No Law in the Land

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Second Saturday before the Feast of St Martin in Winter^*

Near Crockern Tor

In the mistiness, Osbert winced as the rain sheeted into his face. In this weather, his thin shirt and coat appeared no more substantial than a single thickness of linen in the face of the onslaught that was being hurled at him. Without his hat, the rain was like fine gravel thrown in his face. The weight of the cross on his shoulder, the proof of his penitence and the protection of his body from any who might choose to attack, for it signified that he was defended by the Church, was a dull and constant ache. The edge stuck into his shoulder, rubbing it raw beneath his shirt and setting up a savage anguish that would not cease. He had never seen so massive a cross for an abjurer, and he felt sure that it was evidence of the coroner’s loathing of him. Sir Richard must have ordered it to be made so. If he could, Osbert would enjoy visiting some of this on Sir Richard in return. He hated to leave a debt unpaid.

For all the pain at his face and shoulders, it was his feet that hurt the most. They were shredded by stepping on rocks and furze. But there was no help for it. Abjurers were fortunate to be allowed to keep shirts and coats — but none could keep boots or hats. These essentials were taken away for the king. He must, Osbert reckoned, have an insatiable appetite for such clothing, since he took all from every abjurer.

He was near a vast lump of rock that stood resting on three others to form a roofed shelter, in which two ponies stood. They could attempt to dispute his right to take some rest there, but if they were to do so, they would learn quickly that a man in desperate need was not to be trifled with. And he had a large baulk of timber on his shoulder that could easily act as a weapon.

It was a good enough place, he felt, to sleep the night. There was nowhere to seek companionship on the moors here. The lands to the south where he must travel to find his way to the port would all be as open and foully rainswept as this, and another resting place would be hard to find.

He hunkered down, chewing a little of the dry bread that the vill had provided him. It was stale and full of cinders and burned grains, much like the peasant breads he had eaten as a child, and the crunchiness and the taste of charcoal were like a reminder of his youth. It was quite good to experience them. But when he got to France — damn the souls of the men here who’d sent him away — he would only eat white bread. And there, so it was said, the weather was always summer. It would be warmer than here in the miserable wastes of Dartmoor, anyway. But anywhere would be, he told himself, glancing about the landscape with a curl to his lips.

It was then that he saw a figure, or so he thought. It was a hunched form, that of a man who was bent under an intolerable load, it seemed, and then a wash of rain pelted across and the man was hidden from view.

A man. Clearly a man, Osbert told himself. After all, the old tales were nothing more than that: myths invented to upset children, stories designed to petrify the recalcitrant, used deliberately to make children fear disobedience and keep them in check. They were not likely to make a man fear.

No, the idea of the devil wandering about the moors to pick up unwary travellers, that was invention. As was Crockern, the spirit of the moors, vengeful, resentful, cruel. Just as the idea of pixies leading travellers astray into bogs and mires to leave them drowning slowly was clearly untrue. There was nothing to any of them. And yet …

Where was he? Osbert peered closely, but there was no sign of the indistinct shape he had seen. It had disappeared into the murk before him as efficiently as a wraith dissolving in a mist. And it made him shiver suddenly, as though there was a ghost out there right now, watching him.

No! There was nothing there. It was just the way the swirling mist was moving. He squatted again, telling his heart not to be so fearful. It was in truth nothing to worry about. And yet he found that his eyes kept returning to that place, as though he half expected to see someone appear again.

It was unsettling. Very unsettling. He moved back into the safety of the chamber, leaning up against the rock, and tried to rest. The cold was ferocious, and he could feel his feet starting to stab with pain now. When he looked at them, he had to wince. The furze and stones he’d passed over had slashed at them, and now the soles were mingled blood and filth, and the little of the skin he could see was blue with cold.

There was a rattle and a thud outside. His head snapped up, and his eyes moved quickly all over the landscape in front of him, his heart suddenly pounding. No one there. No one and nothing. The swirls of mist moved about and the rain fell in a constant curtain, obscuring all beyond a few feet from him, but his heart told him that there was something out there. Something that wanted his death.

He hadn’t regrets. He had enjoyed most of his life. What was unreasonable was that for the first time in his life he had tried to make something happen for himself. All the other projects he had worked on, he had been trying to help his master. This was the first situation in which he had been attempting his own profit — and it was the first and most ruinous failure he had suffered.

A clattering made him jerk awake. For a moment there he had started to slip into drowsiness and his head had begun to nod, but now he was fully alert and staring about him.

There was no animal that could have made that noise. That was a stone being tossed, or he was a Scotsman. Outside was a man, and someone who meant him ill. Well, Osbert was no coward, and he would not be easy prey. He slowly eased himself upright again, clutching the heavy cross in his hands, and edged to the front of his shelter. No one would say that he hid cowering in the back of a cave while someone was pursuing him.

There was a snick as a small stone hit the roof, but he wasn’t stupid enough to look up. The man was out there, hidden in the gloom, trying to tempt him to look around so that he could be hit from behind. He wasn’t going to fall for that, he thought.

An appalling, smashing explosion of pain over his ear, and Osbert was thrown sidelong into the rock beside him. His first coherent thought was to wonder why he was lying on the ground, and then he was trying to rise, but as soon as he did, there was a slam at his head again, and he was on the ground once more aware of the trickle of blood running down the line of his jaw and pooling below his Adam’s apple. Slowly he began to get up again, and this time the blow was over the back of his head, driving his face into the dirt and rock of the moor. He felt his nose crunch, he felt the water and mud in his nose, the tang of blood in his mouth as the teeth snapped, and his empty eye socket was filled with icy water. He tried to roll away to see who had attacked him, but it was impossible to even move that much.

And then there was one last crashing blow to his head, and he knew no more.

Crediton

The road back home was quiet.

Edith was aware of a faint unease in her belly as they rode, but she wasn’t going to tell her father that. There was enough on his mind already.

Sir Richard and Simon had ridden to Tavistock to speak with Cardinal de Fargis already, and had told him all that they had learned, as well as returning to him the chest with the king’s silver. The cardinal had been glad to receive it, Simon was sure, but it was not enough to compensate him for the death of two good monks.

‘Pietro was an old friend. And Anselm, so sad to see a man tortured by his desires. That he should have allowed them to rule his heart in so marked a manner — that is terrible. The poor man.’

‘He was willing to plot to have all those travelling with him murdered,’ Simon pointed out.

‘Was he? Or was that a matter over which he had little or no control? I do not pretend to see into a man’s heart, Master Puttock. That is God’s task. For me it is enough that I see so much sadness. So much greed and jealousy.’

‘You mean the selection of the new abbot?’

‘Which of the two men would you choose?’

Simon looked away. This was not something he could do. Any answer he gave must be hazardous, for whomsoever he chose would be sure to hear of it, and then the other would learn that Simon had not supported him. And either of the two monks was a bad enemy to have. Busse was known to have dabbled in magic to try to win his post, while de Courtenay was a perfect menace, and with his powerful connections could make life intolerably hard for a man like Simon. ‘I … er …’

‘Yes. I too have a similar problem,’ Cardinal de Fargis said with a wintry little smile.

‘It isn’t the kind of decision I’d be qualified to make,’ Simon said.

‘Either will prove to be a dangerous influence if the other is made abbot.’ The cardinal continued as though Simon had not spoken. ‘So perhaps it would be better if neither was to have it. And neither was to remain here.’

He looked up suddenly, and appeared to notice Simon for the first time. A faintly bemused expression wandered over his face. ‘Ah. And you heard about the king’s messenger?’

‘Yes. A great pity,’ Simon said, remembering the man with whom he had travelled.

‘He had a great number of messages still in his pouch, my friend,’ the cardinal said thoughtfully. ‘There were several from men around here who were writing to my lord Despenser. I think you should be very careful in his presence. He is a most dangerous adversary.’

It was those words that echoed in Simon’s mind now as he rode home, but Edith had no idea of the cause of his grim face and apparent ill humour. For her part, she was filled only with a determination to get back home to her husband as soon as possible.

‘You will come to see your mother?’ Simon asked.

‘Only for the night, Father. I have to get home and see my husband.’

‘Of course,’ Simon said, and there was a stilted pause.

‘I think I should return home,’ Baldwin said after a few moments.

‘I would be sad to see you leave and not come to visit, Baldwin,’ Simon said. ‘Margaret will be disappointed.’

Edith looked from one to the other, and then back at Edgar, who wore a most untypical expression of seriousness. She was suddenly struck with a sense of how these two men, both of whom she adored, had been driven apart. There was a gulf between them, where before there had been only comradeship. She would have thought that nothing could have caused them to become so distant from each other, and the fact that it had been caused by the threat to which she had been exposed served only to make her feel guilty. Looking back at Edgar again, she felt a quick resolve.

‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Sir Baldwin, you must certainly come and rest at Father’s house. You have risked your life to help us, and I would not hear of you continuing tonight.’

‘Edith, if he says that he should carry on to his wife, you are in no position to prevent him,’ Simon said.

‘Father, I owe perhaps my life to Sir Baldwin. If it were not for his swift response in riding after me to rescue me from Sir Robert of Traci, you would not have learned of my predicament and I might well still be there now — raped and injured. Yet you would see him leave to continue his journey at night in the cold? For shame!’

Simon’s jaw clenched, and he threw her a look of such pain that she wanted to apologise, but then with relief she heard him repeat his invitation to Sir Baldwin to stay the night.

‘Please do, Sir Baldwin,’ she said. ‘And then perhaps tomorrow you can ride with me to Exeter to protect me? I should be most grateful for your company.’

‘Of course,’ Sir Baldwin said with a gracious little bow. ‘I would be honoured to ride with you, if your father has no objection.’

‘How could I object?’ Simon responded, but he looked at neither of them. Instead his eyes remained fixed resolutely on the road ahead.

Tavistock Abbey

Brother Mark stepped into the chapter house and crossed the floor to the stone seat at the further wall. He sat, his eyes downcast, as he contemplated his decision.

It was some little while later that the other brothers filed in.

In the past, all the monks would have been chattering and laughing as they walked in, but not today. Not for the last few days. There had been a curious air of nervous expectation ever since the body of the messenger had been found and rumours had begun of the messages from Brother John found in his shirt. Although there had been attempts to keep news of the messages secret, it was impossible to prevent so many monks from enjoying the potential of such juicy gossip. It had flown about the abbey in a matter of hours.

It was the cardinal who entered last, and he walked to the middle of the chamber and looked about him with the cold, measuring eye of an executioner considering his next victim.

‘I am aware of the stories that are circulating about the two brothers who are in contention for the abbacy. They are both here now. I require them to step forward.’

Mark watched as the two monks approached the cardinal and stood, one at either side, their hands clasped, heads down like penitents.

‘These two have acknowledged their faults, and will now show their repentance by exchanging the kiss of peace,’ the cardinal said.

Of the two, Mark reckoned that Robert Busse was the less reluctant. With a show of distaste, he stepped forward and waited. Brother John wore a glower of loathing on his face as he contemplated his enemy. But then, he had plotted the murder of Robert. If the rumours were all true, he was guilty of terrible ambition and pride. Brother Robert himself was little better, though, if the stories of his thefts of gold and silver from the treasury were correct.

Brother John gave a gesture of disgust and went to meet Robert, and both gave a quick glance to the cardinal. He made no movement, and the two suddenly came together and exchanged a swift peck. As they stepped apart, Mark was sure that both would have wiped away that kiss if they were not being watched.

This was shameful. It was the sort of situation that Mark would expect from knights. He could remember now his animosity to Sir Richard de Welles, and felt shame. Sir Richard was a deeply honourable man in comparison to these two. It was appalling. It left Mark feeling tainted by their presence and their awful shame. Perhaps his own offence was less significant than he had realised. It was possible, after all, that God had given these two as a proof that his crime was of little import by comparison.

The chapter meeting continued with the business of the day being conducted swiftly enough, and then the cardinal made to leave.

‘Cardinal, I have to confess …’

‘Then you must walk with me,’ the cardinal said.

Brother Mark was perplexed, for the brothers were supposed to confess their sins in full chapter, so that all would know their guilt. It was a most effective means of persuading monks to consider carefully before committing an offence against their order. But if the cardinal said that Mark must walk with him, walk he must. He scurried out after him, and found him taking the air in the cloister.

The heavy rain of the last couple of days had ceased now, but it was still very damp all about, and Mark was aware of the splashing as he stepped through the puddles on the pavemented cloister area. ‘Cardinal, I have to confess to a crime. A serious crime.’

‘You helped tempt a man so that he could be extracted from a sanctuary.’

‘I … yes.’

‘The man was already guilty of participating in murders, in the murder of two monks, I think?’

‘But no matter what the crime, he was in the church, under the protection of the Church.’

‘True. And he had killed two of the Church’s most devoted servants.’

‘But surely I still committed a crime?’

Cardinal de Fargis stopped and looked at him. ‘What do you wish me to tell you, Brother Mark? That you were wrong to leave temptation in his path? If you had not, would he have abjured the realm? Yes, in all likelihood. So you hastened justice. And you did not force him to take the crucifix, did you? It was he who guided his own hand to take it. Not you.’

‘I just thought that my-’

‘Brother Mark. I understand that the item taken by the man was the crucifix worn by poor Pietro. Yes? Then I think we can look on the matter as being one of divine judgement. You were the willing tool of God. He chose you to bring justice to the man Osbert. And for what he did to poor Pietro, he deserved no sanctuary.’

Bow

The priest brought another bowl of water to him as he lay sweating, complaining about the cold, whining and moaning in his agony. It was enough to make the priest weep gently to himself, sad at the sight of so much misery and despair.

William atte Wattere had no idea where he was. The room was a darkened chamber that could have been a gaol, but with his burning anguish there was no need for bars and locks. He could not have stood had he wished to.

He had been here in the bed since the evening he had been brought here. The father had seen to all his needs as best he could, but it was clear by the end of the first day that all he could hope to do was alleviate some of the man’s dying pains. There was clearly no aid for him while his soul remained in his body. All a man could hope and pray for was that his suffering would at least end when he was dead. And it was for his life after death that the priest was praying now. As he mopped Wattere’s brow with a rag dipped in cool water mixed with vinegar, his lips mumbled the prayers he hoped would be most efficacious.

‘You’ve seen him?’ Wattere spoke suddenly, his good hand snapping up and grasping the priest’s wrist.

‘My son, calm yourself. Who? Who do you ask if I’ve seen?’

‘The man … He’s there! Don’t let him take me!’

The ravings of a madman. But with this enormous wound, it was a miracle he wasn’t dead already. The sword had cloven through his shoulder, through his collar bone, and wedged in his shoulder blade, so they said. It had taken his assailant some while to lever it free. And that sort of wound was only rarely survived. The fever had broken the next day, and no one expected him to live. With his whole body shrieking, it was hardly surprising that he would see nonexistent people.

Still, the old priest glanced over his shoulder to make sure. ‘My son, there’s no one there.’

Wattere’s face had paled. Now he too looked up over the priest’s shoulder, and his eyes were wide. ‘You can’t take me! I won’t go, Osbert. You did for me with that murderous puppy your master … You say I betrayed you? You betrayed all!’

The priest mumbled calmingly as Wattere spat and shouted, but there was no soothing him. He was like a man having his arm removed, twisting and wrenching, screaming as his wound opened and gaped again, shrieking abuse at the man he supposed was before him.

‘Go! Won’t anyone take this man away? Leave me alone!’

The father had to lean down to hold him in the cot, he flailed so hard, and in the end he had to accept defeat, and bellowed for help. A boy had been outside, and he came in at a run when he heard the priest call, sitting on the wounded man’s knees while the priest tried to hold Wattere’s upper torso down, trying to avoid pressing on the wound but attempting to keep him still.

It was not to last long. With a last curse at the spectre whom no one else could see, there was an end. Later the priest would wonder whether the noise he heard was authentic, or whether his mind had imagined it, but he thought he heard a sound like a small cord being broken as the man’s spirit left him. The body, empty now, sagged like a sack of old beans, and there was a slight gasp, then a rattle from his throat, and the priest made the sign of the cross over his staring eyes, beginning to recite the Pater Noster.

He would have thought nothing more about it, had not the news come to him later that the man who was the sergeant of the evil devil at Nymet Traci had been called Osbert. And that he had disappeared.

Chapter Thirty-Eight