The King’s Justice

by E. M. Powell

  He heard a snap of a twig. Definitely. A bit closer. He could swear it.

  He wanted to laugh now at his own boneheaded plan to hide in here until morning.

  Lindley was searching, searching for him now. And the man knew these woods, knew how to move among them in almost complete darkness.

  Think, Hugo, think.

  Hiding was no good. He couldn’t outrun Lindley on the road. Had he been in one piece, he might’ve stood a chance. He was fast, very fast, on a good surface. But not now, not with his knee like this.

  Think, Hugo, think.

  The day when he was out with Barling. When Barling told him to look at the layout of the lands. Of the village.

  He forced himself to picture it. The road looped round a number of long fields. But if he cut through the woods, he would reach the village’s houses much, much sooner.

  Another snap. This one sounded a bit further away.

  Or did it?

  No matter. He had to do this now. Now.

  Stanton took off, bent double, his knee a stab of agony at every step, half giving way every time he put his weight on it. But he didn’t care.

  Branches lashed his face, tore his hands as he ran on blindly, his breath a huffing sob in his terror and pain.

  Then he heard it, through his own noise, somebody else crashing through, behind him, next to him, in front of him, he didn’t know.

  All he knew was that he had to get to a cottage, any cottage.

  And then he saw it.

  The thatched roof against the trees, the shed next to it.

  It was the Webbs’, thank God, the Webbs’. Three souls lived there; Lindley couldn’t kill them all.

  A louder crash, definitely louder.

  Now Stanton was yelling, running. He didn’t care; the Webbs would hear him, they had to.

  And then he was stumbling across the yard, then screaming, hammering at the shut front door.

  ‘Let me in! For the love of God, let me in!’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Please!’ Stanton hammered again, his neck twisting back and forth as he tried to watch the woods, watch everywhere. Watch for the figure who killed men and animals with savage strength.

  Then a sound sent by the saints themselves.

  The sound of a key in the lock. The door opening. A crack, no more.

  ‘Who is it?’ Margaret Webb’s voice. Afraid.

  ‘It’s me, Hugo Stanton. Let me in, I beg you. Lindley’s out here, he’s here!’

  Margaret shrieked and yanked the door open, Stanton stumbling into the room.

  ‘Thank you, mistress.’ He bent over to try and get his breath as she slammed the door and locked it with shaking hands.

  He couldn’t stop. ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you.’

  She trembled from head to foot. ‘You have Peter to thank, sir.’

  Stanton straightened up.

  To see Peter Webb standing there as sweaty and breathless as him. Unlike Margaret, who wore her underskirt and shift, with a large shawl over them for modesty, Peter wasn’t dressed for bed but for a day’s work outdoors. ‘You have found me out, sir.’ His voice shook.

  ‘Found you out?’ Stanton still couldn’t get a full lungful of air. Couldn’t understand either. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was out in the woods just now.’ Peter swallowed hard and exchanged a look with Margaret, who put a hand to her forehead. ‘I’d been out awhile. Then I heard the most terrible sounds. So I ran home. Fast as I could. Like the devil was chasing me.’

  ‘What you heard was Lindley ambushing me,’ said Stanton. ‘Then he killed my horse. And came after me.’

  Margaret gasped. ‘So the devil was abroad.’

  Peter crossed himself with a look of horror, hands trembling. ‘And so was I. May God help me.’

  ‘Did you see him, Webb?’ asked Stanton.

  ‘No, sir.’ Peter’s hands were shaking still.

  ‘He was on the roadway.’

  ‘I . . . I wasn’t on the roadway, sir. I was in the woods.’ Another look to Margaret, who bowed her head. By contrast, Webb straightened as much as he could with his stoop. ‘Where my traps are. I was out poaching.’

  ‘Poaching?’ A surprise, despite the terrors of this night. ‘Does Edgar know you do this?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Webb’s voice dropped. He looked at Margaret again. ‘I need to tell the King’s man everything.’

  She nodded in a wordless reply.

  Webb made his way behind his loom and emerged with a closed sack. He opened it up and removed a glossy hare skin. ‘You see this, sir? I can sell it at one of the market towns. This’ – his hands tightened on the small hide – ‘this is the difference between us being able to pay the rent or not.’

  ‘Between eating or not.’ Margaret’s voice held despair.

  ‘There’s only us two that can earn any kind of living,’ said Webb. ‘You’ve met John, sir.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Stanton. In his panic, he’d not noticed John’s absence.

  ‘Safe in our fulling shed, sir, I promise you,’ said Margaret. ‘I bolted the door myself.’

  ‘He likes it best in there,’ said Peter. ‘He stays calm. At least for some of the time.’ He shook his head. ‘With how he is, having to feed him is the least of our worries. Until now. If Sir Reginald finds out I’ve been poaching . . .’ He trailed off, unable to form the words.

  Stanton could guess. The bullying lord didn’t have a merciful bone in his body. ‘Put your skins away, Webb. You saved my life tonight. I wouldn’t dream of repaying you by making such trouble for you.’

  Webb hauled in a deep breath. Let it out. Looked at his wife. ‘I thank you, sir,’ he said, ‘from the bottom of my heart.’ His own relieved smile lit up his worn, lined face. ‘To your good one.’

  ‘The kindest one,’ whispered Margaret, managing a watery smile.

  A shout came from outside.

  Stanton knew his panicked look would be the same as those of both Webbs.

  Then came a loud hullo. Followed by more calls, different voices. His own name.

  Morel’s carcass had been found.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘Stanton! Thank God you are safe,’ Barling called to him from further along the road.

  The knot of people he stood with raised their voices too.

  ‘I was lucky, Barling,’ said Stanton as he hurried up to them, Peter Webb beside him. Margaret had locked herself in the cottage until her husband returned. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘I would say very lucky.’ Barling’s pale face shone in the light of the lantern he carried, as did the faces of the many others who had come running, lights aloft. A lot of them held sticks as well as their lanterns. They grouped around Morel, exclaiming, clutching each other at what lay before them as well as Stanton’s arrival.

  ‘A miracle.’ Osmond’s eyes looked ready to leave his head. ‘Nothing less.’ The priest had obviously been summoned from his bed. Like so many others, he had flung his cloak over his linens.

  ‘One that your horse wasn’t blessed with, man.’ Edgar pushed his way out from the midst of the huddle, fully dressed. His coarse visage could be the setting sun in this light.

  ‘What happened, Stanton?’ asked Barling. ‘All we know is from these men here.’ He raised his lamp to show two white-faced men leaning against a cart. ‘They were travelling back from a market, their own horse slow from a pulled leg. They saw the rope across the road, then your animal, and so raised the alarm.’

  ‘I wasn’t riding slowly,’ said Stanton. ‘Morel hit the rope hard and I came off. I hid. And then I saw a hooded figure’ – he swallowed – ‘kill my horse.’

  ‘Lindley!’ cried Osmond. ‘May God protect us.’

  His cries were echoed by every one of the group, with people herding closer together on the dark road.

  ‘He chased me. But I ran,’ said Stanton. ‘And Peter Webb here saved me, along with his wife. They took me in. Otherwise . . .�
�� He couldn’t finish. Shrugged.

  ‘You have the gratitude of the King, Webb,’ said Barling.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Webb. ‘I am honoured.’

  ‘Can we leave the niceties to one side?’ Edgar. As usual. ‘Barling, your own man has been attacked! A fine horse too.’ He looked over at poor Morel.

  Stanton couldn’t do so.

  ‘I am fully aware, Edgar,’ said Barling. ‘I wanted to hear from Stanton’s lips what happened, as that will help decide the next course of action.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘What’s happened?’ The call came from Agnes Smith as she ran towards the group. ‘Tell me you’ve got the swine.’

  ‘Of course not, girl.’ Edgar spat his words as she arrived, panting.

  ‘There has been another attack,’ said Barling.

  ‘On the King’s man no less.’ Osmond pointed to Stanton.

  ‘Dear God.’ Her free hand went to her mouth. ‘Are you all right, Hugo?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You should not be abroad on your own, Agnes,’ said Barling. ‘It is far too dangerous.’

  She held up her other hand, into the light. ‘I’m not afraid of Lindley.’ She held a sturdy axe.

  Stanton flinched as people moved back with a cry.

  ‘Agnes, lower that. At once,’ came Barling’s sharp order. ‘Now give it to me.’ He held out his hand.

  She caught the full force of the Barling tone. Stanton knew its impact. Scowling, she placed the weapon handle first in his open palm to many sighs of relief. ‘I will put it away safely.’ He shook his head at Agnes. ‘If you don’t know how to use a weapon, it can be used against you. I will make sure that you are brought back home safely.’

  ‘I’ll take her.’ Simon Caldbeck stepped from the group, a stout stick in one hand.

  ‘No. Agnes needs to come to the hall with us, Barling,’ said Stanton. He had to do this tonight, no matter what had happened. She needed to know the truth about Dene. ‘Sir priest will also be needed.’ To his relief, Barling didn’t question him, though Edgar did. Agnes was louder, more insistent than them all.

  Stanton raised his voice over them. ‘It’s about Thomas Dene.’

  The questioning stopped. Dead.

  ‘Thomas?’ Her face went white. ‘What about him, Hugo?’

  Stanton ignored her question. She would soon find out, God help her.

  ‘Then we shall make all haste, Stanton.’ Barling turned to address the villagers. ‘As for next steps, we need to start a search for Lindley. At first light.’

  His words were met by some more cheers and quite a few anxious looks. Not Edgar.

  ‘God’s eyes!’ Edgar clenched a fist in anticipation. ‘And I shall be the one to lead it, Barling.’

  Stanton exchanged a look with Barling and the clerk read his urgency.

  ‘Go to your homes, good people. And pray for our success.’

  That it would be so. But Stanton couldn’t think about that just yet.

  First, Agnes.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Telling Agnes the truth about the life of Thomas Dene had cost Stanton dear, Barling knew.

  Sitting at the table once again in Edgar’s hall, Barling had listened to his young messenger’s account carefully and without comment while in his heart he offered fervent prayers of thanks. When he’d first seen Stanton’s dead horse on the road, a gut-wrenching terror that his assistant had suffered the same fate had seized him. But God had smiled.

  Stanton’s account of what he had discovered about Dene came as a great surprise – Barling would be the first to admit that. But one thing the law had taught him was that people, far from being in the image of God, were capable of so much wrong.

  Edgar had remarked crudely and relentlessly and drank to match.

  Osmond had been a flurry of exclamations.

  Agnes herself had been disbelieving. The woman who calls herself Katherine Dene is lying. Thomas had no wife. She’s lying.

  Distraught. My life is over. Over, do you hear me? Dear God, I missed his pilgrim badge when I washed him. How? How could I? But he was destroyed. Destroyed, my gorgeous Thomas.

  Disbelieving again. That woman is lying, lying. I don’t know why. A thief of some sort, she has his tools now. That’s it, a low, base thief. Never his wife. Never.

  Then, as she’d had her heart shattered into even smaller pieces by Stanton’s account, Osmond decided that her soul was in peril also. He’d insisted, now he had found out she had been committing adultery, that she make a full and urgent confession to him.

  Agnes had fought it, but once Barling had also ordered her, she had gone to a private room with Osmond.

  Edgar had continued to blabber on, Barling throwing him the odd response as he, Barling, mulled over the latest findings.

  No doubt utterly spent by now, Stanton had sat in silence, barely touching any food, preferring his wine, a poultice on his injured knee.

  Now the rector was back.

  ‘The baggage will confess nothing,’ he said as he walked back in. ‘Nothing.’

  Edgar snorted. ‘Then she’ll burn in hell.’

  ‘Give her time to examine her conscience,’ said Barling. ‘To reflect on her actions.’

  ‘Well, I am not going to waste any more time on her tonight,’ said Osmond. ‘Uncle, I’m off to my own bed. But I’m not walking there alone.’ He shuddered. ‘Think of what a prize a priest would be for Lindley.’

  ‘Take a couple of my servants with you,’ said Edgar.

  ‘More than a couple, I’d say,’ said Osmond. ‘May God give us comfort after this dreadful night. And let us give every thanks for your merciful escape, Stanton.’

  ‘Thank you, sir priest,’ replied Stanton.

  Osmond left with a wave.

  ‘Escape.’ Edgar snorted in disgust. ‘Escape. Too many bloody escapes, if you ask me. Too many. Should never have happened, Barling. Should all’ve been . . . been’ – he waved a hand – ‘dealt with.’ He belched. ‘Long ago.’

  The lord’s obnoxious drunkenness was sorely trying Barling’s patience now. ‘Edgar, as I have said over and over, matters are being dealt with. I am dealing with them, under the authority of his Grace’s justices. As for escapes, it was Thomas Dene who helped Lindley escape.’

  ‘And look what happened to Dene! His head caved in! For helping the swine!’

  ‘We do not know why—’

  ‘But I helped the bastard!’

  Barling could see Stanton’s stunned expression at the edge of his vision. He knew his own would not be far off.

  Edgar carried on. ‘Before anything happened. No one was murdered. Nothing! I found Lindley hiding in one of my stables. It was the night before the one of Smith’s murder. Chap was in a piteous state. I gave him some work to do. Rewarded him for it with charity. The boots off my own feet. My own feet! Said that was what he wanted. Not money. His feet were ruined from wandering for miles.’

  ‘Edgar, why on earth have you not told me this before?’

  ‘Because it was something of nothing. I’d helped the man. He had his boots. Should’ve been gone. On his way.’ He got to his feet, swaying hard. ‘Instead, he won’t leave us alone. Bringing us all to hell.’ He staggered out, cursing loud and long.

  Stanton stared after him, then looked over at Barling. ‘How could he not tell you this?’

  ‘Stanton, people keep secrets for all sorts of reasons.’ The very best of reasons, as Barling knew only too well. ‘This at least explains in part why Edgar is so quick to blame everybody for Lindley’s escape. He had allowed it himself, and did it first, not bothering to enquire in any way about why a beggar might be roaming the land. Had he made such enquiries, who knows what he may have discovered?’ He gave a sharp sigh. ‘The man’s approach to the law, to order, defies belief.’

  ‘At least his outburst explains the matter of Lindley’s boots,’ said Stanton. ‘I did wonder how such a ragged man had such good ones.’
/>   Barling nodded. ‘I had also noticed those but assumed he had stolen them from somewhere.’

  ‘As for secrets,’ said Stanton, ‘some I can understand more than others. Now that we’re on our own, let me tell you about the Webbs’.’ He provided Barling with a brief account.

  Barling sighed. ‘Now we face a difficult dilemma. Edgar should really be told.’

  ‘No, he shouldn’t. The Webbs saved my life, at risk to themselves. A few hares don’t matter to Edgar. They do to the Webbs.’ The younger man’s words were forceful. Calm. Convincing.

  ‘Are you honestly trying to convince me that breaking the law should be rewarded, Stanton?’

  ‘In this case, yes.’

  Barling gave a small smile, which he knew surprised Stanton. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You are indeed learning to think things through. Before long I believe you will be fit to hold another position with the court. Yes, you are no scribe, but I am sure we can find a better way for you to serve your King and—’

  ‘No!’ Stanton’s face was a sudden mask of barely suppressed fury, shocking Barling as much as the loud interruption.

  ‘I believe that—’

  ‘No.’ Stanton cut him off again. ‘I don’t want it, never want it. Do you hear me?’

  Barling was rarely bewildered. He was now.

  Stanton’s visage, normally so easy to read, had become a closed, furious mask.

  Barling did know, however, when not to respond, when not to antagonise one who was greatly aroused. He held a hand up. ‘Very well. I shall not suggest it again.’

  To his relief, Stanton relaxed once more, the younger man’s brow clearing as he swallowed hard. ‘Thank you, Barling.’

  ‘Then we move on,’ said Barling, forcing his own attention back to the matter at hand. ‘I have a secret to share with you also. Another that relates to Agnes Smith. I will be brief.’

  Stanton listened, his face now filled with growing horror as Barling related how Lindley had also set about Agnes on the night of her father’s murder, stealing through the woods using concealing clothing in the same way.

  When he’d finished, Stanton looked as though he might be sick. ‘Then Agnes was almost a victim of Lindley too.’ He brought a hand to his neck. ‘So many. Barling, why is he doing this? You have spent years hearing the crimes of killers. You must have some idea.’