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No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27)

Page 26

by Michael Jecks


  Taking them, the abbot-elect felt a tingle in his fingers, as though the small scrolls were themselves trying to tell him that they were to be most significant for him.

  ‘The seals are broken on them?’

  ‘I fear, Abbot, that the men who found the body didn’t think.’

  He nodded, not believing a word of it. The men who would have found the body and brought it to the road would have been unlettered. These had been opened by Peter or another monk. Still, they had been already read, so he might as well do so as well.

  The writing was tiny, to be able to fit in such a small scroll, but perfectly legible, and as soon as he took in the words, Robert Busse felt his mouth open in disbelief.

  ‘You see?’ Peter said, his voice hushed.

  ‘I will take these,’ Robert said. ‘You did right to bring them to me, Peter. And now, please leave me.’

  He had never before held anything quite so shocking in his hands. For this was written proof that a companion of his in the abbey sought his murder.

  Bow

  The light was almost gone now and Edith realised that they were close to the end of their journey. As they clattered down the stony path towards the stone house she remembered as Sir Harold’s, she could see that it was a strong fortress. Where Sir Harold had lived in modest comfort and without exacting too much in the way of taxes from his serfs, the new owner of the house was more determined to impose his rule on the landscape.

  It was clear enough in so many little ways. When she had last been past here, she had seen a pleasant home. It was a good-sized hall for a small household, set inside a circling wall of grey stone, but the wall was only some five to six feet high, so not a deliberately defensive enclosure. Rather, it was enough to keep the sheep and cattle from wandering, and to prevent foxes or wild dogs from attacking the chickens. Trees had grown up close to the walls to the north-east, making an attractive area for sitting on hot summer days. To Edith’s eye it had looked like a pleasant little homestead.

  Not now. The wall had been expanded to encompass a broader area. The little barns and stables had grown, and there was a cleared swathe of land for a good bowshot in all directions. Where the original wall had been more use as a stockade, now it was a distinct fortress. There was more height to it, and added thickness, as well as battlements. It was made to withstand attack, and money had been spent to ensure that it would serve its purpose.

  ‘What has happened to Sir Harold?’ she asked nervously as they rode towards the little gatehouse.

  ‘He’s dead. This is the property of my lord Sir Hugh le Despenser now,’ William replied with a quick look at her. ‘He took it when Sir Harold died and his son, Sir Robert, was found to have committed treason. The de Traci family was disinherited immediately. It’s only by my master’s good favour that Sir Robert has been reinstated and pardoned. But my lord Despenser keeps ownership.’

  Everyone in the kingdom knew Sir Hugh would take what he wanted and to hell with the owners. He had a reputation for cruelty that was unequalled.

  ‘Master, what do you want with me?’

  ‘I want nothing, mistress. It’s not me, it’s what Sir Robert and my lord Despenser want that should trouble you.’

  He said no more, but led her to the gates, her mare’s reins in his hands. She had no means of escape – even sliding from the mare and running was no option. There was nowhere to run to from here. All the land about this northern wall of the house was clear of bushes. She would not make even a hundred yards before recapture. A man on horseback, even a knackered hobby like his, would surely run her down in moments.

  The gates loomed up, grim grey moorstone with solid oaken doors that looked as though they could withstand the massed artillery of the king’s forces. Edith felt like a mouse in the claws of an owl. Utterly helpless. There was no escape from here. In her mind, she saw herself making off in a dozen ingenious ways: turning her mare at Wattere, spurring her so that she ran into him and knocked him from his beast, snatching her reins and riding like the wind until she was safe; getting close to him, close enough to pull his sword and strike, and then riding off; talking to him, persuading him that she was worth saving from whatever might happen in there, thankfully taking his protection as he fought off the whole of the guard … And then they were under the gates and inside the castle.

  Behind her, she heard the slow grinding and graunching of the gates as they were pushed shut. And then there was a rumble as the massive baulks of timber were dropped into their slots to keep the gates closed.

  It sounded like the gates of hell being closed behind her.

  Jacobstowe

  Sir Richard paused dramatically, and then gave a flourish with his hand. ‘This maid, then, was captured and bound by her captor, and was rescued by a saviour who wanted to assure himself of her condition, to make sure that she was unharmed, if you know what I mean, eh, fellows? He needed to know no one had been sheathing his pork sword where it shouldn’t have been sheathed, eh?’

  His crudeness won a round of happy chuckles from his audience, and he was content as he refilled his quart pot. ‘So, she was happy to answer his questions. “Did he bind you?” She replied with a shake of her head and much discontent. “I am afraid he did, my lord.” Her saviour continued, “Did he bind your mouth to stay your protestations, child?” And she was able to reply with a sob, “Why yes, my lord. He did.” Her saviour was grim faced by now. “Did he tie you up so you couldn’t escape?” “Yes, yes, he did, my lord. To my disgrace, I could not save myself.” “Did he bind your legs?” But here she could smile. Eh? “Nay, my lord, for by God’s good grace, I made sure I kept my legs so wide apart he couldn’t bind them together!” Eh? Eh? Good joke, eh?’

  Simon couldn’t help laughing. It was an old joke, but the coroner had a childlike delight in retelling it, and a number of other ones equally as bad. Often he was so incoherent by the time he reached the end of the joke, laughing so much at the approaching coup de grâce, that the enthusiastic audience could make out nothing of his words, but they would all laugh in any case. It was easy to see that the coroner, while in his cups and not working in his usual position of authority, was a good-humoured soul who enjoyed amusing people.

  ‘There is another one, too,’ he said, before launching into the next little tale.

  Simon watched him with a faint grin. It was very hard not to like the man, even though he generally caused Simon to panic whenever they were near to a tavern. It wasn’t his jokes; it was his ability to drink everyone else into a stupor that really concerned Simon. It tended to leave him feeling as lousy as a youth after his first serious bout of drinking. That sense of the room swimming about his head as soon as he lay down, the repellent bubbling in his gut, the morning-after feeling of acid in the throat and the knowledge that his head had swollen to many times its usual size, with the concomitant fluffiness in his brain that was only ever relieved by the pain – as of four daggers being thrust in slowly from the temples and his eye sockets. No, he did not like drinking with Sir Richard. The resultant anguish was too horrible.

  As the coroner continued, Simon fell to thinking about the dead bodies. It was curious that there had been no reports of the money being stolen until he had spoken to Cardinal de Fargis. He would have thought that others should have heard of such a large theft. But the trouble was, it was the very knowledge of such transfers of cash that led to the ease of their robbery. It was normal for even huge sums of money to be transported about the country with only four or five archers involved as guards. In this case, it would seem that eight archers and a couple of men-at-arms should have been perfectly adequate, and yet the size of the force that attacked them must have been greatly superior.

  His eyes narrowed as he considered some aspects that had not occurred to him before. First, the men had not travelled very far. It was a distance that Simon and Sir Richard had covered in a half-day. That was odd, although it could have been explained by the weight of the money they were carrying. A h
undred pounds of money in coin was a heavy cargo. And then there was the fact of the location. The men should not have been north of Oakhampton.

  There was another detail: most commonly, when a robbery of this kind was perpetrated, Simon was sure that it was no accident. Men did not happen to fall over a bullion transfer. No, the attacks were made by those who had heard of the money being transported and wanted to grab it for themselves. It was not a matter of luck; it was a military ambush based on good intelligence. Someone who was close to people who knew about the money must have managed to release news of its movement to colleagues, who then took it.

  So someone within the abbey, possibly, had told the attackers of the presence of the money.

  Simon considered this with a frown as the noise about him rose, Sir Richard laughing aloud, the men all around roaring too, as he hit another punchline with the precision of a master story-teller.

  The idea that someone in the cardinal’s household could have betrayed him was not entirely surprising. Men would always think with their two brains: one for skirts, one for purses. It was scarcely a shock to learn that a man had heard of money being moved and bethought himself of the profit he could make. However, the result of his actions must have come as a shock. To learn that nineteen had died would surely make even the most avaricious thief pause for thought.

  Then again, perhaps not. Simon knew that Sir Hugh le Despenser had happily caused the torture and ruin of many men and women, and none ever appeared to give him a moment’s trouble. He was happy only so long as he was increasing his wealth and power. It was hard to imagine him being plagued by concerns for his victims. He would happily sell his wife into bondage, Simon reckoned, if it meant he would win a good property or profit by the arrangement.

  And then he had another thought. If a man in the abbey or the cardinal’s household had seen fit to tell thieves about the money, they might also think it sensible to warn of the king’s officers being sent to hunt down the outlaws involved and find the money again. And they might think it expedient to locate any such officers and kill them.

  Simon took a long pull at his ale. Even without a hangover, he was starting to feel deeply uncomfortable.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Agnes’s house, Jacobstowe

  She began to come around only a short time after the bailiff and his companions had left, but in the midst of the noise in her chamber she didn’t open her eyes.

  Agnes knew what was happening about her. It was the same as when a woman went into labour. The rest of the women of the vill, friends and others alike, would congregate in the woman’s home and drink and gossip, offering some useful advice amid the general hubbub, enjoying the opportunity to have time with their own sex and no men about to cause trouble or arguments.

  But Agnes wanted only peace. She could recall the sick headache beginning, and she remembered vaguely being picked up and carried here, but the reason for her sudden collapse was still a mystery. Men always said that women were weaker because of the womb. It was a strange organ that would move about the body in a predatory manner, giving rise to the odd emotions that assailed even the most intelligent of women.

  This was nothing to do with organs, though. She knew that this was the result of her rage at the world and her husband. He should not have left her in that way. He had deserted her. His death had left her desolate. Her life now was barren.

  Except it wasn’t his choice, was it? He wouldn’t have voluntarily killed himself. The poor man had loved her, and loved Ant too. He was a good man, a good, kind, gentle husband and father.

  She would avenge him.

  Exeter

  Baldwin beat upon the door with his fist, paused, and then pounded again. ‘Open the door!’

  There was a shout from further up the lane, and Edgar touched Baldwin’s shoulder. ‘Sir.’

  Turning, Baldwin saw that there were two watchmen striding down the lane towards them. ‘Oh, in Christ’s name,’ he muttered, and slammed his open hand against the door once more. There was still no answer.

  ‘You are late to be banging on doors, masters,’ said the first watchman.

  Baldwin stared at him. ‘Do I not know you? Did you not help me and my friends find our way to his daughter’s house?’

  The watchman peered at him. His friend had a filthy cloth wrapped about his head, and Baldwin had a sudden flash of memory. ‘Your name is Gil, and this must be your friend Phil, who was hurt while walking at night.’

  ‘You were with the men who wanted the son of Charles the Merchant.’ Gil nodded. ‘But this isn’t their house.’

  ‘It is his parents’ house. I need to speak with them about their son – he’s been arrested. And his wife is missing too. But they will not open the door.’

  ‘Maybe they’re not there,’ Gil said.

  Phil shook his head. ‘There’s someone behind that shutter up there,’ he said, pointing. ‘I can see a face.’

  Gil looked up. ‘Well, they don’t have to open their door to you, sir. Not if they don’t want to.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but I am Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I do not want to gain a reputation by breaking it myself,’ Baldwin said suavely.

  ‘No. Can’t have that,’ Gil said. He hesitated, reluctant to annoy a senior member of the city’s hierarchy, but also unhappy at the thought of upsetting a King’s Keeper.

  Phil grunted. ‘Oh, in Christ’s name, Gil. Just kick at the door. They’ll open it.’

  ‘You bleeding kick it. That thing’ll break your foot, you fool.’

  ‘Then use your staff. If you want, I can try your head instead. It’s thick enough, your skull should open the sodding thing.’

  ‘Oh, ha, ha,’ Gil said humourlessly. But he held his staff up and beat upon the door’s timbers heavily, three times. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll tell him you said you needed to speak with him,’ he added quietly, before bellowing, ‘Open the door in the name of the king!’

  There was a muted rattling of bolts, then the lengthy rasp of the door’s lock being turned, and the door opened to show a furious-looking Charles, his steward just behind him with a face that looked sickly with anxiety.

  Baldwin made a point of giving the curtest of nods to the two watchmen. ‘You may wait here,’ he said before marching inside, his shoulder clipping the merchant’s.

  Charles began to bluster. ‘Who do you think you are to beat upon my door and walk into my house without …’

  As he spoke, he became aware of Edgar, who was standing extremely close, right behind him. Charles drew back from Edgar’s smiling features, and Edgar gave an appreciative nod, reaching for the door and pushing it quietly closed.

  Baldwin was already in the hall. ‘I would speak with you, Master Charles.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to speak to you! State your business, and be gone.’

  Baldwin’s face did not alter, but Charles grew ever more conscious of how close Edgar was to him.

  ‘Master,’ Baldwin said, ‘I am aware that you must be concerned about affairs here, but I am trying to help. I am keen to help your son, and his wife too.’

  ‘Then go! In Christ’s name, just leave us! Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage? You and Edith’s father.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Baldwin demanded.

  ‘The fact that you are here ruins all!’ Charles said despairingly. He walked to his chair and dropped into it. ‘To think that yesterday I woke and the sun still rose in the east. All was normal and without trouble; and now all is turned to ruin and disaster! My son lies in gaol. My only son!’

  ‘What have you done to try to have him released?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘I have done everything I can, of course! What do you think I’ve done?’ Charles spat. ‘I’ve begged that horse’s arse the sheriff to release him, I’ve spoken to the city’s mayor, I’ve even gone to the receiver of the city to see if he can help, but no! All of them say that if it’s a matter of treason, they can do nothing. Poor Peter lies in that
foul place while all the men in the city tell me that he cannot be freed. Why? What else could I have done?’

  ‘Nothing, my friend,’ Baldwin said, attempting to soothe the man. ‘I have been to the sheriff myself, and I will be speaking with Bishop Walter too. To hold the fellow is plainly wrong. He is innocent of this charge. I will ensure that he is released as soon as may be, but have you had a thought to easing the wheels of justice?’

  He was reluctant to mention bribes, but there was no escaping the fact that many sheriffs were particularly venal, no matter what county they hailed from.

  ‘It was the first thing we thought of,’ said Jan as she walked into the room. Her eyes were glittering with misery, and Baldwin bowed to her in deference to her fears. ‘We offered him money, gold, even shares in my husband’s ventures, but the man would listen to no reason. He refused all we could give, and then he laughed at us.’

  ‘Have you given him cause to persecute your family?’ Baldwin asked the merchant. ‘I can see no reason why he would behave in this manner.’

  ‘No. I have had no dealings with him at all,’ Charles said.

  ‘He owns land near to you?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s never visited that I know of. I doubt this has anything to do with that.’

  ‘Your son said he had contacts in the king’s court?’

  Charles’s face was in his hands now, and he left it there as he spoke. ‘All I know of him is that he is a close ally of Sir Hugh le Despenser.’

  Baldwin felt the blood freeze in his veins.

  ‘That is all we know,’ Mistress Jan said. She took a shuddering breath, then gave a grimace. ‘If only I thought that there was some reason behind it.’

  Her husband slowly withdrew his hands. ‘There is a reason. There is some cause for Despenser to detest Edith’s father. It is all his fault. The sheriff is acting on Despenser’s orders, you mark my words! The fool has brought all this upon our heads.’

 

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