No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (34 page)

‘Perhaps he is freed already,’ Agnes said. She was at a loss for words as to how to soothe this woman.

‘I only pray that he is,’ Edith said. She snivelled a little. ‘I am sorry – I fear the loss of my man, but you are already
widowed.’

‘At least I already know the worst,’ Agnes said flatly. She looked at the child in her arms. ‘But I keep waking in the middle
watches of the night and wondering where he has gone. There is nothing worse than that loneliness, when you realise that he’s
gone for ever.’

‘You may find another man,’ Edith said tentatively.

‘The vill may decide to impose one on me,’ Agnes said without self-pity. ‘At least it would mean food in our bellies, I suppose.’

Edith said nothing. They both knew the reality of widowhood. It was hard for a woman to survive when her man died. All too
often the community would suggest alternatives, no matter how unsuitable the
woman might think them. ‘It is hard when you are unfree,’ she said.

‘It is harder when you were born free,’ Agnes said. ‘But my son, he was the son of a serf, so he is a serf too. And I was
married to one, so I relinquished my freedom willingly for him.’

Edith nodded. Then a vision of her husband’s face came before her eyes again, and she dissolved in tears. Agnes went to her,
and the two women sobbed together for their men, one in misery at her loss, the other terrified that she would soon experience
the same; both in fear for their futures.

Hoppon’s house

He could hear them long before they arrived. That was one of the benefits of a little area like this. Sound travelled.

The noise of squeaking harnesses and jingling chains came to him clearly over the creaking of the trees and the soughing of
the wind in the dried leaves. ‘Easy, Tab,’ he said, snapping his fingers as the dog rose on his haunches and started a low
rumbling deep in his throat.

Hoppon walked from his door to the open space before it, and rested his backside on a log that lay handy. He had used this
as a chopping board for so many other logs that it was scarred and notched with a thousand axe blows, but it was also in just
the right position for him when he was tired from gardening or when he had returned from his daily walk down to the river
to fetch water. The aches and pains of old age were inevitable, as he knew, but the gradual deterioration was depressing.
There had been a time when he wouldn’t have needed so many little resting places. Before the damned fire, he would have been
able to stride about his place without problem. But now every step was that little bit painful. Not outright, harsh, ferocious
agony, but debilitating, slow, steady, nearly not hurting, just a constant ache that flared whenever the weather was about
to change.

‘God, why didn’t you just let me die in the fire?’ he muttered. Not that he had to ask. He knew that answer already: God wanted
to test him, just as the priest once told him.

‘Hoppon, God give you a good day,’ the first rider said as he sat on his horse, gazing about the place with his dark eyes.

‘God speed you, sire.’

‘You remember me?’ Simon asked, taking his horse forward until he was level with Baldwin. ‘This is the Keeper of the King’s
Peace, Hoppon. We want to ask you some questions.’

‘Oh?’

‘About the night the travellers were slain,’ Baldwin said.

Hoppon grunted and rose to his feet. ‘You want to know what about the night? It was dark.’

‘We think that there was a man with the travellers who was a spy and was there only to destroy all those innocents,’ Baldwin
said. ‘He was with Sir Robert’s men. A one-eyed fellow called Osbert.’

‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Few about here didn’t. He wouldn’t hurt me, mind. Always respectful to me, he was. But that didn’t mean he’d be the same
with others. And he was always keen for profit.’

‘Do you know more about him and the robbery?’ Simon asked.

‘No.’

‘You see,’ Baldwin said, ‘we were trying to think whether this man Osbert could have had an ally near here. He would need
someone who would be easy to call to his aid. A man who would be within a certain distance. Someone of strength, and determination.’

‘So you thought of me, naturally,’ Hoppon said. He jerked his chin to the south-west. ‘But I wouldn’t have seen a thing. The
trees between here and there are too thick.’

‘In the dark, fires light the sky,’ Baldwin mused. ‘And in still air a scream will travel further than an arrow.’

‘I was asleep when it happened, then, for I saw no fires or lights, nor heard any cries for help.’

‘So you want us to believe that all those fellows passed by you, and you did nothing to see where they went?’

‘They were too quiet at first. The second lot made more noise, but they were later.’

‘How much later?’

‘Well, a goodly while. Perhaps as long as an hour of the night?
^*
It was long enough for some twigs an inch and a half thick to burn right through.’

Simon was frowning. ‘So this first group, this was Sir Robert’s men on the way there, and then the second was his men riding
away again?
Or do you mean that there was another group of men?’

Suddenly Hoppon was keen to be away. ‘I don’t know. I was indoors. That’s what I told the reeve when he came asking, and it’s
what I told you too. I was inside. I can’t rightly tell who was here, who passed and when. It was none of my business then,
and it still isn’t now.’

‘You are wrong, Hoppon,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is your business, because it is all of ours now. We think that a few men stole
the money before Sir Robert even reached the camp. Probably the man Osbert helped a monk to take it somewhere to be hidden.
Perhaps they were helped by a man who was apparently crippled many years ago, but who is still enormously strong.’

‘You think I could carry a chest full of money?’ Hoppon smiled. ‘All the way from there to here? Or do you think I carried
it further? Up to his house? Do you think this leg is a fiction just to test the gullible?’

Baldwin set his head to one side. ‘I think you may be able to walk farther than you say, friend. I think you may well be able
to stroll to the woods over there and back, even with a chest on your back. Especially if you have a man like Osbert to help
you.’

‘You think I’d help him and his sort?’ Hoppon spat.

‘You say that no one would help him,’ Simon said. ‘Why? Were Sir Robert and his men well known about here? Nobody seemed to
know of his men particularly when I was asking. Was that simply because all feared him?’

‘Not Sir Robert, no. I dare say he was a moderate lord in his own way,’ Hoppon conceded. ‘But Osbert is a different animal.
No one liked him.’

‘He was well known here?’ Simon asked.

Sir Richard grunted. ‘The man is keen to place the blame on any other fellow, eh?’

‘I tend to agree,’ Baldwin said. ‘Hoppon, you were near the assault; you could easily have walked there and back. I say you
may have joined Osbert in the attack and that you have the coin here. What do you say?’

‘I say,
ballocks
to you! You think I’ve hidden money about the place, you go and fetch it. Now! I’ve never robbed any man in my life, and
if I was going to, I wouldn’t rob the bleeding king! You think I’m mad?’

Simon stepped in front of the bristling man. ‘Hoppon. I don’t think you had anything to do with it. But you say Osbert was
known around here. Why should he be known? Nymet Traci is a fair distance away.’

‘But he came from just over the hill,’ Hoppon pointed out.

‘What? Where?’ Baldwin snapped.

‘Osbert is John Pasmere’s son, from over there. Didn’t you know?’

Pasmere’s house

Osbert chewed the dry bread and sipped his ale through it, trying to moisten it in his mouth. ‘You eat this all the time,
old man? Christ’s cods, it’s a miracle you’ve any teeth left!’

‘Shut your noise, boy. It’s better than most eat about here. There’s not much in the way of food since your precious master
returned to the castle.’

‘Aye, the churl was keen to rob all about,’ Osbert said with a low chuckle.

‘So were his men. I heard about the murder of Jack.’

‘Eh?’

John Pasmere sneered. ‘
Eh? Eh?
Jack Begbeer. A good man, he was. Not some miserable lying churl who deserved to die with a knife in his gut.’

‘In his throat, old man. I’m not so useless with a knife that I could miss a target like that.’

‘You killed him yourself?’

‘The others were all cowering from him,’ Osbert said. He took a slurp of ale from the cup at his side, chewing slowly. ‘I
couldn’t let them see a peasant get one over me.’

‘My own son turned murderer, eh? Wonderful. So now we’ll both hang.’

‘Only if we’re caught. And I don’t mean to be.’

‘I never thought this would end with friends being killed, Os.’

‘Then you were a fool. Innocents always die. Don’t go all soft on me.’

‘You used to play with old Jack, though. What’d he ever done to you?’

Osbert looked at him. ‘What does that matter? He had provisions we wanted. And we had more weapons and I had more men. He
should have let us take them.’

‘Was he raised to surrender to any cutpurse at the side of the road?’

‘Perhaps not. If he was, he’d be alive now.’

‘You shouldn’t have killed him, boy.’

‘What’ll you do now with the money?’ Osbert asked, bored with the recriminations about his actions.

John Pasmere stared into his little fire. He listlessly collected up fallen twigs and flung them into the flames. ‘Me? What
would I do with a hundred pounds in silver? Or a third of it?’

‘A half, old man.’

‘You keep your half, and let the monk have his. There’s too much blood on this money. I want no part of it.’

Osbert was tempted to tell him then, but it was pointless. ‘You sure of that? If you are, I’ll just go.’

‘Yes. Go. I don’t have a son. Not any more. You are dead to me, Os. Take the money and flee. I only pray that one day you
will go and beg forgiveness at the altar where Jack used to pray.’

‘P’haps. One day.’

‘Do it, Os!’ his father hissed, staring at him.

Osbert looked pathetic. ‘What is this? You were happy enough to win the money with me. What makes you so cross about it now?’

‘When we won it, those people would have died anyway. I didn’t have any part in killing them. Nor did you, truly. They would
all have been killed by Sir Robert. But Jack, that’s different. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to have his life shortened.
Can’t you see that, boy?’

Osbert fingered his nose, then pointed at his empty socket. ‘See this, old man? I won this fighting for the likes of the king
and Sir Robert. What did it get me? Two shillings, one from each. And later Sir Robert realised I was still alive, and he
gave me board and lodging. In exchange for some peace and meals, he let me run about the county stealing for him. What’s the
difference between him and any outlaw? But since I took the money he wanted, I’ve got a life of my own again. You ask me why
I killed Jack. Because I could. Because I saw no reason
not
to kill him. Ach, you can’t understand. You haven’t been marked like me. But now all is different again. Sir Robert’s dead,
and soon his son will be too, if I’m any judge. There’s nothing for me here now.’

‘Then stay and farm with me!’

‘Do I look like I’d make a good farmer?’ Osbert said with a measure of contempt. ‘It’s not the life for a man who’s used to
commanding others and taking what he needs.’

John Pasmere looked back into the fire. He appeared to shrivel into himself, misery etching his features. ‘Then go. And we
won’t see each other again. I have no son.’

Osbert said no more, but drained his cup and finished his stale bread. He left soon afterwards, while Pasmere remained silent,
his eyes glittering with the flames of the fire. Osbert took his father’s old barrow, and followed the track up north that
led into the little coppice, and then out beyond to the thicker woods where the trails were harder to find.

The chest lay in the hollow under an old dead oak, and he went straight to it, pulling the heavy coffer out and staring at
it with that odd tightness in his breast that he felt only when he had something like this, a valuable prize to enjoy. There
was a lustfulness to his pleasure when he took a good one, and just now he felt the sensation like a fire burning in his belly.

He would have to make good his escape. And he knew exactly how to do that. He bent his legs, put his hands on either side
of the chest, and then swiftly heaved it up, allowing it to drop into the barrow. It settled a little, and nearly fell sideways,
but he managed to catch it in time, and propped it up with a branch. He had other work to do.

It was a good thing he hadn’t told his father about the monk, he thought, as he pulled the robes from a rotten, hollow tree.
There was a bulge in the soil nearby. In the last few days leaves had piled up over the body, he saw. Soon the wild animals
would have eaten all that remained of the fool. How any man could think that his life would be worth a bean after helping
Os to take such a prize was beyond him, but the fool had, and now he’d paid the price in full for his stupidity. When they’d
reached this place, Os had had Anselm help to thrust the chest into the hole, and while the monk was bending down, he’d taken
a large branch and smashed it over his skull. Anselm had fallen like an axed steer, collapsing instantly. He didn’t even shiver
or rattle his feet; he was alive one moment, and dead the next. Which was good, because Os had a use for his robes now. He
pulled the habit over his own clothing, and bound it at his waist with the rope Anselm had used.
His father should be proud: ballocks to praying at Jack’s church – he was as good as any priest now, he thought.

The idea made him chuckle as he pulled the hood over his head and took up the handles of the barrow. He pushed it hard, and
before long he had reached the old, unused track. Still chuckling, he set off westwards.

The place was the same as Simon recalled it from the day before – was it really only yesterday that he and Sir Richard had
come here trying to learn where the men had gone? It felt as though it was an age ago. A lifetime ago … a friendship ago.

He couldn’t look at Baldwin. The memory of his friend’s hesitance, or rather his refusal to let his weapon fall when the life
of Simon’s daughter was at stake, was enough to make Simon feel sickly. It was foul, as though he had looked for a well-known
and respected companion, only to find a stranger. The shock of that discovery made him question the entire basis of his friendship.
It was as though a chasm had opened between them, undermining the relationship they had developed over almost a decade.

Simon and Baldwin were almost together, while Sir Richard rode behind them, throwing the occasional surly, suspicious glare
at Roger, who jogged along beside him. As they reached Pasmere’s lands, Roger dropped from his pony and walked about the yard.
After some while staring at the ground, he began a circuit around the house, while Sir Richard watched him from beneath his
thick brows. At last, irritable at the lack of welcome, the coroner took a deep breath.

‘Pasmere!’ he shouted from the roadway. ‘Are you in there?’

There was a muttered oath from inside, and then Pasmere’s face appeared. He glanced at the faces before him, before scratching
at his beard. ‘What?’