remained some distance off on his right. It was as he saw the clouds break slightly, and felt the faint warming of the sun on his shoulder, that he began to smell the woodsmoke on the air.

By some miracle the rain had held off so far, but now the thin mizzle that had been blowing at him had grown into a genuine downpour, and he had to pull his hood more firmly over his head, settling his cloak about him and shifting his staff and belongings so that he could hold his hand nearer his shoulder, hunching himself against the cooler weather and trying to prevent as much of the rain as possible from running down his neck. It gave him the incentive to hurry and reach some form of shelter. Before long he saw the marks of carts in deep ruts in the mud at the side of the road, and the telltale smoke on his right, and set off to follow them, walking near the mud but not in it, and going carefully to avoid the thicker clumps of bramble that threatened to rip his hosen.

The great oaks and beech trees near the road suddenly disappeared, and instead he found himself in a little coppice. A large circular depression blackened with fire showed where a charcoal burner had been working, and all about were the little carts and belongings of about twenty travellers.

He knew there were about twenty. Their bodies littered the ground.

Wissant, French coast

After the last few days of running, Simon was for once glad to be able to set his feet on the deck of a ship, secure in the knowledge that no matter what the sea might hold for him, at least there was no risk of a sword in his back or an arrow in his chest. Compared with the land, the sea seemed, for once, to be safe.

He glanced back the way they had come, anxiously scanning the buildings at the quay for danger. In the morning’s grim light, there was little to be seen, only a gentle mist washing in from the sea and giving the grey waves a deceptively calm appearance. Simon wasn’t fooled by that. He knew the true dangers that lurked in the waters far from land. He had been tossed by storms, and even survived a wrecked ship in his time. It was not an experience he was keen to repeat.

‘You ready to sail, eh? Ha! I could murder one of these sailors and eat his carcass, I’m so hungry!’

The thickset, bearded figure who clapped a hand as heavy as a destrier’s hoof on Simon’s shoulder was Sir Richard de Welles, an enormous man with appetites to match his girth. His eyes crinkled in a smile.

He was tall, at least six foot one, and had an almost entirely round face, with a thick bush of beard that overhung his chest like a heavy gorget. His eyes were dark brown and shrewd, beneath a broad and tall brow. His face was criss-crossed with wrinkles, making him appear perhaps a little older than he really was, but Simon was sure he had to be at least fifty. His flesh had the toughened look of well-cured leather that only a man who has spent much of his life in the open air would acquire.

‘I am happy to be near shore,’ Simon said shortly.

‘Aye, but we’ll both be glad to away from the French, I dare say!’ the knight chuckled.

There was no denying it. In the last days they had ridden in great haste from Paris. In a short period they had managed to enrage the French king, irritate his sister, Queen Isabella of England, and ensure that they would be unwelcome forever in France. Meanwhile, the failure of their mission would reflect badly on them all when they finally had to explain their actions to the English king. And Edward II was not a man known for leniency towards those who he felt had been incompetent.

‘I’ll be glad to away, yes,’ Simon said. ‘And more glad to see my wife. I don’t know what’s happened to her.’

‘Aye, friend, I was forgetting that you had urgent business. Still, no matter! You should be home again soon, eh?’

Simon nodded. ‘I hope so. I hope so.’

Jacobstowe

Bill Lark, a short man with the dark, serious expression of one used to the harsh realities of life, was kneeling beside his fire when the knock came at his door.

‘Who’s that?’ his wife demanded. Agnes was a tall, buxom woman of five-and-twenty, with gleaming auburn hair when she allowed it to stray, and he adored her. Now she was standing with the wooden spoon in her hand by the pot she had been stirring.

‘Oh, ballocks!’ he muttered, lifting his son from his lap and passing him to his wife. ‘Take the Ant, eh?’ He stood and walked to the door, pulling it wide.

‘Hoppon? What do you want?’

The older man limped into the house, his weight all on the stick he clutched, his dog sliding in behind him, unsure of the welcome he was to receive. ‘Bailiff, I needs your help. Murder.’

Bill’s smile faded. ‘You sure?’

‘It’s over top of Abbeyford, Bailiff. Sixteen dead, I counted, but there could be more. They been killed, some of their goods set afire, but most’s been robbed from them.’

‘Ach, shit! All right, Hoppon, you reckon you can tell me where it is, or you need to show it me?’

‘You’ll find it. Follow the smell,’ Hoppon said. His face was twisted with disgust, but now he looked away for a moment. ‘It’s nasty, Bailiff. You understand me?’

‘Reckon there’s no misunderstanding that, Hoppon,’ Bill said as he unfastened his belt and reached for his long-bladed knife. ‘You have to go to the manor and tell them there. Then tell the steward to send for the coroner. Make sure he does. He’s a lazy git at the best of times. Best to remind him that if he doesn’t, it’ll be on his neck, not ours. Meantime, tell the priest too, and ask to have someone sent to me to help guard the bodies. I’ll need someone else with me.’

He pulled on a thick cloak of waxed linen, drew on a hood, and took a small bag that tied over his shoulder by two strong thongs. Grabbing a pot of cider and a hunk of bread, he stuffed them inside, before turning to his wife. He hugged Agnes and gave her a long kiss, before throwing a reluctant, longing look at the pottage that lay simmering over the fire. It was not his choice to be bailiff for the hundred, but he had been chosen and elected, and there was no escape from responsibility. This was his year.

The way was already growing dark as he left his house and took the long road that led almost like an arrow south to Oakhampton. Fortunately it was a popular route for men going to the market, and he could travel at some speed. There were other lanes that were not so well maintained, and where the way could be blocked by any number of fallen trees or thick glutinous mud in which a man could almost drown. From his perspective, any such areas were dangerous. A robber man might wait at the site of a pool of mud, hoping for a chance to waylay the unwary as they stepped around it, while a tree blocking a path might have been deliberately placed there. These were not good times for a man who needed to travel, he told himself.

It was fortunate that there was not far to go, and before it was fully dark he was in the coppice.

He knew that many would be affected by the sight that greeted him, but he was too old to worry about the presence of the dead. He had seen enough corpses in his time. Some years ago, when he was himself scarce grown, he had buried his own parents, both dead from some disease that struck them during the famine years, when no one was strong enough to fight off even a mild chill. Aye, he had buried them, and others. The sight of death held no fears for him.

Still, there were some scenes he did not enjoy, and while he wandered about the bodies, it was the sight of so many wounds in those who were surely already dead that made him clench his jaw. It made him consider, too, and he looked about the ground with an eye tuned to the marks left by the raiders. Horses had left their prints, and the occasional boot, he saw. So this was no mere band of outlaws; it was a military force, if he was right.

He gazed about him with a stern frown fitted to his face, and as the rain began to fall again, he hurried to collect some dry timber to start a fire.

Time enough for thinking later.

Third Tuesday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael^*

Hythe, Kent

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill sniffed the air as the little ship rolled and shifted on the sea.

A tall man in his middle fifties, he was used to travelling. In his dark eyes, as he looked at the quayside, there was only gratitude that he had once more successfully and safely crossed the Channel. The journey had become only too familiar to him in the last few months, and he was hopeful that now he might leave such wanderings and return to his wife and family, to the life of a rural knight.

‘Bishop, I hope I see you well?’

‘Ach!’ Bishop Walter II of Exeter gave him a sharp look. His blue eyes were faded, and he must peer short-sightedly now, his eyes were so old and worn, unless he had his spectacles with him. Some ten years Baldwin’s senior, at four-and-sixty, the bishop had not enjoyed a good voyage. ‘I begin to sympathise with Simon.’

‘He is still at the prow, I think.’ Baldwin smiled. Simon had always been an atrociously poor sailor, and spent much of his time at sea bemoaning his fate as he brought up all he had eaten for a day past. This time he had attempted a popular sailor’s cure, by drinking a quantity of strong ale, but that had only served to give his belly more fluid to reject, and since then he had spent the entire day and night leaning over the side of the ship, while sailors darted about to avoid tripping on him.

‘Poor fellow. I shall go and offer a prayer for his speedy recovery,’ the bishop said.

‘Ha! Rather, pray for all our health,’ Sir Richard de Welles said, joining them. ‘No tellin’ what chance we have of getting home.’

‘Now we are all safe at England, there seems less need,’ the bishop said wanly.

‘Safe, eh?’ Sir Richard said. ‘When we have to travel to find the king and tell him that his wife has left him and taken his son and heir; that the men the king set to guard them both have all gone over to the queen’s side instead of his own; and that we were powerless to do anything to support him in his endeavours? I think we might merit a little protection ourselves.’

‘The king is a reasonable man,’ Bishop Walter said.

From the sharp glance Sir Richard de Welles threw at him, Baldwin could see that he didn’t believe the bishop’s words either.

‘My lord bishop,’ Baldwin said, ‘I am sure that you are right, but I confess to some concern that the king’s favourite may deprecate our efforts.’

The bishop looked away without comment. There was no need to speak, for the three all knew the nature of Sir Hugh le Despenser.

It was left to Sir Richard to rumble, ‘I would not trust that man if he told me grass grew green.’

Baldwin smiled to himself. ‘I cannot deny that I would feel happier were we permitted to merely ride homewards. The thought of explaining ourselves to the king and Despenser fills me with discomfort.’

Abbeyford Woods, south of Jacobstowe

Bill Lark had woken after an unsettled sleep to find that a root had seemingly planted itself in the small of his back, while his neck felt as though it had been broken.

He stood rotating his head while grimly surveying the ground about him. Poor devils, he said to himself, not for the first time, as he began to wander about some of the trees, finding dry, dead branches low on the saplings and smaller trees about the coppice. Soon he had a couple of armfuls and could start to reset the fire.

Last night it had begun to rain almost as soon as he had lighted his fire, and then the sounds of night creatures had kept him awake too, so he had slept at best fitfully. When he had slept it was more a case of dozing, so now he felt on edge and fretful.

When he had his fire cheerfully ablaze, he spent a few minutes wandering about the coppice again.

First he walked around the camp itself, eyeing each of the bodies. It was curious, he noticed, that none was near the edge of the trees. It was as if they had been moved inwards, away from the thicker woodland all about. That was enough to make him scowl pensively.

Next he walked about the edge of the trees themselves. There were many tracks crossing and recrossing here, mainly horses’ hoofs riding in towards the camp, and a few riding away. After making a complete circuit, he was forced to consider that there had been plenty of riders coming in, and that all had left by the entrance to the clearing, a muddied track made by the charcoal burners. So they had attacked from the woods, then departed by the roadway, either up towards Oakhampton or back towards Jacobstowe. There was even a set of boot prints leaving that way. Boots that had wandered about the camp. If he was right — and he was a moderate tracker — the boots overlapped some of the other marks on the ground, so this man had been here since the killings. Perhaps he had been here afterwards — but then again, he could have been one of the attackers.

What did worry Bill was that he could see no sign of escape from the camp. There were no prints at all that he could discern in among the trees other than those horses riding in. That itself was not surprising, for the covering of leaves would make a man’s prints hard to see, but if there had been horses escaping, he would have expected to see evidence of their hoofs.

Yes. It was clear enough what had happened. The fellows had been travelling, and had stopped here for the evening. A group of felons had found them, probably dismounted nearby, and then ringed them, shooting most of them down with arrows before wandering in and stabbing the survivors. Looking about him at the bodies, he wondered who these victims might have been.

The man with the tonsure was the first to attract his attention. A clerk — perhaps someone more senior, an abbot or prior maybe. He looked too well fed to be someone lowly. Bill had to turn away from the man’s ravaged features. Clearly this was a man who had made himself enemies in life, unless someone was convinced that he was carrying more goods about him than he was admitting. But that was daft. No one would kill a man in this manner when all his goods were to be taken anyway. Unless they thought he was keeping something back. Treasure, or information?

Close by was another man. This looked like a fellow who was more used to the bow than the pen. A mace or club had crushed the whole side of his face, making a foul mess of blood, bone and brains. At least his death would have been swift. Not like the monk.

The brutality of those two deaths was shocking to a man like Bill, but so was the number of the other victims. No gang of outlaws would kill so wantonly. Not in Bill’s experience, anyway. He sat back on his haunches near the fire and stared around him. Just there, to the east, through the trees, he could see a long area of open pasture, and some cows munching contentedly with sheep walking round and round. There was the song of a blackbird not far away, and he could hear a cock crowing — no, it was a hen calling: ‘An egg, an egg.’ All seemed so normal, so sane, if he didn’t look at the ground around him. This was his land. His country; his responsibility. And someone had desecrated it.

The idea of a band of murderers was alarming. Outlaws infested many parts of the country, and there was no reason why Devon should be exempt from their predations, and yet he didn’t get the impression that this was some random attack on a band of travellers. There was something too precise about it. The men who had committed this obscene act were surely not just robbers, they had not suddenly sprung in upon the camp and massacred the people in a rough melee.

He had seen that kind of attack before. Usually there were a very clear series of indications. As the first men appeared, people would bolt, some flying hither and thither through the trees, seeking some kind of safety, and then the bodies would be more spread about. Here, it would seem that the camp had been attacked from all sides simultaneously. That spoke of discipline and organisation. The men who did this had a purpose. And he would make it his job to discover that purpose, if he could.

If he could. The thought made him give a wry little grin to himself. Whether he could or not would depend on so much. And even if he did go to the effort, it would depend very much on the attitude of the coroner. So often the bastards were useless. They just lived for the money they could extort from others. Like this latest sheriff, from all he’d heard.

Still, he was nothing if not thorough, so he wandered out beyond the fringe of trees, looking all about. It was as he reached the southernmost section of the clearing that he found something that made him give a quick frown. Here there were some heavily damaged bushes and brambles, as though something — or someone — had hurried through. But some of them had been dragged back the other way, too, so it appeared that there had been movement in both directions. He crouched, glancing all about him, wondering what story he was witnessing here, but he could make little sense of it. Then, as he cursed the rain, he saw some speckles on the grass. Nearby there was a larger splash. When fresh, this must have formed a pool. He touched it, and although it was difficult to be certain, he felt sure that it was blood. Perhaps it was a man who had left the camp to defecate, and who had hurried back when the attack started, only to be struck down as he returned?

But looking back at the clearing, he was forced to wonder why the man’s body was not here. Perhaps he wasn’t wounded badly enough to collapse, but had continued on to the main camp, where he’d died with the others. Strange, though, he thought, as he peered down carefully. There was so much blood. If a man had been knocked down here, surely he would never have made it back to the main camp after losing all this blood.

He heard voices. Retreating, he set his back to a tree, listening carefully, until he recognised one of them.

‘If you were trying to be quiet, you failed,’ he called.

‘Sweet Christ’s cods! Bill, what happened here?’

‘John, I wish I knew. All I can say is, whoever did this wasn’t just mad. A lunatic would have been far less effective.’

‘How could one man do this?’ John Weaver said. He looked about him, taking in the sight. At his side, Art Miller pulled a face at the odours.

‘It was a large gang. Question is, who were they?’