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?’
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‘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.’
‘Will you both be safe?’ Jeanne asked quietly. She was afraid that her husband and Simon could both be arrested in their turn.
‘Simon and I will visit Bishop Walter first,’ Baldwin said. ‘We shall be safe enough.’
‘Perhaps Edith would prefer to be with her own mother when you ride to the city,’ Jeanne considered.
‘Quite right. What do you think, Edith? Do you want to remain here, or ride to your father’s?’
‘I must ride to Exeter,’ Edith said without hesitation. ‘My husband is there – he needs me.’
‘You cannot go before us,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘When we leave, you can join us, of course, but until then you will have to wait here. It would be too dangerous for you to travel alone.’
‘I reached you here,’ she pointed out.
‘That is true, but the roads are too dangerous. The fact that you managed this far is no reason to compound your danger by riding back,’ Baldwin said with a smile. ‘Better by far that you wait here and rest. If not, you may of course come with me and Edgar when we go to speak with Simon.’
‘I should be at my husband’s side,’ Edith said fretfully.
‘And you will be, Edith,’ Jeanne said. ‘As soon as we can get you back there safely. But you know it’s not safe for a pretty young woman to travel the roads here all alone.’
‘And you cannot go back to Exeter now, in any case,’ Baldwin said. ‘You are plainly exhausted. You must rest. I am sure that would be for the best. Meanwhile, I’ll have Edgar go to Simon’s.’
‘Could you not send me back to Exeter with one of your men? Wat is a big fellow,’ Edith said. ‘If you are worried about my safety, he would be a deterrent to all but the most determined of attackers.’
Baldwin had to smile at the thought. ‘Wat may have the build of an ox, but he has a mind to equal it. If he was attacked, he’d have not the faintest idea what to do about it,’ he chuckled. ‘No, if you are to be safe—’
‘Sir Baldwin, I know you mean well, but what you are asking me to do is to wait here until you have sent a man to my father’s house, wait for him to return, and then go to Exeter. That means at least a whole day. And in that time, my husband lies in gaol. I will not do it, Sir Baldwin,’ Edith said, and in her face Baldwin saw the resolution of her mother. Margaret, usually so gentle and calm, would every so often display the stubbornness of a mule. Edith was demonstrating a similar temperament.
‘I do not think that we have any choice, child. The roads between here and Exeter are too dangerous.’
‘Then let me go with Edgar to my father’s house. At least then I will be doing something. We can all ride straight to Exeter afterwards and meet you there.’
Baldwin considered. She was clearly desperate to be kept busy, rather than sitting about. She was young and resilient, as he knew. But when he glanced at his wife, Jeanne shook her head slightly.
Jeanne touched Edith’s arm. ‘You need to rest. And Edgar can ride faster on his own. Do you let Edgar fetch your father, and then you can go with them to Exeter when you are rested.’
Edith’s chin became more prominent. ‘I will not rest. If nothing else, I shall ride to my father’s house. It is my husband who is captured, and I would tell my parents myself.’
Jeanne was about to argue, but Baldwin shook his head. ‘Very well, Edith. You shall ride with Edgar and me when we go to fetch your father in the morning. However, we are not going to go anywhere today, because you are already exhausted.’ As Edith began to argue again, he held up his hands. ‘Enough! I believe this is best for you, and I will not have dissent. This is only because we wish to ensure your safety. Rest, and tomorrow I shall ride with you to Simon’s.’
She looked away, and then gave a curt nod. Clearly she was not persuaded by all his reason, but Baldwin believed that she would at least obey.
He would have cause to regret his simple faith.
Chapter Fourteen
Tavistock Abbey
It was all over quickly, thanks to God. Stephen wanted nothing more to do with all these people. The knight and his men at Bow scared him, and he was anxious that he knew the contents of the message. The idea that he should be forced into collusion with Despenser and Sir Robert of Traci, through no fault of his own, was a dagger in his head. It felt as if a sharp blade was pressing upon his very brain.
He delivered the message while studiously avoiding the monk’s eye. The man took it, read it, and nodded quietly to himself. ‘Thank you. I shall tell you if there is to be a reply,’ he said.
Stephen waited without showing his irritation, a silent figure standing in the doorway to the monk’s chamber. It was odd to think that the man was here, in this little cell, when in theory he was to be the next abbot.
Tavistock might not be the greatest institution in the realm, but it wasn’t far from the best-endowed monastery in the West Country. From it the lands extended in all directions, and it possessed estates far away. The daughter house on the Isle of Ennor was a source of fair revenues, and the fishing on the rivers and the many other ventures here in Devon ensured that in normal times the abbey would profit. However, these were not normal times. The famine had affected the abbey’s stocks and herds of sheep, the rains and the river’s spate had washed away several mills and damaged other investments, and finally the death of Abbot Champeaux had been a sore loss. His mild manner and calm, sensible attitude, as well as his infallible eye for a proposition that would aid the abbey, had changed the whole nature of the place. Initially, when he had been elected, the abbey had been in debt. He had changed that, so that by the time he died he could be considered in the same light as one of the abbey’s founders and benefactors. Not that this happy condition could continue, from all Stephen had heard.
It was not only the massive payments the abbey was forced to pay to the king while it was in a state of voidance, nor even the sums that must be paid to the pope for the right to have the abbey’s case heard and adjudicated; it was more due to the natural inclination of the monks to enjoy themselves while they might. As the abbey was technically without an abbot, there was no one to enforce strict rules about conduct, and the monks were eating and drinking far more than before.
That was itself plain even to Stephen as he walked about the grounds. Carts were arriving all the time with barrels of wine and fish, freshwater and sea, and Stephen could hear the baying of hounds. Later, as he hurried down the stairs from the monk’s chamber, he knew only a relief that he would soon be away from here and back in the saddle once more.
It was a cause for enormous satisfaction that there was no message to be delivered to Bow. He would avoid that midden if he could. The casual murder of the farmer had scared him more than he would like to admit. And then Sir Robert de Traci had beaten his own servant, as though the steward’s dereliction could be cause for
execution – the man was only late with some wine, in God’s name! So far as he was concerned, the messages had been delivered, and that was an end to it. He wanted nothing more to do with Bow, Sir Robert, nor even his son. The idea of passing through their town again was repellent.
Sadly, though, he couldn’t very well avoid it entirely. He had asked a few of the grooms and some of the servants about the best way to get back to Exeter. One man had suggested taking the road south and there finding a ship to sail him along the coast, but Stephen had experienced ships before. He knew how unreliable the damned things were in the best of weather. Getting on a ship at this time of year was not to be borne. He understood that the winds were all too changeable, and that could mean either being held in port for days or weeks, or, worse, being tossed about on the open sea until every meal he had ever eaten had returned to haunt him.
There was no better suggestion, though, other than that he should head north, and pass through Oakhampton, thence to Crediton and Exeter. He had little choice, apparently. The alternative was a ride straight across the moors, but all the men he had spoken to were agreed that the roads there were still worse than the usual roads about here. Mostly there was a trail that could be followed over to the middle of the moors, but it was so boggy and treacherous that no one would offer much for his chances when he asked. The main road led from Lydford eastwards, but that was a perilous route: the mires were hideously dangerous, and too many people died on the moors each year. All agreed that it was safer by far to head north.
Stephen had his doubts, but he didn’t feel justified in mentioning the fact that the moors were to him less terrifying than the thought of meeting with Sir Robert again.
As the sky began to darken, he was already on his horse and heading north. He would ride to a small inn he had seen that morning and demand a room for the night. There were not many advantages to his job, but the fact that he could demand and expect to receive a room and food wherever he travelled within the kingdom was a great benefit on occasion.
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 17