No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27)

by Michael Jecks

  Hoppon shifted uncomfortably on his bad leg, still leaning on his staff. At last he nodded. ‘I’ll tell you all I know, or guess at. And I only pray that you’ll be sensible about it and catch the men. Very well then. It was Tab who heard them first, as I said, but as soon as he started barking, I heard them too. Horses, carts, men talking loudly, laughing. As they always do.’

  ‘Did you hear anything of note?’ Sir Richard demanded.

  ‘No, only that they were to go back to their base. They didn’t say who they were or where exactly they were going.’

  ‘Who is there who lives over east of here, then?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Oh, I know nothing about the lands over that way,’ Hoppon said, and Simon was quite convinced he was lying. However, the man was being forced to tell two officers of the law about the illegal affairs of men who had shown themselves willing to kill nineteen folk and rob the king. It was hardly surprising that he was reluctant.

  ‘Very well,’ Simon said. ‘What can you tell us about the death of this widow’s husband?’

  ‘Oh, poor old Bill,’ Hoppon said. ‘I found him over towards Swanstone Moor.’

  ‘Where is that?’ Sir Richard asked.

  ‘It’s that little patch of moor over yonder,’ Hoppon said, pointing.

  Following the direction of his finger, Simon could see a small area of moorland over to the east, slightly south of a hillock on the other side of the river. ‘Where was he in there?’

  ‘There is a large beech tree at the edge of the moor,’ Hoppon said, squinting as he peered. ‘See it there? Just to the left of the line of that hedge.’

  Sir Richard glanced down at Hoppon’s leg. ‘Can you ride a horse? Doubt you could walk so far as that, could you?’

  ‘I think I could, so long as you don’t have a great hurry. I’ve walked further than that in my time,’ Hoppon said.

  ‘Hoppon used to be an archer,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Really?’ Sir Richard said, letting his eyes pass over Hoppon’s frame. ‘A while ago, then.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Hoppon asked.

  ‘You’ve lost the muscles in your shoulders,’ the knight said. ‘Archers have bigger shoulders and upper arms than most men.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Hoppon said. ‘I was bigger when I was younger. Before this,’ he added, tapping his thigh.

  ‘What happened?’ Simon asked as they walked, matching their speed to Hoppon’s slow gait. ‘Was it in a battle?’

  Hoppon glanced at him, then at Agnes just beyond him before anwering. ‘No. It was my own stupid fault. When I was younger, I thought I was invincible. There was a fire in a barn on the old manor, and I ran inside to rescue what I could, but a spar from the roof fell on me and burned my leg badly. I’m lucky I can walk at all. Still, I brought out a few items of value, and my lord rewarded me well enough.’

  ‘That’s the old manor where the knight died?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Yes. My lord Edward. Right, here we go!’ Hoppon said. They had reached the edge of the river, and now he plunged in, hobbling as fast as he could, before the waters soaked his boots entirely.

  Simon and Sir Richard exchanged a look, and then glanced at the monk and Agnes. The monk curled his lip, but hitched up his robes, looped them over his forearms, and trotted through.

  Agnes returned Simon’s look coolly enough. ‘I want to see where my husband died,’ she said, and with that, she drew up her skirts to display her knees without any outward sign of shame, and waded in.

  Sir Richard shrugged. ‘If they’re all going …’ he muttered, lifting his sword’s sheath high. He stalked forward rather like a warrior marching into battle, head low on his shoulders, glowering ferociously as he went, as though daring the river to seep in through the leather of his old boots.

  Simon crossed immediately after him, and soon the five were making their way up an ancient stone pathway that had become wildly overgrown. Looking about him, Simon couldn’t help but think that if Baldwin were here, he would be able to make much more of the trail than he himself could.

  Suddenly he slowed a little, frowning. At the edge of the roadway brambles had encroached. Here, as he looked down, he could see, clear on the stems, the marks of crushing. ‘Sir Richard, look at this.’

  ‘Eh?’ The knight squatted at his side, studying the marks Simon had pointed out. ‘Aye, Bailiff. I reckon you’re right. Definitely the signs of carts passing by here.’

  ‘I told you,’ Hoppon said. He was leaning on his staff again, his hands clasped in that curious manner. ‘Think they came up here.’

  ‘And you told Bill as much?’ Simon asked.

  ‘He guessed as much. But he came up here, yes. And then he was found here, a few days later. Head all bashed in till his skull was broken. A terrible sight.’

  ‘Where was he?’ Sir Richard asked.

  In answer, Hoppon merely shifted his grip on his staff and began to make his way up the hill, hobbling painfully. He could only move with care, especially now it was more stony. His staff with its unshod foot could grip quite well, and he hopped and skittered over the ground with a fluid gait that was quite surprising to Simon.

  ‘It was here,’ he said at last, just at the foot of the beech tree he had indicated from outside his house. ‘He was lying here.’

  He was pointing at the base of the tree, but his eyes weren’t there. His eyes were fixed upon Agnes.

  Bow

  Edith knew only abject, blinding terror.

  She had been raised in the house of a man who was a regular traveller and fighter. Simon had never been one to rest when there was work to be done, and he had been relentless in pursuit of those who had committed crimes. At times, Edith had known that his life could have been in danger. Her mother had even spoken once of a time when she herself had been captured by a man and Baldwin had rescued her, but this was different. It was terrifying to be so completely at the mercy of someone she scarcely knew. All she recalled about Wattere, after all, was a brief, shocking glimpse as he fought her father earlier in the year, trying to kill him in their house. Later Simon had managed to have him arrested, but that was months ago. So long, indeed, that she had almost forgotten his face.

  She was so stupid not to have recognised him. He had approached through the mist, it was true, but that was no excuse. She should have recognised him. Oh, she could sob now for the foolishness of her behaviour, she could wail and beat her breast, but the truth was that it was entirely her fault. She should not have left Exeter alone, nor should she have tried to make her way back again today when Baldwin had already said to her that he would do his best. It would have been safer for all were she to have been escorted to her father’s house. She could have remained there while the men went to free her husband. Then at least she would have been secure in the knowledge that Peter would have had the very best opportunity of gaining his freedom again.

  ‘Not far, my little dove,’ William atte Wattere called to her.

  She made no comment. Her hands were growing more and more numb by the minute, and when she looked down, she could see that they were turning blue below the rope. At least the rope had been taken from about her throat. It had chafed and worn at her flesh until she was sure that she must be bleeding, and she had been surprised when she found that there was no stain on the rope or her tunic, though she was sore from the shoulder upwards, as though she had been scorched in a fire. Still, when he took the rope away, she was aware of an odd sense of gratitude, as though he was being kind by removing it, rather than intensely cruel in placing it about her in the first place. It shamed her to be grateful.

  There was a possibility that she might be able to escape, she felt. Looking up, she could see the sun as a brighter glow behind the clouds. She had been raised on Dartmoor; she was used to navigating by a half-concealed sun, and she thought that this was probably a good sign. Surely the man didn’t realise that she was so familiar with this area. She was sure that the moors were over there to her left, and this road mu
st be the one that wandered from Crediton to Copplestone, and then on up to Bow, before curling around to Oakhampton. That was good, because if he was taking her that far, there might be a possibility of escaping him. She had already tried to loosen the ropes at her wrists, but the problem was, her captor had tied them too tightly. Not only could she not release them at first; also, now that she had lost all feeling in her fingers, there wasn’t even a possibility of working at the knots.

  ‘Will we rest soon? My hands are hurting so much.’

  ‘Soon we’ll rest,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Then something caught his attention. He threw her a look. ‘You all right?’

  ‘My hands,’ she said again, holding them up for inspection.

  He sucked at his teeth as he looked at them. Then he muttered a short curse, stared ahead for a moment, and quickly beckoned her. He tried to prise the knots apart for a moment, and then spat an oath. Pulling his dagger from his sheath, he set the blade to the rope. Looking up, he gave her a wolfish grin. ‘Don’t move, or this’ll hurt more than it need.’

  With a careful sawing motion, he cut through the knot, and the cords fell away. At first there was no feeling, no pain, just a strange tingling that seemed to begin at her fingertips, but soon that changed. The tingle became a stinging agony that reached all the way to her wrists, which now hurt like the torment of demons. She knew only screaming pain, so intense that she could not even consider holding her reins. It was impossible, and she wept as she tried to shake the pain away. She warmed her hands under her armpits, then rubbed them on her thighs, all to no avail.

  Wattere looked on as her weeping began again and intensified. ‘Woman, what is it? Are you making mock of my good intentions in releasing you? I’ll not have that, I swear.’

  ‘My hands are on fire! Oh, oh, the pain! Oh, oh!’

  Eventually he took her hands in his and studied them carefully. He could see the rawness where the rope had bound her, but the hands themselves showed no injury. ‘I am sorry I tied you so tight,’ he said. ‘But I can’t help that. I don’t want you to escape. If you swear to me that you’ll not try to run, I’ll allow you to ride on without a rope. What do you say?’

  ‘I swear it!’ she hissed.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. He slipped the rope about her waist, but even as he did it, he was gentle, and he didn’t make any attempt to touch her breasts, waist or thighs. It made her realise that he was according her as much respect as he might, under the circumstances. Once it was round her, he tied it off, and then took the loop in his hand again.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘You’ll know very soon. Sir Robert of Traci’s manor. You’ll be safe there.’

  ‘Why, though, sir? Why do you take me there? My family will be alarmed when I am missed. What have I ever done to you?’

  ‘You haven’t, mistress, but your father has. He has cut me with steel, and humiliated me before my lord. I won’t let that happen again. No, I’ll see him in hell first,’ he spat.

  ‘But you don’t need me. Let me go!’

  ‘After so much effort? No, I don’t think so, mistress. Better that you come with me and we finish what’s been started.’

  Edith wailed at him. ‘But why? You’ve already stolen our house, you’ve taken away our family’s peace and comfort, and now you’ve caused me to be terrified! What is it all for?’

  William atte Wattere eyed her. ‘Because, mistress, your father is an important man in the area. That’s why. He can settle the dispute in Tavistock. And he will have to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if he doesn’t, you’ll …’

  But he couldn’t finish his sentence. Instead he spurred his horse into a trot again, and they rode on. Not for much further, Edith prayed.

  Her head was already nodding. There had been no possibility of escape, even though the feeling had started to return to her fingers quickly, once the ropes were taken from her wrists and the blood began to flow once more.

  There had been some roads that had looked possible. The way down to Coleford was one lane she knew very well, and with the low, overhanging branches, she might well have been able to lose her captor if she had been able to evade him at the outset, but he had ridden past the lane between it and her, almost as though he knew she would make an attempt, his attention fixed upon her the whole time.

  She didn’t have the courage. If she’d spurred her beast, it was possible that she might have been able to escape by surprising him and yanking the rope from his hands, but the likelihood was that he’d have caught her instantly, and then all she’d have won would have been the rope about her wrists again. No, if she was going to bolt, she was going to have to do so at a moment when there was the best chance of making good her escape. The next lanes were little help. All small, uniformly straggly, difficult for him to chase after her, but also very tough for her to ride away at speed. And looking at him, she was filled with an unpleasant assurance that the fellow would ride like the devil if he saw her making good her escape. She was as likely to break her mare’s leg as he was his palfrey’s, and then no doubt she’d be forced to walk with her hands bound. No, she couldn’t risk it, not on roads she didn’t know.

  Before they could reach Bow, he took her along a back lane that curled round to the south, and thence up to a road that led towards Nymet Traci. She knew this area. There was a strong house down here, she recalled. An old knight had lived there. A good, kind fellow, she remembered – she had met him a few times when there was a market at Lydford. Her father had always liked him too. Perhaps she could shout for help there as they passed. There was no rope about her neck now. She felt safer than she had all day, and surely there would be someone who would think nothing of riding to the aid of a woman in distress.

  Soon they were in full view of it. A large stone-built house surrounded by a good castellated wall. ‘There you are, mistress. The castle of Sir Robert de Traci.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Rougemont Castle, Exeter

  The gaol in the castle was a dark, foul chamber built beneath the walls on the eastern side of the grounds.

  It was not often used. There were other little chambers that were more suited to the storage of felons and other criminals, but those prisoners who held a particular importance – or, as Baldwin ruefully admitted to himself, perhaps value to the sheriff – were kept here, near to hand, within the castle itself.

  There was one advantage to being held in the castle grounds. At least the sheriff had shown that the prisoners here were of significance to him. That meant that Peter was less likely to die from neglect or beatings. There were always a number of deaths of prisoners in the city gaol: starvation, disease, dehydration and peine fort et dure were common causes, but less likely for prisoners as important as those held here.

  It was rare that action would be taken against prison guards who allowed their charges to die, unless they were astonishingly harsh. For prisoners, death was normal and expected. The coroner would hold an inquest over any death, of course, and if the warders were found to have been guilty of deliberately causing it, they could be arrested as homicides and potentially put on trial – but they were unlikely to be convicted. After all, any juror accusing them could at some point in the future end up in the gaol. There might well be some form of retribution for a juror who had tried to convict a warder. So prisoners would die, and their deaths were invariably pronounced as being the result of natural causes.

  Peter might have been treated better than most, but it did not mean that he enjoyed a luxurious existence. When Baldwin and Edgar found him, he was sitting forlornly on the floor. There was no chair, not even a simple log on which to rest. The light was poor, from a window high in the wall, and the atmosphere was cold and dank.

  ‘Master Peter?’ Baldwin said. ‘Are you well?’

  The boy looked as though he was in his thirties. He had aged so much in such a short time that Baldwin almost didn’t recognise him. In the last days
, Peter had lost the fine, gentle appearance of privilege, and instead had taken on the mantle of poverty. There was a haunted look in his eyes, and a line of what looked like dried spittle had trailed down his cheek from his mouth, as though he had been screaming or dribbling with terror.

  It was all too easy to imagine him utterly horrorstruck in here. As Baldwin looked about him briefly, he was struck by the bleak foulness of the hideous little chamber. As he knew, it was in similar little chambers in France that his comrades and friends had been tortured. The bestial level to which mankind could sink was a source of wonder to him – the more so the older he grew. As a youngster, he had accepted man’s cruelties and injustices as natural, but no longer. The Temple had given him a new life, the chance to witness how other societies lived, and how men could order themselves to exist alongside other races and religions, without resorting to the madness of attempting to kill each other.

  There was something entirely repugnant about torture, he thought. It served no useful purpose, for a man would confess to anything in order to stop pain. He would lie about his faith, his family, his friends. The three great betrayals. Nothing that was given by a torture victim could be trusted. It was worthless.

  But the cruel enjoyed inflicting terror on their victims.

  ‘Peter, are you well?’ he asked again, more softly.

  ‘What do you want?’ Peter asked weakly. He was wincing, peering up at them with eyes that were mere slits, while trying to push himself back against the wall.

  ‘Master Peter, it is me, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and my good servant, Edgar. We are here to try to help you.’

  ‘Oh God! My Christ, thank you!’ Peter sobbed as he recognised Baldwin’s voice. ‘Can you get me out of here? Please, please, save me from this!’