No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (35 page)

Simon could see that something had changed about the man. His face was paler, and for a moment Simon thought that the old
man was struck down with a disease. There were stories of men and women who had succumbed, and not all had died of the famine
that hurt so many in the last years, but then he saw the reddened eyes and realised that this was only a man who had been
weeping.

‘Friend Pasmere, are you well?’ he enquired.

‘I’m fine. What’s the matter? You get lost yesterday or something?’

Sir Richard moved forward on his mount. ‘You should remember to be civil to officers of the king’s law.’

‘Why? A civil man can be killed as easily as a rude one,’ Pasmere snapped. ‘I am only a feeble old peasant, yet two knights,
you, Bailiff, and these others can feel free to come and demand answers of me. Why should I answer if I don’t wish to?’

‘Friend, I only asked if you were well,’ Simon said soothingly. ‘Something has happened to you. Can we help?’

‘No. It’s nothing.’

For some reason Simon felt sympathy for the man. Perhaps it was the aura of general despair about him, or the feeling Simon
had that he too was all alone now, having lost his friend in the last day, but he felt that there was a connection between
his own misery and that of this old man. He said nothing, but dismounted and walked over to John Pasmere.

‘Pasmere, I cannot swear to be able to help you, but you are grieving. Let me help you if I may.’

‘You cannot help me.’

‘Tell him to speak about his son,’ Sir Richard said. ‘In God’s name, we have to find that murderous puppy!’

‘I have no son,’ Pasmere said. ‘He is dead to me.’

‘Why is that?’ Baldwin demanded from his horse.

Simon said nothing at first, but he held Pasmere’s gaze, and gradually he saw the anger pass from the older man’s face. ‘Master,
I am sorry. There is nothing more painful than to lose a son.’

‘You have?’

‘My boy was younger. There is no day I don’t miss him.’

‘I will miss mine too,’ Pasmere said, and sighed. ‘He was a good boy when he was young, you know? Always loyal and keen. Clever,
too, with his hands. He could fashion anything out of wood, if you gave him a good knife to work with. Aye, he had the brain
of a man apprenticed as a craftsman, he did. But then all went sour.’

‘Why was that?’ Simon asked.

‘He went up to fight for the king at Bannockburn, twelve years ago. He got that wound and lost his eye up there in the Scots’
lands, and never trusted his lords again. The king was there, and his own master, but they fled when they saw the battle turn
against them. All those men wallowing in the brooks and mud, and those who ordered them
to go left them to die. It was a miracle that Os didn’t. Perhaps it would have been better if he had,’ he added musingly.

‘What happened?’

‘Oh, he was fortunate. Some Scot took him in and nursed him back to life, but from that moment he was bitter about people
– especially the king and those who made wars and then ran away when it grew warm. The king did pay him a shilling for his
service, and Sir Robert paid him the same, and he was welcomed back to Sir Robert’s household when he was healthy enough.
And then the fool made enemies in the king’s court, and all were forced to turn outlaw. My boy stayed with his master in all
that time, and when Sir Robert returned to Nymet Traci, he brought Os with him.’

‘We have to find him, you know that?’ Simon said. ‘We will find him and catch him if we may, but if he refuses to surrender
to us, we’ll have to take him any way we can.’

‘He is not my son any more,’ Pasmere said.

‘Where did he go?’ Simon asked.

Pasmere remained staring at him. He could not speak at first. Then, ‘If you had a son as old as mine, would you be able to
betray him? Ever?’

Simon shook his head. He gave Pasmere his hand.

It was then that Roger returned from behind the house. ‘Sir Baldwin? I think I have found his tracks.’

Hoppon’s house

Tab was as alert as ever, Hoppon saw.

At first he thought it might be the men returning from Pasmere’s place, but then he heard the squeaking of an axle, and realised
that it was not coming from the road they had taken, but instead from the ancient road further to the north of him.

It was enough to make him frown. There were all kinds of stories about that old road: how in years past some army had swept
down and through this part of the country, leaving behind roads and forts. But they were daft old legends so far as Hoppon
was concerned. The idea that some race of giants had lived here was more likely true. Still, the road was real enough. He
had dug around up there once when he was younger, and a short way down under the grasses he had found a solid, paved roadway.
When he looked east, it stretched for miles, probably as far as Crediton. Now that would have been a magnificent task, building
a road all the way up there. Not that anyone used it any more. They all stuck to the muddier routes because they were more
gentle in the way that they flowed around hills rather than taking a direct line straight up and over them. It was easier
for people with heavy carts or packhorses.

But there were some few who knew the old roadways and used them. Sometimes, when he had been younger, Hoppon himself had been
known to make use of them. They were appallingly overgrown in places, it was true, but they were still the best for those
who knew of them, when there was wheeled transport to consider. Especially when the wheeled transport was something best kept
from public view. And a man who was trying to evade the king’s officers would be well advised to make use of such a secret
route.

Hoppon listened as the noise grew closer. Tab began to rumble deep in his throat, and he put his hand gently over the dog’s
muzzle. ‘Be still, boy! No need for that. Let him be.’

He listened, and the noise slowed slightly. That would be where the incline rose towards the top of the hill towards Jacobstowe.
If he was right, and this was Osbert, why was the man heading in this direction? It would surely have made more sense for
him to go east, towards Crediton and Exeter, rather than here, towards the scene of his crime.

Hoppon listened wonderingly, as the sounds began to dim again, but then he pulled a bitter face and grimaced as he pulled
himself upwards once more. ‘Ach, come on, Tab. Can’t let him just run like that. What’ll happen if he escapes? He’ll only
find some other poor bugger to kill and rob, and then where’d we be? Guilty as hell, that’s where, for allowing him to run
and kill again. He might be a neighbour, but he’s still an evil bastard. Can’t have him escaping.’

Roman road

Simon was remounted almost before Roger had finished speaking. He slapped the rein ends against his beast’s rump and was already
moving even as Pasmere called, ‘Don’t hurt my boy! Please, don’t hurt him!’

It was a plaintive call that Simon would remember in his dreams for many months to come.

Roger was running to keep up. He took them to the back of the house where the barrow had been stored, and pointed out where
the line in the dirt and grass showed the wheels’ passage. There was nothing to discuss. The last desperate plea from Pasmere
was proof enough that Osbert had come this way, and the four men began to make their cautious way forward.

Simon hated entering thick woods like these when there was a risk of ambush. He had not been overly concerned back at Abbeyford
after that attack, for the inquest itself had already been conducted, and none of the perpetrators was likely to have been
there still. Whereas here there was the distinct possibility that Osbert was still close by. The only thing that was assured
was that if he was pushing an old barrow, he would likely be too tired to think about pursuit. He was probably content to
think that the attack on the castle was an end to the matter from his point of view. Simon knew that all too often criminals
displayed astonishing foolishness after an initial success. It was as though their early achievements led them to believe
that they were safe from all further dangers.

But this man had displayed great cunning and skill so far. And he
was no invalid, for all that his wound must almost have killed him when it was inflicted. Not many would survive such a blow,
Simon knew.

The woods here for the most part were oak and beech with the occasional great elm towering over all else. There was no sign
of Osbert, and increasingly they found there was no sign of the barrow tracks either. Here, in the freshly fallen leaves,
there was little to show where it could have gone. And that meant that a resolute man could easily have placed himself up
in a tree nearby after doubling back, and if he had a bow …

There was no point worrying about such matters. No. Better to ride on, and hope that the man would find it hard to pick a
target. They continued, Simon aware at all times of the sound of his own breathing, the rasping quality in the cool air. It
made him feel like an old man. Never before had he experienced this kind of strange harshness in his lungs. It was almost
as though they had turned to stone, and it made him light headed. ‘Where is he going?’ he muttered to himself.

Baldwin overheard his words, and although he was not certain Simon wanted to hear from him, he thought it could do no harm
to respond. ‘Up ahead is the road from Jacobstowe to Bow. I suppose he may be heading for that.’

‘Why, though?’ Simon wondered. ‘The faster route, and the safer one, would have been the road to Bow from his father’s home.’

‘That would have taken him back to Nymet Traci, and I doubt he’d have wanted that,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘And if he passed by there, he’d be going nearer to Bow,’ Roger grunted, ducking to avoid a heavy branch. ‘He wouldn’t want
that either.’

Simon nodded, but he was unconvinced, and when they reached a clearing, he knew he had been right to question the man’s direction.
‘He’s collected something from here,’ he said. ‘The tracks are much easier to see now. They cut into the leaves and mud. The
barrow is a lot heavier.’

‘The money,’ Baldwin guessed.

‘So I would think,’ Simon agreed. He was about to ride on when he caught a smell. ‘What is that?’

‘It’s dead, whatever it may be,’ Sir Richard said cheerily.

Simon saw the hillock in the leaves and pointed silently. It was
Baldwin who let himself down from his horse and pushed the leaves apart. ‘A man, undressed, and somewhat the worse for his
neighbours in the soil,’ he said.

The sight was repellent, and Simon was forced to turn away as his stomach rebelled. ‘He has a tonsure?’

‘Yes. This must be the errant monk – Brother Anselm,’ Baldwin said.

Simon nodded. Looking ahead, it was hard to see precisely where the tracks led, but he kicked his mount forward and they all
moved on, Baldwin on foot now, his eyes scanning the ground about them. ‘Look! He turned west here.’

It was a strange place, this. As Simon’s horse reached the point where the track turned off, the sound of his horse’s hoofs
grew markedly louder. It was not the trees, for they all looked much the same as before. And it was not some echo, but a louder,
ringing sound. It made Simon think that the ground beneath was more substantial than the soft forest floor. There was another
thing, too: the trees that grew here were sparser up ahead, as though there was a distinct line of soil that was harsher for
plants. And then he found an old trunk of a tree that had pushed its way up through the soil. It had been constricted, the
bole more bulbous above the ground than below, and all at once Simon saw why. As it reached up, the tree had dislodged some
obstructions: dressed stone.

‘This is an ancient road,’ he breathed. Looking ahead, it was easier to see now. The road was so old that plants of all sorts
had colonised it, but for all that the arrow-straight route was clear. It was a softer, yellower green than ordinary grass,
and although the brambles had smothered it in places, there were yet more areas that were moderately clear.

They could move a little faster now. Although the branches and fallen trees hampered their movement, at least their path was
better delineated, and they could see ahead for some way.

For Simon’s part, the idea that they should ride on at speed was taking hold. Although this man was not responsible for the
capture of his daughter, nor for the threat of rape or death in the castle when Simon and Baldwin were trying to rescue her,
yet he was aware of an overwhelming sense of hatred. Perhaps it was merely that Osbert was the last of the appalling group
that had done so much to hurt the
people of this area; perhaps it was the realisation that this man had killed and would do so again. It was not any desire
to serve the Cardinal de Fargis, of that he was certain. No matter what the reason, he was determined to capture the man if
possible. Osbert had participated in so many deaths, not only Anselm’s, and had tried to profit himself at the expense of
all those he had seen murdered. It was enough to satisfy Simon.

And then he had another thought. This direction was leading back towards Jacobstowe.

‘What is he doing, going back to where he committed the crime?’ he wondered aloud.

‘It’s the only direction people won’t be looking for him,’ Roger said grimly. ‘And from there it’s not a long journey to Bude
or some other coastal port, is it? He’s going to try to leave the country.’

Roman road near Jacobstowe

Hoppon was forced to hobble at speed to try to keep up with the man.

Since leaving the house, he had gone as fast as he could, his old dagger clattering at his side as he went. He had grabbed
it at the last minute, hoping that he would not be forced to resort to it, but reluctant to go after Osbert without it.

If it
was
Osbert, of course. There was nothing he had seen so far that indicated that it was the man. It could as easily be some tinker
or tranter who had happened across the old road and had decided to take the straight route. Except that now it was not an
entirely straight route. A man trying that old path must negotiate the trees and roots that had churned the surface, as well
as avoiding the great holes where men had dug up the dressed stones for their own use. And not many tranters would think of
going by such a hidden route. Hidden routes meant hidden dangers. Men were happier to stay on the main roads.

He caught a glimpse, just a fleeting one, through the trees, and the sight made him set his jaw and hurry onward. Tab seemed
to catch his mood, and stopped gambolling about his legs, instead moving with more purpose, as though he could see sheep to
be rounded up and was keen not to fluster them.

The squeaking was loud now, and it was no surprise that Osbert couldn’t hear his approach. The noise was sharp and painful;
then there was a loud crunch, and a curse.

‘The old git, he couldn’t even look after his barrow,’ Osbert said, and crouched low.

Hoppon could see that the wheel had dipped into a large hole, which had been concealed by the grass, and now, from the sound,
part of the barrow was broken. It was enough to hold Osbert up. Hoppon moved forward cautiously, but even as he did so, Tab
realised that his master felt that this was his enemy.

With a low snarl, the dog hurtled forward, determined to protect his master at all costs. He didn’t see Hoppon’s desperate
signals. For his part, Hoppon saw only a monk in his robes, and urgently whistled and shouted to his dog. And then he realised
that the monk had no tonsure.

Osbert heard the snarl and was up and facing the danger in an instant. It took him just a moment to see that there was only
one dog, not, as he had feared, a whole pack of hounds on his trail. But one was enough. He drew his sword even as Tab launched
himself at his leg. The dog’s teeth managed to grip his hosen, the canines ripping into his thigh, and then he brought the
sword down, the point stabbing. It entered the dog’s back behind the shoulder blade and slipped down into his lungs, tearing
through the ribs.

Tab gave a whimper and tried to pull away, but the terrible pain of the blade transfixed him. Try as he might, he couldn’t
escape, and although he snapped up at the blade in a frenzy, it was to no avail. With the blood spraying from his nostrils
as he desperately tried to get away, Tab began to shiver, and at last slumped, while Osbert set his boot on the dog’s back
and tugged his sword free.

‘You old cretin. Did you think you could stop me?’ he snarled as he approached Hoppon.

Near Jacobstowe

Simon and Baldwin were both feeling the excitement mounting now. Simon instinctively drew a little nearer to Baldwin as they
rode, their pace increasing as they found areas of brighter light, where the trees were thinner. All he could hear was the
snap and crackle of his cloak in the rushing air.

The path was dangerous, he could see. There were stones dug up every now and again. No doubt it was the locals taking them
in order to build houses and sheds. Dressed stone was not so easy to come by that a Devon farmer would turn his nose up at
it. But it did mean that
there were the twin risks of both potholes and loose rocks above the ground, either of which could break a horse’s leg. But
for now, Simon did not consider the risks. He was concentrating on the capture of this last member of the castle’s team.

‘Simon! Hold!’

Baldwin’s urgent cry made him turn, and then he saw the two figures at the side of the road. He reined in, his horse digging
long ruts where his hooves skidded on the soft grass, and was aware of Sir Richard and Roger pulling up to avoid him, then
he was off his horse and running to the man.

Hoppon was breathing stertorously, his hands fixed over his belly as though trying to hold his blood in his body and let none
escape. From the stains on his shirt and the gore that soaked the grasses at his side, he had not long to live, Simon thought.
The man’s face was already grey and pasty from the cold as death took his warmth from him.