No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (14 page)

‘Dear God, child, what has happened?’

It was her mother-in-law, and even as Edith sank down, incapable of supporting herself, so great was her relief at seeing
a friendly face, she was aware of a feeling of enormous gratitude that it was Jan, rather than her more stern husband, Charles,
who stood there as the servant opened the door to her.

Edith gabbled in her panic. ‘Mother, Mother, they’ve arrested poor Peter. He was taken just now. A man hit him, hit him hard
with a staff, and … and …’

‘Be still, my dear,’ Mistress Jan said. She was a short, dark-haired woman with a matronly figure. She knelt at Edith’s side,
holding her close. ‘Child, you are freezing. You need a fire.’

‘I am fine, it’s Peter we …’ Edith protested, anxious that Jan didn’t believe her. Then, looking up, she saw the lines
of fear in the older woman’s face, the glittering in the dark eyes, and the compassion.

‘I know. But if he’s been taken to the castle, there is little we may do until we have a pleader to go and learn what he has
been accused of, and why. You need to calm yourself, Edith, and I insist that you
come to the fire and rest a while.’ She held up a hand to stop dispute. ‘Meantime I shall send a boy to my husband to acquaint
him with the facts. There is nothing more we can do until he arrives.’

Edith wanted to protest. She wanted to be doing something,
anything
, to help Peter, but there was a comfort in Peter’s mother’s voice. This woman was as worried as she was – perhaps more so.
Edith couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to hear that her own son had been taken, nor how difficult it would be to try
to remain calm enough to soothe another woman while feeling that her own world was shattered.

‘There is nothing more we can do,’ the woman repeated. She helped Edith up and through to the hall. ‘Sit here, and try to
relax. After all, you’ve a duty to protect the child.’

‘You knew?’ Edith asked with frank astonishment.

‘You thought you’d kept it hidden?’ Mistress Jan chuckled tiredly.

She hurried from the room, and Edith was left before the fire, her maid beside her. Edith stared at the flames, and outwardly
gave every sign of composure, but when she tried to think of her husband, her breath caught in her throat. She found herself
sobbing like an old woman, with dry, hacking, choking sounds, and she discovered that all her thoughts were grim and dark
as she clutched her maid’s arm for support.

Road to Oakhampton

They had left Sir Peregrine when the sun was already past its zenith by a good half-hour. He had plenty of business to conduct
himself, and was keen to get at least as far as Crediton before nightfall. That should not be any trouble, but Simon and Sir
Richard still had many miles to go.

‘What did you think of his words?’ Sir Richard asked.

‘I think that he is plainly alarmed by the way the law is becoming so disdained,’ Simon said. He jogged along in the saddle
for a few moments, thinking again about the way Sir Peregrine had commented upon the murders in the area. ‘I was shocked to
hear of the murder of the reeve, I confess. Most wandering bands would avoid harming a man such as he, if they can avoid it.’

‘Aye. But the buggers are all over the place now. Indolent, idle and armed. It makes it all more problematic. If there’s a
gang that is
prepared to kill twenty-odd people, that is a crime to be pursued, certainly.’

‘Yes,’ Simon agreed. ‘Who would do that, too? A madman, surely.’

‘No. Certainly not. An armed band desperate for money or food, perhaps, but certainly not a fool. They were clever enough
to kill the whole lot, so there could be no witnesses, and then they took all that was worthwhile.’

‘From what Sir Peregrine said, the clerical fellow had been wealthy,’ Simon recalled. ‘Rings and all the trappings. What kind
of man would have stayed out in the wilds when there must be dozens of taverns along that road?’

‘A man who feared being trapped?’ Sir Richard wondered. ‘I have often kept out of the smaller, less salubrious establishments
while travelling, in case I may be set upon.’

Simon looked at him. Sir Richard had never, to his knowledge, avoided the meanest, foulest drinking dens. More commonly he
would cheerfully declare that the better deals for wine or ale could be found in them. And then he would berate the keeper
of the tavern until the very best drinks and foods were brought out for him. ‘I had noticed,’ he said with careful moderation.

‘How far do you reckon we may travel today?’ Sir Richard asked after a little while.

‘I hope that by dark we should have reached Lydford,’ Simon said.

He was not happy as they rode, though. For all that he had a most redoubtable companion in the figure of the coroner, this
was one of the first times while passing through Devon that he had been aware of a sense of urgency and nervousness. Each
great tree appeared to cast a curious shadow. At one point he was close to shouting a warning at Sir Richard when he saw a
shadow suddenly shift, and it was only the quick realisation that it was in fact the movement of a branch causing it that
stopped his voice. This was ridiculous! For him, a man in his middle years, to be so skittish in the face of fears was foolish
in the extreme.

‘I have heard of other families that live outside the law,’ Sir Richard murmured.

‘Sorry?’ Simon asked, jolted from his reverie.

‘This man Sir Robert de Traci and his appalling son. They sound dangerous to me. A man and his son who can work without the
law. That makes a deadly combination.’

‘The sheriff would appear to have allied himself with them,’ Simon observed.

‘Aye, well, there’s many a sheriff – and judge – who will do that. I have heard of one sheriff who captured a fellow and kept
him in gaol, torturing him until he confessed to some crimes, then forced him to name his friends as accomplices, just so
he could fine them. Others will all too often take bribes to persuade a jury to go one way so that a guilty man will walk
free – or to convict and hang another just so the guilty can pay him for his freedom. Cannot abide that. The thought of an
innocent man being punished while the guilty is left to commit another crime is disgusting.’

‘I don’t know this man from Bow. Nor the sheriff,’ Simon mentioned.

‘Sir Robert’s been there a while. Surprised you haven’t met him yet.’ Sir Richard explained how the knight had been a member
of the king’s household until he allied himself with the king’s enemies, and after that had been outlawed. ‘I had no idea
he’d been restored to his former positions.’

‘Surely the king wouldn’t give him back his lands and life if he had been a traitor?’

The coroner grunted in response to that. ‘Enough others have been pardoned for all their crimes.’

‘I have tended to avoid these parts in recent years,’ Simon said. ‘Living on the moors, then down at Dartmouth; and recently
I’ve been away so much that Bow doesn’t seem a natural place to visit.’

‘Aye, well, by the sound of things you should continue to avoid the place,’ was Sir Richard’s considered comment.

They dropped down into Oakhampton in the middle of the afternoon, much to the delight of Sir Richard, who, in the absence
of a full wineskin, was growing almost morose. Then they took the Cornwall road past the castle, and on to the road south.

Simon would have liked to have left the roads, and at Prewley Moor he cast a longing glance to the moors themselves, but he
was forced to agree with Sir Richard that it would have been foolhardy. There was no need to leave the roadway here. It was
a good trail, with cleared verges for almost all the route to Lydford, and when they were approaching the town, they would
be perfectly safe in any case. Better by far to keep to the road and make their journey more swiftly.

It was still an hour before nightfall when they trotted gently into the town where Simon had lived for such a long while.
He cast about him as they went, fearing that they might even now be assailed by the men of Sir Hugh le Despenser, especially
William atte Wattere, but for all his fears, there was no sign of anyone. Only some loud singing from the tavern as they passed,
and the occasional barking of a dog, told them that people still lived here.

‘This is my house,’ Simon said as they reached the long, low building. He stopped a moment and looked at it, feeling a distinct
sense of alienation. The place had been his for such a long time, it was most curious to think that it had been taken from
him so swiftly and easily. There was a shocking ruthlessness in the way that Despenser had gone about it, searching for a
weakness in Simon’s life, and then exploiting it without compunction. He had learned about Simon’s lease while Simon was abroad
on a mission for the king. A little pressure on the leaseholder was all that was needed, and Despenser owned the place. The
most powerful man in the land after only the king himself was not the man to make an enemy.

So Simon had lost his home, but more importantly he had also lost his peace of mind. Any pleasure in his possessions was now
marred by the realisation that they could be taken from him at any time. He had no control over his own destiny.

Of course a man always knew that the most valuable asset he owned, his life, could be snatched away in a moment. It took only
a freak accident, a whim on the part of God Himself, and a man’s soul was taken from him. Sometimes it was malevolent fate
that men blamed, sometimes the evil in others, but Simon had been raised and educated at the Church of the Holy Cross and
the Mother of Him Who Hung Thereon, the canonical church at Crediton, and the teachings of the canons there had influenced
his life and thinking ever since.

His life was not something Simon had ever bothered to trouble himself over. He had a simple faith that because he was a Christian,
when he died he would be taken up to heaven. There was no point troubling himself over the world and worldly things when the
real life was yet to come. And yet he found more and more that the things he cared about most deeply were all too easily taken
from him. Perhaps it was because of this, he thought, staring at the house. Such a solid, massive structure, so permanent,
it seemed impossible to think that it
could be taken from him in a matter of days, no matter what he tried to do to keep it. There was an inevitability about such
things. Those things he loved most dearly, they were themselves the very things he would find being targeted by an enemy such
as Sir Hugh le Despenser.

‘Simon? You all right?’ Sir Richard asked.

Nodding, Simon dropped from his horse and the two hitched their mounts to a ring in the wall. Then, taking a deep breath,
Simon walked to his old door and beat upon it with his knuckles.

He felt sick to the pit of his stomach as he wondered who would open it.

Exeter

Edith was walking along a screens passageway, and no matter how fast she walked, she could not reach the door at the far end,
although she knew that on the other side was Peter, and she was desperate to get to him, to give him some consolation … And then she stumbled, and was falling, toppling over and over in the dark, and—

And then she came to with a jerk, startled from a heavy doze.

There were voices, and she sat up, still a little befuddled with sleep, rubbing her eyes as she stared towards the door.

Her maid was already there, she saw. Jane stood now at the door, and was peering out. Then she shot back into the room, staring
at Edith with a perplexed expression in her eyes. It was enough to make Edith get to her feet. Whatever the horror, she wanted
to hear it standing, not sitting like some invalid.

Shortly afterwards, Peter’s father Charles was striding into the room, a scowl on his face, Mistress Jan hurrying in his wake.

Charles was a heavy-set man, attired in a fur-trimmed cloak and a tunic that was embroidered with gold at hem and neck. His
usually calm, gentle eyes were now fretful and staring with his anger and concern.

‘So, husband, what did they say?’

‘They say he stands accused of crimes,’ he said, looking directly at Edith as he drew off his gloves, finger by finger. ‘The
sheriff said that Peter is considered a dangerous man who would seek the overthrow of the king. He is accused of plotting
with others to have the king slain.’

‘But … but that is mad, husband,’ Mistress Jan said weakly.

Edith ran to her side as the older woman began to gasp, her breath coming in staccato gusts. She caught Mistress Jan as the
woman started to fall. It was all she could do to support her. Jane ran to them,
and she and Edith between them half carried her mother-in-law to a chair.

Her father-in-law watched as they settled Mistress Jan in the chair. There was no expression on his face as he stood gazing
at them, only a kind of sad longing in his grey eyes.

Edith straightened. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? I can see it in your eyes. What is it?’

‘He said … The sheriff said that this was you. If Peter hadn’t married you, none of this would have happened. He said
it was because of your father that Peter has been arrested.’

Lydford

Simon and Sir Richard stood in Simon’s little hall, and bowed low to the Cardinal de Fargis. They waited in the doorway until
they had taken off their swords and given them to a steward. The bottler arrived and stood near the cardinal as they walked
to him, both falling to one knee before him, and kissing his ring.

‘Please, you will stand,’ the cardinal said, motioning with both hands. ‘You bring honour to this little house by coming here.
I am delighted to meet you both. Please, take some wine.’

He was a small, dapper man, clad in a thick woollen tunic with a heavy, fur-lined cloak against the chill he obviously felt.
The fire was roaring, and Simon could see that Sir Richard felt uncomfortably warm after the cool of the evening air. It was
not only him. Simon himself felt rather like a candle left too close to a flame, as though he might at any moment melt and
topple to the ground.

Cardinal de Fargis had kindly eyes, Simon thought, unlike so many other men of power and wealth. They were dark brown and
intelligent, and like Abbot Champeaux, of blessed memory, he had a way of smiling with them that was entirely irresistible.
It was a pleasant change to find a senior churchman who wasn’t peering with shortsightedness, too, Simon felt. The cardinal
seemed relaxed, calm and at his ease in their company.

‘I am very glad to meet you at last, Master Puttock.’

‘It is my pleasure, Cardinal.’

‘And yet I understand that this house is a sad … um … the word is memory?’

‘Yes, it is sad that I have lost it, but that is nothing to do with you,
Cardinal. For my part, I have only good memories of this house. I was very happy here.’

‘And I believe you used to be a stannary bailiff? Yes?’

‘Well, yes. I was a bailiff on the moors,’ he admitted. He would have liked to glance at Sir Richard, but that could have
been considered rude. Any lord would expect an inferior to keep his eyes fixed on him.

‘I think I have need of your assistance,’ the cardinal said. He eyed Simon over the brim of his goblet, and gradually a smile
warmed his face. ‘There are some very sad events at the abbey.’

‘I don’t know that I can help with that,’ Simon said. ‘Both men are rather displeased with me.’

‘So I have heard. You would seem to be most even handed with your enemies,’ the cardinal said.

The problems at Tavistock Abbey had begun with the death of Robert Champeaux, the last abbot. The brotherhood of monks had
held an election to choose their new abbot. There were two contenders. Robert Busse was chosen by the majority, but John de
Courtenay, one of the baronial family of Devon, deprecated the result, and made a series of wild allegations against Robert.
Simon had been involved with Robert Busse shortly after John had begun his attacks, and had been horrified to learn that Robert
had made use of a necromancer in Exeter to try to influence matters to his own benefit. Not only that; there were also allegations
that plate and money had been taken from the abbey. And so, to settle the dispute, the pope had finally decided to send a
negotiator to listen to the evidence of both sides and attempt to make peace between the brothers. And if that failed, to
knock their heads together.

‘I have much still to do,’ the cardinal continued. ‘And yet there is more. There are troubles on the moors and about the area.
Men are taking advantage of the abbey’s weakness in this period of interregnum. I need more men to control the moors.’

‘I would be happy to do that,’ Simon said, ‘but I fear it is impossible for me now.’

‘How impossible?’

‘I have no house here. This was mine, but now, as soon as you leave, it will revert to Sir Hugh le Despenser, and he will
take it over. He is no friend to me.’

‘The abbey can provide you with a home.’

‘I have a wife and children. It is better for me that I remain in my own house, where I can be with them,’ Simon said firmly.

The cardinal made some more attempts to persuade him, but after their third cup of wine, he admitted defeat. ‘It is a great
pity, though. The land is growing ever more restless.’

‘I know. Only five years ago it was quieter, even though there had been the famine and the little wars up and down the country.
I have never seen the sort of outbreaks of violence that there have been recently.’

‘Yes? And what have you seen, Bailiff?’

Simon noticed that he used his old title again, but chose to ignore it. ‘Only on the way here we found one poor man who had
been slain at the roadside. And the coroner, Sir Peregrine, told us of another, a reeve – which is all the worse because he
was investigating an attack and murders on the road near Jacobstowe.’

‘Attack and murders, you say?’ the cardinal asked. ‘How many died?’

‘He said nineteen. There was one man who may have been in Holy Orders, and a number of others. They had been robbed of a series
of carts and horses, and their bodies cast to the ground and left.’

The cardinal was frowning. ‘Did he say how long ago this was?’

‘I think he said it was two weeks ago or so. Why, do you think you may know them? I know the coroner would be glad to hear
from any man who might know who these fellows were. There was nothing on their bodies or nearby to say who they could have
been.’

‘It was two weeks ago that a man of mine was sent to London with a chest of money. It was the payment to the king for the
period while the abbey was in a state of voidance. Abbot Champeaux was very foresighted, you understand, and purchased the
right of the abbey to manage its own affairs when he died.’

‘So what was the money for?’

‘Your king is a skilful negotiator himself,’ the cardinal said musingly. ‘He sold the management during voidance for a hundred
marks. That was ten years ago, on the thirtieth anniversary of Abbot Champeaux’s appointment. But within the contract it was
agreed that for every vacancy of forty days or fewer, the abbey must pay forty
pounds to the king. And if longer, it must pay a proportionate amount, up to one hundred pounds in every year.’

Sir Richard whistled. ‘A hundred pounds a year?’

‘This was the first hundred pounds.’ Cardinal de Fargis nodded. He looked at Simon. ‘That was what my servant Pietro de Torrino
was transporting. With him was Brother Anselm from Tavistock, and eight archers with two mounted men-at-arms. So you see,
I would like to know if the dead man was he.’

Fourth Sunday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael
^*

Furnshill

Sir Baldwin and his wife had enjoyed a pleasant ride to and from the little chapel where they prayed, which was more than
Baldwin could say for the sermon preached by the priest.

He was a new incumbent, this young vicar. Apparently he was the son of a moderately wealthy squire somewhere up in Somerset,
and had been sent here to work for a fee when the previous man had been given some other churches and could afford to leave
this little parish. It was a shame, because Baldwin had rather liked him. This fellow was an insipid little man, pale and
unwholesome-looking. He had a great hooked nose set in a narrow face, which made him look rather like a hawk. But not so powerful.
Rather, Baldwin thought his nostrils would be constantly dripping.

‘He was only speaking as he thought right,’ Jeanne said defensively.

‘He was speaking as a fool,’ Baldwin said. ‘How could any man stand there and say that the Templars were evil and proof of
God’s enemies on earth?’

‘He knew no better.’

‘I could teach the fool.’

Baldwin, once a Templar, and devoted to his order, was insulted when others spoke of it in a derogatory manner, but the priest
this morning had gone much further. He had said that the Templars were all so evil that they should have been destroyed utterly.
The thrust of his comments was that the whole of Christendom was in turmoil
because of a small number of cruel and dishonourable men, such as the Templars. If all the good men in a Christian community
were to do nothing and leave the evil-doers to work unhindered, such behaviour would lead to robbery, murder and war. And
then God would grow despondent and seek to punish the world. So unless people became more careful of their responsibilities,
and tried to serve God, He might decide to send another famine, or a plague, or a flood.

‘All because of the Templars, he said! The cretin!’

Jeanne knew that Baldwin’s mood would soon pass. He was not a man who could dwell on the incompetence or stupidity of others
for long. He knew how foolish men could be, and preferred to look beyond them to other men, of intelligence.

They had a short ride to their house, and on this day of rest Baldwin was looking forward to a good meal and an afternoon
of utter peace. After the year he had experienced, the thought of such a day was enormously attractive. And for once there
was no rain. It was not a bright sunny day, but nor was it cold or wet.

Still, he was still worried by all he had heard from his wife. The thought of the new sheriff was unpleasant, but there was
nothing new about corruption in a sheriff. Baldwin was more concerned about the stories of violence in the shire generally.
There were all too many outlaws now, since so many families had been dispossessed after Boroughbridge, and if their acts of
violence were compounded by men who knew that they could rob or kill with impunity because of Despenser’s support, it would
make life intolerable. ‘I wonder how Simon is faring,’ he muttered.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Jeanne said comfortingly. She slipped her hand through his arm and held on to him tightly, watching Richalda,
their daughter, trotting uncertainly on ahead, stopping every so often to stare at an insect or into a puddle. Young Baldwin
was being carried by Edgar’s wife, Petronilla, while Edgar was immediately behind Baldwin, his smiling face moving constantly,
watching hedges and fences, always alert for possible danger. He had been Baldwin’s sergeant in the Knights Templar, and Baldwin
knew that he could depend utterly on him.

It was a matter of pride to Baldwin that the household had grown so much now. Behind Petronilla came her own child, and then
the various men and women who worked in the house or for Baldwin in
the fields. It was a significant procession, he thought. Even Wat, who had been the bane of Baldwin’s life four or five years
ago, when he had been merely the cattleman’s son and who had got himself beastly drunk at Baldwin’s wedding, had grown into
a tall, good-looking soul of seventeen summers or so.

Baldwin had successfully managed to build a new life here after the horrors of the Templar persecutions. Perhaps he was extraordinarily
fortunate to have been given this second chance – he only hoped and prayed that God had not given him this stability only
to snatch it away again. Despenser knew that he had once been a Knight Templar, and that man was a bad enemy. It could all
be taken away in an instant, Baldwin knew.

It was as they came in sight of the house that Edgar stepped forward.

‘Sir Baldwin,’ he said, ‘do you see the horse?’

Baldwin glanced at him, and saw that Edgar was looking ahead, a slight frown on his face. Following his pointing finger, Baldwin
saw that in the roadway ahead, in front of his house, there was a horse thundering over the road. Even as he watched, it turned
off and pelted along his pasture, heading to his door.

‘Edgar, you stay with the children and Jeanne,’ he said, and set off at a trot.

Jacobstowe

Agnes knew before the knock. She knew before the face in the doorway. She knew before he began to speak, and she could do
nothing.