No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (11 page)

Jeanne waited until her husband had taken a sip before continuing. ‘It is the sheriff and his men. The sheriff is a new man,
one of Sir Hugh le Despenser’s companions, I think, and it seems as though all are subject to Despenser’s scrutiny.’

‘How do you mean?’ Baldwin asked.

It was Edgar who, on a signal from Jeanne, began to speak. ‘I believe Despenser has grown terrified of an attack from a foreign
power. Perhaps he fears that Mortimer will soon cross the sea and try to take the kingdom. Whatever the reason, he is even
less trusting than before, and now he seeks to implement his control over every part of the land where there is a coast and
where an invasion force could land. Clearly Devon and Cornwall are particularly dangerous, in his mind.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘There are coastlines to north and south, of course.’

‘And an infinite number of places where a man might bring a host to attack the king,’ Edgar agreed.

It wasn’t strictly true. In the north of Devon, as Baldwin knew well, there were few naturally safe harbours for a ship, let
alone a fleet, but that was not the point. Devon and Cornwall were exceedingly hard to protect.

‘There is more,’ Edgar said. ‘Of course Despenser will know that the queen was mistress of much of both shires. She controlled
the mining of the tin, and she had a lot of supporters over here.’

‘What of it?’

‘The king – and Despenser – would hardly be natural if they didn’t wonder whether she too might try to gather a force to oust
Despenser. She has seen her power and authority eroded by him in the last years.’

‘So you think that Despenser has planned to come here and take over the running of the West Country from the locals?’

‘I think he is plotting to have his placemen set in all positions of any form of authority at the coast,’ Edgar said. ‘And
that includes Devon, because there are so many ideal places for a bold team to land, and many potential supporters for the
men who would try it. He has installed this Sir James de Cockington as sheriff, but there are others who are winning his favour
as well.’

‘I suppose that is natural enough,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully. ‘He is putting men in place to ensure that the land is safe
from attack.’

‘Yes, but there are other men who seem to have little regard for the law. So long as they are Despenser’s friends, they feel
that they can wander the land at will, taking whatever they desire,’ Jeanne said. ‘And that appears to include the sheriff
himself. He is more corrupt than any, if what is said is true.’

‘Which bodes not well for those who have shown themselves to be enemies of Despenser,’ Edgar added, looking at his master
with a serious expression.

Road near Bow

There were few times in Stephen of Shoreditch’s life when he had been made to feel quite so fearful. In his experience, most
men were more than happy to treat him with a degree of respect, because a man who insulted the king’s messengers insulted
the king himself. A messenger was a representative of the king.

These men hardly appeared to accord him any respect whatsoever. They didn’t talk to him, nor offer him any refreshment, but
insisted that he dismount and walk with them. Another man behind them had his horse now, while he walked in the midst of his
captors, glancing about him on occasion, hoping against hope that they were speaking the truth and would take him to Sir Robert
de Traci. Certainly he had little expectation that he would be able to escape. Although these felons had left him with his
dagger and short riding sword, they were hemmed closely in on him, and the likelihood of his being able to run from them was
remote in the extreme. They looked more than capable of bringing him down in a matter of yards.

It was while they were on their way that he saw the event that was to make him certain that he was in the company of dangerous
souls.

They had taken a little turn, and were now walking down a hill towards what looked like a fair-sized hamlet, when Stephen
heard a squeaking and rumbling sound. It wasn’t ahead of them, but over to the left, somewhere towards the south. Before long
he was able to make out a little lane that appeared to interest the men with him. They wandered up to it, slinking along quietly,
and crouched at the edge, where it met their own road.

Soon Stephen could see what was happening. Even as the scarred man grasped his shoulder and pulled him down, he could see
that the noise was a man on an ancient cart.

‘Messenger boy, if you want to live to deliver another note, you’ll
keep your mouth and your eyes shut!’ the man said, and his dagger was already unsheathed, the point at Stephen’s throat, in
the dent below his windpipe.

There was nothing Stephen could say. He merely nodded his head slowly, and watched.

The man was a farmer, so far as he could see. An ordinary farmer on the way to the market at Bow, likely. He had some produce
in the back of his little cart. A pathetic amount, but enough to justify the journey. The man was almost asleep as he knelt
in the cart, his head nodding with the cart’s jerking, his eyes all but closed.

‘Old man, what have you got in there?’

Stephen looked over to see that one of the men had grabbed the horse’s rein and was grinning up at the farmer.

‘Who are you? I’m—’

‘No, old man. What have you got in there, is what I asked.’

‘Nothing. Just some beans and cheese for market. What do you want with me?’

‘We are taking tolls for the market,’ the man said smoothly, and nodded to one of the others.

Immediately Stephen saw this fellow slip around the cart and grab for the back of it. The farmer scowled and turned, watching
as the fellow eyed the goods and reached in to take a cheese.

‘I’ll see you in hell before you take that or anything else of mine,’ the farmer snarled.

‘Pox on your threats, old man,’ the man at the reins said.

‘Leave my goods, you shite!’

‘Who do you think you are, peasant?’

‘I am Jack Begbeer, you little hog, and I won’t be robbed!’

‘Hey, Osbert, look at this! There’s a good barrel of ale here too!’ the man at the back said, and was soon clambering over
the cart.

The farmer glanced at him, and then reached down to his side. He came up gripping a whip; flicking his wrist, the long end
rose, curled around and lashed out. The man at the back of the cart gave a cry, and his hand went to his brow. As he stood,
hands cupping his face, blood began to ooze from a slash across his forehead, and he sprang down to hide from the stinging
whip.

‘Old git!’ the man at the reins bellowed, and ducked as the whip end came towards him.

Stephen saw it as it passed over the man’s head. It had been cut and woven into a fine point, and when it touched flesh, it
cut like a razor. Already the farmer was thrashing it about him with abandon, standing warily on his cart, keeping the men
at bay, snarling defiance at them all. ‘You think you can rob any man passing here? We all know you and your evil master.
Well you won’t take my things, not without some of you getting hurt, you sons of dogs! Go to hell, you soulless devils! The
pox on you and your children, if you can father them!’

In front of him, Stephen saw that the scarred man had laughed at first to see the men trounced by an old peasant, but his
humour was fading now. ‘Old man, get down from the cart. You’ve hurt one of Sir Robert of Traci’s men, and that means your
toll has become more expensive.’

‘You? You think to steal all my goods? You think I don’t know you, Osbert? Son of a whore, your father was, and you too! Think
you that you can scare me? I’ll be damned if I’ll let you rob me like you rob so many others, damn your soul!’

As he spoke, he flung back his arm, then lashed. The whip sprang towards the scarred man like a viper. He swore, stepped aside,
and let the whip fly past him, and as it rose a second time, he darted forward, under the horses, and reappeared on the other
side, his dagger held by the point. He hefted it, took his aim, and hurled.

The dagger spun lazily in the air, and Stephen could see its flight as it turned over and over and then sank to the hilt in
the old farmer’s throat. He dropped reins and whip, clutching at the hilt, spinning as he tried to pull it free, eyes wide
with horror, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to breathe. Then he fell backwards, dropping heavily on to his backside
near the front of the cart even as the blood began to dribble from his lips.

‘Stupid old peasant! Couldn’t you restrain yourself? Eh?’ Scarface shouted. ‘You had to keep on, didn’t you? See where that
gets you, you old git! Straightway to hell. Well, give my regards to the devil!’

The farmer slumped, his body jerking and writhing as he died slowly. Gradually his efforts to keep upright became too much
of a struggle, and he toppled over the cart’s wall, ending up on his back beside his carthorse, his eyes fixed on the man
he had called Osbert. The man with the scarred face walked to the farmer, reached for his knife and jerked it free. A fine
spray of blood erupted from the dying
man’s throat, and Osbert laughed to see the way that the horse pulling the cart neighed and tried to jerk away from the warm
blood.

‘Come on, fools!’ he bellowed, and kicked the farmer’s body from cart’s path. He took up the reins and cracked them to get
the beast moving again.

Stephen felt a hand on his elbow, and submitted to being pushed along. He couldn’t help but glance back at the body in the
dirt at the side of the track. The farmer’s face was already mottled with death, the blood staining his clothes, while a red,
oily sheen lay upon his face. Stephen was sure that he could see the man’s lips working, but it was impossible to tell what
he was trying to say. Perhaps it was ‘Avenge me!’

If that was what the old peasant hoped, he would have to remain hopeful. Stephen wanted nothing to do with fighting those
devils.

St Pancras Lane, Exeter

Edith waited at the table until her husband arrived, and then rose to greet him.

‘My sweet, you shouldn’t have waited,’ he protested.

The maidservant was still in the room, and his greeting must remain cordial but restrained, he felt. Although he had grown
up with servants in his household, it was a novel experience still to have his own maid.

Edith smiled. ‘God speed, husband. Sit, please, and let me serve you.’

‘I am most grateful for your attendance, my love. Send the maid away,’ he added in a hiss.

At Edith’s gesture, young Jane curtsied and left, walking carefully as though she might break some of the wonderful carvings
on the cupboard.

‘Thank you, my love,’ Peter murmured, and pulled his wife towards him.

‘Oho, so you want to let your food get cold?’ Edith protested.

He had her by the waist already. ‘Not half, my precious! Come here, and let me …’

Edith fell back over his lap to sit with a low chuckle. She pointed her chin to the ceiling while he nuzzled at her throat,
his hands roving over her simple tunic, feeling the firmness of her body beneath, the
rounded swelling of her breasts, the smooth flesh of her flanks. ‘Oh, my love. I have been dreaming of this all day!’

‘Well you will have to continue dreaming for a little longer. I am petrified with hunger,’ she said, and was about to climb
from him when there was a loud knocking on the door. She looked down at him. ‘Who can that be?’

‘Christ’s bones, but I don’t know, I swear,’ Peter said with conviction, standing and walking to the door.

It was dark out, but as he threw the door wide, he could see the lanterns shining, the candles flickering in their horn boxes.
‘What do you want?’

The nearest man was a stout fellow with an ancient-looking cap of steel. He had shrewd dark eyes set widely below a strong
forehead, and a beard that was very dark. He was young enough not to have any frost on his head or in his moustache. He looked
at Edith. ‘We’d heard that Sir Richard de Welles was here. Have you seen him? Or Sir Baldwin, the Keeper?’

‘Why do you want them?’ Peter said, aware of Edith behind him. He felt her hand rest on his shoulder.

‘There’s been a murder over towards Oakhampton, and Sir Peregrine has asked for them to go to him,’ the man said.

‘You must send for him at Furnshill, then,’ Peter said. ‘They left here early this morning. They will be there by now, I’d
imagine.’

‘Then God speed, master,’ the man said. He motioned with his hands, and the others began to filter back up the alley towards
St Pancras. ‘Was the bailiff with them too?’

‘Who, my father?’ Edith asked. ‘Simon Puttock? Yes.’

The fellow nodded and set off after the other men. The last Edith saw of them was their backs as they made their way to the
top of the alley and took the path left, wandering southwards. She caught a fleeting glimpse, so she thought, of another face,
one that made her blood run cold for an instant, but then it was gone, and she knew that it must be her imagination. William
atte Wattere, the man whom she had encountered at her father’s house on the day she had gone to ask his permission to marry,
was surely nowhere near here now.

Peter shut the door and rested his hand on it for a few moments, frowning. ‘I do not like that fellow.’

‘Why, my love? He was only a watchman, wasn’t he?’

‘He didn’t look like any man from around here. He was one of the guard with the new sheriff at Rougemont Castle, I’d swear.’

Edith shrugged and led him back to their hall. ‘What of it?’

‘He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d be sent for a simple message delivery. It was almost as though someone wanted
to make sure that the coroner and your father had actually left the city.’

Road near Bow

Roger had made good time walking back down to the south coast. Embittered, chilly, sore footed and hungry, he was glad to
have met a farmer just outside Winkleigh, who, after studying him a while, invited him in to sit before a fire, and fed him
warmed milk sweetened with almonds, and some good thick maslin bread. Even better, he had allowed his guest to stay the night
on the floor near the fire.

It was astonishing how well a man could feel when he had been rested and fed. Roger had known times in Guyenne, and in other
parts of France, when he had been fighting, terrified for his life, and he and the others had found a little farmstead to
take and sleep in, where the bliss of the peace was almost unbearable.

Walking here from that little farm had been much faster, and he had reached the outskirts of North Tawton the previous day.
Somehow he had missed his path back to Jacobstowe. And although he knew he should have simply hurried on, down to Oakhampton,
which was apparently not too many miles away, and thence to the coast and the busy port there, he had idled the day away.
This morning, waking, he had been determined to get away from the area, but somehow he found himself still here. It was not
until late afternoon that he decided to leave, but now, rather than seek out and walk through the woods at Abbeyford, he turned
eastwards on a whim. There was no reason to go that way, other than the fact that he would have to take an easterly route
at some point to get to Dartmouth, but he had an urge to take a slower path. He was enjoying the feeling of being on land
too much to hazard the dangers of the sea followed by the hardship of fighting.

As he was strolling along, looking at the view from the roadway, he suddenly heard a force of men-at-arms approaching.

Most men, on hearing such a sound, would simply continue on their way. There were men on horseback all over the realm, and
many of them warriors. It was a normal sight, natural in its way. So many
magnates wanted to take their loyal men with them when they travelled so that any daring felons would be dissuaded from attempting
a robbery. But Roger had a different attitude to such noises. In his mind there was an appreciation of the danger such men
could represent. In Guyenne, the flat, treeless landscapes sometimes meant it was harder to conceal yourself, but here there
were so many opportunities, it was difficult to pick the best.

The riders were approaching quickly. Gazing about him, he caught sight of a convenient tree branch at the side of the road,
and used it to clamber up and over the hedge. He was just in time – as he landed, gently, on his feet and allowed his legs
to fold beneath him so that he was almost flat beside the tree, he saw through the twigs and stems of the hedge the first
flash of mottled armour, and heard the sound of hoofs suddenly grow louder. He saw a one-eyed warrior, and a fearful-looking
man hemmed in by all the others, and reckoned that he was not a willing companion.