Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

‘I suppose that is natural enough,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully. ‘He is putting men in place to ensure that the land is safe from attack.’

‘Yes, but there are other men who seem to have little regard for the law. So long as they are Despenser’s friends, they feel that they can wander the land at will, taking whatever they desire,’ Jeanne said. ‘And that appears to include the sheriff himself. He is more corrupt than any, if what is said is true.’

‘Which bodes not well for those who have shown themselves to be enemies of Despenser,’ Edgar added, looking at his master with a serious expression.

Road near Bow

There were few times in Stephen of Shoreditch’s life when he had been made to feel quite so fearful. In his experience, most men were more than happy to treat him with a degree of respect, because a man who insulted the king’s messengers insulted the king himself. A messenger was a representative of the king.

These men hardly appeared to accord him any respect whatsoever. They didn’t talk to him, nor offer him any refreshment, but insisted that he dismount and walk with them. Another man behind them had his horse now, while he walked in the midst of his captors, glancing about him on occasion, hoping against hope that they were speaking the truth and would take him to Sir Robert de Traci. Certainly he had little expectation that he would be able to escape. Although these felons had left him with his dagger and short riding sword, they were hemmed closely in on him, and the likelihood of his being able to run from them was remote in the extreme. They looked more than capable of bringing him down in a matter of yards.

It was while they were on their way that he saw the event that was to make him certain that he was in the company of dangerous souls.

They had taken a little turn, and were now walking down a hill towards what looked like a fair-sized hamlet, when Stephen heard a squeaking and rumbling sound. It wasn’t ahead of them, but over to the left, somewhere towards the south. Before long he was able to make out a little lane that appeared to interest the men with him. They wandered up to it, slinking along quietly, and crouched at the edge, where it met their own road.

Soon Stephen could see what was happening. Even as the scarred man grasped his shoulder and pulled him down, he could see that the noise was a man on an ancient cart.

‘Messenger boy, if you want to live to deliver another note, you’ll keep your mouth and your eyes shut!’ the man said, and his dagger was already unsheathed, the point at Stephen’s throat, in the dent below his windpipe.

There was nothing Stephen could say. He merely nodded his head slowly, and watched.

The man was a farmer, so far as he could see. An ordinary farmer on the way to the market at Bow, likely. He had some produce in the back of his little cart. A pathetic amount, but enough to justify the journey. The man was almost asleep as he knelt in the cart, his head nodding with the cart’s jerking, his eyes all but closed.

‘Old man, what have you got in there?’

Stephen looked over to see that one of the men had grabbed the horse’s rein and was grinning up at the farmer.

‘Who are you? I’m-’

‘No, old man. What have you got in there, is what I asked.’

‘Nothing. Just some beans and cheese for market. What do you want with me?’

‘We are taking tolls for the market,’ the man said smoothly, and nodded to one of the others.

Immediately Stephen saw this fellow slip around the cart and grab for the back of it. The farmer scowled and turned, watching as the fellow eyed the goods and reached in to take a cheese.

‘I’ll see you in hell before you take that or anything else of mine,’ the farmer snarled.

‘Pox on your threats, old man,’ the man at the reins said.

‘Leave my goods, you shite!’

‘Who do you think you are, peasant?’

‘I am Jack Begbeer, you little hog, and I won’t be robbed!’

‘Hey, Osbert, look at this! There’s a good barrel of ale here too!’ the man at the back said, and was soon clambering over the cart.

The farmer glanced at him, and then reached down to his side. He came up gripping a whip; flicking his wrist, the long end rose, curled around and lashed out. The man at the back of the cart gave a cry, and his hand went to his brow. As he stood, hands cupping his face, blood began to ooze from a slash across his forehead, and he sprang down to hide from the stinging whip.

‘Old git!’ the man at the reins bellowed, and ducked as the whip end came towards him.

Stephen saw it as it passed over the man’s head. It had been cut and woven into a fine point, and when it touched flesh, it cut like a razor. Already the farmer was thrashing it about him with abandon, standing warily on his cart, keeping the men at bay, snarling defiance at them all. ‘You think you can rob any man passing here? We all know you and your evil master. Well you won’t take my things, not without some of you getting hurt, you sons of dogs! Go to hell, you soulless devils! The pox on you and your children, if you can father them!’

In front of him, Stephen saw that the scarred man had laughed at first to see the men trounced by an old peasant, but his humour was fading now. ‘Old man, get down from the cart. You’ve hurt one of Sir Robert of Traci’s men, and that means your toll has become more expensive.’

‘You? You think to steal all my goods? You think I don’t know you, Osbert? Son of a whore, your father was, and you too! Think you that you can scare me? I’ll be damned if I’ll let you rob me like you rob so many others, damn your soul!’

As he spoke, he flung back his arm, then lashed. The whip sprang towards the scarred man like a viper. He swore, stepped aside, and let the whip fly past him, and as it rose a second time, he darted forward, under the horses, and reappeared on the other side, his dagger held by the point. He hefted it, took his aim, and hurled.

The dagger spun lazily in the air, and Stephen could see its flight as it turned over and over and then sank to the hilt in the old farmer’s throat. He dropped reins and whip, clutching at the hilt, spinning as he tried to pull it free, eyes wide with horror, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to breathe. Then he fell backwards, dropping heavily on to his backside near the front of the cart even as the blood began to dribble from his lips.

‘Stupid old peasant! Couldn’t you restrain yourself? Eh?’ Scarface shouted. ‘You had to keep on, didn’t you? See where that gets you, you old git! Straightway to hell. Well, give my regards to the devil!’

The farmer slumped, his body jerking and writhing as he died slowly. Gradually his efforts to keep upright became too much of a struggle, and he toppled over the cart’s wall, ending up on his back beside his carthorse, his eyes fixed on the man he had called Osbert. The man with the scarred face walked to the farmer, reached for his knife and jerked it free. A fine spray of blood erupted from the dying man’s throat, and Osbert laughed to see the way that the horse pulling the cart neighed and tried to jerk away from the warm blood.

‘Come on, fools!’ he bellowed, and kicked the farmer’s body from cart’s path. He took up the reins and cracked them to get the beast moving again.

Stephen felt a hand on his elbow, and submitted to being pushed along. He couldn’t help but glance back at the body in the dirt at the side of the track. The farmer’s face was already mottled with death, the blood staining his clothes, while a red, oily sheen lay upon his face. Stephen was sure that he could see the man’s lips working, but it was impossible to tell what he was trying to say. Perhaps it was ‘Avenge me!’