Chapter Five
Abbeyford
In his house, Hoppon grunted as he heaved on the rope. It was attached by a metal hook to the six-foot length of tree trunk he was hauling across the floor to the little area of clay where he had his fire. The old trunk was almost burned through.
There were some who laughed at him for this. Aye, they laughed, the pricks. They thought bringing in logs this size was stupid, that it took too much effort. Well, they were the fools. It took an age to slice a log into short rounds, and when he’d done it in the past, they burned through on all sides. This way, the log burned from one end only, and it lasted him longer. He’d carry on with his fires like this. It was how his old man had shown him to build a fire, and if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for Hoppon too.
He had the log in now, and kicked it slightly until it rolled into the hearth as he wanted. Then he settled down, sitting on the trunk, and watched as the sparks began to fly again.
They laughed at him. The children laughed to see his anguished gait, hobbling along in the manner that had given him his name. Aye, they laughed often enough, but some had learned to laugh from a distance. He had caught a lad once, and managed two good swings of his staff at the little bastard’s backside before the bratchet had escaped his wrath. He’d think again before he made fun of Hoppon.
That leg was agony much of the time. He had been at his master’s manor, trying to rescue the animals, when a spar from the roof had fallen on him and trapped him. Christ Jesus, the pain! He still felt it. The sudden eruption of sparks, and then the baulk of timber falling, and he’d put his hands over his head, the fool, as though that could help him, and it had crashed into his back, sending him sprawling. A searing, wrenching pain at his shoulder, and then the feeling of unutterably exquisite burning as the red-hot embers from the spar scorched off his hose and began to cook his leg. That smell! That torture! Sweet Mother of Christ, but there was nothing to equal it. He had felt as though he must die just from the feel. It was as though his heart was swelling ready to burst with the torment. His mind must not be able to cope. If he had possessed a knife or axe, he would have cut his leg from his body, not from a belief that he might be able to escape, but purely because it would mean that he could leave this ruined, burned appendage behind, as well as the agony.
He had screamed so loudly that one of the men outside said they thought it was a horse whinnying in terror, but the horses were all out already. And then someone saw him in there, and three men ran in to lever the beam aside and drag him out, still screaming.
Afterwards, his master had told him he was grateful. It was as he lay on the dewy grass, knowing only the horror of what his leg had become, while he stared at the thing that had once been a part of him, that the man came out and said he was grateful. His destrier had lived. How Hoppon had hated that beast. And his master. For them he was ruined. His leg would never heal again. The flesh was burned away. The little that remained was withered for ever.
There had been enormous pleasure for him when he had heard that the destrier had reared in the river and drowned them both. That had been a day of joy for Hoppon.
Westminster Palace
Sir Hugh le Despenser lay back in his bed, his wife at his side but carefully not touching. He and Eleanor had not been intimate for some while now. Perhaps he should demand the renewal of the marriage debt, but for many weeks he hadn’t felt the urge. It was as though the worries about the land, the fears about the queen and Mortimer, had conspired to kill off his natural desires.
Perhaps the cause was more because of Eleanor. It could have been the way she looked at him ever since the moment some weeks ago when he and she had fallen out. So much had gone wrong this year. First how the queen had been treated after the beginnings of the war with France, and then the way that she had been sent to France to negotiate with her brother. Nothing seemed to have gone well since those first moments of dispute. Eleanor had become cold, indifferent and argumentative, and in response Hugh had grown angry.
There was so much to occupy him. Some said that he was too unkind, that his thoughts were only ever of his own position, but that wasn’t true. Not entirely. No, he would also spend much time trying to see how to serve his king.
The disastrous matters at Tavistock Abbey were just one example of the turmoil that was rending the kingdom, and on which his mind was constantly bent. Tavistock was hardly a bulwark in the defensive ring about the coast. Despenser was only too well aware of the defences at sea, having himself turned pirate for a short while five years ago. Mortimer could, indeed might, raise an army without any interference from the king or Despenser. There was nothing they could do – all their spies had been captured in recent months, and the intelligence they received tended to rely on the travellers from France who stopped at Canterbury. Prior Henry Eastrey of Christ Church sifted their stories and sent on anything that seemed germane. But the ships in the king’s navy could, and would, hopefully, block any possible invasion from the east. The Cinque Ports were full of ships that could protect the realm from attack.
But a fleet that avoided them and tried to land elsewhere, that was a genuine risk. And if it were able to make its way to the Devon coast, that would be a true disaster. For the lands there had been under the control of the queen, and many of her people were still angry at the way she had been treated – her household disbanded, her knights sent to France or arrested, her children taken away from her, her revenues and estates sequestrated, her movements restricted, and even her personal seal confiscated to prevent secret communication with anyone. Those who felt loyalty to her had been outraged that her royal person could be so demeaned.
There was another aspect, though. Tavistock had been a powerful influence in the West Country under the last abbot, Robert Champeaux. But now he was dead, and for the present, while there was a debate about who should rule the place, the sole benefit of the abbey lay in the money it was producing. While the abbacy was vacant, the abbey must pay a fine each year to the king. The payment was on its way now, Despenser knew. And the money would be useful. Because with it, he hoped to persuade Robert Busse to stand down as abbot, and allow John de Courtenay to take over unchallenged.
Politics. Politics. In the realm, politicking caused grief and hardship to many. And yet he would swear that the little, local politics of a place like Tavistock were more cruel, poignant and dangerous. National politics might affect many people, but down at Tavistock the machinations of the brother monks were threatening the kingdom, because until Sir Hugh could be sure that the fools down there were stable and settled, he must worry all the while that Mortimer’s fleet could round Kent and sail all the way to Devon. With Tavistock still empty of an abbot, Hainault’s mercenaries could sweep up the Tamar to Exeter, that hotbed of malcontents and rebels, and thence, gathering support as they came, ride for London. It would be simple if they were unopposed at the outset, and the easier their journey from the West Country, the quicker would be the collapse of any support for the king. And for Sir Hugh le Despenser.
Yes. All hinged upon Tavistock. Brother Robert Busse was the abbot-elect, but Brother John de Courtenay was the more malleable. With him in position, it would be easier to ensure that the abbey went on a stronger defensive footing and served to protect the coast. And that would make the rest of the kingdom so much more safe.
From bloody Puttock’s words, he believed that Busse was the better man, damn his eyes! He was independent, which was why Sir Hugh distrusted him. Better to have a reliable man like de Courtenay.
And then an idea began to form in Sir Hugh’s head. The initial concept was there before him, of course. It involved the money, and the attempt to subvert the abbot-elect by bribing him and then forcing him to become less independent by blackmailing him. That might still work – but if it failed, there was now this second string to his bow. Simon Puttock, the honourable, decent supporter of Busse. Perhaps he could help. Or his wife …
Didn’t he have a
daughter?
Third Saturday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
The road they had taken was the same they used the last time that they left Westminster to return to Devon, and Simon was fretful until he at last felt that the looming presence of the king’s palace was out of sight behind him.
‘You look worried, Simon,’ Sir Richard said.
He was sitting back in his saddle, legs thrust forwards, rolling with his mount’s gait, and with a loaf of heavy bread made from rye and wheat in one hand, while in his other he grasped the neck of his wine skin. His eyes were as shrewd as ever, but Simon knew that the main characteristic in them was the gleam of innate kindness and generosity.
‘I want to be as far from the place as possible. You know, Coroner, I feel just now that I have been in danger and hunted for almost all this year. When we left here to go to France with the queen, I was anxious. When I returned with her son, I was fearful. Coming back through France was terrifying, knowing that all the while there were men who sought the destruction of my lord bishop Walter, and now, now I feel sure that Sir Hugh le Despenser has me in the sights of a crossbow.’
‘You don’t like that man – but that’s natural enough. Not many do.’ The Coroner nodded to himself, upending his skin and wiping his beard with the back of his hand.
Simon shook his head. ‘He called me to his chamber two days ago.’
‘What?’ Baldwin asked, startled by this revelation. ‘Why did you not tell us, Simon?’
‘For what purpose? If I told you, it would only give you more to be worried about. And I preferred not to explain the conversation to Bishop Walter.’
‘Well, the good bishop is at his home on Straunde now,’ Baldwin said. ‘So tell us: what did the man want from you?’
Simon touched the nick on his throat where Despenser’s sword had scratched him. ‘He wanted to know what happened in France – in detail. He did not care about much else, but he was amused to hear how we all fled the French court, and then he suggested to me that we three were turncoats and supporters of the queen. That we might renounce our vows to the king!’
‘Is that all?’ Baldwin asked.
‘No. He made more threats against me and my family,’ Simon said. The man’s words were still ringing in his ears. Even when he slept, he swore he could hear Despenser’s voice. ‘The man will not be satisfied until he sees my body dangling.’
‘He is not a natural leader of men, I would think,’ Sir Richard said with deliberation. He bit off a massive chunk of bread and chewed for a few moments. ‘I would hope that he will soon fall from his horse and receive a buffet on the head that slows down his ability to irritate others for a while.’
Baldwin was not sure that Providence would aid the realm so swiftly. ‘The man deserves to be hanged and quartered for all the harm he has done to the kingdom. It is intolerable that he continues to persecute Simon and others.’
‘At least we will soon be far enough even from him to be secure,’ the coroner said, satisfied with the thought.
‘I wish that were true,’ Simon said quietly. ‘Sadly, I don’t think it is. He is a fierce enemy. He has already bought my house from under me.’
‘Eh?’ Sir Richard looked over at him, spraying breadcrumbs.
‘He bought my house’s lease. I had it for a seven-year term, and missed the most recent payment because I was in France with the queen. So Despenser bought it.’
‘Why? Surely he has no need of a house such as yours,’ the coroner said.
Simon smiled. Sir Richard had never been to visit him at his house, but the man would be fully aware of the nature of a stolid peasant’s home compared with the kind of fine property that Despenser was more used to. ‘You’re right. My farm is only a good-sized longhouse with a small solar. But Despenser didn’t take it because he wanted to live in it himself. It was much more to do with his desire to show me that he is my superior in every way, I think. He wanted to stamp out any rebelliousness to his will that might have remained in me. He sent a man to evict my wife, and it was the purest chance that I had returned before he could succeed. With Baldwin’s help, we caught the man and had him arrested for a while by the bishop.’
‘So you still have the house?’ Sir Richard asked.
‘No. We were forced out. I delayed matters a little by having a churchman take it, but I don’t know whether he’s still there or not. My wife should have left and gone to our old home near Sandford.’
‘Sandford?’ the coroner said with a frown.
‘It’s also known as Rookford. A small hamlet north of Crediton,’ Simon explained. ‘It is a good area. Rich red soil, good pastures, and some of the best ciders in the kingdom.’
‘You have some land there?’
‘Oh, yes. We have enough to live on. And perhaps my wife and I can live there quietly, away from the politics in that place,’ he added, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder.
Jacobstowe
Bill woke with a head that itched like a whole pack of hounds with fleas. He scratched at it with a rueful expression, but it made little difference.
‘It’ll be the midges,’ his wife said without sympathy.
‘Agnes, you have a knack for stating the blasted obvious,’ he muttered.
‘Well, I didn’t tell you to go out there and wait with the bodies, and I didn’t tell you to go out again yesterday to search for only you know what,’ his wife replied tartly. ‘What do you want from me? Sympathy? Faith, man, you should be so lucky. If you will go out at night when it’s been raining for so many evenings, what do you expect?’
He grunted and clambered to his feet. ‘I told you what the coroner said, woman. If we can only find the men who were responsible, perhaps we can visit some sort of justice on them.’
‘Oh, aye. And while you’re doing that, what about me and Ant?’ she asked.
Her back was to him, but he could hear the softness of a sob in her voice as she spoke. She was tearing up leaves for the pottage, and now he saw that she was treating them with more violence than usual. ‘Agnes, woman, stop that for a moment,’ he said, pulling on a shirt and walking to her. He slipped his arms about her waist, resting his head on her shoulder.
‘It’s all right for you, Bill Lark. You go off and search for these murderers, and you have a purpose in life, don’t you? But what of me? I am expected to wait here until you come home, but what if you don’t? You can wander about the place, and if you are hurt I have to nurse you. If you die, you rest – but what of us? We will be wasted. Me, a widow, Ant an orphan. Would you see us destitute?’
‘Woman, woman, woman, calm yourself,’ he said soothingly as she sobbed, open mouthed but quiet. ‘Be easy. Look, I will not be getting myself into any trouble. I shall be as careful as I may be, I swear. But I want to know who it was killed those people. I cannot have travellers slaughtered as they come past here, can I? Even the coroner wants to find these men. I’ve never heard of a coroner so keen to do his job.’
She could not laugh with him. There had never been a murder like this before in their little parish. ‘You are only to be bailiff until Michaelmas, Bill. Don’t go getting yourself killed between now and then just to find justice for people you never even met!’
‘I won’t. Now, is there any bread? I want something to eat. I have to walk to Hoppon’s.’
‘Why won’t you listen to me? You are to wander about the place trying to find these men, but if you do, what then? If you get them all, do you think they’ll see you walking up to them and greet you politely? Bill, you’re likely to be killed!’
‘I will be safe, don’t worry.’
‘Are you really so stubborn and stupid that you believe that?’ she had demanded, her eyes streaming.
It was an angry Bill Lark who left later. She had made him feel inadequate, as though he didn’t care about her and Ant, and that wasn’t true. He adored them both. However, he had responsibilities to the vill as well. And nineteen people had been killed here. He wasn�
��t happy to let that rest. If there was a possibility that he could help track them down, he should. In a strange way, he felt that the coroner’s dedication to the truth had sparked his own.
The distance to Hoppon’s little holding was short enough. Bill walked there chewing his bread with a dry mouth.
His wife was right in one thing: for most crimes there was no need to find the actual guilty party. The most important thing was that justice was seen to be exercised. In a little hamlet like this one, it was easy to find someone. Bill had heard at the court at Oakhampton that a full third of all the men accused of crimes were strangers to the area. Some reckoned that this was mere proof of the fact that strangers were unreliable, dangerous folk, and it was better that all foreigners should be watched carefully. Others, like Bill, thought that it was more proof of the fact that when there was a harvest or the need of a sturdy fellow to help with the ploughing, only a fool would seek to determine that the man best suited to the job was sadly the one who must hang for the felony he committed a while ago. If a good worker got drunk and accidentally killed a fellow in hot blood, it was better that he remained for the good of the community than that he was arrested and slain. Better to find some other likely fellow who was not so valuable to the hundred.
There was logic to this process. Logic and hard-headed rational thinking. It was the common sense of a small community that still remembered the years of famine. Yet there was still a part of Bill’s soul that rebelled at the idea.
However, in this matter, he had a calm heart and a cool head. The men who waylaid that group of travellers were not from his vill. Of that he was quite sure. There were not the people there who were capable of killing so many, and not enough who would have been prepared to see children slaughtered. No, this was no local gang.
‘Hoppon! God give you a good day.’
‘God speed, Bailiff.’
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 8