No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (24 page)

Mark was appalled. He could not meet their eyes, but shortly afterwards he silently walked from the room while Sir Richard
squatted at the edge of the fire, poking at it with a long twig. ‘Has he gone?’

Simon nodded. ‘So, do I take it that you forgot about the travellers, then?’

Before answering, Coroner Richard cast a quick look over his shoulder to make sure that Mark wasn’t in earshot. Then he gave
a sly grin. ‘Aye. I was thinking more of the reeve. Takes a damned monk to remind us of our jobs, eh?’

‘We will learn more tomorrow,’ Simon said. ‘And I am sure that the murderer of the reeve is somehow connected with those of
the travellers.’

‘How so? Same men did them all, you mean? Looks unlikely to me – the weapons were all wrong, like we said.’

‘True. But perhaps there was one man left behind who realised the reeve was growing close to them, and decided to kill him.
He may have picked up a stone purely because drawing steel would have betrayed his intent.’

‘Perhaps. I don’t deny it’s possible. If that is right, though, it would imply a well-organised force.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Just this: a rearguard left behind to cover their trail or to guard against attack shows military thinking. But if someone
was left behind they would have gone within hours of the force passing by. No, it cannot have been a guard. More likely it
was a fresh person out for personal gain.’

‘So you consider it likely that the killing of the reeve was entirely unconnected? Or it was a man on a freelance mission?
Riding out, he sought any suitable target for his attack, and picked upon a lone wandering reeve with no money?’ Simon said
with a grin.

‘You may chuckle, Bailiff. I would wager a few pennies that the reeve was more unfortunate than you’d think. He could have
been at home, curled up around that wife of his, but instead he went out and was met by a man on his way. The fellow realised
he had money—’

‘Scarcely likely.’

‘Well, perhaps he thought the reeve was on the trail of his companions. so he chose to remove him before he could learn where
they all came from.’

‘And where did they?’ Simon wondered aloud. ‘They cannot fade into the undergrowth. A force large enough to kill so many in
so efficient a manner must have a goodly number of men.’

He turned. The host was in the rear of the room, and when Simon beckoned, the man hurried over. ‘Masters? How may I serve
you?’

‘About here are there any large manors with a knight or squire living in them?’ Simon asked.

‘Not near here, no, lording. There are no great lords about here. Not even a squire for miles.’

‘Where is the nearest man-at-arms, then?’ Sir Richard demanded. ‘A man with a small force who’re trained to the saddle and
to arms. There must be someone not too far away.’

‘There is Sir John de Sully. He lives up at Ashreigny.’

‘I know him,’ Simon said.

‘I too,’ Coroner Richard agreed. ‘He’s an honourable man. Who else?’

The landlord scratched his head. ‘There’s the castle at Oakhampton. The Courtenay family maintains a small force there.’

Simon considered. ‘That would make more sense, certainly. The men there could have seen these travellers as they passed along
the Cornwall road, for they would have journeyed up there once they were off the Tavistock road, just as we did this morning.
But the coppicers and charcoal burners were very sure that no one came up from their direction, nor returned that way.’

‘Yes. And the Courtenays are not so foolish as to try to rob and kill so many,’ the coroner responded.

‘No,’ Simon agreed thoughtfully. ‘Although the baron himself lives mostly in Tiverton, he may have a castellan at Oakhampton
who is less level headed.’

‘True enough. There are men all over the country who are less reliable than they should be,’ the coroner said sadly. ‘My own
wife was killed by a servant I trusted. No man can entirely trust even his own men.’

‘There is nobody else,’ the host said helpfully.

‘What of the east?’ asked Simon. ‘The reeve’s footprints were heading in that direction, Sir Richard.’ And the charcoal burners
had mentioned the men from Bow, which was east.

‘Aye. True enough,’ the coroner said, cheering up. ‘What of that way?’

‘There’s no force at Tawton, nor at Sampford,’ the host said, scratching at his head with a frown. ‘Think there’s a small
fortified manor east of it, though. What’s that place called?’ he added to himself in a mutter. ‘Bow! Sir Robert of Traci,
he’s over there.’

Nymet Traci

Sir Robert de Traci stalked along his hall and out into the yard, one hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Osbert? How was it?’

His henchman shook his head. ‘As you’d expect.’

The knight shrugged. ‘Well, no matter. I didn’t expect more. So the abbot-elect didn’t send a note with the messenger?’

‘There was nothing there, no,’ Osbert said.

‘The messenger’s dead? I don’t want any risk that he could get back to the king. Good, good. The main thing is, the message
was delivered. Now we’ll have to use a little guile to bring in the big fish. You don’t catch a salmon by beckoning, do you?
The idea was all right, but there was never much likelihood that it would work for a man like the aspiring abbot. He’s too
wily for that. No, what we need is a more realistic temptation for him to come to us.’

‘What will you do to tempt him, then?’ Osbert said. His good eye was fixed on his master.

‘We’ll have to think of something. After all, there cannot be too much in the life of a man like him. All we need to do is
figure out what little latch will open his heart. What key will fit it, and how to turn it. Money failed, which means perhaps
avarice is not the way. He’s a man, though, and a monk, so perhaps a suitable woman?’

Osbert shrugged. ‘I never understood the sort of men who would want to hide away in an abbey.’

‘No. You and I are two of a kind, Os. We prefer the reality of this world to dreaming of the next, eh?’

Osbert snorted as he busied himself about his mount. ‘What of the next world? So long as there’s time to say a Pater Noster,
we’ll be allowed in anyway. Why live like a monk with no cods, when you can live like a king down here?’

‘Quite right. One thing, Os – the messenger had no other messages in his little pouch?’

‘Nothing I saw. I reckoned he had some verbal messages. Nothing much I could do about them, though. Basil killed him as soon
as he could.’

‘Ah yes. My son,’ Sir Robert said. ‘And where is he?’

‘In Bow. There’s a girl there—’

‘I see. Which?’

‘The little black-haired one with the long legs. You know the one? Lives at the farm in the middle of the high street on the
north side.’

‘I think I do, yes.’

The knight was plainly worried about his son’s tardiness. Osbert nodded as his master took his leave, and then set about removing
saddle and bridle. There were plenty of ostlers and grooms, but this was no simple palfrey he had used; it was his own horse,
and one thing he had learned in eighteen months of wandering the roads was that his own horse merited his own efforts. A horse
was like any other tool: if a man valued it, he would be rewarded by it.

While he brushed the sweat and dirt from his beast, Osbert was thinking again of the messages in the messenger’s pouch.

It was true that there was nothing directly relevant to him or to Sir Robert, but there had been the one little note in there.
The cylinder had opened easily enough, and Osbert had been able to read it with ease, even with the mud all about. The message
had said that a shipment of over one hundred pounds had been stolen from the abbey on its way to the king.

Osbert had stared at it expressionlessly while the other men stamped their feet and muttered about the God-damned cold, before
he dropped the cylinder back into the leather pouch.

After all, there was no point hiding the robbery. All would know about it soon enough.

He was still there when there was a banging at the door, and some ribald shouts. Looking up, he saw a pair of horses appear
in the gateway. One of the riders was a scrawny-looking fellow who might have been a lawyer from his appearance, but the other
was very different: a slim, rather beautiful young woman with the haughtiness of a countess, who stuck her chin in the air
and ignored the comments that washed about her.

Before long she had been helped from her mount, and willing hands guided her to the hall, where a maidservant came to meet
her and took her inside.

It was nothing to Osbert. He continued with the long, regular strokes of his brush that he knew his horse most appreciated,
until Sir Robert appeared beside him a while later, laughing and rubbing his hands in glee.

‘You seem happy, Sir Robert,’ Osbert noted.

‘And why not, Osbert? After all, we were discussing how to unlock the abbot’s heart, weren’t we? I would think we have the
key now. After all, what could be better to aid us than the daughter of one of his friends?’

Tavistock Abbey

Robert Busse walked the short distance from the choir to the chapter house, and had seated himself at the stone bench that
was fitted into the wall when the knock came.

It was an irritation. There was so much for him to consider, especially with the sudden death of the messenger. ‘Yes?’

‘Brother, the men have discovered something.’

Busse sighed. If the whole community was going to behave like this overenthusiastic puppy, he would resign his post and run
away to become a hermit somewhere far from here, he told himself. Oh, the boy meant well, but he was so keen to see Robert
installed as abbot that he was always about his ankles like a devoted mastiff. Robert found he was forever tripping over the
lad. Perhaps it was planned, he wondered. Perhaps in fact the boy was the devoted servant of de Courtenay, and spent his time
about Robert so that the abbot-elect would grow completely enraged by his solicitous attention and give up all hope of the
position.

The idea was enough to wipe away the final vestige of grumpiness, and in its place he fitted a smile. ‘How may I serve you,
Peter?’

‘This!’

The lad dramatically opened his hand. In it was a pair of small cylinders. Robert recognised them instantly. ‘Where did you
find them?’ he asked.

‘They were in the messenger’s shirt, Abbot.’

‘Nay, I am not abbot,’ Robert chided him gently.

‘But you will be, Abbot!’

Robert shook his head. ‘What are they?’

‘You must see them. The others, they were in his pouch or scattered about, but these two were inside his shirt and hidden.
I suppose he thought that they were too important to be left behind!’

Taking them, the abbot-elect felt a tingle in his fingers, as though the small scrolls were themselves trying to tell him
that they were to be most significant for him.

‘The seals are broken on them?’

‘I fear, Abbot, that the men who found the body didn’t think.’

He nodded, not believing a word of it. The men who would have found the body and brought it to the road would have been unlettered.
These had been opened by Peter or another monk. Still, they had been already read, so he might as well do so as well.

The writing was tiny, to be able to fit in such a small scroll, but perfectly legible, and as soon as he took in the words,
Robert Busse felt his mouth open in disbelief.

‘You see?’ Peter said, his voice hushed.

‘I will take these,’ Robert said. ‘You did right to bring them to me, Peter. And now, please leave me.’

He had never before held anything quite so shocking in his hands. For this was written proof that a companion of his in the
abbey sought his murder.

Bow

The light was almost gone now and Edith realised that they were close to the end of their journey. As they clattered down
the stony path towards the stone house she remembered as Sir Harold’s, she could see that it was a strong fortress. Where
Sir Harold had lived in modest comfort and without exacting too much in the way of taxes from his serfs, the new owner of
the house was more determined to impose his rule on the landscape.

It was clear enough in so many little ways. When she had last been past here, she had seen a pleasant home. It was a good-sized
hall for a small household, set inside a circling wall of grey stone, but the wall was only some five to six feet high, so
not a deliberately defensive enclosure. Rather, it was enough to keep the sheep and cattle from wandering, and to prevent
foxes or wild dogs from attacking the
chickens. Trees had grown up close to the walls to the north-east, making an attractive area for sitting on hot summer days.
To Edith’s eye it had looked like a pleasant little homestead.

Not now. The wall had been expanded to encompass a broader area. The little barns and stables had grown, and there was a cleared
swathe of land for a good bowshot in all directions. Where the original wall had been more use as a stockade, now it was a
distinct fortress. There was more height to it, and added thickness, as well as battlements. It was made to withstand attack,
and money had been spent to ensure that it would serve its purpose.

‘What has happened to Sir Harold?’ she asked nervously as they rode towards the little gatehouse.

‘He’s dead. This is the property of my lord Sir Hugh le Despenser now,’ William replied with a quick look at her. ‘He took
it when Sir Harold died and his son, Sir Robert, was found to have committed treason. The de Traci family was disinherited
immediately. It’s only by my master’s good favour that Sir Robert has been reinstated and pardoned. But my lord Despenser
keeps ownership.’

Everyone in the kingdom knew Sir Hugh would take what he wanted and to hell with the owners. He had a reputation for cruelty
that was unequalled.

‘Master, what do you want with me?’

‘I want nothing, mistress. It’s not me, it’s what Sir Robert and my lord Despenser want that should trouble you.’

He said no more, but led her to the gates, her mare’s reins in his hands. She had no means of escape – even sliding from the
mare and running was no option. There was nowhere to run to from here. All the land about this northern wall of the house
was clear of bushes. She would not make even a hundred yards before recapture. A man on horseback, even a knackered hobby
like his, would surely run her down in moments.

The gates loomed up, grim grey moorstone with solid oaken doors that looked as though they could withstand the massed artillery
of the king’s forces. Edith felt like a mouse in the claws of an owl. Utterly helpless. There was no escape from here. In
her mind, she saw herself making off in a dozen ingenious ways: turning her mare at Wattere, spurring her so that she ran
into him and knocked him from his beast, snatching her reins and riding like the wind until she was safe; getting
close to him, close enough to pull his sword and strike, and then riding off; talking to him, persuading him that she was
worth saving from whatever might happen in there, thankfully taking his protection as he fought off the whole of the guard
… And then they were under the gates and inside the castle.

Behind her, she heard the slow grinding and graunching of the gates as they were pushed shut. And then there was a rumble
as the massive baulks of timber were dropped into their slots to keep the gates closed.

It sounded like the gates of hell being closed behind her.

Jacobstowe

Sir Richard paused dramatically, and then gave a flourish with his hand. ‘This maid, then, was captured and bound by her captor,
and was rescued by a saviour who wanted to assure himself of her condition, to make sure that she was unharmed, if you know
what I mean, eh, fellows? He needed to know no one had been sheathing his pork sword where it shouldn’t have been sheathed,
eh?’

His crudeness won a round of happy chuckles from his audience, and he was content as he refilled his quart pot. ‘So, she was
happy to answer his questions. “Did he bind you?” She replied with a shake of her head and much discontent. “I am afraid he
did, my lord.” Her saviour continued, “Did he bind your mouth to stay your protestations, child?” And she was able to reply
with a sob, “Why yes, my lord. He did.” Her saviour was grim faced by now. “Did he tie you up so you couldn’t escape?” “Yes,
yes, he did, my lord. To my disgrace, I could not save myself.” “Did he bind your legs?” But here she could smile. Eh? “Nay,
my lord, for by God’s good grace, I made sure I kept my legs so wide apart he couldn’t bind them together!” Eh? Eh? Good joke,
eh?’

Simon couldn’t help laughing. It was an old joke, but the coroner had a childlike delight in retelling it, and a number of
other ones equally as bad. Often he was so incoherent by the time he reached the end of the joke, laughing so much at the
approaching
coup de grâce
, that the enthusiastic audience could make out nothing of his words, but they would all laugh in any case. It was easy to
see that the coroner, while in his cups and not working in his usual position of authority, was a good-humoured soul who enjoyed
amusing people.

‘There is another one, too,’ he said, before launching into the next little tale.

Simon watched him with a faint grin. It was very hard not to like the man, even though he generally caused Simon to panic
whenever they were near to a tavern. It wasn’t his jokes; it was his ability to drink everyone else into a stupor that really
concerned Simon. It tended to leave him feeling as lousy as a youth after his first serious bout of drinking. That sense of
the room swimming about his head as soon as he lay down, the repellent bubbling in his gut, the morning-after feeling of acid
in the throat and the knowledge that his head had swollen to many times its usual size, with the concomitant fluffiness in
his brain that was only ever relieved by the pain – as of four daggers being thrust in slowly from the temples and his eye
sockets. No, he did not like drinking with Sir Richard. The resultant anguish was too horrible.

As the coroner continued, Simon fell to thinking about the dead bodies. It was curious that there had been no reports of the
money being stolen until he had spoken to Cardinal de Fargis. He would have thought that others should have heard of such
a large theft. But the trouble was, it was the very knowledge of such transfers of cash that led to the ease of their robbery.
It was normal for even huge sums of money to be transported about the country with only four or five archers involved as guards.
In this case, it would seem that eight archers and a couple of men-at-arms should have been perfectly adequate, and yet the
size of the force that attacked them must have been greatly superior.