No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘How do we do that?’ Simon asked. He stood up and stared about him. ‘Where would they have brought her?’

  Baldwin chewed his inner lip. ‘They passed through Crediton. We do know that. We hope that they passed this way after Copplestone, but I have no means of confirming that.’

  It was Edgar who sniffed and looked up at the sky. Clouds were forming south-west over the moors.

  ‘What is it, man?’ the coroner demanded.

  ‘We know that the sheriff is allied to Despenser. We know that Wattere is Despenser’s man. And we know that he was heading this way with her. Unless he acted on his own, I would think Wattere took his orders the same as always. That means Despenser took Edith, and would want her to be held somewhere safe, I’d imagine. Perhaps he seeks to blackmail the bailiff into some action that would not usually occur to him? While holding the bailiff’s daughter, he would have a powerful incentive for the bailiff’s compliance.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘If he was – excuse my bluntness, Bailiff – if he was intending merely to rape and slay the maid, he would do so without the risk of parading her through the county. We’d have found her yesterday in a ditch near Exeter. Instead he brought her all the way to Crediton and beyond. Surely that means he has some other objective for her than merely seeing her slain.’

  Simon gaped suddenly and stared at the coroner. ‘Dear God, and we were told by Pasmere that Sir Robert of Nymet Traci was an ally of Despenser! She could be here.’

  Nymet Traci

  In her room, Edith huddled by her bed, shivering, her arms wrapped about her. It was less the cold that troubled her, more the continuing fear of what would happen. She should have made her escape on the way here. At the time, though, terror had controlled her, and the idea of trying to gallop away had been just too daunting. However, the result was that she was stuck here with all these men and now she was petrified that she might not escape. She had heard of plenty of women who had been kidnapped, and none had escaped rape – and some women had been forced to endure much worse.

  It was so terrifying that she felt she had no energy. If she had been told that she could be so enervated by such a situation, she would have laughed. The idea that being taken by a man like Wattere could lead to a maid being so petrified with terror that she might be incapable even of rational thought would have struck her as the merest nonsense. She was an intelligent woman. She knew how to defend herself. If there was a knife at hand, she would have used it to protect herself and her maidenhead from ravishment. But it was one thing to laugh during a conversation in front of her fire, perhaps with her father or her husband near to hand, and friends who were enjoying themselves with her. Here, in a chilly room, with her soul frozen in her heart, where every sound made her think that the foul man who had leered at her this morning was approaching again, it was different. And there was no weapon in the room. Not even a knife for eating.

  The thought made her rise. There must be something here she could use. If the man returned and tried to force himself on her, she could lie back as though compliant, perhaps, and then strike him. A shard of metal or glass … A long pin. Her brooch would do service, she thought, pulling it from her shoulder. It had a long bronze pin that was weak generally, but she could use it for stabbing at a man’s eye. The floor was of wood, but the walls were stone. She could sharpen the pin on that.

  But as she was about to rush to the wall, she heard steps. The hurried steps of a man who was eager to take advantage of a woman who was entirely at his mercy. She looked at the wall, but there was no time. Instead she gripped the brooch in her fist, so that the long pin protruded. If he came too close, she would stab him with all her might, she told herself. She had never fought with anybody, and the thought was almost more alarming than resigning herself to being raped. The idea of stabbing a man’s eye as he approached her with puckered lips was enough to make her stomach spasm. She saw in her mind’s eye the spurt of the humours as the pin punctured it, she felt the splatter of it on her face, and she had to avert her face from the vision, but not with any diminution of resolve. If he intended to rape her, she would sell her body as dearly as she might.

  There was a rattle of bolts on the door, and she felt the bile rise into her throat. The acid made her want to choke. But then there was a knock, a gentle, apologetic little tap of a knuckle.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘William atte Wattere,’ he answered. ‘Mistress, do you object if I enter?’

  She felt the solid, reassuring weight of the brooch in her hand. In God’s hands. She was in His hands. Although she was reluctant to let Wattere in, she knew she couldn’t stop him if he insisted. At least he didn’t sound drunk.

  ‘What authority have I in me to prevent you?’ she said bitterly. ‘And what strength?’ she added sadly.

  The door opened quietly and in the doorway stood Wattere. His anxiety was obvious from the first moment she saw him. ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  He did not enter for a moment or two. Then he whipped off his hood and licked his lips before stepping over the threshold. ‘Mistress, I am come to apologise.’

  His words made her heart leap in her breast. ‘There’s been a mistake?’ but as soon as she spoke, she knew that it was unimportant. Whether there had been a mistake in capturing her or not at the outset, the men here at this castle were not likely to release her – not until they had received a payment at least. In Basil’s case there would be a different type of reckoning, too.

  He curled his lip. ‘Truth is, you were to be held here safely. There wasn’t to be any nonsense. You were only a toy to be bargained with, I swear. You weren’t to be harmed.’

  ‘You took me against my will, held me here, and I wasn’t to be harmed?’ she spat.

  ‘No. You were only to be kept here until … well, until my lord Despenser achieved what he needed. And then you could be released.’

  ‘And what, pray, was his object with me?’ she demanded sourly.

  ‘You were to help force the abbey of Tavistock to his will. With you here, he felt sure that Robert Busse would surrender his claim to the abbacy, and then John de Courtenay would win it for himself.’

  ‘What have they to do with me?’

  ‘Little. But Busse is a friend of your father’s. Sir Hugh considered that if you were held, your father would move heaven and earth to seek your release, and he’d persuade Busse to give up his claim. If not, he thought your father could even slay the abbot to give the seat to John de Courtenay.’

  ‘He was in his cups when he thought of this. Why would Busse listen to my father on a matter such as this? And my father wouldn’t kill a man for that. For me.’

  But she knew it was a lie. Simon would commit any crime to protect her. He would kill a man, he would rob, steal, or even commit suicide for her. He was as entirely devoted to her as a father could be.

  Then another thought struck her. ‘Why are you apologising to me now?’

  ‘Because it’s going wrong, maid. I am sorry. I am really sorry. But you have to protect yourself against Basil. He’s no better than a common cowman. I think he means you … means you harm.’

  She was still suddenly as she felt ice enter her heart. ‘You mean he will rape me?’

  ‘I think he intends to. And there’s nothing I can do to save you.’

  ‘You say so? You brought me here, churl! If you wanted, you could at least stay at my door and stop anyone from entering.’

  ‘Fight a man like him? If I was whole, I could do that. But I have wounds still from your father,’ he said with a slight sneer. He felt sorry for this woman, but her father would only ever know his enmity. He detested Simon Puttock and would do nothing to help him. And yet this woman was not her father. It was leaving him feeling torn. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Then you could take me away from here, man! Don’t leave me here to be raped and slain by a fool in a drunken fit! What can I do to protect myself?’

  Wattere winced and looked
away as she stood. ‘Mistress …’ Suddenly a vision appeared before him: a picture of a dead cat, gold and white, with scarlet blood dribbling from its mouth, the head hanging at an impossible angle like a man swinging from a gibbet. It was enough to make his resolve waver as he looked back at this lovely fair-haired … child. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Work out a way to take me from here,’ she pleaded. ‘I am only weak, I’ve no weapons, nothing! You brought me to this – surely you can think of a way to help me escape?’

  He stared down at her, and thought of the cat. The idea of this maid lying on the bed, blood at her thighs, was enough to make him feel a surge of guilt. The other idea, that the next time he saw her she might be lying on the bed with her neck broken, a trickle of blood lying at her mouth’s corner, was enough to reinforce the guilt and urge him to action.

  ‘I will see what may be done,’ he said. He hesitated, and then reached behind his back. Withdrawing a small dagger, he gave it to her, and then stood with his breath stilled, half expecting her to stab him.

  But no. Instead she gave him a thin smile and took the knife, which she secreted inside her tunic. ‘For that I thank you, Master William. But please, please try to think of a means of escape for me? Please?’

  He felt a strange twisting in his breast – an impossible urge to grab the knife back and return to normalcy; but then a pull at his soul made him stop himself. He could not force this woman, this girl, to submit to Basil. That man was no better than a felon waylaying a maid in the street. The difference was, he had her at his power because Wattere had brought her here. It would be better for her to kill herself than submit.

  No, Simon Puttock was no friend to him, but his daughter was no more Wattere’s enemy than was the Archbishop of Canterbury. She did not deserve this fate.

  ‘I will do what I can,’ he said with a firm nod of his head. Then he turned and fled before her tears of gratitude could melt his heart any more.

  Road near Nymet Traci

  Agnes was not sure about this hard-handed stranger. He looked too worn and battered. Of course, many travellers looked worse, but that was little consolation. This one looked like a man who would have little compunction in taking a woman for his own, and she would not allow that. No man would have her, she resolved.

  He had swung her out into the road, and now he followed her, as nimble as before.

  ‘So you are a sailor, then,’ she said as he dropped lightly at her feet.

  ‘You know many sailors up here?’ he asked with some surprise.

  ‘We see them. Often they come past here as they walk from coast to coast.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ he said wryly. ‘But there are no jobs at either coast.’

  ‘Not even for you?’

  ‘Plainly you see more in me than the shipmasters of Devon,’ he said mildly. But already he was staring along the road in the direction the men had taken, back east. ‘Did you know any of those men?’

  ‘No. I’m not from near here. I live in—’

  ‘Jacobstowe. Yes – I know.’

  ‘You sound as though you know them, though.’

  ‘I saw them a few days ago. That one-eyed bastard in front? He was up the road from here, and I saw him kill a man.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Just some farmer,’ Roger said.

  Agnes felt her face blanch. Her legs began to fail her, and she felt herself waver. ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t know. Just some fellow on his way to market, I think.’

  He realised her weakness, and quickly took her elbow, holding on to her until the spasm had passed.

  ‘Are you well, mistress? Do you want to sit?’

  ‘No, I am fine. But I want to see that one-eyed devil hanging.’

  He nodded, as though this was the most natural desire of any woman. ‘Let’s see if we can tell where they were going. I think they must live not far away from here, for it was close by where I saw them kill the farmer.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Nymet Traci

  The yard was clear enough for now. All the castle’s men had repaired to the buttery with the ale they’d confiscated from the alewife transporting it to Bow, and already half the men were singing a series of bawdy songs. Their rough singing could be heard all about the courtyard, and the fact that they seemed already to be drunk was reassuring, but he couldn’t just jump on top of them all. That was impossible.

  He stood indecisively for a while, outside the hall, listening to the raucous babble from inside. Up on the walls, he could see more men walking about. They weren’t drunk. And from a quick glance, it was clear that there were at least four of them up there, two at the front, and two chatting in the farther corner. Security today was not a major concern.

  There had been times before when Wattere had felt incompetent. Most recently was earlier in the year when he had been told to evict a man, and shortly thereafter had found that the tables had been turned on him. And here he was, seriously contemplating making a lunatic bid to save that same man’s daughter. His wounds stung him with renewed vigour at the mere thought – and yet he was not persuaded to turn from the decision he had taken up there in Edith’s room.

  ‘You all right, old man?’

  A youth of not yet twenty, he was. He had a face erupting with spots that gave him a humorous appearance, but any suggestion that he was prone to such an easy temperament was discounted by the unfeeling expression in his cold grey eyes. He was a little taller than Wattere, but although Wattere felt fairly sure that he could best the lad in a fight, he was not here to pick quarrels. Instead, he made a muttered response, ducked his head and walked over to the stables, where he went to his mount and checked the beast over. There was cause for bitterness there. The horse had not been brushed and cleaned from their last journey, and there was still dried mud clinging to his forelegs.

  There was no excuse for not looking after a horse. It made him angry to see his own animal being ignored. But here he was in a strange castle. It would not be sensible to cause a fuss. Especially when he was trying to conceive a plan to help Edith escape. So he merely gritted his teeth, walked to the corner where the brushes were all stored, and grabbed a couple. While making long, regular sweeps over the horse’s back and flanks, he watched the activities in the yard.

  He had no idea how to save the child. Perhaps she could simply hide from the guards, and later, when they had gone to find her, she could make her way … But there was nowhere to hide in that little chamber. Nowhere at all. It was impossible. There was nothing he could do here all alone to try to rescue her. It was just ridiculous to think that he could.

  Rubbing down the mount, he allowed his thoughts to turn to the more sombre reflection that it was entirely due to his obedience to his master that she was here. Sir Hugh le Despenser had always been a good master to him, though. Reliable, in all ways. If a man betrayed him, he knew what he could expect, just as a man who provided good service for him knew that he would be rewarded. He had himself enjoyed Despenser’s favours over the years. And now he was here in a castle in the wildlands of western Devonshire with a beautiful young woman, having delivered her, so it would seem, to be toyed with by the son of a friend of Despenser. She would soon be raped or dead, if he was any judge.

  He had performed similar tasks in the past, capturing women and men so that they could be held hostage, but never before had he known this kind of despair. In the past, they had been treated moderately well, and released when they had served their purpose. He wouldn’t have procured them had he known that they would be treated in the way that Edith would soon be.

  A wave of nausea washed through his body like a cramp. He almost fell to the ground, and had to grab hold of the stall’s bars and breathe in deeply, cheeks hollowed and loose, his belly complaining, as he felt the threat of all the men about the place. This was lunacy! He couldn’t think to help her. If he did, and he was discovered, as he must be, he would be ruined. Despenser would never forgive him, even if he manag
ed to escape, and he couldn’t. If he was to try to fight all the men here, he would die. But he couldn’t escape without silencing at least a number of them. It was impossible.

  He had just come to this conclusion when he looked up to see Basil striding towards the hall’s door. As he reached it, he glanced up to the right, towards the part of the hall where Wattere knew Edith was being held.

  It was enough to steel his resolve. ‘You bastard,’ he muttered. ‘You sodding bastard!’

  He gripped his sword hilt and would have marched across the yard right there and then, perhaps to die, trying to protect her from her assailant, but then he saw two men up on the battlements and thought again.

  If he ran in on Basil raping Edith, the only result would be his death. That wouldn’t help Edith at all. Better to persuade Basil to leave the hall.

  Suddenly Wattere’s eyes narrowed as he cast about, looking around the stables. At one end was a heap of straw. It was enough to make him march purposefully along the stalls.

  He would give Basil a diversion he would never forget.

  When the door was thrown wide, Edith had not expected it.

  She was sitting on the stool by the window, gazing out at the hills to the west, filled with longing for the broad open moors and freedom. Anything would be so much better than sitting here in the chamber with nothing to do but brood on her misery, filled with dread for her future. With a start of guilt, she had just realised that she had hardly thought about Peter at all for the last day, and now she was half sobbing at the thought of him languishing in the foul gaol at Exeter. She had been there before, and she knew how disgusting such a cell would be to her fastidious husband. She only hoped that Wattere could help her somehow.