No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27)

by Michael Jecks

  There was a kind of suppressed urgency about John Pasmere as Simon watched him. The fellow looked up at Simon, then out through the door towards the irritable coroner and the monk, and then to his fire. His mouth moved, although for some while no noise came, and then suddenly the dam broke, and he began to mutter.

  ‘There’s no one safe from those evil bloodsucking bastards. Who’d trust them to their word anyway? There’s no rule here except theirs, and then they make it up and change it whenever they want. The bastards! They live here, taking all they want, all we need, and threaten any man if he so much as raises a complaint, but when a decent man—’

  ‘Pasmere, calm yourself. I don’t understand …’

  ‘Oh yes, they can promise death and ruin, but what does that mean to us? Eh? We live in the shadow of the great lords all the while, and then they deign to notice us if they want something, but more often they ignore us. Unless we have something they want.’

  Simon waited and watched. The man was working himself into a fine froth. He reminded Simon of a small dog he had once seen, tied up, barking at a cat that lay basking in the sun a short distance away. It was clear to all that the cat was there to taunt the dog, as cats will, and yet the only creature there who did not understand was the dog, working itself into a maddened fury and testing the strength of the thong binding it. In the end it was stilled when a man sent the cat flying with an accurately aimed stone.

  John Pasmere was rather like the dog. Barking ineffectually, raging incoherently, he could no more harm his cat than could the dog. It was tempting to strike the man, but Simon could not do so. Instead he made as though to leave.

  ‘No, sir. I will be calm.’

  Simon said, ‘I have no time to listen to a madman’s ravings. I have much to do if I am to seek to avenge the reeve and the others.’

  ‘It was the men – his men – Sir Robert of Nymet Traci. They’re the ones killed your man the reeve.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because it’s my fault,’ John Pasmere snapped, his face as hard as stone.

  Nymet Traci

  William atte Wattere sat on the stool with a grunt of satisfaction. The previous day had been painful. Sleeping rough was not novel to him, but to rise so early as he heard her horse pass him, and then the need to catch her making him hurry over packing, grabbing his horse, saddling and bridling the brute while he tossed his head and jerked against the cinch, did not improve his temper. And then he had to ride all the way almost to Exeter before he managed to get close enough, just so he could bind the bitch and bring her all the way back here again.

  It hadn’t been easy, trailing after her. He had wanted to catch her the day before, when she was riding to Sir Baldwin’s house, but it hadn’t been possible. She had ridden like a woman possessed, and the roads, while not full, were less empty than the next morning. The next morning, however, while she was still a little fuddled so early, it had been much easier.

  But that all meant a long day in the saddle. Perhaps he could have shortened the way, but at the time it seemed sensible to take a little more time and not scare her. A woman in more fear might have had a fainting fit, or panicked and tried to ride off, meaning he’d have to kill her, and she was no good to him dead.

  My lord Despenser had told him to catch her and bring her here safely, after all. That was the purport of the message. Bring her here to Nymet Traci and make sure that she was protected. And then, later, when her father knew where she was, and had complied with Sir Hugh le Despenser’s demands, and the matter at Tavistock was resolved, then she could be released. Quietly.

  Meanwhile, William intended getting outside a quart or two of wine and snoozing the day away.

  He was in the buttery when a slim figure appeared in the doorway, a dark-skinned man in his early twenties. ‘Ale, you ballock-faced hog,’ the newcomer called to the bottler.

  William looked at the bottler with interest to see how the fellow would respond. When he had first entered this little chamber, the bottler had immediately struck him as a man who would be enthusiastic about laying about him with a cudgel if any man was rude. He was about five feet six inches tall, but his barrel chest was enormous, and his biceps were each the size of a small oak. Still, even with the provocation offered by the man in the doorway, he made no comment. Instead he ambled slowly back to his bar and filled a large jug from the barrel. He stood for a moment with the jug in his hands, and William thought he would throw it over the new fellow, but instead he appeared to steel himself, and took the ale to the man.

  ‘Master Basil,’ he said, proffering the jug.

  William watched as the man drank the ale, then lightly tossed the jug in the bottler’s direction, striding off before the man had managed to catch it.

  ‘Who’s he?’ William asked.

  ‘Sir Robert’s son,’ the man said gruffly. ‘You’d do well to avoid him.’

  Wattere couldn’t agree more. He finished his drink and walked out into the sunshine, but here he almost tripped over a cat.

  ‘Hoi, you cretin! Be careful.’

  Wattere was angry, having almost fallen, but there was something about the voice that seemed familiar, and when he turned, he saw the same man.

  Basil was standing in the shadows, pulling on a piece of string that the cat was toying with as he dragged it away. He glanced at Wattere with contempt, then returned his full attention to the young cat.

  It was a lively little thing. Golden, with white patches; almost a kitten. It reared up as the string was flicked upwards and then crouched to spring forward as it was drawn away. Gradually, pouncing and leaping, it was brought closer and closer to Basil, who grinned to himself. ‘You brought the girl here, eh?’

  ‘Yes. She is called Edith.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit what her name is. She is a fresh little chauntle, isn’t she? Ripe as a berry,’ Basil said with a smack of his lips.

  ‘She is a fair little maid, certainly.’

  ‘I’d bet she could squirm like a snake. Thighs like little pillows, and her lips as luscious as a fig.’

  ‘She’s only here to be kept safely,’ Wattere said pointedly.

  ‘Are you telling me what I can and can’t do in my own castle?’ Basil said, looking up. There was an expression of genuine surprise on his face, Wattere saw.

  It gave him the confidence to speak out. ‘This castle is still owned by Sir Hugh le Despenser. Sir Hugh is my master.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She is here because he asked me to bring her, and your father holds her for Sir Hugh. She is not to be molested, Master Basil.’

  ‘Really?’

  Wattere felt his senses heighten. It was the way of a man when he was preparing to do battle, for every aspect of perception to increase. His hearing was never stronger, his nostrils could detect the faintest odours, his eyes appeared to be able to focus more intently, and as he stood there, the picture of apparent ease, he was aware of each and every muscle in his arms, in his shoulders, in his thighs, even in the fingers of his hands. All were singing to him the song of war, of killing and of death. ‘You don’t think my lord Despenser should see his orders honoured?’

  ‘Of course he should,’ Basil said. He flicked the string and smiled as the cat approached a little, then sprang back out of his reach, sitting and waiting for the next game. ‘His every whim should be honoured. In any castle he owns.’

  ‘You realise you are talking about the most powerful man in the kingdom,’ Wattere said.

  ‘Yes. Not in this castle, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In this castle, here in my father’s hall, my father is most powerful. And I am second, man. And if I want something, I take it!’ he added. He had withdrawn the string, and now he tied a small lead weight to the end. ‘I can take anything I want – from here in the castle, from the roads outside, anywhere I want within reach of the castle. And no man will stop me. And if there is a young, fresh filly waiting to be ridden, I will take her for
a ride. I don’t give a shit who her father is, who her friends are, not even who her supposed guardians are in here. You understand me?’

  He had the weight fitted now, and he tossed it lightly to the cat. She leapt up, forelegs straight, back arched, and fell upon the weight. He drew it away at the last minute, and she crouched, legs beneath her body, purring with ecstasy.

  ‘Sir Hugh will crush any who tries to damage his property,’ Wattere said.

  ‘He will crush them, eh?’

  Basil flicked the string again. The cat flew forward, a clawed paw striking at it, snagging it, pulling it to her mouth, and then the string was away again.

  ‘He will crush me, I suppose you mean,’ Basil said, and flicked the string again. As the cat sprang into the air, he twisted his wrist. The string flew up, the weight whirled, and the string wound itself about the cat’s neck. Another flick of the wrist and there was a snap like a small twig underfoot. The cat was dead before it hit the ground.

  Basil gave the string a jerk, and then whirled the cat’s body around his head a few times before letting it fall to the ground. In a moment it was free, and he tied the string into a loop, which he dangled about his own neck.

  ‘Because you are my father’s guest, I will let you live for a while, old man. But don’t forget: here, in my castle, no man threatens me. Not if he wants to live.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Copplestone

  They had ridden as far as they dared in the dark, but by the time they reached the outskirts of Crediton, even Baldwin was persuaded to halt for the rest of the night. The moon had shone brightly at the beginning of their journey, but as they rode into the town, it was only a smudge in the sky behind ever-thicker clouds, and the risk of falling into a hole in the road was too great. It was not a risk worth taking, and eventually Baldwin had to admit that they would be better off resting.

  Their night had passed quietly enough. It was pointless even to hope that they might find a room in an inn or tavern at so late an hour. If they were to knock on a door in the middle of the night, they would be more likely to earn themselves a stab from a terrified host, rather than a welcome. They were forced to make the best they could of their situation. Baldwin knew an old farm not too far from the river, out on the road to Tedburn, and he took Edgar to it. It was out of their way, but they had made good distance already, and he felt it was justified for a warm and safe rest.

  The tenant here was a kindly soul, but Baldwin was reluctant to wake him. No man was happy to be disturbed during the night watches, and just now, with the ever-present risk of outlaws and murderers, a man some miles from the nearest town was going to be yet more afraid. Still, Baldwin was sure that he would not mind if they made use of a roof for shelter. The stables were too close to the house, but there was an old byre he knew of, and he made for it. The cattle weren’t inside – they must be kept nearer the house, he realised – but the hayloft was filled with the results of the harvest. He and Edgar spent some while settling their beasts for the night, removing their belongings and the saddles and accoutrements, then rubbing the beasts down with handfuls of straw and leaving them loose in the stable, while the two men settled themselves up in the hayloft. It was not the warmest rest Baldwin had enjoyed, but then he was a man used to travel all over Europe, and chilly nights were all too common in much of the world. With a bed of hay, his bag under his head for a pillow, and his heavy riding cloak over him, he was as snug as he could hope to be.

  In the morning they had risen early and paid their respects to the farmer.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I’m honoured. But why did you stay out there?’

  There was little need for explanation, but the old farmer shook his head. ‘A bad business, this. So a man must sleep in a byre rather than wake a friend? You’d have been welcome in here by my fire, sir.’

  ‘Your wife, perhaps, would not have been grateful for being woken,’ Baldwin pointed out gently.

  ‘We’d soon have been used to it,’ she answered. She was a slim woman in her forties, bent with labour, but her smile was as fresh as a girl’s. ‘And you’ll have to eat with us before setting off again.’

  ‘Mistress, we would like to—’ Baldwin began, but she clucked her tongue.

  ‘You are not leaving my house without food, sir. Sit yourselves down, please. I won’t be long.’

  By the time they had finished their meal, drunk to the health of their host and hostess, and set off again, the morning was already well advanced. They took the road back to Crediton, but now at a slower pace. It would be better to warm the horses gradually in this weather. And when Baldwin saw how badly rutted and potholed their road was, he was glad that they had stopped for the night. After all, as he reasoned, it would not aid Edith to kill one or both horses and give them the need to acquire another.

  In Crediton, Baldwin made his way to see the dean at the church. As soon as he explained their urgent mission, the dean sent men to speak to the officers in the town itself, and they were soon returned, one with a large, sandy-haired man. He looked at Baldwin as he was introduced.

  ‘Master Thomas, you saw the woman?’ the dean asked.

  ‘Yes. Reckon so. She was riding through the town with a man at her side.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘A quiet, cheery, amiable man. A narrow face, but friendly. Looked like the sort who’d be fun to spend an evening with in a tavern. Bright eyes, ready smile.’

  Baldwin frowned. ‘Did he have a slight squint?’

  Thomas screwed up his face with the effort of recollection. ‘Yes, reckon he did.’

  ‘Where were they riding?’

  ‘Out on the Copplestone road, to the west.’

  ‘Dean, you must excuse us. I think I know who this man is.’

  ‘Who?’

  Baldwin looked at Edgar, who nodded, unsmiling. ‘I think it sounds like Wattere, the man Despenser sent to take Simon’s house in Lydford.’

  Exeter

  The sheriff’s court opened with the usual bustle and chaos, with pleaders shouting and demanding space, bawling for ink and reeds, while their servants and clients milled helplessly and haplessly, taking their places before the clerks and recorders, shouting to have themselves heard over the general hubbub.

  Rougemont Castle was a disorganised place at the best of times, and seeing it in the middle of a court session was not the best of times. Sir Peregrine crossed the floor, trying to contain his anger at being jostled by so many churls who should not have dared to cross his path in the streets. But they were here to have their cases heard by the sheriff. It was no surprise that they were anxious. Some of them might be dead before the week was out.

  The guards at the sheriff’s door were standing attentively, but the coroner was a known man, and he was soon in the sheriff’s office.

  ‘Well?’ the sheriff demanded as he marched in. He had a large goblet of wine in his hand, and he sipped from it as he looked at Sir Peregrine. According to the normal conventions, Sir Peregrine did not sit in his presence, for that would be rude. And from past experience, he knew that Sir James de Cockington would deprecate any such presumption. It was the place of the more senior man to sit and then, perhaps, to invite his guest to be seated.

  There was no such invitation.

  ‘Sir James, I am alarmed to hear that you have a young man in your gaol. A fellow called Peter?’

  ‘You mean the lad I’ve held for treason?’

  ‘Yes. I am sure you know exactly what you are doing, of course.’

  ‘Preventing a serious case of treason? Yes, I think I know perfectly well what I am doing, sir.’

  ‘Oh, that is good, then,’ Sir Peregrine said, and bowed preparatory to making good his exit.

  The sheriff slammed his goblet down on the table before him. ‘You mean to say you called me in here and delayed my blasted goat-ballocked court to ask one damned question? What is the meaning of this, Coroner?’

  ‘I was just worried you
weren’t aware. After all, it could be damaging to your reputation, but if you know—’

  ‘What could be damaging to me?’

  ‘You know who the boy is, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. Of course I do. His wife is the daughter of that petty little bailiff from Lydford and his father is a merchant and freeman. But even freemen don’t have all the power in the city, you know, and—’

  ‘No, I meant his circle of friends.’

  The sheriff leaned forward eagerly. ‘You mean that he’s got powerful friends, eh?’

  Sir Peregrine looked at him and with an effort managed to conceal his contempt. The sheriff was as transparent as the glass in his window. He was hoping that Peter’s friends were rich so that they could be arrested, and then ransomed. This sheriff was said to be one of the richest Exeter had ever seen already, and his wealth was based on the bribes and blackmails he charged.

  ‘He has very powerful friends, yes. Including the nephew of the bishop here. And the nephew has his uncle’s ear.’

  ‘That is all good. But I have the ear of Despenser,’ the sheriff said smugly.

  ‘Then it probably doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What doesn’t?’

  Sir Peregrine essayed a look of mild surprise. ‘The nephew – he is a close confidant of the Cardinal de Fargis. You know, the man who is deciding the case of Tavistock Abbey? The pope’s own special representative here? I just didn’t want you to be in trouble. After all, the cardinal will report to the king and the pope about the area. About how his own monk was murdered on his way here, and how the money for the king was stolen by outlaws, and now there’s the tale of Peter too. I mean, it would sound to some as though all law and order had broken down. That the King’s Peace was no more in Devon.’