No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (23 page)

They had left Hoppon at his house, and were almost at the vill already when Agnes suddenly caught at her breast, gasping for
breath, desperately moaning in her distress. She was suddenly lost. Hopelessly confused, she could not help herself. She didn’t
recognise the road, didn’t know the scene of the vill in front of her, could not discern a single building that she knew.
Overwhelmed by the feeling of dislocation, she struggled to get her lungs to work.

It was a shock to the men. None knew what to do. The monk was hopeless. He stood, panicking, flapping his hands, literally.
The sight was almost enough to make her mood lighten, for he looked exactly like a young bird experimenting with flight, a
stupid, wide-eyed expression on his face; and the coroner wasn’t much better, standing and harrumphing like an old stallion
but uneasy about comforting her. No, it was the bailiff who came to her aid. While she thrust out a hand to break her fall,
feeling her legs begin to wobble, a loud roaring in her ears, and a most peculiar flashing in front of her eyes, she found
herself caught up. Her legs rose before her, and her shoulders were gently borne, and as the world darkened before her, she
was aware of floating, carried by the bailiff.

Exeter

Baldwin had persuaded the coroner to leave the castle for a while, and now the three men were at a quiet table in a tavern
beside the east gate to the city. Edgar stood, his eyes flitting about all the others in the room, watching carefully for
any sign of danger to his master – and keeping all those who might have wished to listen at bay. His was not a demeanour that
would brook any argument about whether or not he had the right to prevent others from coming to a table.

Sir Peregrine was not a man whom Baldwin had ever liked. He felt sympathy for him, for he knew well that Sir Peregrine had
loved three women, and all had died. Their deaths had marked him in some way. He had apparently grown more patient and sympathetic.
But he was still the devoted ally of the men who had set their hearts against the king, and although Baldwin himself was growing
impatient with Edward’s excesses, and his irrational devotion to the hideous, avaricious adviser Despenser, yet he was still
the king and Baldwin owed him allegiance.

Despenser was the one point of mutual understanding, Baldwin now learned. Both detested him.

‘You are coroner still, then?’ he asked.

‘I fear that there is an ever-increasing need for such as me. The shire is growing yet more fractious,’ Sir Peregrine said.

‘In what way? At my home there are few signs.’

‘The first proof is the number of felons wandering in gangs. There was a time ten to twenty years ago when the trail bastons
wandered with impunity. Now they have been superseded by this latest menace. There are as many wandering bands as there are
malcontents with the king, or so it would seem now.’

Baldwin grunted noncommitally. ‘I do not wish to—’

Sir Peregrine interrupted him with a faint smile. ‘Sir Baldwin, I do not plot or scheme against the king. I have but one desire:
to see the kingdom ruled more effectively and in the interests of the crown. I am no malcontent who would see Edward removed
from his office. I have changed somewhat since our last discussion. However, it is plainly true that there are numbers of
men who were once opposed to the king’s adviser, and who through him have been dispossessed of all their lands and titles.
Many have seen their relations thrown into prisons, or have learned that their children have been deprived of their inheritances,
their wives removed from their houses, or their lords accused of treason, executed barbarically, and their limbs hung on city
walls up and down the land to feed the crows. There is a great deal of bitterness.’

‘I do not care about those who have been shown to be disloyal to the king,’ said Baldwin. He leaned forward, elbows on the
table. ‘Troubles in other parts of the realm are for others to worry about.’

‘This is not far from you, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Peregrine countered. ‘In only the last few days I’ve had a group of nineteen
slaughtered, and a matter of days later the local reeve slain while he tried to discover who was responsible.’

‘Where was this?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Over near Oakhampton. The men were slain in the woods a little north of the town, while the reeve was from Jacobstowe, and
his body was discovered a short way east. That is what I mean, Sir Baldwin, when I say that the country is unsafe no matter
where you travel.’

‘It is worse than only a short while ago.’

‘Yes. And now there are men of rank who are stealing and killing, men with influence, men with castles.’

Baldwin was silent as he considered. ‘This is sorely troubling,’ he said at last. ‘Simon’s daughter has disappeared, and the
sheriff has arrested her husband, alleging that the fellow is guilty of some form of treason.’

‘Simon Puttock? I saw him with the king’s coroner from Lifton only two days ago.’

Baldwin looked up. ‘Where was he then?’

‘Just a little past Bow, on his way to Tavistock, I think. Why?’

‘I would like to have news taken to him about his daughter. Someone will have to go and seek him.’

‘Perhaps I can help with that,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘I would be happy to send a man to find him and tell him.’

‘That would indeed be helpful. And then I have to try to ensure that the girl’s husband is released as well,’ Baldwin said.

‘I should speak with the lad’s father and tell him to keep an eye on his son to make sure he stays safe, then leave him to
sort it out,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘The girl is the one who must take up your efforts. Whether she is fallen from her horse
or has been captured doesn’t matter. Either way, she must be found urgently. There are too many felons and outlaws who could
seek to take her. I regret that I cannot assist you personally. I have some matters to work on in court. However, when I am
free, I swear that I will do all in my power to see the boy released.’

‘I thank you for that. You are right, of course,’ Baldwin said. He felt as though it was a weight being lifted from his shoulders,
hearing the clear-sighted Sir Peregrine voice his own feelings. ‘Edith must be found first.’

‘Good! God speed, then, Sir Baldwin.’

Baldwin nodded and gave Sir Peregrine his hand, both rising. Sir Peregrine promised to send one of his own servants to find
Simon, and to send any other men he could find to aid Baldwin in the hunt for Edith, and then the two parted, Baldwin striding
purposefully into the gathering dusk with Edgar along the high street.

‘Where are we going?’ Edgar asked.

‘We must speak with the husband’s father. This man has some authority in the city. Surely he must be able to do something
for his son. He may not be able to get the lad released, but he can at least see to it that he gets some food.’

Jacobstowe

At the vill there were a couple of women chatting on a doorstep, and the coroner bellowed at them to fetch help.

One of the women looked at him with some alarm. The other looked as though she was about ready to run immediately for help
in the form of men with billhooks, but the coroner stood and glared at them. ‘What is it, gossips? You more keen to discuss
the doings of
your husbands and daughters than help a neighbour? Come here, the pair of you, and tell us where we may install this poor
woman. She’s your neighbour, in Christ’s name!’

‘What have you done with her?’ This was the woman in the doorway. She appeared reluctant to leave it while the coroner stood
before her, and her sharp, weaselly face moved from Coroner Richard to Simon with deep suspicion.

Sir Richard stared at her. He was not yet over his initial shock at seeing this woman collapse before him, and the fact that
it had been Simon who had realised what was happening, and not him, lent additional force to his voice. He took an immense
breath, and then bellowed, ‘
In the name of Christ, you stupid, malodorous bitch, since you haven’t the wits God gave you at birth, run and find a woman
who has some! Fetch someone who knows what to do with a poor widow who’s fainted, and if you don’t do that in less time than
it takes me to draw breath, I, Coroner Richard de Welles, will have you attached and amerced for your astonishing stupidity!
’

She was already fleeing along the road towards the middle of the vill as he roared his last words, and as she ran there was
a satisfying sound of doors being wrenched open, and even the clatter of a bowl being dropped and smashing.

Before long, Simon and the coroner were inside a small hovel, setting the widow on a low palliasse, and hurriedly pushing
past the women who thronged the doorway to see what was happening to their neighbour.

The coroner took a deep breath of the cool early-evening air. ‘Right, Bailiff, Brother Monk, we have been working and travelling
all the weary day. It is time for me to have at least a gallon of wine and mead before I take responsibility for a large joint
of meat of some sort.’

‘I think we shall be fortunate to find a decent meal here,’ Simon said with a tired smile. It had been harder than he would
have expected to carry the poor woman the relatively short distance to her own house. For such a small-bodied woman, it was
a surprise how much she seemed to weigh after a few feet.

Coroner Richard hesitated, fixing Simon with a look of puzzlement. ‘You think so? I’ve never yet found a place that couldn’t
provide a perfectly good meal if you know who to speak to. Mind you,
this is a strange-looking vill. Not the sort of place I’d think to stop in usually. But there must be an inn or something
nearby.’

He saw a man staring at the door to Agnes’s house. The fellow was surely on his way home from a day in the fields, and had
seen or heard the noise of their return. Noticing the coroner bearing down on him, he squeaked and would have fled, but Sir
Richard’s voice was pleasantly modulated for him. ‘Friend, I am in need of wine and vittles. Do ye know a good tavern about
this place?’

Even with the coroner’s most gentle smile, the man looked ready to bolt, but Mark was already behind him. ‘My son, you need
only point out the way to the tavern if that large fellow intimidates you too much. Personally, I think his bark is worse
than his bite. But then, having heard him, you wouldn’t want to get too close, would you? I don’t anyway. So please, put us
all out of our misery and just tell him where to get some wine.’

It was a rough little building, but Sir Richard declared himself delighted with it and its rustic charm. Simon looked about
him and thought it looked marginally worse than some of the brawling drinking chambers in Dartmouth where the sailors would
go to forget their woes. There were no stools, only a few large round tree trunk logs to rest on, and one bench that appeared
to have been made by a man who had heard of such things but had never actually seen or used one. Simon stood eyeing it for
some little while before resorting to leaning against a wall.

Sir Richard was less particular. He stood at the hearth in the middle of the room and warmed his hands on the rising heat.
There was a tripod set over the fire, and a pot held a thickening pottage with some lumps of indeterminate meat bobbing about
occasionally. A young girl of perhaps nine summers clad in a simple shift stood and stirred the pot seriously, spending more
time warily keeping her eyes on these three strangers. Mark had walked straight in, sighed, and made his way to the bench,
on which he rested his backside with a show of caution – a display that appeared unnecessary, for there was not even a squeak
of protest from the wood as it took his weight.

‘Child, where is your father?’ Simon asked.

She said nothing, but nodded towards a door at the opposite end of the room. Simon walked to it, and soon there was a man
with them. He was as old as Simon, but his face wore the years with less ease. He
was also a deal slimmer than the bailiff, and his hair was almost all grey, while his brows were black as a Celt’s beard.
In a short time they had ordered ales – there was no wine – and bread, pottage and a steamed suet pudding of apples and pears.

For some little while there was an appreciative silence as the three finished their meal and sat back contented. The coroner
gave a belch, and then a trumpet blast from his arse. ‘Hah! I needed that. There’s nothing so disorders a man’s humours as
having no ballast in his belly. And a pot or two of ale helps the digestion, I always reckon.’

‘I will be happier when I’ve had a sleep,’ Simon said. He stretched his arms over his head and felt the tension in his shoulders
with a grimace. ‘So much still to learn and do in the morning.’

‘Aye. Well, we will be up early, I dare say,’ the coroner said with a rueful glance at the floor. They had agreed with the
host that they could sleep in a room at the back, but it looked a verminous, unpleasant bedchamber. Sir Richard’s only hope
was that the promised straw for bedding was not too smothered in fleas or lice. He had slept rough before and had no wish
to do so again.

‘I find your attitudes astonishing,’ Mark hissed. ‘Today you have wasted so many hours in merely wandering about the land,
asking all kinds of questions about a dead reeve, and learned nothing at all about the murder of two priests and their guards.
These are the men the good cardinal requested you to ask after, but you’ve done precious little to learn
anything
so far as I can see.’

‘Aye?’ Sir Richard said, fixing a genial look on the monk. ‘Why is that?’

‘I assume you are still new to this kind of inquest,’ Brother Mark said. ‘In God’s name, I wish we had found another to do
the job.’

‘Do ye now? Hmm. How many deaths have you investigated, Master Monk?’

‘Do not be ridiculous! I have never—’

‘None? Ah. And how many dead bodies, then, have you buried?’

‘I have been to a number of funerals.’

‘Not what I asked. No, you see, I was wondering whether you had buried many of your own family?’

‘I was present at my mother’s funeral not long ago.’

‘Oh? Your mother’s? Was she murdered?’

‘No, she was old, though.’

‘Oh, I see. Well then, Master Monk, you should remember that Simon and I have actually investigated more than a few deaths.
Me, I’ve held more than a hundred inquests on corpses in my time; and I’ve seen enough felons hanged to fill my days. I have
what you could call
experience
, if you were to be so crass.’

‘Then why did you ask nothing about the men today, and instead spent so much time on the reeve?’

‘That is why I asked whether you had lost a close relative. When you have, when you’ve had to find someone who’s close to
you, when you’ve had to help bring that loved one home again, so that you can bury her, and when you have suffered all the
misery and recrimination, all the self-loathing and hatred, for being so stupid as to let her die while you were off enjoying
yourself, master, then, and only then, can you criticise us. I left my wife alone one day, and she was killed. I know what
it feels like to lose a loved one. For now, let me remind you that you are here in the vill where an honourable, decent reeve
lived and worked, with all his friends and companions from the area. He was a man of this vill. He did what he could for the
folk here. They have had a loss that cannot be mended. And his wife, you will remember, was with us. How would she have felt
were we to have ignored her old man and instead spent all our time in asking about a group of foreigners she’d never known?
Eh? There is such a thing as compassion, Master Monk. Perhaps you have heard of the term?’