No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (31 page)

Simon could see his inner rage, but he could hardly restrain his own fury. Baldwin had failed him, and had failed Edith. All
Simon knew now was inner turmoil and a clammy fear that his little Edith, his daughter, was in dreadful danger.

And he could do nothing about it.

Nymet Traci

The stables were well afire already when Wattere pushed through the press of men and entered the hall.

He felt a fool. Over to the straw he had gone, collecting a little pile in his hand, and then taking some charcloth and striking
his flint until it had begun to glow gently, a mottled series of little red blooms on the black surface. Then he began to
blow on it, encompassing the cloth with some straws, and adding a little fine tinder on the glowing dots, until the tinder
caught, and then the straws as well.

He was just finished and had risen when he heard the voices at the gate. Walking out slowly, his hands in his belt, the picture
of ease and innocence, he had realised that Basil and his father were both up on the wall above the gates. It was galling
to think that all his efforts had been pointless, but then he heard the sudden moaning of the fire as more straw caught light,
and he began to sidle away.

It was shortly after he had reached the door that he saw other men begin to look about them. Before, most of them were up
on the walls, staring out at the strangers. Others were down in the yard, and as the blaze began, they were all occupied.
It was one man up on the wall who first noticed. Wattere saw him sniff the air, puzzled. The odour was not the same as clean
woodsmoke. No, the sharp, greasy tang on the wind was that of hay and straw, rich and grassy, and for a moment he was confused.
Turning, he stared hard at the house and the little kitchen beside it, but the smoke was not emanating from either chimney.
Next his eyes were drawn to the thatch on either building, but a short while later the wind gave a low soughing, and then
it was that the first sparks began to soar and he caught sight of the flames erupting from the stable blocks.

That first guard gave the warning shout, and soon others had joined in, men rushing to the fire from all directions, grabbing
buckets,
barrels and even helmets, anything with which to carry water and try to help put out the fire. In a short space of time, only
a few men were left up on the walls. Even Sir Robert himself was in the thick of it with the men on the ground, bellowing
himself hoarse as his servants and fighters all exerted themselves before the fire could reach the main hall. The noise of
crackling mingled with the creak of tormented wood and the shrill, horrified shrieks of the horses remaining inside. Two men
took axes, wrapped wet cloth about their heads, and darted inside, hacking at all the tethers holding the beasts, and in a
short while the maddened creatures had bolted from the stalls and escaped, all bar one piebald rounsey, who was so deranged
that she galloped at full speed into the farther wall, instead of towards the door. They found her later, burned badly, her
neck broken.

Wattere eyed the men rushing witlessly in the yard and nodded grimly to himself. He would have liked to have pushed Basil
into the fire if he could, but the arrogant prickle was there at the back of the press. Instead Wattere pushed on through
the door and ran over the floor to the solar where Edith was being held.

Her chamber was up a short flight of wooden stairs, and he was soon at the door. There was a latch, and a bolt to lock it.
Basil and his father had not thought anything stronger would be necessary to hold a dull-witted wench, and in any case, with
the gates shut and barred, what was the need? She was as caged whether she was in the room or wandering the yard. She could
attempt to leap the walls, but that would likely break her legs, and not many would be prepared to run that risk.

He pulled the bolt open and shoved the door wide. ‘Maid, come quickly. I think I can save you.’

She had risen, and he saw her hopeful expression, but as he beckoned urgently, her face changed, and he saw the blank terror
return. He tried to duck and move out of the way, but Osbert’s blade sank into his shoulder before he could, and Wattere clenched
his teeth against the horror of that slick, sharp steel wedged deep in his shoulder and collar bone.

It was the shouting that attracted Edgar’s attention at first. As they rode away, his sharp ears caught the sound of barked
commands, of shrieks, and then the whinnying of animals in dread. The flames were
clearly visible when he glanced over his shoulder, and he halted his mount to stare for a moment before calling to the others.
‘Sirs! Master Puttock! Something most odd is happening.’

‘What in Christ’s name!’ Sir Richard muttered. Then a gust of wind blew, and the angry orange flames were fanned. There was
a loud crunching and rending sound, and the flames rose still higher. ‘Sweet Mary’s tits! The place is on fire!’

He was already the last. The others were all riding pell-mell for the castle, Simon and Baldwin racing almost neck and neck,
while Edgar galloped behind. Even Mark was reluctantly clinging to his own seat, his mount having decided that this was a
good day for a race.

‘Oh,’ Sir Richard said to himself, and then yelled, ‘Ya hoi!’ and clapped spurs to his weary beast’s flanks.

The gates were still shut and barred as they rode, but then Simon saw a chink between them. He scarcely dared hope that they
were actually opening, and for a moment tried to convince himself that all he had seen was the gleam of light through a natural
gap in the wood, but then the little flash of light broadened, and he saw the gates open wide. A trio of horses appeared,
led by a stable boy, then four more, two rearing wildly, while an older lad tried to calm them. After them came more, all
driven mad by the nearness of the fire, all desperate to get as far from there as possible.

Baldwin looked about him, over either shoulder, and then smiled with a gleam of his teeth as he whipped his mount on at the
gallop, in through the smoke and sparks, under the gates and into the yard.

Sir Robert coughed, a hand held up to protect his eyes as smoke gushed through the doors of the stables and blew at him, a
foul, reeking gust of the devil’s own wind. It felt as though his face’s flesh was being seared away, and he could hear his
own hair brittlely smouldering. He must close his eyes against the bright glare. All about him the men were carrying buckets
filled with water, hurling their contents at the fires and retreating.

At least it would be safer with the horses out of here. Already three men had been injured trying to release the terrified
beasts. Old Hamo wouldn’t get up again. A flailing hoof from a terrified palfrey had sheared away the whole of the side of
his head, exposing the brain. Two others nursed dangerous injuries, one a badly broken arm, the
other a crushed hand. All in all, this was a hideously expensive disaster. ‘What the shite is happening here?’ he muttered,
staring about him. There was a clattering of hooves, and he saw that the last of the horses was being taken out at the run
by a little tow-haired youth. The lad was one of the guards’ sons, he remembered. That was good – at least all the mounts
would be safe then. The boys were taking them away from the castle to calm them down.

He had turned back to the fire, but as he did so he heard a rough bellow from the house. Shooting a look at the hall, he saw
Osbert in the doorway, grinning with pleasure. In his fist he held Wattere by his jacket, which was thickly clotted with blood.

‘Thought you’d like this piece of turd, Sir Robert. He was up there trying to get his fists on the wench.’

Wattere could not answer. He was close to collapse, and the agony that was his shoulder was enough to make him want to vomit.
He could only stagger as Osbert hauled him out, and then he was suddenly thrust forward, and his legs could not carry him.
His right folded under him, and he fell stiffly, his torso twisting to keep his ruined shoulder from the ground, but the jolt
of falling was enough to make him scream shrilly with anguish. It was like a dozen swords slashing at him simultaneously.
The sort of hideous torment that a soul in hell would expect. He could feel the hot, bubbling vomit hit the back of his throat,
and then he puked a fine, thin acid.

‘Trying it on, were you, Wattere? Despenser will be disappointed,’ Sir Robert said. He rested his booted foot on Wattere’s
shoulder. ‘Let me see. We have a fire, and in the middle of it,’ he pressed down hard, ‘you rush to the maid.’ He listened
as the scream faded, bubbling. ‘If I was less than intelligent, I might think that there was no coincidence. Do you think
I should?’

‘It was not to rape her …’

‘Hmm? You wanted to say something?’

‘I didn’t bring her here to see her raped by your son. That little prickle was going to force himself on her and—’

‘And it’s none of your business. But what
is
my business is that you committed arson on my stables. And even now, all I can hear in the yard is the block burning.’

‘Don’t let your son—’

‘You still talking, then?’ Sir Robert said. He kicked once, hard, and
then again. ‘I don’t like arsonists, Wattere. You know what? I think they ought to be shown why what they do is so dangerous.
So I’m going to let you find out. Osbert, show him to the fire.’

Osbert looked at Wattere, then over at the fire. He snapped an order at one of the other men, and picked up Wattere by his
bad shoulder. The two men hefted him between them as Wattere shrieked with the pain, and then began to walk him to the burning
building.

Nymet Traci

His feet dragged, and the pain in his shoulder was a continuing stream of fire that scorched his soul as Osbert pulled him
on. Wattere had to open his mouth to scream in a constant, hoarse howl of anger, horror and mind-destroying terror. He set
his feet to stop the onward progress, but that meant that the hand at his bad shoulder started to tear his muscles, and he
could feel the grating of the sheared bones scraping against each other. This time the pain was so exquisite and intense,
he could not make a sound. His mouth drooped wide, but nothing came. He was aware only of the sensation of floating a little
over the ground. A loud drumming came to him, a drumming as of the blood pounding in his head, and he felt sure with relief
that soon he would feel no more. He would have the sensation of fainting, but then his suffering would be ended. ‘Swyve your
mother,’ he gasped.

Osbert turned to look at him, and his free fist clenched as though to swing at Wattere’s face. It was enough to make Wattere
want to flinch, but the effort was too great. Then, to his astonishment, he was dropped on the ground. All the feeling returned.
He was no longer floating; now he was forced back to reality. He felt soil in his mouth, and rolled over, whimpering with
the pain, as he prepared himself for the boot that would slam into his body.

He heard a bellow of rage, and as he tried to look towards Osbert, he saw the other guard’s head lift from the man’s torso
on a fountain of blood. Osbert had his sword clenched in his hand, and a look of maniacal joy on his face as he withdrew,
carefully stepping back out of the light and into the smoke and fury of the fire.

It was enough for Wattere. He allowed his head to fall back and slipped away from consciousness.

Simon urged his horse on with spurs and reins, aiming straight for the smoke-filled gap that was the gateway, aware of Baldwin
at his side, knowing that Edgar was a short way behind. As he slammed into the roiling smoke, he tried to catch a breath to
scream a war cry, but the thick fumes burned down his throat and into his lungs, and he was forced to hack and cough until
he reached a patch of daylight. He saw Sir Robert, and put his hand to his sword hilt even as he set his beast for the man.

Sir Robert was no coward, but nor was he a fool. A man on horseback had an advantage over a man on foot. He shoved past the
other men to reach the front door of his hall, and would have slammed it closed, but Simon threw himself from his mount and
hit the door as it was closing. It lurched open, and Simon was inside with Sir Robert. The knight pulled out his own sword,
a longer one than Simon’s, and instantly tried a stab, the steel coming wickedly close to Simon’s flank. He slashed at the
blade with his own, knocking it away, and it seemed to waver as though the man’s arm was numbed. Simon saw Sir Robert’s eyes
register pain and disbelief, but he didn’t trust him not to be acting to try to tempt Simon in more closely.

He decided to test Sir Robert, and made a feint, stabbing in and withdrawing. The reaction was so swift, it would have sliced
through Simon’s throat, a sweep around that then continued perhaps a little too far. It was beginning to move back already
as Simon made his choice, and committed himself, hurling himself forward bodily, his right fist clenched about the hilt, clubbing
at Sir Robert’s wrist. His left hand shot out and gripped the knight’s tunic at the neck, while he hammered again at the man’s
hand with the steel pommel of his sword. Once, twice, and on the third vicious blow, Simon allowed his sword to continue a
little further in its motion, so that the point was now under Sir Robert’s chin. He lifted it higher, so that it was close
to penetrating his flesh, and at last Sir Robert swore and Simon heard the clatter of steel as the other man’s sword fell
to the ground.

‘Shit, I yield!’

‘I should finish you now!’ Simon said from clenched teeth. ‘Where is she? Where is my daughter?’

‘Right here, master. Why, did you think we’d lost her?’ Basil said, and Simon turned to see Edith gripped by the neck, his
sword resting on her perfect white throat, her eyes wide with utter terror.

If there had been more men here, Baldwin would have been more alarmed, but as it was, the majority of the guards and servants
had been outside and defending the yard from the flames. None had a bow or gonne with them, and not many had so much as a
sword. There were three or four who bore axes, but they had been so completely surprised that two had already been struck
down, and the two remaining had hurriedly dropped their weapons.

Baldwin had seen Simon rush for the door to the hall, but before he followed, he went to the figure lying on the ground near
the burning barn. ‘Well, this is a pretty sight,’ he murmured, looking at the gaping wound where Osbert’s sword had made its
mark.

He peered around to look at the man’s face and was surprised to recognise him. ‘William atte Wattere,’ he breathed.

Standing, he saw the monk nearby, gazing about him with a pitiable expression of shock on his face. ‘Mark, brother, will you
look after this fellow for me, please? He may be of some use to us.’

‘Will he live?’

‘Long enough, I hope, to feel the hangman’s rope about his neck. This is the evil character who kidnapped Simon’s daughter.
Where he is, she will probably be near,’ Baldwin said. He wiped a little of the sweat from his brow. It was almost unbearably
hot in the yard. The enclosing walls concentrated the heat, and turned the space into an oven.

About him he saw that Edgar and Sir Richard had herded all the men from the yard into one corner, and although there were
some seventeen of them, the two men were nonchalant in the way they held their weapons. It was obvious that none of the men
they had captured relished the prospect of throwing themselves at them.

Baldwin was content that the two could easily cope with the cowed guards, and hurried after Simon. He was about to rush in
through the door when Simon appeared, walking backwards, his sword in the hands of Sir Robert de Traci. Baldwin swore under
his breath, and would have run to conceal himself, but Sir Robert saw him and jerked his chin. ‘You too, Sir Keeper. Your
sword on the ground now.’

‘No.’

Baldwin saw Simon’s agonised expression, but it would not affect him. He kept a firm hold on his weapon as two more figures
appeared in the doorway: one was the one-eyed man, the other the knight’s son, who held in his hand Simon’s daughter.

‘Edith,’ Baldwin called. ‘Are you quite well? Have these men hurt you in any way?’

Basil taunted him with his response. ‘You think we’d have tainted the little wench? Nay, Sir Knight. She’s still unsullied,
so far as we can tell. Who knows what she has been getting up to in Exeter while her husband’s away, though, eh? Good little
rump on her, this filly. Have you seen the way she can jiggle it? Like two rats in a sack when she walks, by my faith! And
those lovely titties. So entrancing. You want to try her? We haven’t damaged her yet, so if you want her, you may be able
to—’

‘Basil, shut up,’ his father growled. ‘Sir Baldwin, I think I said you should put down your sword?’

Baldwin eyed him. He was too close to Simon for safety. Edith was close by the knight’s son, too, and she was in great danger.
Basil’s sword lay across her throat, the sharpened blade touching her neck. She had a cloak on, loosely thrown over her shoulders,
he saw, but the blade was above that. ‘Sir Richard, Edgar, do not drop your swords. Clear?’

‘Sir,’ Edgar responded.

Sir Richard grunted and kept tight hold of his own weapon.

‘There, Sir Robert,’ Baldwin said. ‘I feel we are at an impasse. I will not drop my sword, and you will not pass me to escape
while I hold it.’

‘You will drop it, Keeper, because if you don’t, I shall tell my son to start removing pieces of that woman. Perhaps first
we should see her shamed? Shall we strip her of all her clothing, Basil?’

Simon gave a tortured roar: ‘
No!
’

‘Oh? You prefer that we should gradually remove every finger?’

Simon turned to Baldwin. ‘They’ll kill her! You must throw down the sword, Baldwin. If you love me, old friend, please. I
beg.’

‘Simon, I cannot. If we all give up our swords, they will kill us all. That will not aid Edith.’

‘What, you enter
my
castle, you have your accomplice burn
my
damned barns and stables, you rush
my
hall, and you say that I am the villain? Dear Christ in chains, you have a bold mouth on you, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Robert expostulated.
The spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. ‘I am here without harming any, and yet you do so much damage.’

‘We had no accomplice in your midst,’ Baldwin said.

‘No? That man who tried to destroy my castle wasn’t yours?’ he sneered.

‘No. He brought Simon’s daughter here to you, did he not? And you held her here. Perhaps you have seen her raped, treated
shamefully, to satisfy your greed.’

‘My greed? You fool! Dear heaven, I call on you to witness this imbecile! The girl was to be kept here safely, just so that
pressure could be brought to bear on her father. That was all. There was a need.’

‘What need?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘To protect the realm. It was only to guard Devon against Mortimer in case he tried to invade from here. Who else causes so
much trouble and fear?’

‘How would your holding Edith help guard Devon?’

‘Tavistock. If this girl’s father was anxious enough, it was thought that he would persuade the monks there to support the
man who would be the stronger, more suitable abbot.’

‘So for that, to effectually play with the election of an abbot, you were prepared to hold a young woman indefinitely?’ Baldwin
said. His contempt dripped from his voice. ‘And you killed all the men at the woods just in order to reap the profit?’

‘What men in the woods?’

Baldwin stared at him hard. ‘The men whose money was taken. Women and children, monks and guards. You killed them all.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I didn’t kill anyone and take their money. What, do you think I am a common felon?’

‘Not very common, no,’ Baldwin said.

Sir Robert gave a slanted smile. ‘Very well, I admit that we did tickle them up a little. But there was no money to steal.
We spent long enough looking for the goddamned coin, but it wasn’t there.’

‘Then where is it?’

‘If I knew that,’ Sir Robert said with chilly certainty, ‘I would have brought it here. I didn’t, so I couldn’t. Now, enough
of this bickering. Will you let me pass?’

‘No,’ Baldwin said. ‘Not with hostages. Either you give them up, or I will prevent you from leaving.’

‘Basil, you can remove her shift and tunic. Let us see what she is made of, eh?’ Sir Robert said.

But just then there was a howl from behind him, and Sir Robert spun, recognising the sound of his son’s voice.

‘
No!
’ Simon roared, and lunged. His left hand slapped at the blade, knocking it away, and he was at Sir Robert’s throat.

The knight had not expected so simple a manoeuvre, and he was forced to stagger backwards even as he saw his son lift his
hands to his face, saw the blood gushing from his eye, heard the sword rattling on the ground, and saw the girl stoop, pick
up the blade and thrust it into Basil’s body, just under his ribs, a loose, inaccurate stab that wouldn’t kill, but might
hurt like blazes … and then he felt an odd, uncomfortable, dragging sensation in his breast, and found that there was
a peculiar tingling in his knees and a hollowness in his belly. He slipped to the ground, staring dumbly at the oily sheen
on his sword blade. There was something wrong about it, he was sure, and as he gazed down, he realised that the blade was
protruding from his own chest.

He felt his head as an insupportable weight, bringing him forward, the mass of his body dragging him to the floor, but even
as he felt his life leaching away into the stones, his face was turned to his son. His last thoughts were for Basil.

Roger was close to the walls when he saw a figure on a horse, and he swiftly thrust Agnes down behind him.

This was so much like the scenes he had witnessed in France. Smoke pouring from a homestead as men and women milled about,
terrified in case they would be captured. Today, he had the idea that there would be more killing, from the look of the men
who had ridden in so wildly.

The smoke was clearing a little now as most of the thatch and straw was gradually consumed, and soon there was only the reek
of old wood and tar and leather burning. At least with that there was less thick smoke, though, and now Roger could peer through
the wavy air to see the men beyond. Not that the view was very clear – he was sure he could see the men who had ridden into
the place, all standing about with their weapons drawn, but now he could see the men from the house, arguing; he saw the girl
turn, the flash of a weapon, and the man behind her screamed hoarsely and fell, even as the knight dropped his sword and another
man snatched it up and stabbed once, with all his strength.

‘What is it?’ Agnes demanded.

‘I think this place is less of a threat now,’ Roger said. He stood and began to walk towards the castle, aware that Agnes
was hurrying to keep up. In the gateway, he saw the men gathered over in the corner of the wall. As he entered, there was
a flash of steel, and he found himself looking into the face of a man who could kill in an instant. It was the kind of face
he had seen all too often in France.

‘Who are you?’

Roger said, ‘I am a sailor, on my way to Dartmouth. Nothing to do with these men, except a few days ago I saw them slay a
farmer.’

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, the Keeper of the King’s Peace. What are you doing here now? A man who witnessed a murder
would not normally follow the murderer. He would run to the nearest bailiff or reeve to declare the crime.’

‘It occurred to me that finding a body in an area where I was unknown might not be conducive to a long life. I preferred to
think that I could escape attention. But I thought it would repay me to follow some of these fellows and learn where they
lived. Then I started to wonder where they were going, to see if they were attacking anyone else.’