The King’s Justice

by E. M. Powell

  ‘No, your good point is a link. Lindley may have some sort of a grudge against Agnes’s family.’

  They set off once more.

  ‘But Theaker wasn’t Agnes’s family,’ said Stanton. ‘At least, not yet.’

  ‘Links are not always the full answer. But they may lead to it. Now we must proceed to examine Lindley’s shelter in the woods, the one he told you about.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure where it is.’

  ‘Then once we find it,’ said Barling, ‘we will be.’

  Stanton merely nodded.

  ‘And, in answer to the question that I know is on your lips,’ said Barling, ‘no, I do not believe for one moment that Lindley will still be there.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘That must be the shelter.’ Stanton kept his murmur low. ‘There. Through the trees.’

  ‘There is no need to whisper, Stanton.’ Barling rode past him in an unstable trot. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ mouthed Stanton at his back. Barling’s remarks about him, Stanton, having quick wits had been unexpected and pleased him to a depth that surprised him. But, God in heaven, why had Barling decided that Stanton should call him by his name? It was bad enough to have to do it, but the way Barling’s face stiffened every time Stanton did so suggested the clerk disliked it as much as it made Stanton uneasy.

  Stanton dismounted and secured Morel to a tree, with a quick pat to her sweating neck and a swipe at the worst flies that buzzed into her patient face.

  Ahead, Barling climbed from his horse much as a man would climb down a flight of steep, icy stone steps: stiff, cautious movements and then a final awkward slide.

  Stanton would bet Agnes would find it funny. He checked himself. She wouldn’t be finding much amusing for a long time. It had been bad enough for him seeing Theaker’s body. But he barely knew the man. For Agnes, Bartholomew Theaker was the man she’d been going to marry. Before the outlaw who’d lived in that shelter up ahead decided otherwise.

  He joined Barling and they walked up to the shelter together, a sense that they were being watched tugging at him.

  ‘Lindley was telling the truth when he described his shelter,’ said Stanton, voice low. ‘He said it was poor.’

  ‘Poor does not even properly capture it,’ replied Barling quietly. ‘It is only a few green branches heaped together.’

  Keeping at a safe distance lest its murderous owner had returned, Stanton crouched down to look inside. ‘There’s a pile of dry leaves in there. A few rags. Eggshells.’ He straightened up. ‘It’s wretched.’

  ‘Wretched indeed.’ Barling’s face changed. ‘Did you hear that, Stanton?’

  He did. His heart leapt into a fast beat.

  A rustle in the bushes. Steady, definite. Something was moving through them.

  Or someone.

  Barling gave a silent point, his pale face even paler. A nod. A gesture.

  Stanton returned it, showed he understood that Barling wanted them to close in on it. He wished he didn’t.

  He fell in alongside Barling, sweat trickling down his back. Lindley had taken down the tall Smith, the obese Theaker. Barling might be able to scare at will, but he was a small man.

  The movement in the bushes was closer now.

  Stanton prayed for a deer, a fox. Even a wild boar. Just not Nicholas Lindley armed with an axe or a knife.

  Then came a sound. Short. Almost a bark. But human.

  Stanton swapped a wordless, startled look with Barling.

  Then the sound again and again, and a creature burst forth from the bushes, the noise coming from an open mouth.

  ‘God’s eyes!’ Stanton recoiled, yanking Barling back with him.

  But what a mouth. The lips were flabby, wet, and a large tongue lolled from it. The creature itself wasn’t as tall as Barling, but heavily muscled, with a shock of dark hair. Yet it was no creature.

  ‘Saints preserve us, it’s a wild man!’

  Stanton saw it even as Barling said it. Yes, it was a man. Barefooted. Muddied face. Dressed in a worn, dirty jerkin. One dark eye was half turned in on itself, the other was big, half bulging from its socket.

  The man made a sort of gargle. Peered at them as he swayed from foot to foot, his hands raised and tugging at his own hair.

  ‘I think he’s going to attack.’ Stanton gave a sharp whisper. ‘We need to rush him first.’ He wished so hard at that second that he was a competent fighting man.

  A horrified whisper back. ‘Both?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now?’ Still horrified.

  ‘Now.’ Stanton raced towards the wild man, yelling as he left his feet and crashed into the man’s chest.

  The man staggered back with a bellow and a swipe.

  Barling grabbed at his arm but was sent sprawling with a cry.

  Stanton slammed into the man again, locking his double-handed grip on one powerful wrist and twisting it up behind the man’s back to loud roars. The man landed a kick on Stanton’s knee.

  Pain shot through it and Stanton staggered, but he got one foot behind the wild man’s legs, sending him to the ground. The man flailed and yelled, but Stanton was on his chest, pinning him down.

  A shaken Barling was back on his feet. ‘My belt, here.’ Barling had it looped at one end.

  The man hollered still more as Stanton got his hands secure.

  Stanton stood up and dragged him upright, the man’s yells sending a spray of spit in his face from that loose, huge tongue.

  ‘Where to now, Barling?’

  If Lindley had smelled bad from the gaol, their captive was much, much worse.

  ‘Back to Edgar’s hall.’ The King’s clerk gave a tight nod. The sweat pebbling his face showed how unused he was to this. But Barling would never admit weakness of any kind. ‘I want to hear Sir Reginald Edgar’s excuse for not having this dangerous man in his gaol.’ Barling paused to drag in a steadying breath. ‘A man who may well have killed Geoffrey Smith and Bartholomew Theaker.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘Not long to go now, Stanton.’

  They’d cut through the woods to get to Edgar’s hall, as it would get them there faster. They needed speed; the man wouldn’t be contained much longer.

  ‘Just as well.’ Shoulders straining, Stanton looked down from his horse.

  The wild man stumbled and yelled alongside, secured to the saddle with a length of rope. Keeping Morel steady was a challenge. The noise and movement beside her made her nervous. If she bolted, the man would be dragged and trampled.

  ‘With me, Stanton.’ Barling climbed from his horse, and Stanton did the same.

  He released their prisoner from the saddle, leaving the man’s hands bound, even as he twisted and fought in Stanton’s grasp. The man’s strange shouts could now be a bull locked in a barn.

  Stanton cursed silently as he got another kick. He could do with Barling’s help, but the clerk stayed well out of reach.

  As they entered the hall, Edgar glanced up from his place at the head of his messy, laden midday table, his face a red mask even at this hour from plenty of wine. His mouth fell open.

  ‘What the devil’s going on, Barling?’

  ‘What is going on, Edgar’ – Barling had to raise his voice over the prisoner’s noises as Stanton grappled with him – ‘is that I have spent a few short hours properly investigating matters. And in that time I have already managed to find and secure this unholy and dangerous creature.’

  Edgar bit at the large lump of meat on his eating knife, looked at the man, looked back at Barling. And smirked. ‘What you and your assistant have managed to find, Barling, is John Webb.’

  ‘John Webb?’ the clerk repeated.

  Stanton felt sorry for Barling. Well, almost. Although Barling had started to grudgingly acknowledge that Stanton might have sharp wits, the clerk had made him feel boneheaded enough times. To see Barling in the same position was quite a sight.

  ‘The very one.’ Edgar spat out a
piece of gristle to join others strewn across the floor. ‘Only son of Peter and Margaret Webb. He is likely possessed by the devil. I don’t know what he’s doing out. They usually keep him in. He’s an imbecile, but he can work in their fulling shed, doing the wool treading. A fine job for him, if you ask me. Nobody in their senses wants to stand knee-deep in stale piss all day.’ He drained his wine and got to his feet. ‘You need to take him back.’ He staggered from the table, headed for the door. ‘I’m for my bed in this heat this afternoon.’ He paused in front of them, Stanton now trying to untie a wriggling, groaning John as Barling glared at the lord, stock-still. ‘What a find for the King’s men, eh? What a find.’ He got as far as the hall before his huge laugh broke out and carried on. And on.

  Now free, John Webb took off into a corner, crouching low on his bare feet as he kept his unmatched eyes on them, his moans quieter but constant.

  Barling turned to Stanton. ‘An unfortunate error.’ His face gave little away. But his pinched nostrils told Stanton that he was crosser than fifty sticks. ‘Most unfortunate.’ He brushed at the dirt and twigs stuck to his cloak from the struggles in the bushes with John. ‘I did mention false alleys, did I not, Stanton?’

  Stanton nodded, sure that any word from his mouth right now would be the wrong one.

  ‘And with false alleys, one simply turns around and comes back out.’ Barling gestured at John. ‘Please return the Webbs’ son to them, Stanton. With all haste.’ He brushed at his cloak again. ‘I am going to my solar to remove the dirt of this morning. And, of course, to update my records.’ He marched out without waiting for any reply.

  Stanton let out a long breath. Easier said than done getting John Webb to his home. He moved a few steps towards him. ‘John.’ He made his tone as firm as he could. ‘Come with me. Now.’

  John responded by slapping the side of his own head, then shuffled sideways, still crouching, away from Stanton.

  ‘Now. Or there’ll be trouble.’

  Nothing. The man wouldn’t budge.

  This wasn’t going to work. The picture of Edgar, of Barling, returning to the hall later on and finding John still here came clear as the day outside in Stanton’s mind. His life wouldn’t be worth living.

  If orders didn’t work, he’d try a different approach. Even the best guard dogs could be tempted with meat.

  Stanton went over to the table to see what Edgar had left. There should be something. While Edgar’s home was a dirty jumble, his food and wine were always the best. Especially the wine. Stanton filled a goblet and downed it as he took a look. He needed it.

  Bones picked clean didn’t look very promising. Pottage, however tasty it looked, wouldn’t work either. Then he saw what would: a plate of gingerbread. He picked up one of the small triangles, rich with honey as well as the delicious warmth of the spice. He broke it in two, threw one piece on the floor in front of John.

  The wild man reached out a hand, pawed at it. Then he grabbed it, lifting it before his bulging eye, and sniffed hard at it. But he didn’t eat. Instead, he shoved it into the folds of his own filthy clothing. But he’d calmed.

  Stanton threw another piece.

  Same.

  He repeated the action as John repeated his own, Stanton moving a bit closer each time.

  Then with a yell from John, Stanton had hold of a handful of his clothing. He pulled the flailing, shouting John to his feet.

  This was going to be hard work.

  And it was. By the time Stanton got to the door of the Webbs’ cottage, he was sweating.

  Sweating as much from wrestling a loudly struggling John along the hot road as he was at the reaction he feared he was going to get from the Webbs. His luck was in, in that the street had been deserted. Otherwise, he’d have had a crowd with him by now.

  The door flew open before he had a chance to knock. John’s noise would have alerted them.

  Margaret stood there. ‘God save us.’ Her stunned expression puckered in a heartbeat into fury. ‘What are you doing with John?’

  ‘I’m sorry, mistress—’

  ‘John?’ Webb’s call from within. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The King’s man has him, Peter!’

  Webb was at the door now too. ‘What has John done now?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ said Stanton. ‘There’s been a mistake.’

  ‘I’ll say there has.’ Margaret yanked John from Stanton’s hold to her own, where he instantly quietened.

  ‘Do you mind telling us what sort of mistake?’ asked Webb, his voice low and his grey eyes fixed on Stanton like stone.

  ‘I . . . I mean, we – the King’s men that is – were out looking into the recent murders. We found John wandering in the woods earlier. Didn’t know, of course, that he was your son. Sir Reginald Edgar told us when we brought John to the hall.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be in any hall,’ said Margaret. ‘Shouldn’t be anywhere except here.’

  ‘Here with us,’ repeated Webb.

  ‘You should have left him be.’ Margaret led a docile John over to the large shed Stanton had noticed before, which he now knew was the fulling shed. ‘Like you should leave us all be.’ She had the door to the shed open. ‘All of us: leave us alone!’ She slammed the door of the shed shut on her and John.

  ‘My apologies for my wife, sir. Like all women, she forgets her place when she’s riled.’

  ‘No need, Webb. I’m the one who should be apologising. We didn’t hurt your son. Not in any way. I think we alarmed him, that’s all. But I’m very sorry that we did that too.’

  ‘That’s very good of you to reassure me, sir. I hope to God he didn’t hurt you or the King’s clerk.’

  ‘No, a few bumps in the struggles, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s a relief to hear, sir. John, see, he can . . . lash out. We never know when. Or why.’

  He is likely possessed by the devil. Edgar’s view of John.

  Webb’s stooped shoulders seemed to suddenly sag more under an unseen weight. ‘It’s hard, you know. With the boy. Hard.’ Webb caught his breath. ‘Thank you for bothering about him.’ He glanced back at his loom.

  ‘I won’t keep you any more, Webb. Good day to you.’

  ‘And you, sir.’ Webb closed the door, and Stanton heard the steady rhythm of the loom start up again.

  A hard life indeed for the Webbs to have a son like that. He started on the road back to Edgar’s.

  Like Barling, he also needed to get cleaned up.

  He had the wake of Bartholomew Theaker to attend.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The sun had left the sky, but the dusk kept the heat in a suffocating blanket of still air.

  Stanton walked with Barling up to the late Bartholomew Theaker’s cottage for the thatcher’s laying out. He’d enjoyed his thorough wash only a short while ago, but the clean linen he’d put on was already soaked in sweat.

  ‘Like a baker’s oven this evening,’ he said to Barling.

  The clerk didn’t reply. Clad as always in his black robes, the man never seemed warm or had much colour in his smooth face.

  People were gathered outside, their numbers suggesting that all the village was here. The steady murmur of prayer for the dead man came on the air, led by the rector, Osmond, who spoke from the doorway, the better to include those inside the cottage as well as out. Some folk raised their eyes briefly, nudged those alongside.

  Stanton and Barling paused to allow the prayer to finish.

  ‘Our arrival is noted, Stanton,’ said Barling in a low tone. ‘I did not expect otherwise.’

  ‘Me neither,’ replied Stanton in the same way. ‘I see Peter and Margaret Webb are here. That’s them, over to my right. The stooped man and the woman with the tight coif. I’m sure everyone knows about what happened with John.’ Stanton had filled Barling in on the way over here about the reception he’d had from the Webbs.

  ‘No doubt. But we must not let it concern us. To dwell on an error is never of benefit.’
/>
  Stanton shot him a glance. Barling’s tone had changed abruptly, dropping with his last sentence. The clerk looked lost in his own thoughts, which was not at all like him.

  ‘Are you all right, Barling?’

  His usual sharp gaze snapped back. ‘Of course. Now tell me: who else is here whom you have spoken to?’

  ‘That man over there, the tall one. That’s the stonecutter, Thomas Dene.’

  ‘I see him. A handsome fellow, as you described. And that wiry man is Caldbeck the ploughman, is he not?’

  Stanton nodded.

  The prayer finished with a full-voiced chorus of ‘Amen,’ and the large assembly of villagers broke up into smaller groups in a muted buzz of chatter. Over to one side, under a scented white-blossomed tree, a full ale barrel had been opened, and many made their way there to slake their thirst in the heat.

  ‘Ah! Good Aelred Barling, you have come to pay your respects.’ Osmond hurried over with a loud greeting, his face blotchy in the heat. ‘And Hugo Stanton too.’

  ‘We have, sir priest,’ said Barling.

  Stanton gave a brief bow to the rector.

  Osmond’s echoing words had made sure that every ear in the place heard that the King’s men were here. ‘Good, good. Then would you like to do so now?’

  ‘Thank you, sir priest,’ said Barling, Stanton also muttering his thanks.

  As Osmond led them through to the door, Stanton caught bits of conversation. He didn’t need to hear any more. He knew what everyone was talking about.

  That devil Lindley.

  The law. Always the excuse.

  A dreadful end, God rest him.

  Hanging. The one answer to all this.

  The stuffy heat in the cottage was even worse than outside. A low whisper of women weeping filled it.

  ‘Please.’ Osmond stepped to one side, gesturing for Stanton to move in to where Barling stood at the feet of the huge mound of Theaker’s shrouded body. Candles burned brightly at the head and feet.

  Stanton crossed himself and joined his hands in silent prayer, as Barling was doing. To his right, lined up on a settle facing the body, sat four women. Two he didn’t recognise. Two he did. One was Hilda Folkes, the scarred midwife he’d disturbed in her work. The other was Agnes Smith.