Abbot-elect Robert Busse was a genial man in appearance. He had the good fortune to have been a brother within the abbey for many years already, and he was known and loved by most of his brothers here in the abbey.
It had been a dreadful shock when Abbot Robert Champeaux suddenly died. But the working of the abbey must continue, no matter what tragedy was sent to test the brothers.
After all, monks were one of the most important of the three classes of man. They were the religious arm, whose duty was to save souls. They worked ceaselessly, praying and honouring God for the protection of those who were dead, and those who would die.
The bellatores were the second. These, the warriors, the knights, squires and men-at-arms, existed to protect all others. They had a duty to uphold the laws, to serve the religious, and to keep the third class in their place. These, the peasants, had the task of providing their labour such that the other two classes, and their own, would have enough to eat and drink.
These were the three legs of the world, the tripod that supported all mankind. And like any tripod, the three had to balance. If one was enormously more powerful than another, the leg too long, then the tripod would be unbalanced. As soon as a weight was hung from it, the lack of symmetry would become obvious. If one leg was too weak, the same rule applied. Ideally, like a tripod, all the legs should be exactly the same. Strong enough to support each other, strong enough to carry a heavy load.
But today in the kingdom, so much was out of balance. If the king was taken as the head of the bellatores, then the warrior class was vastly overpowerful. The men who were supposed to serve and protect were instead like wolves running down a hill to attack a flock of sheep. Meanwhile the other two arms were weaker, relatively. The Church had suffered so much in recent years. There were the obvious stories of Pope Celestine V being murdered by Boniface VIII, and the tales of corruption that were so hard to deny – no man who had travelled to Avignon to see the papal palace could have any doubt about that. And no man who had read the life of St Francis could fail to be moved by the appalling waste, the profligacy, and the shameful misuse of so many funds.
Certainly Robert Busse was not going to make excuses for the men who lived so well. He and his brethren in Tavistock were far more humble. Their own meagre rations were perhaps a little more generous than those of the average peasant living in one of the nearby vills, but no one could have accused the brothers of living a life of ease and extravagance. The only one who truly deserved such a reputation was Brother John de Courtenay. The man was a dreadful spendthrift, and his habit of hunting with his hounds was a local disgrace. Added to that was his atrocious dress sense, for the man would keep trying to follow all the new fashions, and he was rapidly becoming a laughing stock among the lay brothers and other servants.
The abbey needed certainty. Especially now, with money being paid to the king for the period of voidance. There had been stories that Hugh le Despenser was trying to take the cash for himself. Robert Busse found that all too easy to believe. From all he had heard and seen, the man had an insatiable appetite for money. Still, the fact was that the money must be paid. And the sooner the abbacy was settled, the sooner they could stop paying out vast sums.
He crossed from the cloister out to the abbot’s private little garden, and sat on a turf bench. A curious innovation, which would have been more in keeping in a lady’s garden, he wondered whether it would give him piles, it was often so damp. But today, in the sun, it felt very comfortable.
And he needed comfort so that he could consider the note the messenger had brought to him. Opening it again, he scanned the contents of the little parchment roll once more. It told him that the king desired to see the matter of the abbot’s election completed, and would like to have Robert installed. If Robert were able to arrange for a sum of money to be deposited with Sir Robert de Traci, the king would use all his good offices to see to it that the abbacy was once and for all settled upon Robert Busse. After all, he had won the election. There was no sense whatever in leaving matters dragging on.
Robert Busse tapped his lips with the roll of parchment. It made sense. The appalling greed of Sir Hugh le Despenser was known to everyone in the land. From all he had heard, the king would always enthusiastically reward his favourite with money when he was given it, and perhaps the idea was that he would take any funds from Tavistock and settle the abbacy, while giving the money to his friend. And all Robert Busse need do was take the money to Sir Robert de Traci.
One of the series of accusations levelled against Abbot-elect Robert was that he had stolen £1,200 from the abbey earlier this year. Oh, and that he had taken gold and silver plate worth another £800 – and a silver casket. Clearly the stories of his greed had become widespread, he noted sadly. A man who began his reign as abbot with all these tales against him was bound to the handicapped from the start. There was little he could do about the malicious lies being told about him by the de Courtenay faction in the abbey, though. It would seem that the stories had spread so widely that they had come to the attention of the king and his friend in London already. And knowing his reputation, they had come to consider him open to this proposal.
It did not matter whether it was the king or Despenser who had had the idea. Probably it was Despenser, he thought. That man would leave no purse unopened in his ambition to be as rich as Croesus. And thinking that the abbot could have been himself guilty of similar greedy manipulation of events, they thought that they could take advantage of his desires.
So in order to become abbot, he need only collect the sum demanded, and in return the king would confirm his favoured position. If he were to pay, he could guarantee Edward’s approval. That would be a strong inducement for a man of limited honour and much greed.
‘Father Abbot! Father Abbot, you should come at once.’
‘What is it, my son?’
The novice was a boy called Peter, and he stood before Robert now, panting, his round face ruddy, eyes staring. ‘It’s the messenger. The king’s messenger? He’s died, Father Abbot. He was found over at the roadside near Tavymarie. Looks like he fell from his poor horse and died, Father Abbot, drowned in a pool of mud at the river’s side!’
Robert Busse nodded and stood. He looked about him with a little smile, the roll of parchment still, in his hand, and then glanced down at it. He carefully stowed it in his scrip, before following the lad to view the body. The messenger would have to be laid out in the parish church of St Rumon, and the abbey would have to find money to provide mourners and pay for the body’s wrappings. And for another man to take the pouch with all the replies and messages to the king.
He smiled again now, a broad smile of understanding that did not touch his eyes.
If he was cynical, he might think that someone could have wanted to catch a messenger with an incriminating message. Perhaps a message from an abbot-elect agreeing to pay for the post to be confirmed. Even a message that gave details of the precise amount to be paid, signed by the abbot himself. Such a piece of parchment would be worth much to a man who was ruthless enough to consider taking it. Such a scrap could be rewarded by an abbacy.
It was fortunate, he considered, that he was neither cynical nor a fool. And that he had no intention of stealing money from the abbey to fund his elevation.
The abbacy was entirely in the hands of God. Robert Busse would not demean the position by stealing to gain it.
Abbeyford Woods
Simon and Sir Richard gazed about them as they returned to the wide space in the middle of the trees. It was a glorious place for a camp, and Simon could easily understand why it would have been chosen, although there was one detail that confused him. It had been in his mind already, but Mark’s discovery of the crucifix had somehow solidified it. ‘What were they doing so far north of the road from Oakhampton?’
Sir Richard looked at him questioningly. ‘Eh?’
‘Just look at this place. The Exeter road is due east from Oakhampton. If they’d been going to
the king, they’d have carried on to Exeter and London, so they’d have left Oakhampton by the Crediton Road. Why turn north?’
The coroner shrugged. ‘That is something to consider,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps they were lost? It happens. I once left a town near London and started off towards home, as I thought, but when the clouds cleared I learned I was heading off to Scotland. When it’s cloudy, it is easy to become confused.’
Brother Mark sniffed haughtily. ‘It was a clear day.’
‘What was?’
‘The day that these fellows left. It was just over two weeks ago, and we have had excellent weather from then until a week ago. Do you try to tell me that they would have had the immense stupidity to think that north was east? If this was the group, there were two good brothers with them, and although Pietro didn’t know the area, Brother Anselm would never have made so elementary an error.’
‘Oh, really?’ the coroner said, and would have continued, but then he frowned, and nodded. ‘Even a monk with a butcher’s crop must know where the sun rises and sets.’
‘Well, Anselm did. I know he was good at directions. It makes no sense for him to have come up here.’
Simon left them and began searching about the area.
The charcoal burner was standing watching the three, arms akimbo, an expression of amusement on his face. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Anything that could tell us what happened here,’ Simon said shortly. ‘Sometimes the men who commit acts of this nature can leave signs behind to show who they were.’
‘There’s no doubt who they were,’ the charcoal burner said.
‘You know?’ Simon asked.
‘I reckon anyone east of here would be able to guess. They don’t often come here, but just recently there’s been a number of folks killed on the roads.’
‘Not here, you say?’ Sir Richard demanded. ‘Where, then? Who do you think could be responsible?’
‘Sirs, I come from Coleford. I only wander over here a few times each year. Round my home, there are always stories of men being knocked on the head and their goods stolen. And I’m told that there is a large force in Bow. A force of men that would be able to fight even a large party of travellers.’
The coroner’s face took on a scowl. ‘Bow? That’s where Sir Robert lives, isn’t it? He’s a knight.’
Brother Mark gave a short harrumph.
‘What is that supposed to mean, Brother Mark?’ Sir Richard said sharply.
‘Only that there are enough knights who have failed to live up to their chivalric ideals. Would you be so shocked to learn that this Sir Robert was another in the same mould?’
‘Monk, you overstep your position,’ Sir Richard said. ‘But in this case you may be right.’
Brother Mark sniffed disdainfully.
‘Do you know many who live about this area?’ Simon said to the charcoal burner.
‘A few. Most are up at Jacobstowe.’
‘How far’s that?’ the coroner said, still eyeing Brother Mark suspiciously.
Simon could answer him. ‘It’s only a matter of a mile or so. I assume that’s where they took the bodies?’
‘I reckon,’ the charcoal burner agreed.
‘Did you tell the coroner about your suspicions?’ Simon said.
‘No. He didn’t see me. The others around here, they all wanted to keep it quiet.’
‘That’s stupid,’ the coroner declared. ‘Keep it quiet and they’ll be fined all the more.’
‘Aye, perhaps that’s true,’ the burner said easily. ‘But at least they won’t have Sir Robert of Traci coming to visit and ask ’em why they have been telling stories about him.’
Crediton
William atte Wattere had kept a tight grip on her all the way from the Exe to here, and Edith dared not make a sound as they rode up the high street, only praying that none of her father’s friends might see her and ask where she was going.
There were enough people whom she knew here. This was the town where she had gone all the time when she was a child, the only large market town near her home. And her father had regularly brought her here with her mother when he came to have discussions with the priests, especially Dean Peter at the church. It had sometimes seemed to her that more of her life was spent here in Crediton with her mother in the shops than was spent at their farm.
Surely someone must see her and comment? She hoped not. The thought of the man’s reaction were that to happen was too dreadful to contemplate. It made her shiver, and she could feel the hot bile in her throat at the thought. If anyone challenged them, he had made it clear what he would do.
The road was a great broad swathe through the centre of the town, and the rich red mud was stirred by travellers, splashing liberally over horses and men alike. People at the side of the road would dart back away from any approaching horse and rider: all were reluctant to stand too near and have their finest clothing stained and ruined. Few even turned to look as she was led up the slight incline that gave on to the town proper from the flat pastures east of the town. There was one woman whom Edith was sure she recognised, a woman called Beatrice, who was the wife of a silversmith, but the woman only frowned at the fast pace of the horses, and turned with a scowl of contempt at people who threatened other folk’s tunics with their urgency.
There were monks and canons, traders, hawkers and merchants all over the town. They were most of them known to Edith personally, and if she were to call to them, some might recognise her, perhaps even run to her aid.
‘Oh Holy Mother, please don’t let them know me,’ she whispered.
Because by the time anyone managed to reach her, she would be dead. Wattere had slipped a rope about her neck, and even now it lay there, a heavy, prickly mass that felt like death itself. If she was to try to ride away, if she was to merely stop, or turn her horse aside, he had threatened that he would immediately spur his own beast, and drag her from hers by the throat. She would be throttled within a few yards, if she didn’t break her neck.
Not that anyone would see it. He had carefully bound it about her throat and then hidden it beneath her cloak so that prying eyes wouldn’t notice. All anybody could see, if they were close enough, was a cord joining her horse to a loop over his wrist.
But it did mean she daren’t call out. Any opportunity for doing so had flown as she cowered from him and he tightened the hemp about her like an executioner on the gallows. No, she dared not call for help, even though the thought of what he might do to her was enough to leave her petrified with terror. Although if he was going to rape her, surely he would already have done so, wouldn’t he? And he must know that there was no point trying to rob her. She had nothing of any value on her person. No, it was more likely that he wanted her for some other reason.
But if it wasn’t rape, and it wasn’t to steal from her, she had no idea what that reason could be. All she knew was that worry about her fate was sending her half mad with fear.
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—’
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 20
