Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

He began to wonder whether he would be best off returning to Plymouth. Or maybe Dartmouth?

Third Sunday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Sampford Chapple

It had taken him more than a little while to find the tracks.

The idea that the men would have ridden past Hoppon’s house so close showed that either they were foolish, or they were supremely confident in their power and safety. They had passed within a matter of yards of the house. It would have been a miracle if Hoppon’s dog hadn’t started barking in defence.

Bill Lark bent as he followed the trail. It was his own fault, and he blamed himself entirely. The trail must have been fine on the first days after the murders, and if he had been a little more diligent, he would have found it. There were plenty of men, after all, and a few carts, and their tracks were clear enough now he was here. What had happened seemed to be that they had ridden over a large swathe of brambles, and even where the carts had rolled, the brambles had sprung back up again by the time he had gone to seek the trail. He’d simply ridden past without seeing the signs. Many would. Many had. But he was angry with himself. He shouldn’t have done so. He prided himself on his abilities as a tracker and hunter, and now he had failed so utterly on the first occasion when it mattered. And to lose the trail of so many men …

It was as he was remonstrating with himself that he saw another group of tracks. Here there were only one or two pairs of boot prints and a solitary little cart, he reckoned. He could not be certain after so long. Yet although the marks joined up with the main mess, coming straight from the travellers’ camp, they crossed over the main group of prints and continued up towards the ancient track in the middle of the woods. That was interesting. That old path was known only by the most local fellows. Rough now, overgrown, it was used as a private route by those who had a desire for stealth or secrecy.

No matter to him, though. The people who had gone up there were nothing to do with the raiders. Otherwise their paths would converge rather than merely cross. Whoever they were, their route took them along the lane past Shilstone, then over to Swanstone, and past it towards Sampford Courtenay.

He set off again. The trail here was easy to follow. There was more mud, and even where the grass had sprung up again, he could see the imprints of hoofs and wheels. The way took him down into the valley, and then up the other side, heading almost towards North Tawton, but then south-east to skirt around the town, and instead he found himself continuing eastwards on the old lane towards Bow.

Here the way was more difficult. The lane was much more busy than the little byways he had followed up until now, and if it weren’t for a chance meeting with an old peasant who lived right beside the road, he would have found the trail dead.

‘Master, God speed,’ he said when he saw the peasant at his garden.

‘God give you a good day,’ the old man said affably, his grizzled beard covering his face so effectively that Bill wasn’t sure whether he smiled or not. He said his name was John Pasmere.

‘What is this place called, friend?’

‘Well, this is Itton Moor. Where do you want to go? No one comes here by choice!’

‘Maybe you can aid me. I am not lost, but I’m trying to follow the marks of some men who passed by here some nights ago,’ Bill said, and introduced himself.

‘Aye? You want the men who rode past a week ago, eh?’ Any apparent affability had fled. ‘Why so, master?’

‘I have good reasons, friend. Why?’

‘They came from near Bow. They often do.’

‘Who are they?’

The old man took his time to peer up the way Bill had come, then studied the landscape all about them before spitting into the roadway. ‘Sir Robert of Traci, that’s who it is. Him and his men. Friend, you be warned. There’s no good will come of seeking them. No good to you, leastways.’

Jacobstowe

Agnes set the baby down again and sighed as she put her hands on her hips and rubbed. This year was proving to be more challenging than any other, and all because her husband had been made bailiff. It was infuriating.

She had always wanted him to get on, of course, and when he had won the post she’d been delighted — for him and for the family. It meant recognition, and with that there might be some potential for advancement in the future. He deserved it. They all did.

Agnes Lark was not the same as other peasants in the area. She had been born out of wedlock, and her mother flatly refused to say who her father was, even when questioned in court. That must have been a daunting experience, with the lord and his steward asking questions, and a clerk making sarcastic comments in the background all the while as he noted down the details of her incontinence, but her mother would not divulge her secret, no matter what was said or threatened. So in the end her father was fined the leyrwite for the birth of Agnes outside of marriage.

It was a shameful affair, of course. But the intransigence of her mother had given Agnes the greatest gift: freedom. Whereas her mother and all the rest of her family were villeins, no one could prove that Agnes was the daughter of a serf, and so the law had to assume that she was the daughter of a free man. The law was clear that if there was any doubt, a child must be assumed to be free, for there could be no greater injustice than to force a child born to a free man to a life of servility. And Agnes was thus freed.

Bill Lark had been a man she saw occasionally. When he asked her to marry him the first time, it had shocked her, and she had refused him curtly, but then he had renewed his suit, and as he asked her so often, it became easier for her to start to think of him as a potential partner. And gradually her feelings for him began to slide into affection.

They had been married now for almost three years. The Ant was the first proof of their love, and she was sure that there would be more before long. Hopefully they would be able to increase their lands and start to buy in more livestock. That was her hope, because there was money to be made from the rich pastures about here. Bill wasn’t convinced yet, but Agnes was sure that she’d be able to persuade him, given time.

Where was he, though? He had left early in the morning, saying he was going to try to follow the trail of the killers, and she had no idea whether he would be home again today, or whether he was going to be missing for a day or more. It was maddening, especially since there was all the clearing to do in the little vegetable plot and the preparation of the soil for the next sowing, as well as looking after their baby.

Anthony hiccuped and she quickly picked him up, wiping his mouth and setting him over her shoulder while patting his back. He was still after a few moments, and she could set him down again in the little crib Bill had made. She pulled the scraps of material up over him, cooing softly at him and gentling him until he was asleep again.

Outside, the light was fading already. It was obvious enough that her husband was not going to return for some little while. He would avoid travelling at night, same as any would. She would have to close everything up and just hope and pray that all was well with him. She sighed, rubbed at her flanks one last time, and went outside to begin her nightly chores, putting the door against the chicken’s box, seeing to the pigs in the pen, and making sure all was locked up before returning to her own door, where she stood a moment staring out at the sun as it finally sank down behind the trees on the hills north and west.

She prayed that her man would be safe.