No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (12 page)

Castle at Bow

The meal was well under way when the men turned up.

Sir Robert of Traci was not a pretentious man. He didn’t have a wife, nor did he have a taste for some of the extravagance
of modern courtly life in the royal household. It was fine for others to aspire to the little luxuries, as they were sometimes
called. Men wanted pretty finery to show off their legs or arms. He had no need of that. His sword arm was strong enough to
cut off the head of any man who offended him. Others wanted great piles of plate and pewter to show how rich they were. Sir
Robert knew how rich he was. Richer than any other local magnate. In London he had seen tapestries, fabulous hangings created
and set up to demonstrate the stylish elegance of their owner’s way of life, to prove that the man was cultured. Sir Robert
had no need of such fripperies and nonsense. He was as cultured as he wanted, and his money was put to better use in providing
weapons and men. It was his job to pacify the area, not emulate some fop of a lord with more money than brains.

He had not been born rich, God knew. His journey to wealth had been long, and was by dint of effort and careful manipulation
of every opportunity. In his youth he had been the impecunious son of a minor squire, little more than a peasant himself,
as he had told anyone who listened. Then, he had only had dreams of money.

The famine had taken away all his father’s money, rot his soul, and when his old man had died, leaving him as the inheritor
of the estates, there had been next to nothing for him. His demesne was hopeless. What the famine hadn’t devastated, other
disasters had destroyed. Some fires, some flooding, and suddenly whole tracts of land were unviable. The vills were poor and
their crops pathetic, while fields were ruined, and the likelihood of making a living as he wanted was so remote as to be
next to impossible. He could only look at his future with despair.

But then his fortune changed. His uncle had a friend who was to enter the parliament, and who offered the young Robert the
opportunity to join him. Robert had agreed with alacrity. That was in the thirteenth year of the king’s reign,
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when all was in flux. And young Robert had discovered the attractions of riches and power at the same time. He had been
taken into the king’s household.

Then there had been the fall. He had joined those who had sought to curb the king’s power. Not because he was a fool, but
because he had thought that Edward’s inherent feebleness was too much of a threat to the realm. He couldn’t fight the Scottish,
he couldn’t fight the French – in Christ’s name, he could hardly control his own kingdom! So Sir Robert had joined the malcontents,
men like his friend Badlesmere, who were prepared to ally themselves to Earl Thomas of Lancaster, the king’s cousin, the king’s
enemy.

It had nearly ended his life. He had been lucky to escape the wholesale slaughter after that disaster, and still more lucky
to have got away with his son. Basil had been only fourteen years old or so in the fifteenth year of the king’s reign, and
it had been hard for him to come to terms with the loss of everything. As it had for Sir Robert himself.

But those dreadful days were over now. Sir Robert had the trappings of authority once more. If the power he had once wielded
was sadly declined, he still had his castle returned to him, and his son had his inheritance. And if they were to obey the
commands given to them, they would be able to keep them.

Aye. If they obeyed.

‘Who is this?’ he bellowed as the man was pushed into the room.

‘Says his name is Stephen of Shoreditch, Sir Robert,’ Osbert said. He pushed Stephen further into the room, past the side
benches of sitting men-at-arms, who stopped their guzzling and slurping to take a look at him.

‘So, Stephen of Shoreditch, I wonder what you will have for me?’ Sir Robert said musingly. He was a broad-shouldered man,
if not so tall as some, and when he stood, the cloth from his tunic hung down smoothly, emphasising the strength of his frame.
It was that that had first caught the eye of the king.

‘Messages, Sir Robert. From your good friend Sir Hugh le Despenser,’ Stephen said boldly. He held the gaze of the man in front
of him with resolution.

The knight was big, handsome even, with his flashing black eyes and thick dark hair. He was clean shaven, although in need
of a razor again; his chin must require a trim twice a day. His eyes, though, they were scary, Stephen remembered. He had
seen the man a few times in Westminster at parliaments, and then more often when the king was holding a feast. Sir Robert
was one of his loyal guests always. Sir Hugh le Despenser had a worrying habit of staring unblinkingly and unmovingly; it
was one of his ways of unsettling a man, Stephen thought. As though whenever he was beginning to lose his temper, it was reflected
in his powers of concentration on the poor being right in front of him.

This Sir Robert had a similar way of holding a man’s attention. He would stare fixedly, without blinking, but instead of Despenser’s
steady bearing, the rest of his body motionless as if the whole of his being was fixed within that gaze, Sir Robert had a
more feral, fearsome quality. He would slowly pace about the room, like a great cat stalking a prey, his eyes all the while
on his victim, while his head sank down, his whole demeanour that of a ferocious beast. And all too often, the subject of
his attention would later be discovered dead.

‘Where is the message?’

Stephen said nothing, merely opened his little satchel and passed the sealed parchment to the knight. Sir Robert took it,
still watching Stephen, and gradually circled around the messenger. ‘Osbert, where did you find him?’

‘He was on the road to Crediton. We found him up there about a mile east.’

‘I see. Good. Follow me, man.’

Sir Robert turned abruptly and strode to the back of the hall. There was a heavy studded door there, and he pushed it open.
It squeaked and groaned as he did so, and Stephen winced. He would have wiped some lard or goose grease over the hinges to
stop that noise if it had been his own house.

Sir Robert stood in a small solar, and as soon as Stephen had followed him, he pushed the door shut and slid the oak bar across
in its slots, locking it. He walked to the farther side of the little chamber,
grasping a candle as he went, and used it to light a sconce. In this light, he peered down at the letters, frowning with the
effort.

‘Your men murdered a man on the road, Sir Robert,’ Stephen said.

‘Eh?’

‘I said, your men murdered a man.’

Sir Robert glanced up, and there was a frown of anger on his face as he looked the messenger over. ‘Are you so young that
you didn’t know men are dying every day?’

‘This man’s death was unnecessary. He deprecated your men’s demands for tolls. Did you know that they stop all travellers
to take their money?’

‘Messenger, you overstep your welcome here. Did I know? Yes. I knew. And what is more, I ordered them to take tolls on my
roads. Because I am in the fortunate position of being responsible to my lord Hugh Despenser for maintaining the law here.
In case you hadn’t noticed, we have problems in the country just now, and I have been charged with keeping the peace.’

‘By robbing people?’

Sir Robert’s eyes seemed to film over with ice. ‘By taxing those who can afford it,’ he said.

There was not a sound for a moment or two.

‘My apologies, Sir Robert,’ Stephen said at last.

‘I suggest you go and refresh yourself. You have travelled far,’ Sir Robert said, and watched unblinking as the messenger
left the room.

The fool. He was the sort of man who got himself into trouble over trifles. Who cared about some man killed on the roads?
There was the possibility of invasion to worry about now, not peasants and other churls. Sir Robert turned back to the parchment,
carefully reading the black writing. Since the disaster of robbing those travellers out near Jacobstowe, he had been wondering
how to make a little more money. At least this note seemed to show how he might make a profit again.

At last, when Osbert quietly opened the creaking door, he set the parchment aside. ‘Apparently good Sir Hugh wants to have
a monk killed,’ he said with a dry smile. ‘I suppose he will pay us for this little service!’

Fourth Saturday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael
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Road between Crediton and Oakhampton

‘So, Simon,’ the coroner said as they jogged along in the early-morning light. ‘What do you think the good cardinal will want
to discuss with you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Simon admitted with a shrug of bafflement. ‘All I can hope is that it takes a short time to resolve. You saw
how upset Meg was to hear I was being called away again so soon. I could take my fist and hit the man for what he’s doing
to me.’

‘Your family has definitely been made to suffer enormously.’ The coroner nodded. ‘A man like me, no children, no woman, it’s
a damn sight easier for me. You, you have responsibilities. Something to think of.’

Simon nodded. It was a fact of life that when a liege lord demanded help, a fellow like Simon was forced to obey. No lord
would have women in his household. His wife, his children, all would have their own establishment, and naturally, though the
womenfolk would have maids, and ladies-in-waiting if they were of sufficient status, the bulk of their staff would still be
men. And all those men must leave their wives and children behind.

‘I will not agree to another long period away from my wife,’ he grumbled. ‘It is too much to ask of a man that he should keep
discarding all those he loves the most. I missed the last months of my daughter’s life before she married, all because I was
dutifully serving the queen, her son and the king. I cannot do more.’

He meant it. In the last months his life had been turned upside down. First there was the problem with his position in Dartmouth,
which had soured relations with his wife; then the loss of his job when Abbot Champeaux died; and then the journeys to London
and to Paris. He had done enough. Now it was time for him to rebuild his marriage.

‘That is good,’ the coroner said. Then he glanced over at Simon. ‘Did you hear the joke about the one-eyed bishop and the
courtesan?’

‘Yes!’

‘Are you sure?’ the coroner asked, hurt. ‘I didn’t think I had told you that one.’

‘Perhaps you told Baldwin and he told me,’ Simon said dishonestly. He had no desire to be forced to listen to one of the coroner’s
appalling jokes yet again.

‘Really? What, the one where—’

Simon was saved from hearing any more. ‘What’s going on there?’

They had passed far now from Crediton and Simon’s home, and he looked up at the sun, assessing the time. He thought it must
be well into the middle of the morning, which meant it was strange to see so many men milling. He and the coroner exchanged
a glance and then put spurs to their mounts.

St Pancras Lane

Edith had enjoyed a good morning. It had been a lovely day so far. The sun was filtering in through the clouds of smoke from
the morning fires, and when it kissed her face outside on the way to the baker’s, she could have sworn it was summer again,
it felt so welcoming, warm, invigorating. It was what a mother needed while her babe grew in her womb, she told herself, and
almost laughed aloud at the thought.

It was a daunting prospect and no doubt about it. There were so many dangers in childbirth. Some of her friends were petrified
of the birth, talking themselves into a fever over the possibility of death or miscarriage, but for Edith the risks seemed
minor. As she reasoned, so many mothers had given birth with ease over the years, there was no reason to suspect that she
would be any different. And anyway, she had good broad hips, and the old woman in the next street had said to her that she
could deliver a cog for the king’s navy without pain. Edith only prayed she was right.

Still, it was daunting. To think that even now there was a little child growing inside her was thrilling and terrifying at
the same time. She was blessed not to feel sick in the mornings like some mothers, and with the baby, she was saved from the
monthly griping and pain, which was a cause of relief and joy. She had always suffered badly when it was her time. Having
the babe was not a cause for fear, but the thought that her life was about to change even more was … well, curious, really.
She had spent so much of her time in the last two years wishing that people would recognise how mature she was, and now
that she had the proof beginning to grow, she was aware only of the fear that her childhood was now over. There was no looking
back once a woman had a child of her own. She was then no longer a maid.

The road here was broad as it fed into the high street, and she walked along with her maidservant behind her. No respectable
woman would think of leaving home without some form of guard.

‘Wife!’

She felt his voice in her breast. A thrilling, joyous sensation that overwhelmed her as much as it always had. Stopping, she
closed her eyes a moment, until she could feel his presence at her side. ‘Oh, my husband. I had not thought to see you here.’

‘You lie appallingly, woman,’ he said, and took her hand. To kiss in public would have been shameful, especially in a street
so busy as this. ‘I was on my way to my father’s counting house. Would you walk with me some of the way?’

She would never, never be able to deny him anything, she told herself. His smile was so natural, so easy and delightful, he
could ask anything of her and she would give it willingly. Even her life. It was all his.

Their time had been nothing short of perfect, she thought. Quite perfect. No one could ever have been so happy, so entirely
devoted and blissful as they had been in these few months of marriage. There was surely nothing that could spoil the marvellous
relationship they had discovered.