No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (26 page)

Jacobstowe

‘Wake up, Simon, it’s time to get moving!’

Simon came to only slowly. The past day, with the travelling and the investigation when they had arrived here, had made him
groggy. At least this time it was not a result of the coroner’s carousing for the night, he told himself wearily as he rolled
himself off the palliasse. He shivered in the cool morning air as he pulled on a tunic.

‘Ye know, Simon, that drink last night was not all bad. I was quite taken by his strong ale. It was well flavoured, and it’s
given me not the faintest after-effect whatever. Sometimes, you know, I can feel a vague lassitude in the morning after a
few quarts, but today – no! I feel absolutely wonderful.’

They were in a small room at the rear of the tavern, a lean-to chamber that had all the comforts of a pigsty, but did at least
appear to have clean straw in the palliasses, and although Simon was aware of an itch, he didn’t think it was the result of
flea bites but of a straw that had stabbed him during the night.

There was a leather pail of water, and Simon went to it and cupped a handful over his head and neck. It was freezing cold,
but enormously refreshing, and he closed his eyes and thrust his head into the bucket. ‘Ah, that’s better!’ he gasped.

‘You’re mad. Ye know that, don’t you?’ Sir Richard said with affable amusement. ‘Food’ll be ready in a few moments, so if
you want some, ye’d best hurry.’

‘I will take it with me,’ Simon said as he pulled on hosen and boots. ‘I never eat this early in the morning.’

‘You will fade to naught if you’re not careful,’ the coroner said disapprovingly.

The door opened behind him, and Mark entered. He looked dishevelled and pasty, and entirely unamused.

‘Good morrow, monk,’ the coroner said. ‘Been praying?’

‘If my prayers held any force, Sir Richard, you would be dead even now,’ Brother Mark said with cold loathing.

‘Eh? What have I done?’

Simon grinned as he slipped his linen chemise over his head. ‘Mark, do not worry. After the third or fourth night, either
you are so tired that you sleep immediately anyway, or you grow accustomed to the snoring.’

‘Me? Snore?’ the coroner demanded with shock. ‘Never snored in me life!’

‘We shall go as soon as the horses are ready?’ Mark asked Simon, studiously ignoring the coroner.

‘Yes. I want to head down past Hoppon’s place and see where the reeve Bill could have been going when he was murdered.’

He wasn’t keen to mention that the only place that appeared to make sense, after talking to the host of the tavern last night,
was the castle over towards Bow. It would be better to follow any trail they might and see where it took them, and it was
in that frame of mind that he mounted his old rounsey and began to ride off towards Hoppon’s house.

It was a cool morning, but the clouds were very high and the sky was a perfect blue. Looking at it, Simon was convinced that
the weather would remain dry and probably would grow quite warm. With that in mind, he didn’t pull on his heavier jerkin,
but merely tugged his cloak around him. Later he would be able to loosen it as he became hotter with the ride.

Their road was fine all along to the place where they had been told the reeve’s body had been found. From there Simon eyed
the ground carefully, looking for cart tracks and horses’ hoofprints. There were many of them all over the ground here. However,
there was no road south that he could see being taken by any of the prints, only a steady movement east.

He continued along after them, his eyes for the most part fixed on the mess of mud and churned grass, but in reality there
was no need for him to keep on staring down. The truth was, the men who had come here had been remarkably lax in concealing
their way. Others might take a route of stonier paths, or ride up along a stream bed, but these had the arrogance of knights
who knew that they were safe from
arrest. Their position afforded them total assurance. Well, Simon intended to prove that they were wrong in that conviction.

It was as they rode up a hill that Simon realised how far they had already come. He could see on the side of another hill
not far away a town that seemed familiar. He quickly ran through their route. They had already passed Sampford Courtenay and
North Tawton, and now they were at the foot of the hill to Bow, he realised. A good distance already. But the trail was not
leading them direct to Bow; it was heading more southerly.

There was a little hamlet, and as they trotted towards it, Simon saw an older man in his doorway shelling peas.

After giving the customary greetings, Simon indicated the path he was following. ‘Where do all these go, master?’

The peasant was a kindly old man with a ready smile. His hair was almost pure white, but his eyebrows were grizzled with black
to show his original colour. His skin was the same dark, ruddy colour as Simon’s own, and his eyes were as brown as well-cured
leather and as sharp as any lawyer’s. His name, he said, was John Pasmere.

‘Why do you want to know, sirs?’ he enquired.

‘Because they could be the prints of murderers,’ Sir Richard said.

The peasant kept his eyes on Simon. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Someone died?’

‘You don’t want to help king’s officers?’ Simon asked.

‘There are people whom it is not a good idea to upset, sir.’

Simon nodded. ‘And some will threaten much to a man who betrays them. Especially when the fellow is dependent upon them for
his home.’

‘Aye.’

‘On the other hand, the men here may have set upon a large party travelling through, and robbed the king,’ Simon said. ‘Any
who aid outlaws and felons who’ve robbed the king could be viewed as enemies of the king.’

The old man glanced behind Simon at the coroner. ‘Oh, aye? And what would a man do then, I wonder?’ he said sarcastically.
‘Have himself arrested and forced to tell under peine fort et dure?’

‘Very likely,’ Sir Richard grated. ‘Since a man concealing such information is aiding the king’s enemies, I’d personally recommend
that it be pursued to the extreme limits of his endurance.’

‘Which would take hardly any time for you, old man,’ Mark said.

John Pasmere peered at the monk. ‘Aren’t you a little young to be warning older men about their life expectancies?’

Simon threw his reins to Mark, in large part to stop the young monk from making any further intervention. ‘Friend, let us
enter your home for a moment.’ He dropped from his horse and walked to the house.

Inside it was a sparse little dwelling, but the man had obviously enjoyed the better weather of the summer. He had a filled
wood store, his chimney had a whole ham slung over the fire, and there were herbs hanging from the rafters. ‘This is a goodly
home.’

‘Meaning, I suppose, that it’ll be a shame to lose it? Look, sir, I know what you are about. You want me to tell you all,
and you will threaten me with losing my home and limbs and life if I don’t. You see, the problem I have is, they threaten
the same. And to be honest, I think that they will be the more savage about it. You understand my dilemma? I think my choice
is made.’

‘That is interesting,’ Simon said. ‘Because I was going to do nothing but ask you. I have no threats to offer. Only the good
of the vill and the shire. Whoever killed that party will continue to kill others. A man who thinks he has nothing to fear
from the law is a danger to all.’

‘But he has no fear. Don’t you realise?’

‘Realise what?’

‘The man you seek has been given the right by the king and his friend.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘The king has a close friend and adviser,’ John Pasmere said with the attitude of a man tested beyond patience. ‘Despenser.
And the man who did all this is a friend of the king’s friend. He has recently come here to take over the manor. With Despenser’s
support.’

‘That is no reason to murder travellers. Nor a local reeve merely trying to learn what really happened,’ Simon said.

‘What reeve?’

‘The fellow elected to serve the vill of Jacobstowe. All I’ve heard says he was a good man.’

‘About this tall? Strong fellow?’

‘I don’t know. I never met him. But I heard much. And he didn’t deserve to die, certainly not without having his death avenged.’

‘I saw a man,’ John Pasmere said slowly. ‘He appeared here, just like you, and he was keen to learn who’d killed the travellers.
This would be the same man, I think. Bill?’

‘Bill Lark. Yes,’ Simon said.

‘Shite! Those bastards! They think they can just slaughter any, don’t they?’ John Pasmere said, and he slumped down on to
his stool.

Simon studied him closely. There was little to show his thoughts, but he had suddenly blanched, and all his strength, which
Simon had seen out in the open air, appeared to have fled. He was now just an old man, aged before his time.

‘If you will tell naught, I will leave you, friend,’ Simon said quietly. ‘There’s no threats. But Lark had a wife and child.
She’s widowed – the babe’s lost his father. How many others have to die?’

‘Poor bugger,’ John Pasmere said, shaking his head. ‘You say you are a bailiff. Is that true?’

‘Yes. I am,’ Simon said. He was about to explain that this was only a temporary position with the Cardinal de Fargis, that
he had lost his old post on Dartmoor, but something made him hold his tongue. There were times, as his friend Baldwin often
said, when it was better by far to be silent than to chatter on. Occasionally a witness wanted to talk, and then it was best
to wait and listen.

There was a kind of suppressed urgency about John Pasmere as Simon watched him. The fellow looked up at Simon, then out through
the door towards the irritable coroner and the monk, and then to his fire. His mouth moved, although for some while no noise
came, and then suddenly the dam broke, and he began to mutter.

‘There’s no one safe from those evil bloodsucking bastards. Who’d trust them to their word anyway? There’s no rule here except
theirs, and then they make it up and change it whenever they want. The bastards! They live here, taking all they want, all
we
need, and threaten any man if he so much as raises a complaint, but when a decent man—’

‘Pasmere, calm yourself. I don’t understand …’

‘Oh yes, they can promise death and ruin, but what does that mean to us? Eh? We live in the shadow of the great lords all
the while, and then they deign to notice us if they want something, but more often they ignore us. Unless we have something
they want.’

Simon waited and watched. The man was working himself into a
fine froth. He reminded Simon of a small dog he had once seen, tied up, barking at a cat that lay basking in the sun a short
distance away. It was clear to all that the cat was there to taunt the dog, as cats will, and yet the only creature there
who did not understand was the dog, working itself into a maddened fury and testing the strength of the thong binding it.
In the end it was stilled when a man sent the cat flying with an accurately aimed stone.

John Pasmere was rather like the dog. Barking ineffectually, raging incoherently, he could no more harm his cat than could
the dog. It was tempting to strike the man, but Simon could not do so. Instead he made as though to leave.

‘No, sir. I will be calm.’

Simon said, ‘I have no time to listen to a madman’s ravings. I have much to do if I am to seek to avenge the reeve and the
others.’

‘It was the men –
his
men – Sir Robert of Nymet Traci. They’re the ones killed your man the reeve.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because it’s my fault,’ John Pasmere snapped, his face as hard as stone.

Nymet Traci

William atte Wattere sat on the stool with a grunt of satisfaction. The previous day had been painful. Sleeping rough was
not novel to him, but to rise so early as he heard her horse pass him, and then the need to catch her making him hurry over
packing, grabbing his horse, saddling and bridling the brute while he tossed his head and jerked against the cinch, did not
improve his temper. And then he had to ride all the way almost to Exeter before he managed to get close enough, just so he
could bind the bitch and bring her all the way back here again.

It hadn’t been easy, trailing after her. He had wanted to catch her the day before, when she was riding to Sir Baldwin’s house,
but it hadn’t been possible. She had ridden like a woman possessed, and the roads, while not full, were less empty than the
next morning. The next morning, however, while she was still a little fuddled so early, it had been much easier.

But that all meant a long day in the saddle. Perhaps he could have shortened the way, but at the time it seemed sensible to
take a little
more time and not scare her. A woman in more fear might have had a fainting fit, or panicked and tried to ride off, meaning
he’d have to kill her, and she was no good to him dead.

My lord Despenser had told him to catch her and bring her here safely, after all. That was the purport of the message. Bring
her here to Nymet Traci and make sure that she was protected. And then, later, when her father knew where she was, and had
complied with Sir Hugh le Despenser’s demands, and the matter at Tavistock was resolved, then she could be released. Quietly.

Meanwhile, William intended getting outside a quart or two of wine and snoozing the day away.

He was in the buttery when a slim figure appeared in the doorway, a dark-skinned man in his early twenties. ‘Ale, you ballock-faced
hog,’ the newcomer called to the bottler.

William looked at the bottler with interest to see how the fellow would respond. When he had first entered this little chamber,
the bottler had immediately struck him as a man who would be enthusiastic about laying about him with a cudgel if any man
was rude. He was about five feet six inches tall, but his barrel chest was enormous, and his biceps were each the size of
a small oak. Still, even with the provocation offered by the man in the doorway, he made no comment. Instead he ambled slowly
back to his bar and filled a large jug from the barrel. He stood for a moment with the jug in his hands, and William thought
he would throw it over the new fellow, but instead he appeared to steel himself, and took the ale to the man.