No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (18 page)

‘My love, how could I stop him? This is his daughter and her husband we are talking about. I would not think even the bishop
himself could persuade Simon to remain quietly at home, say, for his own security.’

Later, as he rode quickly along the faster road to Exeter, he was reminded of those words.

It was impossible to ask a man to remain safe at home when his daughter was in danger. And Baldwin was convinced that Edith
was in trouble of a very serious nature. If the sheriff saw fit to take her husband, the repercussions would be extremely
grave. For the man to behave in this manner, he must be certain in his own mind that he was secure. Despenser – perhaps the
king himself – must have assured him that he was safe.

There was another aspect of the affair that gave Baldwin some pause for thought. The comment about poor Peter only being in
danger because of Edith and Simon had been made to Edith’s father-in-law, and that surely meant that the sheriff’s words,
and the implicit challenge in them, had been intended to be relayed to Simon. Baldwin’s fear now was that there was a trap
being set for Simon in
Exeter. And he intended to be there for Simon when he arrived so that he could protect his friend.

He made good time. For once the weather had held, and as he clattered down the Oakhampton Road to the old inn at the foot
of Cowick Street, and began to thunder at a canter over the massive bridge, past the chapel of St Edmund on his left, past
the reek of the tanner’s works on Exe Island, and up to the great gate itself, he was aware of an increasing fear for Simon’s
safety.

His luck held at the gate, too. The porter here, Jankin, was a younger man, with the cheerful disposition of a tavern keeper
with a new brew to sell. His brown eyes were a light colour, with a little red in them, and he had the appearance of a man
who was never far from a happy thought. He looked as though he would be more at ease before a fire with a jug of strong ale
near to hand. ‘Sir Baldwin, God speed!’

‘God give you a good day,’ Baldwin returned. ‘Good Master Jankin, have you see my friend Simon Puttock’s daughter this morning?’

‘Mistress Edith? No. She hasn’t passed by here. I know her well.’

‘Are you sure? She was sleeping at my house last night. You have heard of her husband?’

‘Peter, the son of Charles the Merchant? Yes. The whole city knows about his arrest. There is no sense in it, Sir Baldwin.
Nobody can make sense of that. He is as rebellious as a sheepdog. He wouldn’t hurt the king for anything.’

‘No, I agree. But he has been accused, so must be arrested. These are hard times, my friend. Edith was so fearful, she left
my house before light this morning. I assumed she came back here, but you are sure she didn’t pass by?’

‘I would have seen her. There’s been no sign of her today,’ Jankin said with certainty. ‘Could she have ridden to the north
gate instead of mine?’

‘It is possible. I didn’t consider that,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘It is rather out of the way, for someone riding from Furshill,
unless she managed to cross the river much further north.’ He frowned. That was unlikely. No, it was more probable that she
had not come here, but had ridden straight to Simon’s. She would want his support and her mother’s sympathy.

He left the gatekeeper and rode on as fast as the streets would allow
him to the carfoix, and then turned into the cathedral close. He wanted to ask for the bishop’s aid. Baldwin had the strong
impression that this affair could only be resolved with negotiation, no matter what the reasons behind the arrest were.

The bishop’s palace stood at the south-western edge of the close. Baldwin rode straight to it, and soon he was in the bishop’s
hall.

Bishop Walter sat at his desk as Baldwin strode in. Baldwin crossed the floor to him, kneeled, and kissed his ring. ‘My lord
bishop, you have heard about Simon’s daughter and her husband?’

‘The city is all talking about it,’ Bishop Walter said.

‘Simon will be on his way here already, I expect. My lord, you must help us to have the boy Peter freed. You know what Simon’s
temper is like. We have to stop him from doing anything that could exacerbate matters.’

The bishop put his hand on Baldwin’s sadly. ‘You don’t realise, Sir Baldwin. The sheriff has the full support of Despenser.
I am afraid I don’t think there is anything you or I can do. The boy will have to remain in gaol until the sheriff decides
to put him on trial. And we just have to pray that when he is put to trial, the sheriff and his friends don’t present false
evidence or have others to lie in court. But,’ he added heavily, ‘for my part, I believe that such a hope is forlorn.’

Abbeyford Woods

Mark stopped his mount and looked about him as they approached the clearing where the bodies had been found. He had a faint
superstitious wariness about the place. It felt …
foul
. There was some repellent atmosphere that lingered, he was sure. It was the sort of feeling that would make any monk recoil,
and he held back, aware of a curious and deeply unpleasant feeling in his belly, as though he was preparing himself for the
sudden appearance of a series of demons and ghosts, all ready to assault him. It was, for a moment, supremely terrifying.

And then the moment passed. A single beam of light from the sun burst through the clouds and trees above, shining down into
the clearing, and Mark smiled, because he knew God had chosen to ease his mind.

The knight was not happy with him. Well, he wasn’t happy to be here at the beck and call of such an arrogant pig of a man.
He had the eating habits and drinking capacity of a hog. Mark had seen him at
their short breakfast, guzzling ale until it ran down his chest, mingling with his beard and staining his tunic, chewing while
drinking. Utterly revolting. Clearly one of those lower-level rural knights with little in the head and less in the heart.

Mark blew out a long breath and cast about him. The most important thing was the money. That chest with the coin inside was
a large casket, fettered with iron and padlocked. It was too much for one man to carry, much too much. It was on a cart, with
the archers set about it and two men-at-arms on horseback to give added protection. Not that they had succeeded, of course,
he thought sadly, thinking of Pietro and Brother Anselm. He didn’t know Pietro de Torrino well, of course. The portly old
fellow had only arrived here in Devon with the cardinal. Brother Anselm was different. He had been at Tavistock for an age.
A quick-witted, humorous fellow, Anselm was always playing practical jokes. If it was true that he was dead he really was
going to be sorely missed. He was one of those characters who made the misery of cold nights in the church in mid-winter almost
bearable.

There was a flash from the sun glinting on metal, and Mark wondered what it might be. Probably an arrow lying on the ground,
its energy spent. The men who attacked here must have expended a number of missiles to be able to wipe out so many speedily
enough to ensure that none escaped, he thought.

It was a most distressing thought. The idea that a group of men could willingly set themselves to attack a band of wanderers,
slaying men, women and children. The charcoal burner had spoken of the nineteen people found here, but he denied that he had
heard anything. Almost certainly he was lying – but who could blame a man for being silent on such a matter? As he had said,
few would want to expose themselves to the risk of being attacked from men of this sort. And yet no one appeared to know who
was responsible, nor where they came from.

He caught another glimpse of the sparkle from the sun. On a whim, he kicked his little beast on, and rode over towards it.

The thing, whatever it was, lay in the midst of a thorny bramble, and he was most reluctant to do anything about it. In truth,
he was just thinking about leaving it, when he noticed that a large stick had fallen from a tree nearby. It appeared so fortuitous,
that he wondered whether God had been leaving him a most virile clue, and he groaned
to himself, dropped from the saddle, and picked up the stick. With it, he was able to push aside the worst of the brambles
and see what it was that had glinted so fascinatingly.

There was a thong of leather set in it, and he hooked this with his stick and tried to lift it free, but naturally the thong
was untied. It had been removed from a man’s throat, after all. Mark had to push down the worst of the brambles, and then
risk reaching in to grab his prize. It was a marvellously wrought crucifix, a most rare item, made from silver, with tiny
enamelled decorations up and down each part. Truly, it was a beautiful piece of workmanship.

‘Mark? Mark, where are you?’ he heard Simon call, and he poked about a little more in the brambles, hoping to find something
else, but there was nothing.

‘Look. I found this over there in the bushes,’ Mark said. ‘I know this piece of work. It was Pietro de Torrino’s. It’s not
English-made. I think he brought it with him from his homeland.’

Simon picked it up and sighed. ‘Yes. I suppose they took it from him and dropped it as they left.’

Mark nodded. The coroner, however, was less convinced. ‘What do you mean? Over there? That’s far from the way in or out, ain’t
it?’

It was Mark who frowned and said, ‘So what? Perhaps he took it off himself and flung it away so that no one would take that
which he most prized?’

Simon said, ‘Sir Richard, do not forget – we were told that the monk had been tortured. His eyes were put out before he died,
so they thought. If that was so, perhaps they were questioning him about where he had thrown his cross?’

‘If they saw it fly through the air, they’d have known. Oh, I suppose the bastards could have just been trying to make him
suffer for throwing the thing away. They wouldn’t have found it in the middle of the night, though, would they? No one with
a brain would think they could in a wood like this, eh?’

Simon weighed the crucifix in his hand. ‘You’re sure this was Pietro’s? Well, if so, you’d best keep hold of it and take it
to the cardinal. But it is curious that it was thrown away. A man like Pietro, surely, would value something like this so
highly that he wouldn’t fling it into the woods? He would hold on to it, hoping that he might
escape death from his captors. Not many would willingly slay a priest or a monk.’

‘You have a point,’ Sir Richard said. ‘But slay him they did, and the cross was in the bush, so read me the riddle, Simon.’

‘If I could do that, I would be a coroner or keeper!’ Simon chuckled. ‘But I’m a mere seeker of the truth in my own little
way. Come! Let’s see what else may be found.’

Tavistock Abbey

Abbot-elect Robert Busse was a genial man in appearance. He had the good fortune to have been a brother within the abbey for
many years already, and he was known and loved by most of his brothers here in the abbey.

It had been a dreadful shock when Abbot Robert Champeaux suddenly died. But the working of the abbey must continue, no matter
what tragedy was sent to test the brothers.

After all, monks were one of the most important of the three classes of man. They were the religious arm, whose duty was to
save souls. They worked ceaselessly, praying and honouring God for the protection of those who were dead, and those who would
die.

The
bellatores
were the second. These, the warriors, the knights, squires and men-at-arms, existed to protect all others. They had a duty
to uphold the laws, to serve the religious, and to keep the third class in their place. These, the peasants, had the task
of providing their labour such that the other two classes, and their own, would have enough to eat and drink.

These were the three legs of the world, the tripod that supported all mankind. And like any tripod, the three had to balance.
If one was enormously more powerful than another, the leg too long, then the tripod would be unbalanced. As soon as a weight
was hung from it, the lack of symmetry would become obvious. If one leg was too weak, the same rule applied. Ideally, like
a tripod, all the legs should be exactly the same. Strong enough to support each other, strong enough to carry a heavy load.

But today in the kingdom, so much was out of balance. If the king was taken as the head of the
bellatores
, then the warrior class was vastly overpowerful. The men who were supposed to serve and protect were instead like wolves
running down a hill to attack a flock of
sheep. Meanwhile the other two arms were weaker, relatively. The Church had suffered so much in recent years. There were the
obvious stories of Pope Celestine V being murdered by Boniface VIII, and the tales of corruption that were so hard to deny
– no man who had travelled to Avignon to see the papal palace could have any doubt about that. And no man who had read the
life of St Francis could fail to be moved by the appalling waste, the profligacy, and the shameful misuse of so many funds.

Certainly Robert Busse was not going to make excuses for the men who lived so well. He and his brethren in Tavistock were
far more humble. Their own meagre rations were perhaps a little more generous than those of the average peasant living in
one of the nearby vills, but no one could have accused the brothers of living a life of ease and extravagance. The only one
who truly deserved such a reputation was Brother John de Courtenay. The man was a dreadful spendthrift, and his habit of hunting
with his hounds was a local disgrace. Added to that was his atrocious dress sense, for the man would keep trying to follow
all the new fashions, and he was rapidly becoming a laughing stock among the lay brothers and other servants.

The abbey needed certainty. Especially now, with money being paid to the king for the period of voidance. There had been stories
that Hugh le Despenser was trying to take the cash for himself. Robert Busse found that all too easy to believe. From all
he had heard and seen, the man had an insatiable appetite for money. Still, the fact was that the money must be paid. And
the sooner the abbacy was settled, the sooner they could stop paying out vast sums.

He crossed from the cloister out to the abbot’s private little garden, and sat on a turf bench. A curious innovation, which
would have been more in keeping in a lady’s garden, he wondered whether it would give him piles, it was often so damp. But
today, in the sun, it felt very comfortable.

And he needed comfort so that he could consider the note the messenger had brought to him. Opening it again, he scanned the
contents of the little parchment roll once more. It told him that the king desired to see the matter of the abbot’s election
completed, and would like to have Robert installed. If Robert were able to arrange for a sum of money to be deposited with
Sir Robert de Traci, the king would use all his good offices to see to it that the abbacy was once and
for all settled upon Robert Busse. After all, he had won the election. There was no sense whatever in leaving matters dragging
on.

Robert Busse tapped his lips with the roll of parchment. It made sense. The appalling greed of Sir Hugh le Despenser was known
to everyone in the land. From all he had heard, the king would always enthusiastically reward his favourite with money when
he was given it, and perhaps the idea was that he would take any funds from Tavistock and settle the abbacy, while giving
the money to his friend. And all Robert Busse need do was take the money to Sir Robert de Traci.

One of the series of accusations levelled against Abbot-elect Robert was that he had stolen £1,200 from the abbey earlier
this year. Oh, and that he had taken gold and silver plate worth another £800 – and a silver casket. Clearly the stories of
his greed had become widespread, he noted sadly. A man who began his reign as abbot with all these tales against him was bound
to the handicapped from the start. There was little he could do about the malicious lies being told about him by the de Courtenay
faction in the abbey, though. It would seem that the stories had spread so widely that they had come to the attention of the
king and his friend in London already. And knowing his reputation, they had come to consider him open to this proposal.

It did not matter whether it was the king or Despenser who had had the idea. Probably it was Despenser, he thought. That man
would leave no purse unopened in his ambition to be as rich as Croesus. And thinking that the abbot could have been himself
guilty of similar greedy manipulation of events, they thought that they could take advantage of his desires.

So in order to become abbot, he need only collect the sum demanded, and in return the king would confirm his favoured position.
If he were to pay, he could guarantee Edward’s approval. That would be a strong inducement for a man of limited honour and
much greed.

‘Father Abbot! Father Abbot, you should come at once.’

‘What is it, my son?’

The novice was a boy called Peter, and he stood before Robert now, panting, his round face ruddy, eyes staring. ‘It’s the
messenger. The king’s messenger? He’s died, Father Abbot. He was found over at the roadside near Tavymarie. Looks like he
fell from his poor horse and
died, Father Abbot, drowned in a pool of mud at the river’s side!’

Robert Busse nodded and stood. He looked about him with a little smile, the roll of parchment still, in his hand, and then
glanced down at it. He carefully stowed it in his scrip, before following the lad to view the body. The messenger would have
to be laid out in the parish church of St Rumon, and the abbey would have to find money to provide mourners and pay for the
body’s wrappings. And for another man to take the pouch with all the replies and messages to the king.

He smiled again now, a broad smile of understanding that did not touch his eyes.

If he was cynical, he might think that someone could have wanted to catch a messenger with an incriminating message. Perhaps
a message from an abbot-elect agreeing to pay for the post to be confirmed. Even a message that gave details of the precise
amount to be paid, signed by the abbot himself. Such a piece of parchment would be worth much to a man who was ruthless enough
to consider taking it. Such a scrap could be rewarded by an abbacy.

It was fortunate, he considered, that he was neither cynical nor a fool. And that he had no intention of stealing money from
the abbey to fund his elevation.

The abbacy was entirely in the hands of God. Robert Busse would not demean the position by stealing to gain it.

Abbeyford Woods

Simon and Sir Richard gazed about them as they returned to the wide space in the middle of the trees. It was a glorious place
for a camp, and Simon could easily understand why it would have been chosen, although there was one detail that confused him.
It had been in his mind already, but Mark’s discovery of the crucifix had somehow solidified it. ‘What were they doing so
far north of the road from Oakhampton?’

Sir Richard looked at him questioningly. ‘Eh?’

‘Just look at this place. The Exeter road is due east from Oakhampton. If they’d been going to the king, they’d have carried
on to Exeter and London, so they’d have left Oakhampton by the Crediton Road. Why turn north?’

The coroner shrugged. ‘That is something to consider,’ he agreed.
‘Perhaps they were lost? It happens. I once left a town near London and started off towards home, as I thought, but when the
clouds cleared I learned I was heading off to Scotland. When it’s cloudy, it is easy to become confused.’

Brother Mark sniffed haughtily. ‘It was a clear day.’

‘What was?’

‘The day that these fellows left. It was just over two weeks ago, and we have had excellent weather from then until a week
ago. Do you try to tell me that they would have had the immense stupidity to think that north was east? If this was the group,
there were two good brothers with them, and although Pietro didn’t know the area, Brother Anselm would never have made so
elementary an error.’

‘Oh, really?’ the coroner said, and would have continued, but then he frowned, and nodded. ‘Even a monk with a butcher’s crop
must know where the sun rises and sets.’

‘Well, Anselm did. I know he was good at directions. It makes no sense for him to have come up here.’

Simon left them and began searching about the area.

The charcoal burner was standing watching the three, arms akimbo, an expression of amusement on his face. ‘What are you looking
for?’

‘Anything that could tell us what happened here,’ Simon said shortly. ‘Sometimes the men who commit acts of this nature can
leave signs behind to show who they were.’

‘There’s no doubt who they were,’ the charcoal burner said.

‘You know?’ Simon asked.

‘I reckon anyone east of here would be able to guess. They don’t often come here, but just recently there’s been a number
of folks killed on the roads.’

‘Not here, you say?’ Sir Richard demanded. ‘Where, then? Who do you think could be responsible?’

‘Sirs, I come from Coleford. I only wander over here a few times each year. Round my home, there are always stories of men
being knocked on the head and their goods stolen. And I’m told that there is a large force in Bow. A force of men that would
be able to fight even a large party of travellers.’

The coroner’s face took on a scowl. ‘Bow? That’s where Sir Robert lives, isn’t it? He’s a knight.’

Brother Mark gave a short harrumph.

‘What is that supposed to mean, Brother Mark?’ Sir Richard said sharply.

‘Only that there are enough knights who have failed to live up to their chivalric ideals. Would you be so shocked to learn
that this Sir Robert was another in the same mould?’

‘Monk, you overstep your position,’ Sir Richard said. ‘But in this case you may be right.’

Brother Mark sniffed disdainfully.

‘Do you know many who live about this area?’ Simon said to the charcoal burner.

‘A few. Most are up at Jacobstowe.’

‘How far’s that?’ the coroner said, still eyeing Brother Mark suspiciously.

Simon could answer him. ‘It’s only a matter of a mile or so. I assume that’s where they took the bodies?’

‘I reckon,’ the charcoal burner agreed.

‘Did you tell the coroner about your suspicions?’ Simon said.

‘No. He didn’t see me. The others around here, they all wanted to keep it quiet.’

‘That’s stupid,’ the coroner declared. ‘Keep it quiet and they’ll be fined all the more.’

‘Aye, perhaps that’s true,’ the burner said easily. ‘But at least they won’t have Sir Robert of Traci coming to visit and
ask ’em why they have been telling stories about him.’

Crediton

William atte Wattere had kept a tight grip on her all the way from the Exe to here, and Edith dared not make a sound as they
rode up the high street, only praying that none of her father’s friends might see her and ask where she was going.

There were enough people whom she knew here. This was the town where she had gone all the time when she was a child, the only
large market town near her home. And her father had regularly brought her here with her mother when he came to have discussions
with the priests, especially Dean Peter at the church. It had sometimes seemed to her that more of her life was spent here
in Crediton with her mother in the shops than was spent at their farm.

Surely someone must see her and comment? She hoped not. The
thought of the man’s reaction were that to happen was too dreadful to contemplate. It made her shiver, and she could feel
the hot bile in her throat at the thought. If anyone challenged them, he had made it clear what he would do.

The road was a great broad swathe through the centre of the town, and the rich red mud was stirred by travellers, splashing
liberally over horses and men alike. People at the side of the road would dart back away from any approaching horse and rider:
all were reluctant to stand too near and have their finest clothing stained and ruined. Few even turned to look as she was
led up the slight incline that gave on to the town proper from the flat pastures east of the town. There was one woman whom
Edith was sure she recognised, a woman called Beatrice, who was the wife of a silversmith, but the woman only frowned at the
fast pace of the horses, and turned with a scowl of contempt at people who threatened other folk’s tunics with their urgency.

There were monks and canons, traders, hawkers and merchants all over the town. They were most of them known to Edith personally,
and if she were to call to them, some might recognise her, perhaps even run to her aid.

‘Oh Holy Mother, please don’t let them know me,’ she whispered.