No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (29 page)

‘There was no need. He was so far below their station, he could do nothing to harm them.’

‘That is hard to imagine, surely,’ Simon said.

‘Sir Robert was for a long while in the king’s own household. He is a close confidant of Sir Hugh le Despenser. That is a
name even I know of, Bailiff. Any man who is a friend of Despenser’s is safe anywhere in the land.’

Simon nodded. He was still musing over the tale he had heard as he left the cottage and mounted his horse. He snapped the
reins and kicked with his heels, and the horse trotted off.

‘Well?’ the coroner said, almost unable to contain his frustration. He was not used to being left outside while others spoke.

‘Sir Richard, do you recall Sir Peregrine telling us about that appalling court case? The man whose daughter was raped by
the son of a knight?’

‘I lost my wife to a dishonourable cur who should have been slain at birth,’ the coroner said heavily.

‘Yes. I’m sorry, Sir Richard. Of course the matter will still be fresh in your mind. Well, I think that the men who were said
to be responsible for that are the same who are responsible for the death of the fellows on their way to the king.’

It was Mark who responded to that. ‘You mean to say that the man who had all those people killed was also a rapist? Why was
he not captured and punished?’

‘Because the fellow was a friend to Despenser. And to the sheriff, too, according to Sir Peregrine,’ Sir Richard growled.
He glanced over at Simon. ‘That’s what he said?’

‘He was reluctant to talk – he had been told that they wouldn’t hurt the reeve, though.’

‘Hah! And he believed them?’

‘Yes,’ Simon said slowly. He was still thinking about the expression in John Pasmere’s eyes as he spoke of Bill Lark’s death.
There was an infinity of self-loathing there, as though the man had himself committed the murder. ‘But the truly fascinating
point is that they might have killed the reeve – but why not kill that peasant too? If they were going to silence the man
who’d learned about their crime, why would they not kill the informer?’

‘Aye, why?’ the coroner said.

‘Perhaps because they did neither?’ Simon wondered. But that was ridiculous, he knew. There was no point in thinking such
thoughts. It was idle. Surely the men who had such notoriety were the same who were responsible for the murders at Abbeyford.

He stopped his mount and stared ahead. Without thinking, he had let his horse have its own head, and he had gradually gone
further on the road away from Pasmere’s house, wandering south and slightly east. Now he saw that there was a broad plain
in front of them, with trees over to the east, leading along the line of a ridge up to a long, tall, castellated wall. It
was solid-looking, and grey like moorstone, and Simon looked it over with an appreciation of the construction.

This, he thought, would be a place that would be very difficult to take by force.

‘Whose place is that?’ Mark asked.

‘That, I think,’ Simon told him, ‘is the house of the men who killed your priests and their party.’

There was little more to be said at that. They could see a path that led up north and slightly east, and taking the chance
for a good scout about the walled house, Simon led them up and along it. There was a fine view all over the house’s grounds,
and he could see that the place had a goodly stock of fish in a nearby pond. The surface of the water leaped and bubbled as
flies approached. Outside the walls there was a huge flock of sheep, and Simon had no doubt that in the summer the woods nearby
would echo to the snort and snuffle of pigs. This was no small estate, but a huge working manor, from the size of the space
all about.

‘What now?’ Mark said.

‘Now, my boy, we leave before we’re considered as spies,’ the coroner said firmly. ‘Best thing to do is head for the town
up there. Bow, isn’t it; Simon? If we go there, we may just learn something to help us. It’s the little towns where you can
get the best help, I always say.’

Simon agreed, and they all clapped spurs to their mounts and continued on their way, up past the woods, along the top of a
ridge, and then down into the town itself.

They were sitting outside the tavern in the main street, enjoying a
few moments away from their saddles, drinking strong ale, when they heard horses approaching.

‘Dear heaven! Baldwin!’ Simon shouted when he recognised his old friend. With a thrill of pure delight, he put down his drinking
horn and hurried into the street, stopping at Baldwin’s horse. ‘Baldwin, it’s so good to see you again. I could not hope for
better fortune!’

His joy was not reciprocated, he saw, and gradually he grew aware that his friend wore a grim, sad face.

‘Simon, I doubt you will still think that in a moment. I am so sorry. I have dreadful news,’ Baldwin said.

Tavistock Abbey

Robert Busse was happy to hear that the Cardinal de Fargis had arrived at the abbey for further discussions and to hear more
evidence. It could hardly be a better time, he thought.

The whole of the previous evening and night, he had been almost unable to sleep. It had not been helped that whenever he looked
in the direction of John de Courtenay, he saw a man who seemed to have a little smile fixed to his lips. The man was insufferably
proud, of course, and he had always had a hatred for Robert, but that was no excuse for his seeking Robert’s murder. It was
astonishing that a man who professed love for all others, and who wanted such an important leadership position in the abbey,
could at the same time have been so avaricious that he would pay to have a rival removed.

‘You wished to see me?’ the cardinal said as Robert entered the abbot’s hall and bent to kiss the episcopal ring.

He remained on the floor kneeling, his head bowed. ‘Cardinal, I fear that I have some rather terrible news.’

‘There appears to be little shortage of bad news about here,’ the cardinal commented drily and took his hand away.

‘The king had a messenger here. He came to bring messages.’

‘That is somewhat less than news,’ the cardinal said sharply.

‘Some were for John de Courtenay. And he took messages back from Brother John, too.’

‘Well?’

‘He fell from his horse and died a little way from here. In his shirt were two of the messages. Here they are.’

The cardinal took them, warily eyeing Brother Robert. ‘What do they say?’

‘One is from Brother John, and he thanks Sir Hugh le Despenser for his offer to aid his campaign to become the next abbot.
He states that he will be willing to pay Sir Hugh from the income of the abbey.’

‘The second?’

‘That is another message from Brother John to Despenser, saying that he has a friend in Tavistock, Master John Fromund, who
is prepared to put into action my assassination as soon as Despenser approves his action. Apparently Master Fromund has many
companions who would be happy to assist Brother John and Sir Hugh le Despenser.’

‘I see,’ the cardinal said. He stood and walked over to the table. ‘And tell me, you know a man called Langatre?’

‘Oh, well, yes, but he—’

‘And I understand that in February this year you removed one thousand and two hundred pounds from the abbey’s treasury?’

Busse was quiet.

‘And later that month you returned with a small force of men-at-arms and took another eight hundred pounds in money, gold
and silver plate? Is that correct?’

Robert closed his eyes. ‘It is. But I had to remove it to a place of safe-keeping, to protect it from Brother John.’

‘And he sought to remove you for the good of the abbey because he says that you are a danger to the community. Too divisive,
he says, and too keen to promote those who are your friends, rather than those of quality or merit.’

‘That is entirely unjustified. I seek only to serve the abbey.’

‘I wonder,’ the cardinal said, ‘whether any man here actually seeks the best for the abbey.’

‘You may be assured that—’

‘No. I may not be assured of anything.’ The cardinal opened the first of the small scrolls and gazed at the contents. ‘It
is his writing, I believe. Very well, Brother Robert. You may leave this with me.’

‘Am I safe?’

The cardinal looked at him. ‘I shall speak with Brother John, if that is what you mean. However, this is a matter that will
require the pope’s intervention, I believe. You had best remain here at Tavistock.’

‘Thank you, Cardinal.’

Brother Robert was almost at the door when the cardinal’s quiet voice halted him. ‘One more thing, my friend. There will be
no more money removed from the treasury. Nor plate nor gold. I hope that is understood. Because if any money goes missing,
I shall not pursue your case with the pope or anyone else.’

‘I understand, Cardinal.’

‘Good,’ Cardinal de Fargis said. As the door quietly closed, he closed his eyes and offered a quick prayer for patience. ‘In
Christ’s name, Father, if these men cannot live without each of them seeking the death of the other, what hope is there for
peace within this community?’

But that was not the point. That a baron should seek to work for one man and could consider the murder of the other to aid
his case was atrocious. There had not been a similar plot since the death of Becket. The pope must be told, and that quickly.

He sat and wrote his note carefully, the reed scratching on the parchment, but then, as he signed it with care, a thought
struck him. It would take an age for the message to reach Rome.

Without hesitation, he began to write a new message, this time addressed to Sir Hugh le Despenser.

Bow

Simon sat back as Baldwin spoke. He felt as though his veins had been opened. It was as though the blood from his body was
draining into a pool at his feet as Baldwin described the sudden arrest of Peter, the boy’s incarceration, and Edith’s disappearance.

‘But surely she could have gone to—’

‘She would only have gone to your home or back to Exeter,’ Baldwin said. ‘Unless you can think of somewhere else? But that
does not explain how it was that a man saw her, and another in Crediton thought he saw her in the company of a man who looked
like William atte Wattere.’

‘Sweet Jesus! This is all the work of that prick-eared cur. Christ’s ballocks, if I learn that Despenser’s had anything to
do with this, I’ll have his cods on my knife in a week. Dear Christ, if she’s hurt …’

Baldwin put his hand out, only to have Simon knock it away as he bellowed, enraged. ‘That mother-swyving churl, the illegitimate
son of a diseased sow, the god forsaken dunghill swine, the—’

This time Baldwin set his hand on his friend’s shoulder and gripped it hard. ‘Ranting will not help anyone. And at present
we do not know that the man has anything to do with her capture. No! Rather than swearing and making oaths that must only
raise the humours in your heart, use your head, man. What we need is a means of finding her, first, and then we must betake
ourselves to think of a way of rescuing her.’

‘Baldwin, if there is even a hair of her head that is hurt by this prick, I’ll have his heart! I knew she shouldn’t have married
that milksop youth, in Christ’s name. He was always too feeble.’

‘Simon, he is a boy. He was taken on the sheriff’s orders. What would you expect him to do against that kind of force? And
once in
gaol, he had no choice, no means to help his wife. Do not blame a victim for the actions of his persecutor.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ Simon said, and then he bent his head and let his face fall into his open hands. ‘Poor Edith! Oh
God, if someone’s raped her …’

‘If that was to happen, I would personally help you to take vengeance,’ Baldwin said.

Simon nodded, but suddenly he couldn’t trust his voice. The thought that his little girl could be held by some churl who might
even now be defiling her was so hideously terrifying that he could not fully comprehend it. Instead his mind seemed to slow,
and his breathing grew shallow, while his heart raced. It felt as though his body was packed with ice, and he shivered, even
as his breath started to sob in his throat. It was not right! Surely his little Edith hadn’t been hurt. Wouldn’t he have felt
it, wouldn’t he have known, if she had been molested? But he hadn’t known that she had been captured. Surely he should have
done, if he were a good father? Shouldn’t a father’s relationship with his daughter mean that he would know as soon as she
was alarmed, scared or in danger? It was the least a man should feel. And yet he was a failure in that as in so many things.
Here he was, a useless bailiff without a bailiwick, searching for the killers of people he didn’t know, while his own daughter
was the subject of capture and possibly molestation. He should have been there, at home, for her.

‘Don’t blame yourself, Bailiff,’ Coroner Richard said. He was at Simon’s side, his head lowered, glowering about them with
a truculence that seemed entirely out of place for him. ‘It ain’t your fault some bastard’s done this.’

‘It is my fault,’ Simon said, sniffing hard. ‘If I’d—’

‘Nothing, my friend. If you had been there, all that might have happened was that you’d got yourself killed. That wouldn’t
help anyone. And if someone else decides to break your peace by attacking your little girl, it ain’t your fault, it’s theirs.
Don’t blame yourself.’

‘How did you know how I feel?’ Simon asked, looking at the coroner from the corner of his eye.

‘My wife was killed, remember? I told you. A miserable, lying cur of a felon whom I’d had working for me as steward and bottler
took a liking to her, and when I was away, raped and killed her, before killing
my dog too. Poor brute tried to protect her, but the bastard cut his throat. And I know exactly what you’re thinkin’. It’s
what I was thinkin’ too. I blamed meself, and I didn’t think about anyone else. It was just my guilt I swam in. And it was
stupid. Because I didn’t kill the hound, I didn’t kill my wife. It was him. All him. Hope he’s rotting in hell now, learning
how hot it can be. But that’s not the point. Point is, life’s here to get on with. And to be fair, I waited until I’d killed
him before I set about wallowin’. You, Bailiff, have a job to do. You have to find her, save her, and then kill the bastards
who’ve done this.’

‘How do we do that?’ Simon asked. He stood up and stared about him. ‘Where would they have brought her?’

Baldwin chewed his inner lip. ‘They passed through Crediton. We do know that. We hope that they passed this way after Copplestone,
but I have no means of confirming that.’

It was Edgar who sniffed and looked up at the sky. Clouds were forming south-west over the moors.

‘What is it, man?’ the coroner demanded.

‘We know that the sheriff is allied to Despenser. We know that Wattere is Despenser’s man. And we know that he was heading
this way with her. Unless he acted on his own, I would think Wattere took his orders the same as always. That means Despenser
took Edith, and would want her to be held somewhere safe, I’d imagine. Perhaps he seeks to blackmail the bailiff into some
action that would not usually occur to him? While holding the bailiff’s daughter, he would have a powerful incentive for the
bailiff’s compliance.’

‘You think so?’

‘If he was – excuse my bluntness, Bailiff – if he was intending merely to rape and slay the maid, he would do so without the
risk of parading her through the county. We’d have found her yesterday in a ditch near Exeter. Instead he brought her all
the way to Crediton and beyond. Surely that means he has some other objective for her than merely seeing her slain.’

Simon gaped suddenly and stared at the coroner. ‘Dear God, and we were told by Pasmere that Sir Robert of Nymet Traci was
an ally of Despenser! She could be here.’

Nymet Traci

In her room, Edith huddled by her bed, shivering, her arms wrapped about her. It was less the cold that troubled her, more
the continuing fear of what would happen. She
should
have made her escape on the way here. At the time, though, terror had controlled her, and the idea of trying to gallop away
had been just too daunting. However, the result was that she was stuck here with all these men and now she was petrified that
she might not escape. She had heard of plenty of women who had been kidnapped, and none had escaped rape – and some women
had been forced to endure much worse.

It was so terrifying that she felt she had no energy. If she had been told that she could be so enervated by such a situation,
she would have laughed. The idea that being taken by a man like Wattere could lead to a maid being so petrified with terror
that she might be incapable even of rational thought would have struck her as the merest nonsense. She was an intelligent
woman. She knew how to defend herself. If there was a knife at hand, she would have used it to protect herself and her maidenhead
from ravishment. But it was one thing to laugh during a conversation in front of her fire, perhaps with her father or her
husband near to hand, and friends who were enjoying themselves with her. Here, in a chilly room, with her soul frozen in her
heart, where every sound made her think that the foul man who had leered at her this morning was approaching again, it was
different. And there was no weapon in the room. Not even a knife for eating.

The thought made her rise. There must be
something
here she could use. If the man returned and tried to force himself on her, she could lie back as though compliant, perhaps,
and then strike him. A shard of metal or glass … A long pin. Her brooch would do service, she thought, pulling it from
her shoulder. It had a long bronze pin that was weak generally, but she could use it for stabbing at a man’s eye. The floor
was of wood, but the walls were stone. She could sharpen the pin on that.

But as she was about to rush to the wall, she heard steps. The hurried steps of a man who was eager to take advantage of a
woman who was entirely at his mercy. She looked at the wall, but there was no time. Instead she gripped the brooch in her
fist, so that the long pin protruded. If he came too close, she would stab him with all her might, she told herself. She had
never fought with anybody, and the thought
was almost more alarming than resigning herself to being raped. The idea of stabbing a man’s eye as he approached her with
puckered lips was enough to make her stomach spasm. She saw in her mind’s eye the spurt of the humours as the pin punctured
it, she felt the splatter of it on her face, and she had to avert her face from the vision, but not with any diminution of
resolve. If he intended to rape her, she would sell her body as dearly as she might.

There was a rattle of bolts on the door, and she felt the bile rise into her throat. The acid made her want to choke. But
then there was a knock, a gentle, apologetic little tap of a knuckle.

‘Who is it?’ she asked.

‘William atte Wattere,’ he answered. ‘Mistress, do you object if I enter?’

She felt the solid, reassuring weight of the brooch in her hand. In God’s hands. She was in His hands. Although she was reluctant
to let Wattere in, she knew she couldn’t stop him if he insisted. At least he didn’t sound drunk.

‘What authority have I in me to prevent you?’ she said bitterly. ‘And what strength?’ she added sadly.

The door opened quietly and in the doorway stood Wattere. His anxiety was obvious from the first moment she saw him. ‘Well?’
she demanded.

He did not enter for a moment or two. Then he whipped off his hood and licked his lips before stepping over the threshold.
‘Mistress, I am come to apologise.’

His words made her heart leap in her breast. ‘There’s been a mistake?’ but as soon as she spoke, she knew that it was unimportant.
Whether there had been a mistake in capturing her or not at the outset, the men here at this castle were not likely to release
her – not until they had received a payment at least. In Basil’s case there would be a different type of reckoning, too.

He curled his lip. ‘Truth is, you were to be held here safely. There wasn’t to be any nonsense. You were only a toy to be
bargained with, I swear. You weren’t to be harmed.’

‘You took me against my will, held me here, and I wasn’t to be harmed?’ she spat.

‘No. You were only to be kept here until … well, until my lord Despenser achieved what he needed. And then you could be
released.’

‘And what, pray, was his object with me?’ she demanded sourly.

‘You were to help force the abbey of Tavistock to his will. With you here, he felt sure that Robert Busse would surrender
his claim to the abbacy, and then John de Courtenay would win it for himself.’

‘What have they to do with me?’

‘Little. But Busse is a friend of your father’s. Sir Hugh considered that if you were held, your father would move heaven
and earth to seek your release, and he’d persuade Busse to give up his claim. If not, he thought your father could even slay
the abbot to give the seat to John de Courtenay.’

‘He was in his cups when he thought of this. Why would Busse listen to my father on a matter such as this? And my father wouldn’t
kill a man for that. For me.’

But she knew it was a lie. Simon would commit any crime to protect her. He would kill a man, he would rob, steal, or even
commit suicide for her. He was as entirely devoted to her as a father could be.

Then another thought struck her. ‘Why are you apologising to me now?’

‘Because it’s going wrong, maid. I am sorry. I am really sorry. But you have to protect yourself against Basil. He’s no better
than a common cowman. I think he means you … means you harm.’

She was still suddenly as she felt ice enter her heart. ‘You mean he will rape me?’

‘I think he intends to. And there’s nothing I can do to save you.’

‘You say so? You brought me here, churl! If you wanted, you could at least stay at my door and stop anyone from entering.’

‘Fight a man like him? If I was whole, I could do that. But I have wounds still from your father,’ he said with a slight sneer.
He felt sorry for this woman, but her father would only ever know his enmity. He detested Simon Puttock and would do nothing
to help him. And yet this woman was not her father. It was leaving him feeling torn. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Then you could take me away from here, man! Don’t leave me here to be raped and slain by a fool in a drunken fit! What can
I do to protect myself?’

Wattere winced and looked away as she stood. ‘Mistress …’ Suddenly a vision appeared before him: a picture of a dead cat,
gold and white, with scarlet blood dribbling from its mouth, the head
hanging at an impossible angle like a man swinging from a gibbet. It was enough to make his resolve waver as he looked back
at this lovely fair-haired …
child
. ‘What can I do?’

‘Work out a way to take me from here,’ she pleaded. ‘I am only weak, I’ve no weapons, nothing! You brought me to this – surely
you can think of a way to help me escape?’

He stared down at her, and thought of the cat. The idea of this maid lying on the bed, blood at her thighs, was enough to
make him feel a surge of guilt. The other idea, that the next time he saw her she might be lying on the bed with her neck
broken, a trickle of blood lying at her mouth’s corner, was enough to reinforce the guilt and urge him to action.

‘I will see what may be done,’ he said. He hesitated, and then reached behind his back. Withdrawing a small dagger, he gave
it to her, and then stood with his breath stilled, half expecting her to stab him.

But no. Instead she gave him a thin smile and took the knife, which she secreted inside her tunic. ‘For that I thank you,
Master William. But please, please try to think of a means of escape for me? Please?’