‘It is one resolution, as you say,’ Sir Richard said, lifting a wineskin and draining it. ‘Usually has the desired effect. Child has a father, mother a husband. Good solution to the embarrassment.’
‘Less good when the girl’s family has already been told that their daughter will be given to the boy’s servants to do with as they will if she demands marriage of him. Not that there was any need. The lad was at no risk. He had done too good a job of terrifying the poor child already. She dared not ask for his hand.’
‘So what happened?’ Simon asked, although he had a feeling he already knew the answer.
‘The boy got off scot free, naturally. His father bit his thumb at the girl’s father in open court. I saw him. Her father tried to leap at him, but some fellows about him held him back, and the family watched as their persecutors walked free. And then she was open to punishment for making a false accusation. She knew that she would either be punished herself, or exposed to ridicule by the man who had already raped her. She pulled out a knife, shrieked that the man was guilty, and stabbed herself in the breast.’ He looked at Sir Richard. ‘You’ve seen such things, I am sure. She died instantly.’
‘The poor child,’ Simon said.
‘Aye,’ Sir Richard agreed, shaking his head slowly. ‘That is not a good tale.’
‘Two days later her father too was dead,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘It was said that he lost his mind and his heart when he saw his daughter die and there was nothing he could do to help her. He saw her with the dagger in her hand and guessed what she would do, but because of the men holding his arms to keep him from his tormentor, he could not reach her until too late.’
‘He died from a broken heart, then?’ Simon said.
‘No. He was murdered in his turn. One assumes that the father or the son responsible for his daughter’s death felt sure that he would seek to bring condign judgement upon their heads. The only good aspect is that so many saw her state of mind that her priest had no hesitation in declaring that her suicide was committed while she was unbalanced. She was given all the benefits of a Christian burial.’ Sir Peregrine nodded with a sort of cold deliberation at the memory. ‘That is the state of the law in this land, Bailiff. That is the realm we live in now.’
‘Who was the man who did this?’ Sir Richard growled. ‘I would meet with him.’
‘The son was Master Basil, the father Sir Robert, both of Nymet Traci, near Bow,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘And I think that they are killing others now, as well.’
‘You were talking of the sheriff, though,’ Simon pointed out.
‘Oh yes. You see, the sheriff is a close friend to Sir Robert and his son. He was justice in the court that found them innocent. He knew, oh, he knew what they were like. But they are all a part of the same intolerable clan – they are all associates of Despenser.’
Exeter
Pounding on the door with her fist, Edith sobbed and screamed for it to be opened, while her maid at her side tried to calm her, without success.
‘Mother! Father! Please, open the door!’ She was panting, and there was a pain thundering in her head at the memory of the scene she had witnessed, but there was little she could do – her entire being was concentrated on having the door opened to her so that she could demand the aid of her father-in-law in rescuing her husband.
It was an age before she finally heard the bolts shoot on the other side of the door, and at last she could stumble inside.
‘Dear God, child, what has happened?’
It was her mother-in-law, and even as Edith sank down, incapable of supporting herself, so great was her relief at seeing a friendly face, she was aware of a feeling of enormous gratitude that it was Jan, rather than her more stern husband, Charles, who stood there as the servant opened the door to her.
Edith gabbled in her panic. ‘Mother, Mother, they’ve arrested poor Peter. He was taken just now. A man hit him, hit him hard with a staff, and … and …’
‘Be still, my dear,’ Mistress Jan said. She was a short, dark-haired woman with a matronly figure. She knelt at Edith’s side, holding her close. ‘Child, you are freezing. You need a fire.’
‘I am fine, it’s Peter we …’ Edith protested, anxious that Jan didn’t believe her. Then, looking up, she saw the lines of fear in the older woman’s face, the glittering in the dark eyes, and the compassion.
‘I know. But if he’s been taken to the castle, there is little we may do until we have a pleader to go and learn what he has been accused of, and why. You need to calm yourself, Edith, and I insist that you come to the fire and rest a while.’ She held up a hand to stop dispute. ‘Meantime I shall send a boy to my husband to acquaint him with the facts. There is nothing more we can do until he arrives.’
Edith wanted to protest. She wanted to be doing something, anything, to help Peter, but there was a comfort in Peter’s mother’s voice. This woman was as worried as she was – perhaps more so. Edith couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to hear that her own son had been taken, nor how difficult it would be to try to remain calm enough to soothe another woman while feeling that her own world was shattered.
‘There is nothing more we can do,’ the woman repeated. She helped Edith up and through to the hall. ‘Sit here, and try to relax. After all, you’ve a duty to protect the child.’
‘You knew?’ Edith asked with frank astonishment.
‘You thought you’d kept it hidden?’ Mistress Jan chuckled tiredly.
She hurried from the room, and Edith was left before the fire, her maid beside her. Edith stared at the flames, and outwardly gave every sign of composure, but when she tried to think of her husband, her breath caught in her throat. She found herself sobbing like an old woman, with dry, hacking, choking sounds, and she discovered that all her thoughts were grim and dark as she clutched her maid’s arm for support.
Road to Oakhampton
They had left Sir Peregrine when the sun was already past its zenith by a good half-hour. He had plenty of business to conduct himself, and was keen to get at least as far as Crediton before nightfall. That should not be any trouble, but Simon and Sir Richard still had many miles to go.
‘What did you think of his words?’ Sir Richard asked.
‘I think that he is plainly alarmed by the way the law is becoming so disdained,’ Simon said. He jogged along in the saddle for a few moments, thinking again about the way Sir Peregrine had commented upon the murders in the area. ‘I was shocked to hear of the murder of the reeve, I confess. Most wandering bands would avoid harming a man such as he, if they can avoid it.’
‘Aye. But the buggers are all over the place now. Indolent, idle and armed. It makes it all more problematic. If there’s a gang that is prepared to kill twenty-odd people, that is a crime to be pursued, certainly.’
‘Yes,’ Simon agreed. ‘Who would do that, too? A madman, surely.’
‘No. Certainly not. An armed band desperate for money or food, perhaps, but certainly not a fool. They were clever enough to kill the whole lot, so there could be no witnesses, and then they took all that was worthwhile.’
‘From what Sir Peregrine said, the clerical fellow had been wealthy,’ Simon recalled. ‘Rings and all the trappings. What kind of man would have stayed out in the wilds when there must be dozens of taverns along that road?’
‘A man who feared being trapped?’ Sir Richard wondered. ‘I have often kept out of the smaller, less salubrious establishments while travelling, in case I may be set upon.’
Simon looked at him. Sir Richard had never, to his knowledge, avoided the meanest, foulest drinking dens. More commonly he would cheerfully declare that the better deals for wine or ale could be found in them. And then he would berate the keeper of the tavern until the very best drinks and foods were brought out for him. ‘I had noticed,’ he said with careful moderation.
‘How far do you reckon we may travel today?’ Sir Richard asked after a little while.
‘I hope that by dark we should have reached
Lydford,’ Simon said.
He was not happy as they rode, though. For all that he had a most redoubtable companion in the figure of the coroner, this was one of the first times while passing through Devon that he had been aware of a sense of urgency and nervousness. Each great tree appeared to cast a curious shadow. At one point he was close to shouting a warning at Sir Richard when he saw a shadow suddenly shift, and it was only the quick realisation that it was in fact the movement of a branch causing it that stopped his voice. This was ridiculous! For him, a man in his middle years, to be so skittish in the face of fears was foolish in the extreme.
‘I have heard of other families that live outside the law,’ Sir Richard murmured.
‘Sorry?’ Simon asked, jolted from his reverie.
‘This man Sir Robert de Traci and his appalling son. They sound dangerous to me. A man and his son who can work without the law. That makes a deadly combination.’
‘The sheriff would appear to have allied himself with them,’ Simon observed.
‘Aye, well, there’s many a sheriff – and judge – who will do that. I have heard of one sheriff who captured a fellow and kept him in gaol, torturing him until he confessed to some crimes, then forced him to name his friends as accomplices, just so he could fine them. Others will all too often take bribes to persuade a jury to go one way so that a guilty man will walk free – or to convict and hang another just so the guilty can pay him for his freedom. Cannot abide that. The thought of an innocent man being punished while the guilty is left to commit another crime is disgusting.’
‘I don’t know this man from Bow. Nor the sheriff,’ Simon mentioned.
‘Sir Robert’s been there a while. Surprised you haven’t met him yet.’ Sir Richard explained how the knight had been a member of the king’s household until he allied himself with the king’s enemies, and after that had been outlawed. ‘I had no idea he’d been restored to his former positions.’
‘Surely the king wouldn’t give him back his lands and life if he had been a traitor?’
The coroner grunted in response to that. ‘Enough others have been pardoned for all their crimes.’
‘I have tended to avoid these parts in recent years,’ Simon said. ‘Living on the moors, then down at Dartmouth; and recently I’ve been away so much that Bow doesn’t seem a natural place to visit.’
‘Aye, well, by the sound of things you should continue to avoid the place,’ was Sir Richard’s considered comment.
They dropped down into Oakhampton in the middle of the afternoon, much to the delight of Sir Richard, who, in the absence of a full wineskin, was growing almost morose. Then they took the Cornwall road past the castle, and on to the road south.
Simon would have liked to have left the roads, and at Prewley Moor he cast a longing glance to the moors themselves, but he was forced to agree with Sir Richard that it would have been foolhardy. There was no need to leave the roadway here. It was a good trail, with cleared verges for almost all the route to Lydford, and when they were approaching the town, they would be perfectly safe in any case. Better by far to keep to the road and make their journey more swiftly.
It was still an hour before nightfall when they trotted gently into the town where Simon had lived for such a long while. He cast about him as they went, fearing that they might even now be assailed by the men of Sir Hugh le Despenser, especially William atte Wattere, but for all his fears, there was no sign of anyone. Only some loud singing from the tavern as they passed, and the occasional barking of a dog, told them that people still lived here.
‘This is my house,’ Simon said as they reached the long, low building. He stopped a moment and looked at it, feeling a distinct sense of alienation. The place had been his for such a long time, it was most curious to think that it had been taken from him so swiftly and easily. There was a shocking ruthlessness in the way that Despenser had gone about it, searching for a weakness in Simon’s life, and then exploiting it without compunction. He had learned about Simon’s lease while Simon was abroad on a mission for the king. A little pressure on the leaseholder was all that was needed, and Despenser owned the place. The most powerful man in the land after only the king himself was not the man to make an enemy.
So Simon had lost his home, but more importantly he had also lost his peace of mind. Any pleasure in his possessions was now marred by the realisation that they could be taken from him at any time. He had no control over his own destiny.
Of course a man always knew that the most valuable asset he owned, his life, could be snatched away in a moment. It took only a freak accident, a whim on the part of God Himself, and a man’s soul was taken from him. Sometimes it was malevolent fate that men blamed, sometimes the evil in others, but Simon had been raised and educated at the Church of the Holy Cross and the Mother of Him Who Hung Thereon, the canonical church at Crediton, and the teachings of the canons there had influenced his life and thinking ever since.
His life was not something Simon had ever bothered to trouble himself over. He had a simple faith that because he was a Christian, when he died he would be taken up to heaven. There was no point troubling himself over the world and worldly things when the real life was yet to come. And yet he found more and more that the things he cared about most deeply were all too easily taken from him. Perhaps it was because of this, he thought, staring at the house. Such a solid, massive structure, so permanent, it seemed impossible to think that it could be taken from him in a matter of days, no matter what he tried to do to keep it. There was an inevitability about such things. Those things he loved most dearly, they were themselves the very things he would find being targeted by an enemy such as Sir Hugh le Despenser.
‘Simon? You all right?’ Sir Richard asked.
Nodding, Simon dropped from his horse and the two hitched their mounts to a ring in the wall. Then, taking a deep breath, Simon walked to his old door and beat upon it with his knuckles.
He felt sick to the pit of his stomach as he wondered who would open it.
Chapter Twelve
Exeter
Edith was walking along a screens passageway, and no matter how fast she walked, she could not reach the door at the far end, although she knew that on the other side was Peter, and she was desperate to get to him, to give him some consolation … And then she stumbled, and was falling, toppling over and over in the dark, and—
And then she came to with a jerk, startled from a heavy doze.
There were voices, and she sat up, still a little befuddled with sleep, rubbing her eyes as she stared towards the door.
Her maid was already there, she saw. Jane stood now at the door, and was peering out. Then she shot back into the room, staring at Edith with a perplexed expression in her eyes. It was enough to make Edith get to her feet. Whatever the horror, she wanted to hear it standing, not sitting like some invalid.
Shortly afterwards, Peter’s father Charles was striding into the room, a scowl on his face, Mistress Jan hurrying in his wake.
Charles was a heavy-set man, attired in a fur-trimmed cloak and a tunic that was embroidered with gold at hem and neck. His usually calm, gentle eyes were now fretful and staring with his anger and concern.
‘So, husband, what did they say?’
‘They say he stands accused of crimes,’ he said, looking directly at Edith as he drew off his gloves, finger by finger. ‘The sheriff said that Peter is considered a dangerous man who would seek the overthrow of the king. He is accused of plotting with others to have the king slain.’
‘But … but that is mad, husband,’ Mistress Jan said weakly.
Edith ran to her side as the older woman began to gasp, her breath coming in staccato gusts. She caught Mistress Jan as the woman started to fall. It was all she could do to support her. Jane ran to them, and she and Edith between them half carried her mother-in-law to a chair.
Her father-in-law watched as they settled Mistress Jan in the chair. There was no expression on his face as he stood gazing at them, only a ki
nd of sad longing in his grey eyes.
Edith straightened. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? I can see it in your eyes. What is it?’
‘He said … The sheriff said that this was you. If Peter hadn’t married you, none of this would have happened. He said it was because of your father that Peter has been arrested.’
Lydford
Simon and Sir Richard stood in Simon’s little hall, and bowed low to the Cardinal de Fargis. They waited in the doorway until they had taken off their swords and given them to a steward. The bottler arrived and stood near the cardinal as they walked to him, both falling to one knee before him, and kissing his ring.
‘Please, you will stand,’ the cardinal said, motioning with both hands. ‘You bring honour to this little house by coming here. I am delighted to meet you both. Please, take some wine.’
He was a small, dapper man, clad in a thick woollen tunic with a heavy, fur-lined cloak against the chill he obviously felt. The fire was roaring, and Simon could see that Sir Richard felt uncomfortably warm after the cool of the evening air. It was not only him. Simon himself felt rather like a candle left too close to a flame, as though he might at any moment melt and topple to the ground.
Cardinal de Fargis had kindly eyes, Simon thought, unlike so many other men of power and wealth. They were dark brown and intelligent, and like Abbot Champeaux, of blessed memory, he had a way of smiling with them that was entirely irresistible. It was a pleasant change to find a senior churchman who wasn’t peering with shortsightedness, too, Simon felt. The cardinal seemed relaxed, calm and at his ease in their company.
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 15
