No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) (3 page)

‘You can’t go and—’

‘Monk, shut up! You will have to push the cart back while I do this. You won’t be able to. So put your back into it, and get
the cart back safely. You hear me?’

Osbert stepped quietly and very cautiously as he returned to the camp. The body of the pup lay still in his hand now. He had
snapped its neck like a coney’s. It would be a short while before he reached the camp, he thought. The smell of burning wood
was in his nostrils already from the fire the evening before. Now it had been banked, there was but a dull glow from the mass
of the embers. Nothing to give him even the slightest of shadows.

All about there were the peaceful sounds of sleeping people. A
child up with the travellers had a sniffling whimper – he recalled that the brat had a cold – and his mother gave a murmured
remonstration before rolling over again. The remaining archers were snoring, while Anselm’s companion was whiffing out little
breaths as though he was panting in a dream. He lay in the midst of the archers, the seven about him guarding him better than
they had their precious cargo.

There was no guard. Not now. Only one sentry had been set, a man who was content to wander about the camp with jealousy, eyeing
the sleepers, but not one of them. When Osbert had offered to join him and keep him company until his watch was changed, he
had been pathetically grateful. Then Osbert had grabbed him from behind and his dagger had made short work of him, plunging
into the man’s liver five times, while Osbert’s hand stayed clamped over his mouth, stifling the desperate screams for help.
No one heard anything, not out here at the edge of the camp where the man had gone to relieve himself. Osbert had left the
body out there so that it couldn’t be immediately discovered, were someone else to wake.

No one had. As he stood here, near the archers and their master, it was clear that there had been no alarm. All was as he
had left it.

The dog was awake, though. She lay with her head resting on her paws, just as she had every night. It was no bad thing that
Anselm had chosen to keep the pup in his robe when they had left Tavistock, Osbert reckoned. It made the bitch less distressed
to sleep without him. She had grown accustomed to having her pup back during the day, but sleeping alone.

Osbert silently made his way to the bitch. He heard her stir, and then give a low growl. It was as he had expected. Quickly
he threw the puppy’s body to her, and he saw her move in a flash, turning to sniff at the little corpse. As she did, he stepped
forward and slipped his dagger into her back, grabbing her muzzle as he did so. The surprised yelping lasted only a moment
or two, and then there was nothing to worry about.

In some haste now, he retraced his steps to the bushes, and was soon in among them, moving fast for a man of his age and size.
But for all that he was over two and forty years old, he had lived here in this area for most of his childhood, and he knew
the land well. The cart, he knew, had gone off northwards from here, and he would meet it later. Rather than head north, he
would take the steeper, slightly more swift
route east, down the valley’s side to the river, and up the other side. The cart would rejoin the trail a full half-mile further
on.

He made his way down the slope, slithering on the soggy grasses, almost tripping twice in thick tussocks, and then splashed
his way through the river, which was quite full after the rains. On the other side, he was about to make his way up the slope
when he heard the hoofs.

There were twelve of them. The man in front he knew, and the son at his side. He knew that they were noted for their ruthlessness.
Across this land, these two were feared by all the peasants and farmers. No man passing near their castle could hope to be
permitted to continue without paying tolls for the use of the roads. A man who refused soon found himself watching his blood
pool on the ground as he died.

Aye, he knew these men. How could he not? He was their servant.

‘Is that you, Osbert?’ the leader called.

‘Aye, Sir Robert, it’s me. They’re in the camp as we planned. Encircle them, and you have them all.’

Third Monday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael
^*

Farmstead near Jacobstowe, Devon

On the day the murders were discovered, old Hoppon grunted as he rose to his feet and kicked the charred sticks together,
then hauled the log nearer, before bending down to blow steadily. Tab, his dog, stirred and stretched, wagging his tail hopefully
as Hoppon limped to the door and peered out.

‘Another shite day, feller,’ he muttered, reaching down. Tab had arrived by his side already, as always, and his fingers found
the slim ears, scratching at the rough, wiry coat at the base of the dog’s skull. ‘You think Noah’s coming back? It’s wet
enough, I’d swear. Christ’s ballocks, what I’d give for a day of sun for once.’

It had been like this for so long now, he could scarce recall a time when it hadn’t been damp underfoot. Hoppon could remember
the worst years when the rain fell all through the summer, the dreadful years when all starved more or less. The famine had
struck ten years before, and lasted on and off for the next seven years, although it was the first two that had been the worst
without doubt. Especially for him with his badly burned and damaged leg.

Tab wandered out and cocked a leg at the edge of the little clearing, and it was then that Hoppon saw the smoke rising through
the trees.

‘The poor bastards. Foreigners aren’t safe,’ he said, peering through the thin drizzle with a scowl.

Hoppon thought no more about it. He had enough work to be getting on with without worrying about others who had incurred the
wrath of the local magnates. In any case, he had the unpleasant conviction that the smoke was not from a camp fire. Last night,
late, he had heard horses. Only one kind of man travelled in darkness, and it was not the kind of man he wanted to offend.

No. He had much to do, and so he wandered outside to his chickens and began to sprinkle a few grains for them, but even as
they squabbled and bickered, his eyes kept being drawn up to the column of smoke, wondering what was happening over there.

Abbeyford Woods, south of Jacobstowe

Roger, a thin-faced man in his middle twenties, was early to rise that morning. It was his way to be on the road as dawn lighted
the way for him. He was happier to be busy, and in his life that meant walking. It was lonely, now, without her. Better to
keep walking than think about her. It wasn’t like she was his wife or anything.

There were many trees here, and that was itself a relief. As he went, he gathered up some tinder for his fire that evening.
It was the usual start to any day, collecting thistledown in handfuls, then birchbark, thin, papery strips that curled into
little cylinders. All were carefully wrapped in the remains of an old shirt, and then thrust inside his clothing, next to
his belly, so that they should be dry by tonight for his fire.

When he saw the smoke, at first he was happy that he was near people with food. After sleeping in the open, with only his
ragged old cloak to cover him, the thought of sitting at a friendly fire with a bowl of hot minted water or posset was enormously
attractive – especially if it meant he could hear some news or just share some conversation. He had been walking alone for
a long time now. And a party of travellers would hardly look upon a single wandering sailor as a threat to them, so surely
they would be hospitable.

His road here was a narrow, grassed pathway. He had walked all the way from Dartmouth, hoping to get to the north coast, where
he had heard that there were jobs for skilled seamen, but the weather had slowed him. Every day seemed to bring more and more
rain, and the rivers had all swollen while the roads had grown more and more clogged with mud. For Roger, it meant that his
pace had been reduced to a quarter of his normal progress. What had looked like a four- or five-day march, with luck, had
already taken him a week, and he was
only halfway. It was no surprise that the thought of a little company and a warming fire was so attractive.

The road here led along the top of a ridge. He had come here from Oakhampton, hoping that the river would have subsided a
little. He’d been waiting for two days now, and at last he had been able to cross. That was late in the day last evening,
and after that he had made his way up the heavily wooded side of the hill, and built himself a shelter of sorts with fallen
boughs set against a tree. It wasn’t warm, nor dry, nor comfortable, but at least he could feel that there was a roof over
his head, and once he had a small fire burning, he had been as content as he could be.

He passed a second roadway to the east, which fell down the side of the hill towards the river, and then he was following
a pleasant, straight route with trees on either side that did not fully obstruct his view. The direction seemed to him to
lie directly north, and he was happy to be able to speed his pace at last, lengthening his stride to suit the firm ground.

The smoke he had seen seemed to lie some few hundred yards ahead when he first set off, but as he marched on, he realised
that it must be a half-mile distant. He passed a crossroads, then his road began to descend, although only shallowly, and
the smoke remained some distance off on his right. It was as he saw the clouds break slightly, and felt the faint warming
of the sun on his shoulder, that he began to smell the woodsmoke on the air.

By some miracle the rain had held off so far, but now the thin mizzle that had been blowing at him had grown into a genuine
downpour, and he had to pull his hood more firmly over his head, settling his cloak about him and shifting his staff and belongings
so that he could hold his hand nearer his shoulder, hunching himself against the cooler weather and trying to prevent as much
of the rain as possible from running down his neck. It gave him the incentive to hurry and reach some form of shelter. Before
long he saw the marks of carts in deep ruts in the mud at the side of the road, and the telltale smoke on his right, and set
off to follow them, walking near the mud but not in it, and going carefully to avoid the thicker clumps of bramble that threatened
to rip his hosen.

The great oaks and beech trees near the road suddenly disappeared, and instead he found himself in a little coppice. A large
circular
depression blackened with fire showed where a charcoal burner had been working, and all about were the little carts and belongings
of about twenty travellers.

He knew there were about twenty. Their bodies littered the ground.

Wissant, French coast

After the last few days of running, Simon was for once glad to be able to set his feet on the deck of a ship, secure in the
knowledge that no matter what the sea might hold for him, at least there was no risk of a sword in his back or an arrow in
his chest. Compared with the land, the sea seemed, for once, to be safe.

He glanced back the way they had come, anxiously scanning the buildings at the quay for danger. In the morning’s grim light,
there was little to be seen, only a gentle mist washing in from the sea and giving the grey waves a deceptively calm appearance.
Simon wasn’t fooled by that. He knew the true dangers that lurked in the waters far from land. He had been tossed by storms,
and even survived a wrecked ship in his time. It was not an experience he was keen to repeat.

‘You ready to sail, eh? Ha! I could murder one of these sailors and eat his carcass, I’m so hungry!’

The thickset, bearded figure who clapped a hand as heavy as a destrier’s hoof on Simon’s shoulder was Sir Richard de Welles,
an enormous man with appetites to match his girth. His eyes crinkled in a smile.

He was tall, at least six foot one, and had an almost entirely round face, with a thick bush of beard that overhung his chest
like a heavy gorget. His eyes were dark brown and shrewd, beneath a broad and tall brow. His face was criss-crossed with wrinkles,
making him appear perhaps a little older than he really was, but Simon was sure he had to be at least fifty. His flesh had
the toughened look of well-cured leather that only a man who has spent much of his life in the open air would acquire.

‘I am happy to be near shore,’ Simon said shortly.

‘Aye, but we’ll both be glad to away from the French, I dare say!’ the knight chuckled.

There was no denying it. In the last days they had ridden in great haste from Paris. In a short period they had managed to
enrage the
French king, irritate his sister, Queen Isabella of England, and ensure that they would be unwelcome forever in France. Meanwhile,
the failure of their mission would reflect badly on them all when they finally had to explain their actions to the English
king. And Edward II was not a man known for leniency towards those who he felt had been incompetent.

‘I’ll be glad to away, yes,’ Simon said. ‘And more glad to see my wife. I don’t know what’s happened to her.’

‘Aye, friend, I was forgetting that you had urgent business. Still, no matter! You should be home again soon, eh?’

Simon nodded. ‘I hope so. I hope so.’

Jacobstowe

Bill Lark, a short man with the dark, serious expression of one used to the harsh realities of life, was kneeling beside his
fire when the knock came at his door.

‘Who’s that?’ his wife demanded. Agnes was a tall, buxom woman of five-and-twenty, with gleaming auburn hair when she allowed
it to stray, and he adored her. Now she was standing with the wooden spoon in her hand by the pot she had been stirring.

‘Oh, ballocks!’ he muttered, lifting his son from his lap and passing him to his wife. ‘Take the Ant, eh?’ He stood and walked
to the door, pulling it wide.

‘Hoppon? What do you want?’

The older man limped into the house, his weight all on the stick he clutched, his dog sliding in behind him, unsure of the
welcome he was to receive. ‘Bailiff, I needs your help. Murder.’

Bill’s smile faded. ‘You sure?’

‘It’s over top of Abbeyford, Bailiff. Sixteen dead, I counted, but there could be more. They been killed, some of their goods
set afire, but most’s been robbed from them.’

‘Ach, shit! All right, Hoppon, you reckon you can tell me where it is, or you need to show it me?’

‘You’ll find it. Follow the smell,’ Hoppon said. His face was twisted with disgust, but now he looked away for a moment. ‘It’s
nasty, Bailiff. You understand me?’

‘Reckon there’s no misunderstanding that, Hoppon,’ Bill said as he unfastened his belt and reached for his long-bladed knife.
‘You have
to go to the manor and tell them there. Then tell the steward to send for the coroner. Make sure he does. He’s a lazy git
at the best of times. Best to remind him that if he doesn’t, it’ll be on his neck, not ours. Meantime, tell the priest too,
and ask to have someone sent to me to help guard the bodies. I’ll need someone else with me.’

He pulled on a thick cloak of waxed linen, drew on a hood, and took a small bag that tied over his shoulder by two strong
thongs. Grabbing a pot of cider and a hunk of bread, he stuffed them inside, before turning to his wife. He hugged Agnes and
gave her a long kiss, before throwing a reluctant, longing look at the pottage that lay simmering over the fire. It was not
his choice to be bailiff for the hundred, but he had been chosen and elected, and there was no escape from responsibility.
This was his year.

The way was already growing dark as he left his house and took the long road that led almost like an arrow south to Oakhampton.
Fortunately it was a popular route for men going to the market, and he could travel at some speed. There were other lanes
that were not so well maintained, and where the way could be blocked by any number of fallen trees or thick glutinous mud
in which a man could almost drown. From his perspective, any such areas were dangerous. A robber man might wait at the site
of a pool of mud, hoping for a chance to waylay the unwary as they stepped around it, while a tree blocking a path might have
been deliberately placed there. These were not good times for a man who needed to travel, he told himself.

It was fortunate that there was not far to go, and before it was fully dark he was in the coppice.

He knew that many would be affected by the sight that greeted him, but he was too old to worry about the presence of the dead.
He had seen enough corpses in his time. Some years ago, when he was himself scarce grown, he had buried his own parents, both
dead from some disease that struck them during the famine years, when no one was strong enough to fight off even a mild chill.
Aye, he had buried them, and others. The sight of death held no fears for him.

Still, there were some scenes he did not enjoy, and while he wandered about the bodies, it was the sight of so many wounds
in those who were surely already dead that made him clench his jaw. It made him consider, too, and he looked about the ground
with an eye
tuned to the marks left by the raiders. Horses had left their prints, and the occasional boot, he saw. So this was no mere
band of outlaws; it was a military force, if he was right.

He gazed about him with a stern frown fitted to his face, and as the rain began to fall again, he hurried to collect some
dry timber to start a fire.

Time enough for thinking later.

Third Tuesday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael
^*

Hythe, Kent

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill sniffed the air as the little ship rolled and shifted on the sea.

A tall man in his middle fifties, he was used to travelling. In his dark eyes, as he looked at the quayside, there was only
gratitude that he had once more successfully and safely crossed the Channel. The journey had become only too familiar to him
in the last few months, and he was hopeful that now he might leave such wanderings and return to his wife and family, to the
life of a rural knight.

‘Bishop, I hope I see you well?’

‘Ach!’ Bishop Walter II of Exeter gave him a sharp look. His blue eyes were faded, and he must peer short-sightedly now, his
eyes were so old and worn, unless he had his spectacles with him. Some ten years Baldwin’s senior, at four-and-sixty, the
bishop had not enjoyed a good voyage. ‘I begin to sympathise with Simon.’