No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27)
Page 30
‘Yes. I feel as though I have,’ he said quietly. Then he looked at her, at the hedge, and up at the tree again. ‘Do you wish me to help you back to the road, maid?’
Nymet Traci
It was hard to see how she could escape. The castle itself was scarcely impregnable, but for Edith to make her way out, she would have to pass between all the guards and servants, and then somehow find a means of climbing the walls, without falling the other side and harming herself. The only real means of escape was by the doors, but she had already seen that the gates tended to remain closed through the day. The only time they were opened was when a rider approached.
She could hear the gates opening now. A low rumbling as the baulks of timber were slid sideways into the recesses in the walls, and then the creaking and squeaking of reluctant metal as they were pushed wide. It was like a Dartmoor gate, she saw: any force pushing at the gates would be pushing them against the rock of the walls, and the great timber locks would prevent them being hauled open from outside. Simple, but most effective.
A party of riders entered, a small cart behind them, and as she watched there was ribald laughter. Four, no, five men were there, and then a big ugly brute with one eye sprang lightly into the bed of the cart and looked about him with satisfaction at the contents. He jumped down with every appearance of happiness, bellowing about him, and she heard the rumble and thump of barrels being rolled and set down from the cart, then moved off towards the buttery and storerooms.
It was a sight to set her heart fluttering. Such joy in the faces of the repellent guards about the place could only mean that the barrels were full of ale or wine. There was no protection for her in here. The men could drink themselves into lust, as all men could, she knew, and if they did, there was little if anything she could do to defend herself here in her little chamber.
As the sounds of revelry rose from the yard, she shivered, feeling a fresh sense of panic. There was no one in all this household upon whom she could place any trust. The idea that the men were steadily drinking themselves to foolishness was appalling. All the more so because she was filled with the empty despair of knowing that she was entirely alone. And she dreaded the reappearance of the man called Basil.
Even Wattere was preferable to him.
Bow
Simon stared at the man. ‘Why do you blame yourself?’
‘He came here. A few days ago. The man Lark. He was here, and he asked the same sort of questions you have, and I was as reluctant to talk to him. But he was a pleasant fellow. Plainly came from around here, too, which made me trust him that much more. There aren’t all that many men who speak your own language. He was from Jacobstowe, and I came originally from Exbourne, so we weren’t too far adrift.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘All about them in the castle. Sir Robert and his son Basil. They rule this country like demons. Everyone has to pay them for anything. If a man doesn’t, he finds his lands on fire, his stables afire, his cattle dead, his sheep stolen. No one may stand against them.’
‘There is the law!’ Simon growled.
‘Not for us there isn’t. The law is for those who can afford to pay lawyers. What, do you think I could plead against them? They have the ears of the justices, of Despenser – of power.’
‘I have heard of these men before,’ Simon said, remembering his conversation with Sir Peregrine. ‘Was it not this man whose son raped a woman? Sir Robert and his son Basil?’
‘That is the pair. Yes. But they do not travel lightly or alone. The two men have a large host.’
‘What did you do to cost the reeve his life?’
‘I defended my own. When the man had left, two riders came a little later. Basil, and his father’s henchman, Osbert. They threatened me.’
‘With what?’
‘They said that they had heard of a man asking about them. Did I know anything, because they would burn my house with me inside if they heard I’d talked. So I did tell them. But they laughed when I said it was a reeve. They swore they had nothing to fear from a shit-arsed tatterdemalion from Jacobstowe, and rode off still laughing.’
‘But you’d told them already?’
‘Yes. God save me! I told them he’d been here. But they did promise that they’d do nothing about him, Bailiff. You have to believe me! I thought they’d been amused to learn about him because he was so lowly there was nothing for them to fear from him. And … even now …’
‘Yes?’
‘There was no need. He was so far below their station, he could do nothing to harm them.’
‘That is hard to imagine, surely,’ Simon said.
‘Sir Robert was for a long while in the king’s own household. He is a close confidant of Sir Hugh le Despenser. That is a name even I know of, Bailiff. Any man who is a friend of Despenser’s is safe anywhere in the land.’
Simon nodded. He was still musing over the tale he had heard as he left the cottage and mounted his horse. He snapped the reins and kicked with his heels, and the horse trotted off.
‘Well?’ the coroner said, almost unable to contain his frustration. He was not used to being left outside while others spoke.
‘Sir Richard, do you recall Sir Peregrine telling us about that appalling court case? The man whose daughter was raped by the son of a knight?’
‘I lost my wife to a dishonourable cur who should have been slain at birth,’ the coroner said heavily.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Sir Richard. Of course the matter will still be fresh in your mind. Well, I think that the men who were said to be responsible for that are the same who are responsible for the death of the fellows on their way to the king.’
It was Mark who responded to that. ‘You mean to say that the man who had all those people killed was also a rapist? Why was he not captured and punished?’
‘Because the fellow was a friend to Despenser. And to the sheriff, too, according to Sir Peregrine,’ Sir Richard growled. He glanced over at Simon. ‘That’s what he said?’
‘He was reluctant to talk – he had been told that they wouldn’t hurt the reeve, though.’
‘Hah! And he believed them?’
‘Yes,’ Simon said slowly. He was still thinking about the expression in John Pasmere’s eyes as he spoke of Bill Lark’s death. There was an infinity of self-loathing there, as though the man had himself committed the murder. ‘But the truly fascinating point is that they might have killed the reeve – but why not kill that peasant too? If they were going to silence the man who’d learned about their crime, why would they not kill the informer?’
‘Aye, why?’ the coroner said.
‘Perhaps because they did neither?’ Simon wondered. But that was ridiculous, he knew. There was no point in thinking such thoughts. It was idle. Surely the men who had such notoriety were the same who were responsible for the murders at Abbeyford.
He stopped his mount and stared ahead. Without thinking, he had let his horse have its own head, and he had gradually gone further on the road away from Pasmere’s house, wandering south and slightly east. Now he saw that there was a broad plain in front of them, with trees over to the east, leading along the line of a ridge up to a long, tall, castellated wall. It was solid-looking, and grey like moorstone, and Simon looked it over with an appreciation of the construction.
This, he thought, would be a place that would be very difficult to take by force.
‘Whose place is that?’ Mark asked.
‘That, I think,’ Simon told him, ‘is the house of the men who killed your priests and their party.’
There was little more to be said at that. They could see a path that led up north and slightly east, and taking the chance for a good scout about the walled house, Simon led them up and along it. There was a fine view all over the house’s grounds, and he could see that the place had a goodly stock of fish in a nearby pond. The surface of the water leaped and bubbled as flies approached. Outside the walls there was a huge flock of sheep, and Simon had no doubt th
at in the summer the woods nearby would echo to the snort and snuffle of pigs. This was no small estate, but a huge working manor, from the size of the space all about.
‘What now?’ Mark said.
‘Now, my boy, we leave before we’re considered as spies,’ the coroner said firmly. ‘Best thing to do is head for the town up there. Bow, isn’t it; Simon? If we go there, we may just learn something to help us. It’s the little towns where you can get the best help, I always say.’
Simon agreed, and they all clapped spurs to their mounts and continued on their way, up past the woods, along the top of a ridge, and then down into the town itself.
They were sitting outside the tavern in the main street, enjoying a few moments away from their saddles, drinking strong ale, when they heard horses approaching.
‘Dear heaven! Baldwin!’ Simon shouted when he recognised his old friend. With a thrill of pure delight, he put down his drinking horn and hurried into the street, stopping at Baldwin’s horse. ‘Baldwin, it’s so good to see you again. I could not hope for better fortune!’
His joy was not reciprocated, he saw, and gradually he grew aware that his friend wore a grim, sad face.
‘Simon, I doubt you will still think that in a moment. I am so sorry. I have dreadful news,’ Baldwin said.
Tavistock Abbey
Robert Busse was happy to hear that the Cardinal de Fargis had arrived at the abbey for further discussions and to hear more evidence. It could hardly be a better time, he thought.
The whole of the previous evening and night, he had been almost unable to sleep. It had not been helped that whenever he looked in the direction of John de Courtenay, he saw a man who seemed to have a little smile fixed to his lips. The man was insufferably proud, of course, and he had always had a hatred for Robert, but that was no excuse for his seeking Robert’s murder. It was astonishing that a man who professed love for all others, and who wanted such an important leadership position in the abbey, could at the same time have been so avaricious that he would pay to have a rival removed.
‘You wished to see me?’ the cardinal said as Robert entered the abbot’s hall and bent to kiss the episcopal ring.
He remained on the floor kneeling, his head bowed. ‘Cardinal, I fear that I have some rather terrible news.’
‘There appears to be little shortage of bad news about here,’ the cardinal commented drily and took his hand away.
‘The king had a messenger here. He came to bring messages.’
‘That is somewhat less than news,’ the cardinal said sharply.
‘Some were for John de Courtenay. And he took messages back from Brother John, too.’
‘Well?’
‘He fell from his horse and died a little way from here. In his shirt were two of the messages. Here they are.’
The cardinal took them, warily eyeing Brother Robert. ‘What do they say?’
‘One is from Brother John, and he thanks Sir Hugh le Despenser for his offer to aid his campaign to become the next abbot. He states that he will be willing to pay Sir Hugh from the income of the abbey.’
‘The second?’
‘That is another message from Brother John to Despenser, saying that he has a friend in Tavistock, Master John Fromund, who is prepared to put into action my assassination as soon as Despenser approves his action. Apparently Master Fromund has many companions who would be happy to assist Brother John and Sir Hugh le Despenser.’
‘I see,’ the cardinal said. He stood and walked over to the table. ‘And tell me, you know a man called Langatre?’
‘Oh, well, yes, but he—’
‘And I understand that in February this year you removed one thousand and two hundred pounds from the abbey’s treasury?’
Busse was quiet.
‘And later that month you returned with a small force of men-at-arms and took another eight hundred pounds in money, gold and silver plate? Is that correct?’
Robert closed his eyes. ‘It is. But I had to remove it to a place of safe-keeping, to protect it from Brother John.’
‘And he sought to remove you for the good of the abbey because he says that you are a danger to the community. Too divisive, he says, and too keen to promote those who are your friends, rather than those of quality or merit.’
‘That is entirely unjustified. I seek only to serve the abbey.’
‘I wonder,’ the cardinal said, ‘whether any man here actually seeks the best for the abbey.’
‘You may be assured that—’
‘No. I may not be assured of anything.’ The cardinal opened the first of the small scrolls and gazed at the contents. ‘It is his writing, I believe. Very well, Brother Robert. You may leave this with me.’
‘Am I safe?’
The cardinal looked at him. ‘I shall speak with Brother John, if that is what you mean. However, this is a matter that will require the pope’s intervention, I believe. You had best remain here at Tavistock.’
‘Thank you, Cardinal.’
Brother Robert was almost at the door when the cardinal’s quiet voice halted him. ‘One more thing, my friend. There will be no more money removed from the treasury. Nor plate nor gold. I hope that is understood. Because if any money goes missing, I shall not pursue your case with the pope or anyone else.’
‘I understand, Cardinal.’
‘Good,’ Cardinal de Fargis said. As the door quietly closed, he closed his eyes and offered a quick prayer for patience. ‘In Christ’s name, Father, if these men cannot live without each of them seeking the death of the other, what hope is there for peace within this community?’
But that was not the point. That a baron should seek to work for one man and could consider the murder of the other to aid his case was atrocious. There had not been a similar plot since the death of Becket. The pope must be told, and that quickly.
He sat and wrote his note carefully, the reed scratching on the parchment, but then, as he signed it with care, a thought struck him. It would take an age for the message to reach Rome.
Without hesitation, he began to write a new message, this time addressed to Sir Hugh le Despenser.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bow
Simon sat back as Baldwin spoke. He felt as though his veins had been opened. It was as though the blood from his body was draining into a pool at his feet as Baldwin described the sudden arrest of Peter, the boy’s incarceration, and Edith’s disappearance.
‘But surely she could have gone to—’
‘She would only have gone to your home or back to Exeter,’ Baldwin said. ‘Unless you can think of somewhere else? But that does not explain how it was that a man saw her, and another in Crediton thought he saw her in the company of a man who looked like William atte Wattere.’
‘Sweet Jesus! This is all the work of that prick-eared cur. Christ’s ballocks, if I learn that Despenser’s had anything to do with this, I’ll have his cods on my knife in a week. Dear Christ, if she’s hurt …’
Baldwin put his hand out, only to have Simon knock it away as he bellowed, enraged. ‘That mother-swyving churl, the illegitimate son of a diseased sow, the god forsaken dunghill swine, the—’
This time Baldwin set his hand on his friend’s shoulder and gripped it hard. ‘Ranting will not help anyone. And at present we do not know that the man has anything to do with her capture. No! Rather than swearing and making oaths that must only raise the humours in your heart, use your head, man. What we need is a means of finding her, first, and then we must betake ourselves to think of a way of rescuing her.’
‘Baldwin, if there is even a hair of her head that is hurt by this prick, I’ll have his heart! I knew she shouldn’t have married that milksop youth, in Christ’s name. He was always too feeble.’
‘Simon, he is a boy. He was taken on the sheriff’s orders. What would you expect him to do against that kind of force? And once in gaol, he had no choice, no means to help his wife. Do not blame a victim for the actions of his persecutor.’
‘If that was to happen, I would personally help you to take vengeance,’ Baldwin said.
Simon nodded, but suddenly he couldn’t trust his voice. The thought that his little girl could be held by some churl who might even now be defiling her was so hideously terrifying that he could not fully comprehend it. Instead his mind seemed to slow, and his breathing grew shallow, while his heart raced. It felt as though his body was packed with ice, and he shivered, even as his breath started to sob in his throat. It was not right! Surely his little Edith hadn’t been hurt. Wouldn’t he have felt it, wouldn’t he have known, if she had been molested? But he hadn’t known that she had been captured. Surely he should have done, if he were a good father? Shouldn’t a father’s relationship with his daughter mean that he would know as soon as she was alarmed, scared or in danger? It was the least a man should feel. And yet he was a failure in that as in so many things. Here he was, a useless bailiff without a bailiwick, searching for the killers of people he didn’t know, while his own daughter was the subject of capture and possibly molestation. He should have been there, at home, for her.
‘Don’t blame yourself, Bailiff,’ Coroner Richard said. He was at Simon’s side, his head lowered, glowering about them with a truculence that seemed entirely out of place for him. ‘It ain’t your fault some bastard’s done this.’
‘It is my fault,’ Simon said, sniffing hard. ‘If I’d—’
‘Nothing, my friend. If you had been there, all that might have happened was that you’d got yourself killed. That wouldn’t help anyone. And if someone else decides to break your peace by attacking your little girl, it ain’t your fault, it’s theirs. Don’t blame yourself.’
‘How did you know how I feel?’ Simon asked, looking at the coroner from the corner of his eye.
‘My wife was killed, remember? I told you. A miserable, lying cur of a felon whom I’d had working for me as steward and bottler took a liking to her, and when I was away, raped and killed her, before killing my dog too. Poor brute tried to protect her, but the bastard cut his throat. And I know exactly what you’re thinkin’. It’s what I was thinkin’ too. I blamed meself, and I didn’t think about anyone else. It was just my guilt I swam in. And it was stupid. Because I didn’t kill the hound, I didn’t kill my wife. It was him. All him. Hope he’s rotting in hell now, learning how hot it can be. But that’s not the point. Point is, life’s here to get on with. And to be fair, I waited until I’d killed him before I set about wallowin’. You, Bailiff, have a job to do. You have to find her, save her, and then kill the bastards who’ve done this.’