No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (20 page)

‘Your father wouldn’t want you to go and stop in town,’ Osbert said.

‘Well he’s not here, is he?’ Basil said, gathering up his reins.

‘No. But I am.’

‘I don’t give a turd for you, though. You’re only a servant, Os.’

Osbert nodded. Then suddenly his hand whipped out and slapped Basil’s cheeks, first the left, then the right, then the left
again. Basil’s hand fell and gripped his sword, and it was half out when he realised that Osbert already had his dagger in
his hand, held by the tip in that gentle, relaxed manner Basil had seen so often before.

‘Os, you shouldn’t tease me.’

‘I didn’t. I slapped you, hard. Because I’m older than you, boy, and I’ve the experience you’re lacking. You know what that
means? It means I’m faster than you. Faster and more dangerous. You start testing me, and you’ll learn that you’d best respect
me, because if you don’t, I’ll see you hurt.’

‘Hurt? What, like those children? Or their mother?’

Osbert shrugged. ‘They were in the way. If we hadn’t killed them, they could have got away and told all about us.’

‘All about
you
, you mean. None of us would have been seen in the dark,’ Basil pointed out, but already his anger had left him. Now he contemplated
the road ahead, a small smile on his lips. ‘It was a grand attack, though, wasn’t it?’

‘Was it?’ Osbert said.

In all honesty, he wouldn’t know whether an attack like that was good or bad. It was only successful or not.

‘That man I spitted on my sword!’ Basil said exultantly. ‘I stuck it
in his gut, and it just opened him from cods to collar, all his bowels spilling on the grass!’

Osbert remembered that. The man had been holding his hands over his head, as though that could be any protection! Basil’s
sword had almost completely eviscerated him, and then some woman – his wife or sister – had run to his side, and Basil had
paused, then ridden back to thrust his sword into her back, a short way below her neck, a cruel blow that had pinned her for
a moment to the man. Then Basil had laughed, that high, keening laugh that showed always that his blood was up and his spirits
flying, before tugging his blade free and hunting another.

The surprise had been complete, after all. Osbert had led them to the points where they could attack, and the little force
had thundered in at the same time, hacking and stabbing all as they rose, befuddled, wiping the sleep from their eyes, before
any could grab more than a dagger to protect themselves. Soon there was only the monk remaining alive. And he had endured
a bad death, cursing them all in his strange foreign accent as they beat him, cut small incisions in painful locations, and
finally, at Basil’s suggestion, took his eyes as well, just to make sure he really didn’t know where the money had gone.

‘Well perhaps you’re right,’ Basil said at last.

Osbert grunted his gratitude. Basil set off again, lolling indolently in his saddle, while Osbert followed a short distance
behind. But Osbert wasn’t fooled, and he kept his dagger loose in its sheath.

Exeter

The castle was ever a bustling place, but today it was still more busy than usual, and Baldwin gazed about him with surprise
as he entered the gates. Grabbing the arm of a clerk hurrying past with an immense pile of rolls in his arms, he asked what
the reason was for all the activity.

‘There is to be a court of gaol delivery,’ the clerk snapped, snatching his arm away and hurrying on, clutching at his records
as though fearing that they might be prised from his arms before he could deliver them.

Baldwin shook his head. The court might well delay matters. If he was to try to interrupt its decisions while it was sitting,
the sheriff might feel it inconvenient at least. Many sheriffs could take umbrage at such interruptions, and Baldwin had no
desire to set off on the wrong foot with the man.

‘Come,’ he snapped, and hurried over the courtyard.

Rougemont Castle was a sadly dilapidated fortress. The towers were in a poor state of repair, and parts of the curtain wall
had been rebuilt recently after a collapse. Until thirty years ago, many of the towers had been without their roofs, and three
had fallen twenty years before. The rubble from two still formed piles near the wall where they had stood. It was not a picture
of martial or judicial intimidation.

However, it was the centre of justice for the whole of Devon, and the hall at the far end of the yard was the site of the
courts held in the king’s name and in the presence of the sheriff, his deputy for the area.

Baldwin passed into the great chamber, and was relieved to see that the sheriff and his advisers were not yet in their seats.
Some men mingled, indulging in self-important posturing behind the tables, while clerks set out their inks and reeds, knives
and quills, ready to begin to record the great decisions that would soon be taken.
Meanwhile there was a steady clanking and rattling of chains from the chambers nearby, where the prisoners stood in abject
terror, waiting to learn whether they were to live or die today.

‘Where is the sheriff?’ Baldwin asked a guard, and the man looked as though he might tell Baldwin to leave the chamber and
take up an affair with his own mother, before he saw the urgency and resentment in Baldwin’s eyes.

Soon Baldwin and Edgar were waiting in a chamber that was considerably smaller. They had been asked for their weapons, and
Baldwin felt oddly undressed here without his sword. For some reason, it felt very peculiar to be preparing to meet another
knight without it.

It was perfectly normal for a man to be asked to relinquish his weapons at another man’s hall. After all, assassination was
an unpleasant reality, and one means of defending against such an attack was to ensure that visitors were unarmed. But it
was more than that – it was also a sign of respect to the master of the house – and in this case, it was a mark of respect
to the king himself, for this was his castle, and it was his sheriff holding court in his name.

There was a door at the far end of the room. The latch rattled, and the door slammed wide as a man strode in, tugging at gloves
as he came. ‘These gloves are shite! Tell that prick of a glover that if he can’t adjust them to my hands, he can take ’em
back and burn ’em, because I’ll not pay for ’em. Sod the bastard! Right, you, what do you want?’

He had reached a large throne-like chair, and now he flung himself into it with an expression of bitterness on his face. ‘Well?’
he demanded.

Sir James de Cockington was an arrogant man, fairly young for a sheriff, perhaps six-and-twenty, fair haired, with rather
too much authority for Baldwin’s taste. He wore a thick blue tunic with plenty of golden embroidery at the neck and hem, and
there was a lot of gold on his fingers. An emerald and a large ruby, among others, but Baldwin couldn’t see the rest as the
man sat and waved his hands. His eyes were cold, his demeanour uncaring, rather as though he was a great lord and a retainer
had come to plead with him for alms. He was undoubtedly good looking, but Baldwin felt that there was little generosity of
spirit, for all his fine clothes and decoration.

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, not some mere petitioner,’ Baldwin said with restraint. ‘I am a King’s Keeper of the Peace.
I believe that a respected woman of the city has either been hurt in an accident, or may have been taken by outlaws.’

‘Why?’

Baldwin felt Edgar’s pique at the sharp tone. ‘Because she left my house this morning and has not arrived here. She was not
on the road I passed along, and—’

‘And you feel guilty at having let her travel alone, no doubt. Well, your guilt is your affair, Sir Knight, not the king’s.
There are thirty men here to be hanged today, and I have to get through them all. So if you want this little chit, I suggest
you hurry back home and check the roads yourself.’

‘This woman is a respectable—’

‘Respectable enough to visit you at night, eh?’ the sheriff said with a slow grin.

‘Your meaning?’ Baldwin asked quietly.

‘What did you do to her? Come, we’re all men here. Did you scare her when you pulled her clothes from her?’

‘She is the daughter of a good friend of mine,’ Baldwin said. ‘She suffered no indignity at my hands, nor would she ever.’

‘A good friend?’ the sheriff repeated, his head tilted slightly. ‘You don’t mean that wench married to the fellow in my gaol?’

‘You have her husband in the gaol, yes,’ Baldwin said coolly. ‘Perhaps this would be a good moment to enquire what his offence
might be?’

‘He may be guilty of treason,’ the sheriff stated airily.

‘With whom; when; what was the nature of his offence—’

‘Do you mean to interrogate me, Sir Baldwin?’ the sheriff asked, slowly leaning forward to peer at Baldwin as a man might
study a curious insect.

‘I mean to learn under what pretext an innocent man has been beaten, arrested and held.’

‘Then you should stay to listen in my court. Perhaps you will learn about justice and the exercise of it,’ the sheriff said,
leaning back in his chair again. But all pretence was gone now. His eyes gleamed as he spoke. ‘In the meantime, the man will
remain in gaol. Perhaps, if I can get through a heavy workload, we may listen to the case against this
Peter. But then again, I may find that the court is slow today. Business can so often be lengthy, can it not?’

‘Why? Just tell me why?’ Baldwin said, eyes narrowed. ‘You have nothing against this man, nor his wife, do you? So why do
you persecute them?’

‘The king is alarmed, and so is my lord Sir Hugh le Despenser. Men are plotting against them, they believe. So plotters must
be found. I have found one.’

‘You hold an innocent man.’

‘I hold a man who has been declared to be guilty of plotting against the king,’ the sheriff said flatly. He leaned back casually.
‘If he’s found guilty, he’ll be executed, just like any other traitor.’

Baldwin rocked on the balls of his feet. The man’s rudeness was justification for assaulting him now, offering him a duel,
or simply beating him with Edgar, but that would serve no purpose, other than to ensure that he and Edgar would themselves
be outlawed for attacking a king’s sheriff. He could not attack, but he could not allow the man to hold Edith’s husband –
nor could he allow himself to be held while Edith was in danger.

‘So, Sir Baldwin,’ the man said with some disdain. ‘If there is no more business, perhaps you should leave me to continue
with mine? It was most pleasant to discuss these things with you; however, I am a busy man in the king’s service. I am sure
you will understand.’

‘I wish to have the aid of the hue and cry to seek the girl.’

‘Bring me the body, and you can have a posse, Sir Baldwin. But as matters stand, I fear I see no reason to assist you in seeking
this child who appears to have fled your … um … hospitality.’

Baldwin had to move this time. Edgar was about to leap. Baldwin knew his man too well, and he also knew that the sheriff could
die swiftly at Edgar’s hands. Edgar might look amused and lazily laconic, but that was when he was at his most deadly – and
a man trained by the Templars to be a committed killer was always a deadly opponent.

‘Edgar, no,’ Baldwin said softly. He could see that the tension remained in Edgar’s stance, but he knew his man would not
disobey. They had been together too long as warriors.

‘I wish you a good day, Sheriff,’ he said. ‘I shall take your advice and seek her myself. However, I recommend you do nothing
to upset me or my friends.’

‘You threaten me?’ the sheriff said. He sat straighter in his chair, sneering at the thought of this rural knight trying to
menace him.

‘I make no threat. No. But the man you hold is son-in-law to my friend, who is also friend to the king. Insult the lad, and
you will pay for it.’

‘You think so? If he’s found guilty of treason, old man, his family and in-laws, as well as his
friends
, will all be studied in a new light. I should go home and enjoy your peace while you still may.’

Jacobstowe

‘Good lady, we were sad to hear of your loss,’ Simon said.

‘It was a terrible thing. And I can think of nothing but revenge. But how may I win justice for my man?’

‘If we may, we shall aid you,’ Simon said. ‘Can you tell us anything about his death?’

Agnes shook her head, confused. ‘What do you want me to say? He was beaten to death in the road. No one saw anything, no one
wanted to know anything. It was just one of those things. A man died, and no one cares.’

‘Many do care, but we need to learn who could be responsible. Did he have any enemies?’

‘Not in the vill here … But the men who killed the travellers, he hated them. He was trying to find out who they were,
so he could capture them.’

‘Did he find out?’ Sir Richard rumbled.

‘No. I don’t think so, anyway,’ she admitted. ‘He was trying to learn all he could, but then he died.’

‘That may well mean he learned all he needed,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Where was he when he died?’

She looked at him with a new hope. ‘Hoppon would know.’

‘Who is this Hoppon?’

‘He is the man who lives nearest, I think. He’s at the edge of the woods, near the boundary of our parish. I know he was trying
to help Bill to find the men who killed the folks in the woods.’

She took them down from the church to a little house where a woman sat shelling the last of the summer’s peas at the doorway,
and left her son there before striding on purposefully southwards.

The land here fell away a little from Jacobstowe itself, and soon
they were walking a path that ran along a broad ridge down towards Oakhampton. The woods themselves were very clear, sitting
like a saddle over the ridge and both flanks, but before they reached the trees, Agnes took a turn to the left, and followed
a trail between hedges that took them down towards a river.

Here, halfway to the water, there was a little hovel. It was nothing more than a single-bay building, with sticks and twigs
gleaned from the woods to fill the gaps, and cob daubed over. Once it might have been a clean, pleasant little home, limewashed
and well thatched to keep the cold at bay, but now it was sadly dilapidated. The walls had lost all their colour, and were
a mixed grey and pale brown with little whiteness remaining; the thatch was faded to the colour of slate, with moss lying
heavily on top, and there were holes all over where squirrels and birds had made their homes in it. A large area near the
door had been eaten away, and Simon could see the ribs of the roofing poles beneath.

Outside, it was like any other peasant’s house. There was a small vegetable patch with six plots set out, containing kale
and other leaves, all of which looked tough and unappetising so late in the season. A rough stockade of hurdles had been built
to the side probably for lambs or kids earlier in the year, and was now falling down, but in one asset at least the place
was rich. Under the eaves was a good-sized woodpile, with a number of large boughs. Behind were smaller branches and bundles
of faggots. At least the house would remain warm in the winter months, Simon thought.

The man who hobbled along from the rear at the sound of their voices was a stooped fellow of some fifty years or so. His name
probably came from his gait. One leg was partly crippled, so he must hop on the other to walk, and he used a long pole as
a staff to aid his passage, but there was nothing to suggest that he was disabled in any other way. His face was quite handsome,
with a strong jawline, heavy brows, and dark, serious eyes, which stood out in his pale face. His hair was almost white, and
there was a thick stubble of beard and moustache to show that he had used the last barber to visit the vill, but the colour
looked almost out of place. His features did not appear old enough to justify the leaching away of all colour from his hair.

‘Hoppon, these men are here to try to learn all they can about my husband’s death,’ Agnes said as he approached.

Hoppon studied the men seriously for a moment, and then nodded and gave them a bow, while gripping his staff with both hands
clasped about it at chest height. ‘My lords, I’m honoured. God give you all success in your searches.’

‘We are interested in all to do with the death of the travellers, as well as this woman’s husband’s murder,’ Sir Richard boomed.
‘Can ye tell us aught about them?’

‘The coroner has been already – he heard all the evidence,’ Hoppon said, glancing at Agnes as he spoke.

‘We know. We’ve seen Sir Peregrine,’ Sir Richard said. ‘But he doesn’t live here, and we want to find out what we can from
someone who knows the area.’

‘I’ll tell what I can, but I doubt me it’ll be of much use to you,’ Hoppon said. ‘The travellers were over there. I saw their
smoke in the morning, but I didn’t think anything of it. Why should I? There are woodsmen all over the place, what with the
winter coming on. People are there all the time to gather their faggots for the fire, and the charcoal burners make enough
smoke to hide a city.’