No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (15 page)

She had been distracting herself, sometimes even – God forgive her! – swearing at poor Bill. She was trying to see to the
vegetables while at the same time looking after Ant and tending all the animals on her own.

There were others there who’d be happy to help her. She knew that. But the trouble was, she had her own way of doing things,
and if they were to come and try to help, she knew that it’d take her ages to get things back to the order she was used to.

Except it wasn’t really that. The truth was, if she was to have another man come here to help her, she would feel as though
it was admitting the fear she felt deep in the pit of her stomach: that he was dead.

He had never been away from home so long before. If he had gone to do any kind of work and been held up, he would always ensure
that a message was sent to her, and if there was any doubt, he would have returned in person.

When he had gone, he said he would be no more than three days, maybe. To her that meant two days only. After that she had
known something was wrong. And it wasn’t only the length of time, it was the sensation in her belly. There was an unnatural
queasiness there that was unsettling. She knew,
she knew
, that it meant something was wrong. But there was no one for her to tell.

The knock on her door was only the confirmation.

Furnshill

Edith almost fell from the horse at Baldwin’s door as she ran to it and pounded on the timbers. ‘Sir Baldwin! Sir Baldwin,
help me!’

‘My dear Edith, whatever is the matter?’

She turned to find Baldwin behind her, Jeanne and his household approaching up the lane. ‘My husband, Sir Baldwin, he’s been
taken by the sheriff, and I don’t know what to do!’

The door was opened, and she allowed herself to be brought inside, but she felt like one stupefied. Her hearing was less acute,
her legs were unsteady, and she was all the while aware of a strange whooshing sound in her ears, which made her want to sit.

Sir Baldwin helped her to his own chair before the fire, and his wife began to issue commands. She told Edgar to fetch wine,
Petronilla was ordered to bring cloths and a bowl of cool water, a maidservant was told to find some sweetmeats from the box
in the pantry, and then all the other household members were ordered to leave.

‘I feel sick,’ Edith said. The nausea began in her belly, it was true, but it wasn’t only that. There was the foul noise in
her ears again, too, and now she was aware of flashing lights before her eyes. It was enough to make her heave. She had to
close them just to stop the lights, to stop the urge to vomit.

‘Let me!’ Jeanne said to her husband, who had never been good when the children were sick, and she bellowed at the top of
her voice for Petronilla again, to bring a bowl. The noise of her shouting was almost enough to make Edith throw up on the
spot, but then the pandemonium eased and she was aware of a cool, damp cloth at the
back of her neck, another on her brow, and even as she retched, her chest and belly tensing badly, she was aware of the effect
of them. She was beginning to improve.

‘Tell me what has happened,’ Baldwin said.

His voice seemed to come from a great distance, as though the result of closing her eyes had made her a little deaf. It was
too difficult to concentrate, too disorientating, and she forced her eyes open again. ‘It’s Peter! He’s been arrested for
treason against the king!’

Lydford

Simon woke with the blessed feeling that all was well with the world. He stretched languidly, aware that there were birds
singing loudly outside, and smelled fresh bread baking. His head felt fine, his arms were unstrained, his shoulders worked
easily, and his eyes, when he opened them, focused.

This was the best morning’s wakening he had known while staying with Coroner Richard. It was almost as though the coroner
had not been with him yesterday.

Simon was soon in his old hall, which felt odd. Last night it had been different. Perhaps it was because he had arrived here
as a stranger, and was invited in. This morning, though, it was more peculiar. He had woken in his house, but not in his bed,
and walked down to the hall which was his, and yet was filled with different people, servants and clerks who were entirely
unknown to him. It made his breakfast feel rather unsettling.

‘Ha! Simon, glad to see you surfaced! Can’t keep a trout from snapping at the bait, eh? I said you’d be here as soon as you
smelled the food. Don’t suppose you slept too well, though, eh? Not enough wine,’ added Sir Richard in an undertone. ‘Pox
on the clergy for keeping their booze to themselves.’

‘So, Bailiff, I hope I see you well?’ the cardinal said.

Simon nodded, bowing low. ‘Very well, my lord.’

‘And have you considered whether or not you would like to take on the duty I asked?’

‘I would be very happy to see what I can learn about the death of your man, if it was him.’

‘There is an easy way to find out. Inspect the body, and if it is poor Pietro, you will find a ragged scar as long as my hand’s
breadth on his right thigh. Just here,’ he said, resting his hand on his upper thigh. ‘He
was kicked by a mule once, and the brute had a worn shoe that was as sharp as a razor. It made a most impressive scar.’

The steward hurried to his side, and the cardinal nodded as he whispered in his ear. ‘Most interesting. There is a messenger
from the king.’

Simon nodded, and he and Sir Richard stepped back as the dishevelled messenger appeared. He had clearly set off on his journey
very early to have arrived here already.

‘Where did you come from, messenger?’

‘I was at Bow last night, my lord, and left there as early as I could to bring messages for you and for the abbey at Tavistock.’

‘Please refresh yourself while you are here, then. I am sure a little wine and bread would be good? You should not be travelling
today, though. Today should be a day of rest.’

Stephen of Shoreditch nodded, but he could not say that he was travelling because he was far from keen to remain in the castle
at Bow. He was sure that he was not safe there. ‘I shall take my rest when I reach Tavistock.’

‘Good. Good,’ the cardinal said. ‘In the meantime, you can join us as we go to the church, yes?’

‘I would be delighted to,’ Stephen said.

Simon thought he looked worn out, but so often, he guessed, most messengers must look like that. They had to travel at least
five-and-thirty miles each day, and still be bright enough to relay verbal messages or instructions, as well as being prepared
to collect a reply. It wasn’t the best job in the world.

There were worse, of course. And just now Simon didn’t envy the cardinal. He was clearly a man who was putting on a good face
as he strode along the road with his clerks behind him, their gowns flying in the wind like so many bats, while the servants
struggled behind. The breeze was gusting viciously every so often, and the women were forced to hold on to their wimples,
the men their hoods and hats, as they walked down the road, past the great blockhouse of Lydford Castle, the stannary prison
and courthouse, to the church just beyond.

Simon had always loved this church. Once Lydford had been a great focus for the rebels against King William, so he had heard,
because the townsfolk refused to accept that they must lose all their privileges and customs to the upstart king. This town,
which had stood
for a hundred years or more, and which was so highly regarded by the ancient kings of Wessex that they had granted the place
the right to mint coins, would not listen to this new king from Normandy.

They were crushed, of course, as all the rebellious towns and cities were; as all were still. The use of force, that was the
most effective power a king possessed. That was why, when Bristol refused to pay the king’s tallage in 1312, King Edward II
had sent the posse of the county against the city, and forced it to submit after a lengthy siege. And then his punishment
of the city folk was exemplary.

But that was the way kings proved their right to rule – by regular exercise of overwhelming force. And this king was no different
from his ancestors in that way. He
was
different because he used ruthlessness and vindictiveness on a scale never before seen. If a man was thought to have slighted
him or his favourite, that man would be humiliated at best. Many were simply executed. But Edward took the whole concept of
revenge to a new level, imprisoning wives, daughters and sons, and disinheriting boys for the infractions of their fathers.
There was never a king who had used such formidable authority against his subjects before. Not in English history.

These reflections were enough to distract Simon from the sermon, which was, in any case, more lengthy than he would have liked,
and the time passed moderately swiftly until the end of the service, when he found himself hemmed in by Sir Richard on one
side and the messenger on the other.

The messenger looked not at all refreshed, Simon reckoned. ‘You look like you could do with a rest,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you
stay with Cardinal de Fargis here for the day? You’ll get no answer out of the abbey today anyway – they’ll all be involved
in their prayers.’

‘I thank you,’ the messenger said, ‘but I must deliver this message, and that urgently. I would return to London as soon as
I may.’

‘No need to break your cods over it, though,’ Sir Richard declared, earning a scandalised hiss from a cleric in the cardinal’s
retinue. ‘What? What did I say? Did I say something amiss?’

‘Do not worry about him,’ Simon said, trying not to laugh. ‘Do you only have one message to deliver, then?’ he asked. ‘I know
the king’s messengers will often have entire circuits to cover, but I suppose this is the end of yours?’

‘Yes. And now I must be gone,’ Stephen said shortly.

Simon looked over at the coroner. ‘If you must, then God speed. I wish you well on your journey.’

‘Thank you. And I you,’ Stephen said, and strode off towards the cardinal’s house and stables.

‘He is lucky, that fellow,’ Coroner Richard said thoughtfully. ‘If he’d spoken to me like that, I would have had his ballocks
in a bucket.’

Jacobstowe

It took a little time for her to waken again. As she gradually appreciated that she was lying on the floor, she had to shake
her head to clear it of the roaring sound in her ears, and then the strange conviction that there was a weight pressing down
on her breast, holding her to the floor.

She tried to rise, but there was no strength in her arms, and she must strain and strain to try to get up.

‘No, no, stay there, mistress! Wait, let me help you!’

‘Hoppon!’ she recalled. It was him. He had come to the door, two men behind him, and had drawn his cap off, twisting it between
his old hands as he told her of the death of her man. Her Bill. Her Lark. Her life. Beaten to death. It was that word, ‘beaten’,
that had made her breast start to spasm, made the sound roar in her ears, made the breath hot and raw in her throat. ‘Help
me up.’

One of the men had set her pot on the fire with water, and stewed some mint leaves for her. He passed a cup of it to her now,
and the fragrance seemed to rise in her nostrils, clearing her mind and refreshing her. But not enough. Nothing could ever
be enough, not now. ‘Bill, oh my Bill!’ she said, dropping the cup and gripping her stomach in a paroxysm of grief so intense
she thought her heart must burst from her breast. She felt it like a clenching deep inside her, a tearing, desperate agony.
Never to hold him to her, never to see his slow smile, his serious eyes turning tender and gentle when he held her, when he
held the Ant. All was turned to misery and grim despair.

‘Mistress, do you want him in here, or shall we carry him to the church now?’ Hoppon asked.

She flung her head back. ‘In here. Let me clear the table for him.’

It was something to have a reason to be busy. She stood, and for now the feebleness seemed to have left her. It took a little
time to move the bowls and spoons from the table, and the pastry she had
been making for a pie, and then it was clear. She took salt and a brush and scrubbed the wood until it was bleached white.
The men offered to aid her, but she snapped at them. This was her grief; it was her last duty for her man.

At last, content that all was as clean as it could be, she curtly commanded Hoppon to bring in the body.

They had him on an old plank of elm. That, she thought, was suitable. There was a great elm down in the hedge at the bottom
of their plot, and he had always been fond of that tree, sitting underneath it for shade on the hottest days, and taking refuge
beneath it when the weather turned to rain. Once he and she had made love against the trunk, both standing, both too taken
with urgent lust to walk the fifteen or twenty yards to the house. He had been such a good lover. Such a good man.

And now he was as dead as the elm plank on which he lay. The men set the plank on the table and gradually tilted it until
he was lying on the table itself. Not that it was large enough to accommodate his frame. He overhung it by a good few feet,
his legs dangling from the knee.

Ant sidled across the floor on his backside, gurgling, and reached out for the nearer leg. Agnes had not the heart to stop
him. Instead she turned to the men. ‘You have my gratitude, all of you. And now I would like to prepare him for his grave.’

‘I will ask my wife to—’

‘No. I will do this alone. He is my man. I will see to him,’ she declared with absolute determination. ‘It is not for anyone
else.’

They left soon after, and she stood for a long time staring down at his face. His poor, bloody, ravaged face. She wanted to
speak to him, to ask him what he had been doing, to rail at him for having the temerity to die when she hadn’t expected it.
But the only words that came were, ‘It was only until next Michaelmas, you fool. Couldn’t you have stayed alive that long?’

Ant was on the floor, looking up at her with a face that showed only utter concentration, once more as always, assessing her
mood, ready to fit his own to suit hers. And as she gradually subsided into sobs, deep, womanly sobs for the life lost, the
future snatched away, he began to wail too.

Furnshill

Baldwin watched, almost hopping from foot to foot, as Jeanne ministered to the girl.

Given a sword in his hand, an enemy charging towards him, a horse beneath him, Baldwin was in control. He knew his strength,
he knew how to fight, he understood the points at which to aim his weapon, how to reverse his blade, how to fight in unison
with others, how to deceive and slash or stab to win swiftly — but in a situation like this, with a young woman weeping and
desolate, he was as useful as a wooden trivet over a fire. ‘Do you want me to—’

‘No,’ Jeanne said curtly. ‘Go and sit down. You are being a nuisance.’

‘I don’t understand, though,’ Baldwin said, once he had taken himself away a short distance. ‘How can they think that your
husband is involved in some form of treason?’

‘I don’t know! I wish I knew – I wish I could find out! Sir Baldwin, you will help us, won’t you? Peter’s father is doing
all he can, but he says he has no influence with this new sheriff. He said I should ask you. You are Keeper of the King’s
Peace, and you have been to London to see the king himself – can’t you help us?’

Baldwin looked at her. She was weeping all the time, her face red with her distress, and he felt his heart torn. ‘I will do
all I can,’ he said, ‘but you have to understand, I am not so popular with the sheriff or others. They think of me as an enemy
of their master, Despenser, and would prefer to see me hurt and broken. If they thought it would offend me to keep your husband
in gaol, they would do so. It is hard, I know. What of your father? Simon must be told of this too.’

‘That was what they said. They said that they were holding Peter because of my father. Something about Peter being taken because
of him. They said he wouldn’t have been arrested if it wasn’t for Father!’

Baldwin slowly walked to a stool not far from Edith and sat, studying her seriously. ‘You are sure of that?’

‘It is what my father-in-law said. As soon as I saw him and told him what had happened, he went straightway to see the sheriff,
and the man said that it would have been better if Peter had never … never met me!’

Baldwin’s face hardened. His sympathy for Edith knew no bounds, because he had known her since he first arrived here nine
years ago,
when she was only a child, and looked upon her as a man would a favourite but occasionally wayward grandchild. There had been
times when he had been made angry by her rudeness to her father in recent years, but he was forced to admit to himself that
most of those had been situations in which any young woman would tend to illogical humours. Even his own darling Richalda
would probably display the same kind of intolerance of her father when she grew to become fourteen or more. It was the way
of young girls.

No matter how often Edith had insulted Simon, she was still Simon’s daughter, and Baldwin would do all in his power to protect
her.

‘I will go and see this man. In the meantime, Edith, you must rest here. Jeanne, we should send Edgar to Simon’s house to
let him know what is happening and have him come to join me travelling to Exeter to see the sheriff.’