The others were sad, of course. The clumps of bodies in the woods had been very disheartening, for such a scene was inevitably depressing, and yet the fact that Sir Peregrine knew none of them meant that he could at least maintain a professional detachment.
‘Who found him?’
He didn’t really care who had discovered the fellow. Sir Peregrine stared down at the body of Bill Lark with a rising sense of resentment. There were times when he felt that it was better never to grow fond of anyone, because he was invariably hurt when they died.
It was particularly true of his love life. He had almost married three women. Each had died before he could. Back in the year before King Edward took the throne from his father* he had lost his first love. He would have married her else. The next was his lovely Emily, who had died giving birth to their child four years ago when he was master of Tiverton Castle for Sir Hugh de Courtenay. And then, more recently, dear Juliana had died, leaving two children from another man, and he had taken them on himself, not reluctantly, in memory of her. But no matter how fond he was of them, he could not look upon them as his own. Which was a shame, but hardly surprising. They were not of his blood.
But it wasn’t just the women he had loved who had died just as he had grown to think that there could be a new life beginning. His loneliness was enhanced by the deaths of men like this.
This man was scarcely known to him, of course, and yet he felt a bond already. There was something about the fellow that had inspired confidence. He looked competent, stolid and dependable. The sort of man in whom another could place his trust. And Sir Peregrine had felt quietly confident that he would do all in his power to find the men who had committed the atrocity in the woods.
‘Who did this to him?’ he wondered aloud.
The man had been bludgeoned to death, from the look of him. It looked as though his head had been beaten with a rock, or maybe a mace or similar weapon. Until the blood had been washed away, it would be pure guesswork to try to say what did make those wounds.
‘He was found here last afternoon,’ a man said helpfully.
Sir Peregrine growled at him, commanding the full jury to be brought immediately, as well as a clerk or anyone else who could hold a reed, so that they could have the inquest, and bellowed when no one seemed to want to move. Soon he was all but alone, and he squatted at the man’s side, as though talking to a resting friend.
‘I am sorry about this, Bailiff. Truly, I will do all I may to find the men who did this to you. And if I can, I will bring them to justice. I swear it on my soul!’
Furnshill
‘You look tired,’ Baldwin said as he walked inside with his wife.
It was the same as it had been. In the worst days of his travelling, when he was incarcerated in the Louvre, trying desperately to stop himself from causing offence to any French nobility, he had been prey to horrible fancies: that his farm would have suffered from drought, or perhaps from dreadful fires; that his house had suddenly succumbed, as he had seen others, and collapsed with his wife inside. All those were in many ways easy to reject as being foolish. However, he had a strange, recurring thought that when he came home there would be some appalling alteration in his family that would make his return a matter of horror, not delight. It was a terrifying thought that, when he marched through his front door, he might learn that one of his children had died; perhaps even Jeanne herself.
Now, walking through the screens passage and into his hall, he was relieved to see that his fears were baseless. It made him even more glad to be home again, and he encircled his wife’s waist with his arm, drawing her nearer to kiss her.
She reciprocated, but after a shorter period than he would have liked, she drew away. In the doorway he saw his old Templar comrade, Edgar, and Baldwin inclined his head. ‘I hope I see you well, Edgar?’
‘Sir Baldwin,’ Edgar responded, bowing low. ‘I shall fetch you some wine and meats. You must be hungry.’
He was gone in an instant, and Baldwin could look down at his wife. ‘As I said, you seem very tired, my love. Are you quite well?’
‘Mostly, yes. The children exhaust me, I confess, but Edgar and his wife have been very kind. They both do all they can.’
‘Is it the estate? I can take all the effort of that away from you now, Jeanne,’ he said softly.
There was a redness about her eyes that he did not like to see. It was almost as though she had spent much of the last weeks weeping, and the idea that she should have been so saddened without his being there to calm or soothe her made him feel chilly with guilt. He was her husband, in Christ’s name. It was his duty to be here for her.
‘It isn’t the lands or the manor,’ she said after a few moments. ‘There is more than that.’
She walked to her chair and seated herself, waiting for him to join her. As soon as he had taken his own seat, Edgar returned with a tray and jug. Baldwin’s favourite mazer was on the tray, a beech cup with a silver band about it. Edgar filled it with wine and passed it to his master.
Jeanne waited until her husband had taken a sip before continuing. ‘It is the sheriff and his men. The sheriff is a new man, one of Sir Hugh le Despenser’s companions, I think, and it seems as though all are subject to Despenser’s scrutiny.’
‘How do you mean?’ Baldwin asked.
It was Edgar who, on a signal from Jeanne, began to speak. ‘I believe Despenser has grown terrified of an attack from a foreign power. Perhaps he fears that Mortimer will soon cross the sea and try to take the kingdom. Whatever the reason, he is even less trusting than before, and now he seeks to implement his control over every part of the land where there is a coast and where an invasion force could land. Clearly Devon and Cornwall are particularly dangerous, in his mind.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘There are coastlines to north and south, of course.’
‘And an infinite number of places where a man might bring a host to attack the king,’ Edgar agreed.
It wasn’t strictly true. In the north of Devon, as Baldwin knew well, there were few naturally safe harbours for a ship, let alone a fleet, but that was not the point. Devon and Cornwall were exceedingly hard to protect.
‘There is more,’ Edgar said. ‘Of course Despenser will know that the queen was mistress of much of both shires. She controlled the mining of the tin, and she had a lot of supporters over here.’
‘What of it?’
‘The king – and Despenser – would hardly be natural if they didn’t wonder whether she too might try to gather a force to oust Despenser. She has seen her power and authority eroded by him in the last years.’
‘So you think that Despenser has planned to come here and take over the running of the West Country from the locals?’
‘I think he is plotting to have his placemen set in all positions of any form of authority at the coast,’ Edgar said. ‘And that includes Devon, because there are so many ideal places for a bold team to land, and many potential supporters for the men who would try it. He has installed this Sir James de Cockington as sheriff, but there are others who are winning his favour as well.’
‘I suppose that is natural enough,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully. ‘He is putting men in place to ensure that the land is safe from attack.’
‘Yes, but there are other men who seem to have little regard for the law. So long as they are Despenser’s friends, they feel that they can wander the land at will, taking whatever they desire,’ Jeanne said. ‘And that appears to include the sheriff himself. He is more corrupt than any, if what is said is true.’
‘Which bodes not well for those who have shown themselves to be enemies of Despenser,’ Edgar added, looking at his master with a serious expression.
Chapter Nine
Road near Bow
There were few times in Stephen of Shoreditch’s life when he had been made to feel quite so fearful. In his experience, most men were more than happy to treat him with a degree of respect, because a man who insulted the king’s messengers insulted th
e king himself. A messenger was a representative of the king.
These men hardly appeared to accord him any respect whatsoever. They didn’t talk to him, nor offer him any refreshment, but insisted that he dismount and walk with them. Another man behind them had his horse now, while he walked in the midst of his captors, glancing about him on occasion, hoping against hope that they were speaking the truth and would take him to Sir Robert de Traci. Certainly he had little expectation that he would be able to escape. Although these felons had left him with his dagger and short riding sword, they were hemmed closely in on him, and the likelihood of his being able to run from them was remote in the extreme. They looked more than capable of bringing him down in a matter of yards.
It was while they were on their way that he saw the event that was to make him certain that he was in the company of dangerous souls.
They had taken a little turn, and were now walking down a hill towards what looked like a fair-sized hamlet, when Stephen heard a squeaking and rumbling sound. It wasn’t ahead of them, but over to the left, somewhere towards the south. Before long he was able to make out a little lane that appeared to interest the men with him. They wandered up to it, slinking along quietly, and crouched at the edge, where it met their own road.
Soon Stephen could see what was happening. Even as the scarred man grasped his shoulder and pulled him down, he could see that the noise was a man on an ancient cart.
‘Messenger boy, if you want to live to deliver another note, you’ll keep your mouth and your eyes shut!’ the man said, and his dagger was already unsheathed, the point at Stephen’s throat, in the dent below his windpipe.
There was nothing Stephen could say. He merely nodded his head slowly, and watched.
The man was a farmer, so far as he could see. An ordinary farmer on the way to the market at Bow, likely. He had some produce in the back of his little cart. A pathetic amount, but enough to justify the journey. The man was almost asleep as he knelt in the cart, his head nodding with the cart’s jerking, his eyes all but closed.
‘Old man, what have you got in there?’
Stephen looked over to see that one of the men had grabbed the horse’s rein and was grinning up at the farmer.
‘Who are you? I’m—’
‘No, old man. What have you got in there, is what I asked.’
‘Nothing. Just some beans and cheese for market. What do you want with me?’
‘We are taking tolls for the market,’ the man said smoothly, and nodded to one of the others.
Immediately Stephen saw this fellow slip around the cart and grab for the back of it. The farmer scowled and turned, watching as the fellow eyed the goods and reached in to take a cheese.
‘I’ll see you in hell before you take that or anything else of mine,’ the farmer snarled.
‘Pox on your threats, old man,’ the man at the reins said.
‘Leave my goods, you shite!’
‘Who do you think you are, peasant?’
‘I am Jack Begbeer, you little hog, and I won’t be robbed!’
‘Hey, Osbert, look at this! There’s a good barrel of ale here too!’ the man at the back said, and was soon clambering over the cart.
The farmer glanced at him, and then reached down to his side. He came up gripping a whip; flicking his wrist, the long end rose, curled around and lashed out. The man at the back of the cart gave a cry, and his hand went to his brow. As he stood, hands cupping his face, blood began to ooze from a slash across his forehead, and he sprang down to hide from the stinging whip.
‘Old git!’ the man at the reins bellowed, and ducked as the whip end came towards him.
Stephen saw it as it passed over the man’s head. It had been cut and woven into a fine point, and when it touched flesh, it cut like a razor. Already the farmer was thrashing it about him with abandon, standing warily on his cart, keeping the men at bay, snarling defiance at them all. ‘You think you can rob any man passing here? We all know you and your evil master. Well you won’t take my things, not without some of you getting hurt, you sons of dogs! Go to hell, you soulless devils! The pox on you and your children, if you can father them!’
In front of him, Stephen saw that the scarred man had laughed at first to see the men trounced by an old peasant, but his humour was fading now. ‘Old man, get down from the cart. You’ve hurt one of Sir Robert of Traci’s men, and that means your toll has become more expensive.’
‘You? You think to steal all my goods? You think I don’t know you, Osbert? Son of a whore, your father was, and you too! Think you that you can scare me? I’ll be damned if I’ll let you rob me like you rob so many others, damn your soul!’
As he spoke, he flung back his arm, then lashed. The whip sprang towards the scarred man like a viper. He swore, stepped aside, and let the whip fly past him, and as it rose a second time, he darted forward, under the horses, and reappeared on the other side, his dagger held by the point. He hefted it, took his aim, and hurled.
The dagger spun lazily in the air, and Stephen could see its flight as it turned over and over and then sank to the hilt in the old farmer’s throat. He dropped reins and whip, clutching at the hilt, spinning as he tried to pull it free, eyes wide with horror, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to breathe. Then he fell backwards, dropping heavily on to his backside near the front of the cart even as the blood began to dribble from his lips.
‘Stupid old peasant! Couldn’t you restrain yourself? Eh?’ Scarface shouted. ‘You had to keep on, didn’t you? See where that gets you, you old git! Straightway to hell. Well, give my regards to the devil!’
The farmer slumped, his body jerking and writhing as he died slowly. Gradually his efforts to keep upright became too much of a struggle, and he toppled over the cart’s wall, ending up on his back beside his carthorse, his eyes fixed on the man he had called Osbert. The man with the scarred face walked to the farmer, reached for his knife and jerked it free. A fine spray of blood erupted from the dying man’s throat, and Osbert laughed to see the way that the horse pulling the cart neighed and tried to jerk away from the warm blood.
‘Come on, fools!’ he bellowed, and kicked the farmer’s body from cart’s path. He took up the reins and cracked them to get the beast moving again.
Stephen felt a hand on his elbow, and submitted to being pushed along. He couldn’t help but glance back at the body in the dirt at the side of the track. The farmer’s face was already mottled with death, the blood staining his clothes, while a red, oily sheen lay upon his face. Stephen was sure that he could see the man’s lips working, but it was impossible to tell what he was trying to say. Perhaps it was ‘Avenge me!’
If that was what the old peasant hoped, he would have to remain hopeful. Stephen wanted nothing to do with fighting those devils.
St Pancras Lane, Exeter
Edith waited at the table until her husband arrived, and then rose to greet him.
‘My sweet, you shouldn’t have waited,’ he protested.
The maidservant was still in the room, and his greeting must remain cordial but restrained, he felt. Although he had grown up with servants in his household, it was a novel experience still to have his own maid.
Edith smiled. ‘God speed, husband. Sit, please, and let me serve you.’
‘I am most grateful for your attendance, my love. Send the maid away,’ he added in a hiss.
At Edith’s gesture, young Jane curtsied and left, walking carefully as though she might break some of the wonderful carvings on the cupboard.
‘Thank you, my love,’ Peter murmured, and pulled his wife towards him.
‘Oho, so you want to let your food get cold?’ Edith protested.
He had her by the waist already. ‘Not half, my precious! Come here, and let me …’
Edith fell back over his lap to sit with a low chuckle. She pointed her chin to the ceiling while he nuzzled at her throat, his hands roving over her simple tunic, feeling the firmness of her body beneath, the rounded swelling o
f her breasts, the smooth flesh of her flanks. ‘Oh, my love. I have been dreaming of this all day!’
‘Well you will have to continue dreaming for a little longer. I am petrified with hunger,’ she said, and was about to climb from him when there was a loud knocking on the door. She looked down at him. ‘Who can that be?’
‘Christ’s bones, but I don’t know, I swear,’ Peter said with conviction, standing and walking to the door.
It was dark out, but as he threw the door wide, he could see the lanterns shining, the candles flickering in their horn boxes. ‘What do you want?’
The nearest man was a stout fellow with an ancient-looking cap of steel. He had shrewd dark eyes set widely below a strong forehead, and a beard that was very dark. He was young enough not to have any frost on his head or in his moustache. He looked at Edith. ‘We’d heard that Sir Richard de Welles was here. Have you seen him? Or Sir Baldwin, the Keeper?’
‘Why do you want them?’ Peter said, aware of Edith behind him. He felt her hand rest on his shoulder.
‘There’s been a murder over towards Oakhampton, and Sir Peregrine has asked for them to go to him,’ the man said.
‘You must send for him at Furnshill, then,’ Peter said. ‘They left here early this morning. They will be there by now, I’d imagine.’
‘Then God speed, master,’ the man said. He motioned with his hands, and the others began to filter back up the alley towards St Pancras. ‘Was the bailiff with them too?’
‘Who, my father?’ Edith asked. ‘Simon Puttock? Yes.’
The fellow nodded and set off after the other men. The last Edith saw of them was their backs as they made their way to the top of the alley and took the path left, wandering southwards. She caught a fleeting glimpse, so she thought, of another face, one that made her blood run cold for an instant, but then it was gone, and she knew that it must be her imagination. William atte Wattere, the man whom she had encountered at her father’s house on the day she had gone to ask his permission to marry, was surely nowhere near here now.
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 12