The King’s Justice

by E. M. Powell

  ‘It was all in hand when I left. It happened two days ago.’ Stanton didn’t need to say any more. The heat of the summer day answered for him. ‘The rector at Claresham also promised that Thomas would be buried properly in the churchyard.’

  Edith nodded, dry-eyed now, though her face looked to have aged ten years. ‘And who did it? Who killed my son?’

  ‘An outlaw.’ Stanton swallowed. ‘He has also killed others in Claresham.’

  Edith crossed herself as Katherine sobbed on, lost in her grief. ‘Then this outlaw will hang?’

  ‘The outlaw, a man called Nicholas Lindley, is on the run,’ replied Stanton. ‘He had already been captured but escaped from the village gaol.’

  ‘Then he must be found, devil take him!’

  ‘There’s more.’ Stanton held up a hand. Dropped it as he realised it was something Barling did. Barling, who’d ordered him to tell this heartbreaking truth to two women whose hearts were already broken. ‘I hate to have to tell you this in your time of grief. But Thomas Dene helped the outlaw to escape.’ As did I. But I’m still alive. ‘The outlaw then killed him, we assume to cover his tracks.’

  ‘Never!’ The angry scream took him by surprise. The baby too, waking with a loud squeal, and the little dog jumped up to bark again. But it wasn’t Edith who’d called out.

  Katherine thrust the crying baby at Edith and stood up to face Stanton. ‘Never. My husband was a good man.’ She jabbed a finger at him. ‘A fine man.’ Again. ‘An honest man. A godly man!’

  Honest? thought Stanton, but ‘I’m sorry’ was all he said.

  ‘Sorry?’ Katherine’s dark eyes flashed in her fury. ‘You should be ashamed, speaking ill of the dead. Ashamed!’ Her anger broke into tears again and she slumped back on to the settle.

  Edith rose to her feet, yelling baby in her arms.

  Stanton hesitated. The truth is always better, no matter how painful it is. Barling’s words to him before he came here.

  ‘I think you should leave, sir,’ said Edith.

  But Barling hadn’t meant telling a newly bereaved widow that her dead husband had been committing adultery with another woman. And if he did, he could go to hell. Stanton wasn’t going to do it. Not here, not now. It could wait for another day. ‘I’ll do that, mistress.’

  He went to the door, Edith following with the baby. He took a last glance back.

  Katherine was doubled over now, rocking and moaning.

  ‘Mistress Dene,’ he said to Edith, ‘I wish that I had not had to come here today with such dreadful news. Please believe me.’

  ‘Believe me that I wish that too, sir.’

  Stanton unhooked the heavy satchel containing the stonecutter’s tools and laid it down at her feet. ‘There’s likely a hammer missing from this bag,’ he said quietly.

  Edith blinked, nodded. Held the baby even tighter.

  ‘Is his pilgrim badge in there?’ called Katherine to him.

  ‘Pilgrim badge?’ replied Stanton. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t recall seeing one.’

  ‘He wore it around his neck,’ said Katherine. ‘Silver. From the shrine at Canterbury. We got it when we went there. It was in the shape of the head casket of Saint Thomas Becket.’ Her tears started again. ‘It was supposed to protect him on his travels. Saint Thomas protecting my beloved Tom.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Stanton again. ‘But I haven’t.’

  Katherine’s tears fell harder.

  ‘Please leave, sir,’ said Edith.

  He went out, pushing his way through the knot of curious people that had gathered.

  He needed to get back to Claresham as quick as he could.

  And break the heart of another woman.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘You can see what a skilled stonemason Thomas Dene was, Barling.’ The rector Osmond indicated the newly laid floor of the chancel in the empty church at Claresham.

  The heavy rain echoed on the roof, but unlike Edgar’s hall, not a drop found its way in.

  ‘Dene had a very good hand,’ said Barling. ‘I could not help but notice his work at his funeral yesterday. A cruel twist that his body lay above it.’

  Osmond pursed his lips and nodded, setting his chins wobbling. ‘Cruel indeed. Though I must confess I noticed little at the funeral Mass yesterday, save the grief of Agnes Smith. It quite took over.’

  ‘It did, though I suppose it was to be expected. She has had to face so many deaths in such a short time.’

  ‘God sends us trials, Barling.’ Osmond pulled a mournful face. ‘And we know not why.’ He crossed himself with great extravagance. ‘Now, you said you would like to speak to me in private. Shall we retire to the rectory?’

  ‘We are alone here in your church, sir priest.’

  ‘Yes, quite.’ Osmond set off for the door anyway. ‘But we will have greater comfort in my home. We will be able to eat too.’

  Barling followed him with a last look at the floor. He knew that many stonemasons took pride in the fact that their work would outlast them, would exist to glorify the Lord long after their deaths. He offered up a brief prayer for Thomas Dene that it might be so for him.

  He joined Osmond outside, sheltered in the porch from the pelting rain that pattered loudly on the full-leafed towering trees edging the churchyard and the rest of the rector’s property.

  Osmond appeared much cheered again. ‘A pleasure to have you visit my home. Over there you’ll see my tithe barn. Filling nicely it is.’

  ‘A fine building, sir priest. As is your house.’ Built of solid stone, the rectory had a costly slate roof.

  Osmond gave a wide smile. ‘Then let us go there with all haste. I have no wish to change my clothes yet again.’

  They hurried along the soaked, neatly gravelled path to the rectory, where the front door stood open, awaiting them.

  ‘Yet modest,’ added Osmond. ‘In keeping with my calling in life.’

  Barling did not reply as they entered, shaking rainwater from his robes.

  Where Edgar’s hall was far larger, the lord’s manor was always in a state of dirt, disorganisation and decay. Not so the rectory lived in by his nephew.

  The high-roofed main hall was dry and airy. The floor rushes looked recently laid and gave off a fresh scent. The plaster on the walls was picked out in an intricate design of red and yellow squares, with painted blue flowers in the centre of each. Over the huge fireplace a number of large panels were hung, depicting the lives of the saints. Gold glimmered from within the rich colours, as did a large crucifix hung as a centrepiece. A long, carved chest shone with hours of polishing and beeswax, reflecting a large pot that held bunches of scented pink roses. The chairs arranged around the table were padded in the finest tapestry. Osmond sank into one, gesturing for Barling to take another.

  ‘I declare this heat has my humours unbalanced.’ The rector fanned himself hard. ‘And no doubt that’s what has laid my uncle low again.’

  Barling did not respond directly. He was used to Edgar’s drunken sloth by now. ‘It is warm indeed, sir priest. Despite this rain.’ He eyed the contents of the table.

  Not only did it hold a huge selection of meats and cheeses and the best puddings and bread, every plate, dish, bowl and drinking vessel had the gleam of silver. The washing bowls had petals floating in them. Sir priest clearly liked the very finest things in life.

  As both men rinsed their hands before eating, a servant hurried in, clad in neat russet tunic and braies.

  Barling bowed his head to say grace, Osmond joining him in a rapid mutter and finishing first.

  The servant went to fill Barling’s goblet with good wine, but he refused it.

  ‘I will have water,’ said Barling with a nod to a large jug.

  ‘You do not have wine, do you, Barling?’ The rector’s eyes went even smaller in his fleshy face as he took a drink.

  ‘No, sir priest. But that is of no consequence.’ Barling broke off a little bread and nodded in the direction of the servant. ‘As
I have said, I wish for us to speak in private.’

  ‘Leave us,’ said Osmond to the servant, who withdrew at once with a bow. He went on: ‘He’s a good sort. Efficient. Reliable. And a solid man for keeping his master safe.’ The solemn look was back. ‘Of great importance in these dangerous times. I never thought I would see the day here in Claresham. Now, why is it that you want to speak to me alone? Is there something troubling you?’

  ‘No, sir priest. Simply that you may be able to shed some light on recent events here.’

  ‘Not I.’ Osmond’s eyes rounded as much as they were able. ‘I am as shocked as anybody.’

  ‘I am sure you are,’ said Barling. ‘Nevertheless, I would value your esteemed opinions.’

  His flattery worked.

  Osmond smiled in self-satisfaction. ‘Of course, Barling. Ask away.’

  ‘Your uncle said in the court at York that murder had not happened before. Is that true?’

  ‘By the blood of the Virgin it is.’ Osmond took a deep bite of the slice of gamey pie he had in one hand, adding the sheen of grease to that of sweat on his upper lip. ‘I hope you’re not calling him a liar.’

  ‘Not at all, sir priest,’ said Barling. ‘I merely like to remind myself of the facts. He chose his next words carefully. ‘And your uncle is very fond of the grape.’

  Osmond shrugged. ‘My uncle does indeed like his wine.’ He raised his goblet to Barling. ‘As do I.’

  ‘As do many men. For most, it causes them no bother. But for a few, it can cloud their recollections. Often quite badly.’

  Osmond waved a hand dismissively. ‘My uncle is advancing in years. That can be even worse.’

  ‘Indeed. But to your knowledge, there have been no other murders here?’

  ‘Goodness, Barling.’ Osmond fixed him with a stare. ‘I hope you’re not asking me to reveal what is discussed in the sanctity of the confessional.’

  Barling felt the colour leave his face in horror at the very idea. ‘No, sir priest. Never.’

  ‘Good,’ said Osmond with an unpleasant grin. ‘Sometimes I wish I could share what I hear, for it would keep folk amazed for a year. Of course I cannot.’ He bit off more of his pie. ‘I can say that there is nobody who has confessed to a murder.’ He chewed fast, hard. ‘No one in the many years since my uncle set me up here as rector. And we have had no need of confessions. The murder of Geoffrey Smith marked the onset of Nicholas Lindley’s carnage. I eagerly await his capture. Then I shall be pleased to hear his confession. Right before we hang him. Which we will do with all haste. Very convenient having you here, Barling.’

  ‘I am not sure I have ever been so described, sir priest.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Osmond waved a hand. ‘It is of course an honour too. I am a great admirer of King Henry’s approach to the administration of the law. Excellent to see justice done with such great efficiency.’ He wiped the grease from his fingers. ‘I shall need his Grace’s law myself one day, though I pray God is good and that it will not be for a long time.’

  ‘To which law do you refer, sir priest?’ asked Barling, unsettled by Osmond’s sudden appreciation for the King’s law. ‘Perhaps I can assist or advise you.’

  ‘I am referring to the assize of mort d’ancestor,’ replied Osmond. ‘For when my uncle dies, I shall be making a claim on his estate. My uncle has never been married and has no children of his own. I am compiling a solid appeal.’ His small eyes met Barling’s. ‘Though of course I pray that I will not need it for many, many years. My uncle, the lord of Claresham, is still hale. If God is good, Sir Reginald Edgar won’t be lying in my church any day soon.’ He spooned a large helping of almond pudding into his mouth.

  The rain on the roof gathered yet more strength.

  Barling frowned to himself. Wet journeys could mean longer journeys and much more hazardous ones. He hoped Stanton would not be further delayed. Oddly for Barling, he quite missed having the younger man by his side. Usually his own company was all he required.

  ‘My, that’s good. I shall have some more.’ Osmond licked his lips, then nodded at his fireplace and sighed. ‘Dene was going to carve me a new mantel, you know. Now I shall have to seek another mason.’ He sighed again. ‘Dreadful times, Barling. Dreadful times.’

  ‘Dreadful,’ said Barling. For it was dreadful indeed to witness the naked greed of William Osmond, rector of Claresham: greed that went far, far beyond another mound of wobbly pudding.

  Riding into Claresham for this, his second time, couldn’t be any more different for Stanton.

  Six days ago he’d ridden in behind Edgar and Barling, half-asleep from the hot sunshine and the slow-paced ride. Folk had been out and about in the full light of day.

  Now he rode in late at night to silence, other than the wind in the tall, dripping trees that lined this stretch of road and the call and answer of owls. Although it had stopped, the rain in which he’d left Claresham must have carried on and on. Everything was soaked, and deep puddles sat in the fields as well as on the muddy road.

  The fast pace of the splattering hooves of his lone animal echoed into the quiet.

  Six days ago he’d not yet laid eyes on the murderous liar Nicholas Lindley. Six days ago Bartholomew Theaker was alive. Thomas Dene as well. And Katherine Dene was a married woman. Just as Agnes Smith thought she was about to be.

  He put a hand to his face to push the tiredness away and urged his exhausted Morel on.

  Barling needed to know about Dene’s wife and children. He’d tell Barling first. No doubt the clerk would come down hard on him for not telling what was left of the Dene family. He didn’t care. It would have been too much. Barling hadn’t been there. Too much. Stanton would tell him tomorrow. First he had to sleep. He was tired, so tired. As was his animal. But he pushed, pushed. He patted the sweating neck of the surging horse. They were nearly there.

  And then Morel fell from under him.

  Stanton went over her right shoulder, no time to react, the ground an agonising crack to his face, his bent arm and knee as he hit the wet, stony road.

  Damn it.

  His wind was gone as well. He fought to get a breath into his lungs, rolled away from paddling, iron hooves even as it felt like a huge fist pressed on his chest. He lay on his back, the rustling trees above soaring into the cloudy sky.

  Damn it all to hell.

  But it was his own stupid fault. He’d pushed his horse too hard for too long. The dark hid holes and furrows in the road. He should know better. He got some air in. Got a bit more. Rose to his good knee. He put a hand to his face and felt wet but no give of broken bone.

  And froze.

  Morel hadn’t fallen from a misplaced hoof.

  A thick rope stretched tight across the road. Ready to bring an animal down. And the rider with it.

  Run. Now. He got to his feet. Held back a yelp of pain as he almost fell again, his knee folding under him. He couldn’t. Couldn’t run.

  All he could do was hide. He took off into the woods, shambling, scrambling to get out of sight as thorns and branches caught on his clothing. A thick evergreen bush loomed up before him and he forced his way in, trying to be fast, be quiet, terrified he was neither. He peered out at his horse, still lying injured on the road. Her whinnies told him she was in agony. At least one of her legs must be broken.

  A fierce anger flashed through him. But he could do nothing, nothing except thank God his own neck hadn’t snapped. Or that his knee wasn’t broken. He tested it again. Still without strength, the pain pulsing through it. He was stuck in here.

  Think, Hugo, think.

  Right then. Stuck maybe. But at least hidden. Hidden was safe. He forced his breathing quiet. Quiet would keep him safe too. He’d hide out in here all night, wait until dawn broke and somebody else came along the road and—

  Oh, Jesu Christus.

  He could see somebody else on the road all right. But a somebody who stepped from the woods. One wrapped in a long dark cloak, face behind a concealin
g wrap as well. Utterly silent. Looking right, left. Not looking at poor Morel, suffering on the ground.

  Looking for the rider, moving at a steady, fluid pace as Stanton strained to see in the gloom.

  The figure’s clothing made it a shadow amongst shadows, the clouds not helping.

  And then, with a gust of wind, they slipped past the small moon, bringing a poor light.

  Bringing enough light for Stanton to see the figure standing over his injured horse, to see the figure raise a gloved hand.

  And that hand was closed around something, something that the figure slammed into Morel’s skull in a blow so hard he could swear he felt it as well as heard it.

  Lindley. Stanton shoved his fist into his mouth to stop his cry. No.

  Morel wasn’t dead, not yet, the blows raining down on her again and again, until she was – after she was – in a savage, sickening slaughter.

  When it was over, Stanton felt a trickle of moisture on his hand. He realised he’d punctured his flesh, biting it so hard to stop his screams of horror.

  Lindley straightened up. Threw the stone away.

  And now he was looking left, right again. Looking left, right, as if he sniffed the air. As if he could smell Stanton and his terror nearby.

  Then he was on the move again. Taking those fast, silent strides that made him seem a ghost.

  But one that was back in the bushes. Only the odd snap of a tiny twig, only the odd sway of a branch as Stanton squinted, peered, trying to track where he was.

  With a stiff gust of wind, the darkness swept in again, as if the moon closed her eyes to the horror on the road below her.

  A wave of sweat drenched Stanton. His hands went to the ground, searching as quickly, as quietly, as he dared for anything, anything at all, he could use as a weapon. He didn’t dare drop his gaze.

  Not that he could see a thing.

  His hands met twigs, damp leaves. Nothing. He had nothing. Nothing to use against the man who’d caved in the skull of a horse with just a rock and his own murderous strength.