No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Sir Baldwin, you must certainly come and rest at Father’s house. You have risked your life to help us, and I would not hear of you continuing tonight.’

  ‘Edith, if he says that he should carry on to his wife, you are in no position to prevent him,’ Simon said.

  ‘Father, I owe perhaps my life to Sir Baldwin. If it were not for his swift response in riding after me to rescue me from Sir Robert of Traci, you would not have learned of my predicament and I might well still be there now – raped and injured. Yet you would see him leave to continue his journey at night in the cold? For shame!’

  Simon’s jaw clenched, and he threw her a look of such pain that she wanted to apologise, but then with relief she heard him repeat his invitation to Sir Baldwin to stay the night.

  ‘Please do, Sir Baldwin,’ she said. ‘And then perhaps tomorrow you can ride with me to Exeter to protect me? I should be most grateful for your company.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sir Baldwin said with a gracious little bow. ‘I would be honoured to ride with you, if your father has no objection.’

  ‘How could I object?’ Simon responded, but he looked at neither of them. Instead his eyes remained fixed resolutely on the road ahead.

  Tavistock Abbey

  Brother Mark stepped into the chapter house and crossed the floor to the stone seat at the further wall. He sat, his eyes downcast, as he contemplated his decision.

  It was some little while later that the other brothers filed in.

  In the past, all the monks would have been chattering and laughing as they walked in, but not today. Not for the last few days. There had been a curious air of nervous expectation ever since the body of the messenger had been found and rumours had begun of the messages from Brother John found in his shirt. Although there had been attempts to keep news of the messages secret, it was impossible to prevent so many monks from enjoying the potential of such juicy gossip. It had flown about the abbey in a matter of hours.

  It was the cardinal who entered last, and he walked to the middle of the chamber and looked about him with the cold, measuring eye of an executioner considering his next victim.

  ‘I am aware of the stories that are circulating about the two brothers who are in contention for the abbacy. They are both here now. I require them to step forward.’

  Mark watched as the two monks approached the cardinal and stood, one at either side, their hands clasped, heads down like penitents.

  ‘These two have acknowledged their faults, and will now show their repentance by exchanging the kiss of peace,’ the cardinal said.

  Of the two, Mark reckoned that Robert Busse was the less reluctant. With a show of distaste, he stepped forward and waited. Brother John wore a glower of loathing on his face as he contemplated his enemy. But then, he had plotted the murder of Robert. If the rumours were all true, he was guilty of terrible ambition and pride. Brother Robert himself was little better, though, if the stories of his thefts of gold and silver from the treasury were correct.

  Brother John gave a gesture of disgust and went to meet Robert, and both gave a quick glance to the cardinal. He made no movement, and the two suddenly came together and exchanged a swift peck. As they stepped apart, Mark was sure that both would have wiped away that kiss if they were not being watched.

  This was shameful. It was the sort of situation that Mark would expect from knights. He could remember now his animosity to Sir Richard de Welles, and felt shame. Sir Richard was a deeply honourable man in comparison to these two. It was appalling. It left Mark feeling tainted by their presence and their awful shame. Perhaps his own offence was less significant than he had realised. It was possible, after all, that God had given these two as a proof that his crime was of little import by comparison.

  The chapter meeting continued with the business of the day being conducted swiftly enough, and then the cardinal made to leave.

  ‘Cardinal, I have to confess …’

  ‘Then you must walk with me,’ the cardinal said.

  Brother Mark was perplexed, for the brothers were supposed to confess their sins in full chapter, so that all would know their guilt. It was a most effective means of persuading monks to consider carefully before committing an offence against their order. But if the cardinal said that Mark must walk with him, walk he must. He scurried out after him, and found him taking the air in the cloister.

  The heavy rain of the last couple of days had ceased now, but it was still very damp all about, and Mark was aware of the splashing as he stepped through the puddles on the pavemented cloister area. ‘Cardinal, I have to confess to a crime. A serious crime.’

  ‘You helped tempt a man so that he could be extracted from a sanctuary.’

  ‘I … yes.’

  ‘The man was already guilty of participating in murders, in the murder of two monks, I think?’

  ‘But no matter what the crime, he was in the church, under the protection of the Church.’

  ‘True. And he had killed two of the Church’s most devoted servants.’

  ‘But surely I still committed a crime?’

  Cardinal de Fargis stopped and looked at him. ‘What do you wish me to tell you, Brother Mark? That you were wrong to leave temptation in his path? If you had not, would he have abjured the realm? Yes, in all likelihood. So you hastened justice. And you did not force him to take the crucifix, did you? It was he who guided his own hand to take it. Not you.’

  ‘I just thought that my—’

  ‘Brother Mark. I understand that the item taken by the man was the crucifix worn by poor Pietro. Yes? Then I think we can look on the matter as being one of divine judgement. You were the willing tool of God. He chose you to bring justice to the man Osbert. And for what he did to poor Pietro, he deserved no sanctuary.’

  Bow

  The priest brought another bowl of water to him as he lay sweating, complaining about the cold, whining and moaning in his agony. It was enough to make the priest weep gently to himself, sad at the sight of so much misery and despair.

  William atte Wattere had no idea where he was. The room was a darkened chamber that could have been a gaol, but with his burning anguish there was no need for bars and locks. He could not have stood had he wished to.

  He had been here in the bed since the evening he had been brought here. The father had seen to all his needs as best he could, but it was clear by the end of the first day that all he could hope to do was alleviate some of the man’s dying pains. There was clearly no aid for him while his soul remained in his body. All a man could hope and pray for was that his suffering would at least end when he was dead. And it was for his life after death that the priest was praying now. As he mopped Wattere’s brow with a rag dipped in cool water mixed with vinegar, his lips mumbled the prayers he hoped would be most efficacious.

  ‘You’ve seen him?’ Wattere spoke suddenly, his good hand snapping up and grasping the priest’s wrist.

  ‘My son, calm yourself. Who? Who do you ask if I’ve seen?’

  ‘The man … He’s there! Don’t let him take me!’

  The ravings of a madman. But with this enormous wound, it was a miracle he wasn’t dead already. The sword had cloven through his shoulder, through his collar bone, and wedged in his shoulder blade, so they said. It had taken his assailant some while to lever it free. And that sort of wound was only rarely survived. The fever had broken the next day, and no one expected him to live. With his whole body shrieking, it was hardly surprising that he would see nonexistent people.

  Still, the old priest glanced over his shoulder to make sure. ‘My son, there’s no one there.’

  Wattere’s face had paled. Now he too looked up over the priest’s shoulder, and his eyes were wide. ‘You can’t take me! I won’t go, Osbert. You did for me with that murderous puppy your master … You say I betrayed you? You betrayed all!’

  The priest mumbled calmingly as Wattere spat and shouted, but there was no soothing him. He was like a man having his arm
removed, twisting and wrenching, screaming as his wound opened and gaped again, shrieking abuse at the man he supposed was before him.

  ‘Go! Won’t anyone take this man away? Leave me alone!’

  The father had to lean down to hold him in the cot, he flailed so hard, and in the end he had to accept defeat, and bellowed for help. A boy had been outside, and he came in at a run when he heard the priest call, sitting on the wounded man’s knees while the priest tried to hold Wattere’s upper torso down, trying to avoid pressing on the wound but attempting to keep him still.

  It was not to last long. With a last curse at the spectre whom no one else could see, there was an end. Later the priest would wonder whether the noise he heard was authentic, or whether his mind had imagined it, but he thought he heard a sound like a small cord being broken as the man’s spirit left him. The body, empty now, sagged like a sack of old beans, and there was a slight gasp, then a rattle from his throat, and the priest made the sign of the cross over his staring eyes, beginning to recite the Pater Noster.

  He would have thought nothing more about it, had not the news come to him later that the man who was the sergeant of the evil devil at Nymet Traci had been called Osbert. And that he had disappeared.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sunday before the Feast of St Martin in Winter*

  Exeter

  Edith was glad to be home. As she entered her house once more, and saw her maid busying herself at the fire, it felt as though she had dreamed the last few days. The arrest of her husband, her capture by the hideous Wattere, her suffering and terror of rape by the son of Sir Robert de Traci, all faded as soon as she crossed her own threshold again.

  ‘Father, Sir Baldwin, please, be seated,’ she said and went to fetch wine for them. She would have to throw them out soon. It was good to have them escort her home, while Baldwin had sent Edgar back to his own house to tell Jeanne what had been happening, but at the gates they had heard that her husband had been released and was back at his parents’ home to recover from his ordeal.

  The wine was served, Simon heating his dagger’s blade in the fire and then stirring the wine with it to warm it, and she watched with appreciation as the two men began to chat. It had been a very hard evening the previous day, and much of the journey today had been quiet, but she felt sure that the pair were recovering their friendship. She had worked hard to try to ensure it. At her parents’ home, she had managed to draw her mother to one side and explain what had happened, but Meg had been too shocked by the story to take it all in. And then, of course, the news that her daughter was soon to be a mother in her turn was enough to drive all other thoughts from her mind.

  Soon the wine was drunk and the two men exchanged a look.

  ‘You should fetch your husband home,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Are you sure that I cannot get you anything more?’ Edith said.

  ‘Seeing you here, happy and safe, is all I could wish for,’ he answered.

  ‘We can escort you to Peter, anyway,’ Simon said. ‘We will ride on from there.’

  And so it was quickly agreed. The two men led their horses, and they walked with her along the narrow ways until they came to the house where her parents-in-law lived. There, at the doorway, Baldwin took his leave. ‘Simon, old friend. I hope to see you again soon.’

  Simon grasped his hand, and nodded his head. ‘I am sorry for my foul temper, Baldwin,’ he said, still a little stiffly.

  ‘Simon, I can understand. I only hope you realise that I acted in what I thought was the best interests of all of us.’

  Simon took a deep breath. ‘Yes. I know you did. And I am truly sorry that I doubted you at the time – but what would you do or say? My daughter was there …’

  ‘There is no need to say anything,’ Baldwin said gently. And he meant it. He could only imagine how Simon must have felt at the sight of his daughter being threatened with rape and humiliation. It was a scene he would remember for the rest of his life.

  Edith took her leave of them both and knocked on the door. It was soon opened, and she was led through to the hall.

  ‘Peter!’ she cried at the sight of him. She ran in, and fell to her knees at his side, placing her head on his breast. ‘Oh, Peter, I thought I had lost you!’

  ‘I am all right.’

  ‘Peter, are you all right? Really? You look so thin, you poor darling. I was so scared for you.’

  ‘I survived it,’ he said with a shudder at the memory.

  ‘It was no thanks to your family, though,’ Charles said, entering the hall from the solar. ‘If it weren’t for your father, none of this would have happened. You realise that, don’t you? It was all your family’s foolish politicking against Despenser that made this happen. It is a disgrace that a good, honourable, decent fellow like my boy should be arrested and all but killed, just because his father-in-law has an unhealthy fixation with politics.’

  ‘It was not my father’s fault!’ Edith said hotly.

  ‘No? It was your father’s connections with the abbey that led to your capture, from all I have heard, and it was your father’s disputes with Despenser that meant you and my son were such easy prey. What will happen next time? Will my son be arrested and hanged just so your father can strike a small legal blow and feel himself the better for it? Do you want Peter’s blood on your hands?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, if you are associated with your father, I believe that is what must inevitably happen.’

  ‘It won’t happen again, will it, Peter?’ she said, tenderly stroking his cheek.

  ‘No,’ Charles said. ‘It won’t, because I will not permit it. Edith, child, I am sorry: either you must leave your husband and return to your parents, or you must renounce your birth to your father and live here.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It is very easy. Either you tell your father and mother that you will not see them ever again, that you reject them entirely; or you must leave Peter and go to them to live. I will not permit this danger to remain. Make your choice!’

  Monday before the Feast of St Martin in Winter*

  Thorney Island

  Sir Hugh le Despenser received the messenger with a reserved welcome, but although he was less than enthusiastic, his interest was piqued. It was rare that he would have a messenger from a cardinal, and Cardinal de Fargis was an intriguing individual.

  ‘The Cardinal de Fargis bade me bring you this,’ the messenger said.

  He was only a short little man, and his accent showed that he was not English, but from somewhere on the continent. Despenser had not travelled about the lands south of France, but he thought that this fellow had a similar accent to someone he had met once from Rome.

  He opened the little scroll and read it, before looking up sharply. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘He asked me to give you this, too,’ the messenger said imperturbably. It was a second little scroll, the pair of them being from John de Courtenay, apparently.

  Despenser threw them both down on the table. ‘These are strange indeed. And what have they to do with me?’

  ‘My master would like you to know that he is aware of these two and their contents. Also that he has made them known to the Holy Father, the pope. He urges you to desist from meddling further in the affairs of the abbey at Tavistock.’

  ‘I have done nothing.’

  ‘My cardinal also said to tell you that as a result of your interference, it is unlikely that either candidate now will become abbot at Tavistock. A fresh candidate may be selected by the pope.’

  ‘This is a king’s endowment. The king would be very disappointed if the pope chose to install a man whom he had not approved,’ Despenser said silkily.

  ‘Yes. My cardinal said you might mention that. He said that in the event that you chose to quarrel over any actions taken, he would have no hesitation in making your correspondence known to the king as well.’

  Despenser picked up the scrolls and held them towards a
candle. ‘I think it need not concern me. I have the scrolls.’

  ‘Copies. The Cardinal de Fargis possesses the originals.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘There is one other thing. Just so you are in no doubt, the Cardinal de Fargis also said that he would petition the pope to have you excommunicated if you persist in this affair.’

  ‘You may tell him I will comply with his wishes,’ Despenser said. He waited until the messenger had left the room before picking up the table and throwing it over in his rage.

  Dartmouth

  It had been a long march across the moors, but worth it. Almost as soon as he reached the port, Roger visited the little house where the official sat with the customs accounts, and spoke with the clerk. The note he had brought from Simon Puttock appeared to work like a miracle, the clerk smiling with delight, and soon Roger had been introduced to a merchant and taken out to a ship that was lying in the river waiting to sail.

  The last few days had been miserable, with the wind and rain making the journey as unpleasant as it could be. Still, as soon as he reached the town, the weather appeared to blow over, and that, together with the promise of a berth aboard ship, left him happier than he had been in a long time.

  If he thought ever of Osbert, and his lonely death out on the moors, it never served to affect his general good humour. It was not the sort of thing that worried him. But when he was at last aboard the ship and ready to sail, it was noticed that he had brought with him a small white and brown puppy.

  And although he was mocked for keeping it, no one was cruel to his dog. There was something in his eyes and stance that persuaded men to leave it alone.

  *See ‘The Unreliability of Royal Household Knights in the Early Fourteenth Century’ by Michael Prestwich, Fourteenth Century England II, The Boydell Press, 2002.

  *CUP, 1979

  *12 October 1325

  *13 October 1325