Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

If that was what the old peasant hoped, he would have to remain hopeful. Stephen wanted nothing to do with fighting those devils.

St Pancras Lane, Exeter

Edith waited at the table until her husband arrived, and then rose to greet him.

‘My sweet, you shouldn’t have waited,’ he protested.

The maidservant was still in the room, and his greeting must remain cordial but restrained, he felt. Although he had grown up with servants in his household, it was a novel experience still to have his own maid.

Edith smiled. ‘God speed, husband. Sit, please, and let me serve you.’

‘I am most grateful for your attendance, my love. Send the maid away,’ he added in a hiss.

At Edith’s gesture, young Jane curtsied and left, walking carefully as though she might break some of the wonderful carvings on the cupboard.

‘Thank you, my love,’ Peter murmured, and pulled his wife towards him.

‘Oho, so you want to let your food get cold?’ Edith protested.

He had her by the waist already. ‘Not half, my precious! Come here, and let me …’

Edith fell back over his lap to sit with a low chuckle. She pointed her chin to the ceiling while he nuzzled at her throat, his hands roving over her simple tunic, feeling the firmness of her body beneath, the rounded swelling of her breasts, the smooth flesh of her flanks. ‘Oh, my love. I have been dreaming of this all day!’

‘Well you will have to continue dreaming for a little longer. I am petrified with hunger,’ she said, and was about to climb from him when there was a loud knocking on the door. She looked down at him. ‘Who can that be?’

‘Christ’s bones, but I don’t know, I swear,’ Peter said with conviction, standing and walking to the door.

It was dark out, but as he threw the door wide, he could see the lanterns shining, the candles flickering in their horn boxes. ‘What do you want?’

The nearest man was a stout fellow with an ancient-looking cap of steel. He had shrewd dark eyes set widely below a strong forehead, and a beard that was very dark. He was young enough not to have any frost on his head or in his moustache. He looked at Edith. ‘We’d heard that Sir Richard de Welles was here. Have you seen him? Or Sir Baldwin, the Keeper?’

‘Why do you want them?’ Peter said, aware of Edith behind him. He felt her hand rest on his shoulder.

‘There’s been a murder over towards Oakhampton, and Sir Peregrine has asked for them to go to him,’ the man said.

‘You must send for him at Furnshill, then,’ Peter said. ‘They left here early this morning. They will be there by now, I’d imagine.’

‘Then God speed, master,’ the man said. He motioned with his hands, and the others began to filter back up the alley towards St Pancras. ‘Was the bailiff with them too?’

‘Who, my father?’ Edith asked. ‘Simon Puttock? Yes.’

The fellow nodded and set off after the other men. The last Edith saw of them was their backs as they made their way to the top of the alley and took the path left, wandering southwards. She caught a fleeting glimpse, so she thought, of another face, one that made her blood run cold for an instant, but then it was gone, and she knew that it must be her imagination. William atte Wattere, the man whom she had encountered at her father’s house on the day she had gone to ask his permission to marry, was surely nowhere near here now.

Peter shut the door and rested his hand on it for a few moments, frowning. ‘I do not like that fellow.’

‘Why, my love? He was only a watchman, wasn’t he?’

‘He didn’t look like any man from around here. He was one of the guard with the new sheriff at Rougemont Castle, I’d swear.’

Edith shrugged and led him back to their hall. ‘What of it?’

‘He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d be sent for a simple message delivery. It was almost as though someone wanted to make sure that the coroner and your father had actually left the city.’

Road near Bow

Roger had made good time walking back down to the south coast. Embittered, chilly, sore footed and hungry, he was glad to have met a farmer just outside Winkleigh, who, after studying him a while, invited him in to sit before a fire, and fed him warmed milk sweetened with almonds, and some good thick maslin bread. Even better, he had allowed his guest to stay the night on the floor near the fire.

It was astonishing how well a man could feel when he had been rested and fed. Roger had known times in Guyenne, and in other parts of France, when he had been fighting, terrified for his life, and he and the others had found a little farmstead to take and sleep in, where the bliss of the peace was almost unbearable.

Walking here from that little farm had been much faster, and he had reached the outskirts of North Tawton the previous day. Somehow he had missed his path back to Jacobstowe. And although he knew he should have simply hurried on, down to Oakhampton, which was apparently not too many miles away, and thence to the coast and the busy port there, he had idled the day away. This morning, waking, he had been determined to get away from the area, but somehow he found himself still here. It was not until late afternoon that he decided to leave, but now, rather than seek out and walk through the woods at Abbeyford, he turned eastwards on a whim. There was no reason to go that way, other than the fact that he would have to take an easterly route at some point to get to Dartmouth, but he had an urge to take a slower path. He was enjoying the feeling of being on land too much to hazard the dangers of the sea followed by the hardship of fighting.

As he was strolling along, looking at the view from the roadway, he suddenly heard a force of men-at-arms approaching.

Most men, on hearing such a sound, would simply continue on their way. There were men on horseback all over the realm, and many of them warriors. It was a normal sight, natural in its way. So many magnates wanted to take their loyal men with them when they travelled so that any daring felons would be dissuaded from attempting a robbery. But Roger had a different attitude to such noises. In his mind there was an appreciation of the danger such men could represent. In Guyenne, the flat, treeless landscapes sometimes meant it was harder to conceal yourself, but here there were so many opportunities, it was difficult to pick the best.

The riders were approaching quickly. Gazing about him, he caught sight of a convenient tree branch at the side of the road, and used it to clamber up and over the hedge. He was just in time — as he landed, gently, on his feet and allowed his legs to fold beneath him so that he was almost flat beside the tree, he saw through the twigs and stems of the hedge the first flash of mottled armour, and heard the sound of hoofs suddenly grow louder. He saw a one-eyed warrior, and a fearful-looking man hemmed in by all the others, and reckoned that he was not a willing companion.

The damp was soaking into his tunic and his hose felt sticky and uncomfortable, but as they rode past, he allowed only his eyes to follow them. Any sudden movement could attract attention. He wasn’t worried about making a noise; it was enough to let a man catch a glimpse from the corner of his eye, and if he was an experienced warrior, as these appeared to be, he would investigate.

He watched and listened until the men were fully out of sight. Only then did he realise he had been holding his breath. As he clambered back over the hedge into the grassy roadway, he felt strangely light headed — and oddly exhilarated as well. It could have been the usual delight at escaping danger, but there was also the undoubted thrill of near action again. He was a fighter, when all was said and done.