Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

‘I think he said it was two weeks ago or so. Why, do you think you may know them? I know the coroner would be glad to hear from any man who might know who these fellows were. There was nothing on their bodies or nearby to say who they could have been.’

‘It was two weeks ago that a man of mine was sent to London with a chest of money. It was the payment to the king for the period while the abbey was in a state of voidance. Abbot Champeaux was very foresighted, you understand, and purchased the right of the abbey to manage its own affairs when he died.’

‘So what was the money for?’

‘Your king is a skilful negotiator himself,’ the cardinal said musingly. ‘He sold the management during voidance for a hundred marks. That was ten years ago, on the thirtieth anniversary of Abbot Champeaux’s appointment. But within the contract it was agreed that for every vacancy of forty days or fewer, the abbey must pay forty pounds to the king. And if longer, it must pay a proportionate amount, up to one hundred pounds in every year.’

Sir Richard whistled. ‘A hundred pounds a year?’

‘This was the first hundred pounds.’ Cardinal de Fargis nodded. He looked at Simon. ‘That was what my servant Pietro de Torrino was transporting. With him was Brother Anselm from Tavistock, and eight archers with two mounted men-at-arms. So you see, I would like to know if the dead man was he.’

Fourth Sunday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Furnshill

Sir Baldwin and his wife had enjoyed a pleasant ride to and from the little chapel where they prayed, which was more than Baldwin could say for the sermon preached by the priest.

He was a new incumbent, this young vicar. Apparently he was the son of a moderately wealthy squire somewhere up in Somerset, and had been sent here to work for a fee when the previous man had been given some other churches and could afford to leave this little parish. It was a shame, because Baldwin had rather liked him. This fellow was an insipid little man, pale and unwholesome-looking. He had a great hooked nose set in a narrow face, which made him look rather like a hawk. But not so powerful. Rather, Baldwin thought his nostrils would be constantly dripping.

‘He was only speaking as he thought right,’ Jeanne said defensively.

‘He was speaking as a fool,’ Baldwin said. ‘How could any man stand there and say that the Templars were evil and proof of God’s enemies on earth?’

‘He knew no better.’

‘I could teach the fool.’

Baldwin, once a Templar, and devoted to his order, was insulted when others spoke of it in a derogatory manner, but the priest this morning had gone much further. He had said that the Templars were all so evil that they should have been destroyed utterly. The thrust of his comments was that the whole of Christendom was in turmoil because of a small number of cruel and dishonourable men, such as the Templars. If all the good men in a Christian community were to do nothing and leave the evil-doers to work unhindered, such behaviour would lead to robbery, murder and war. And then God would grow despondent and seek to punish the world. So unless people became more careful of their responsibilities, and tried to serve God, He might decide to send another famine, or a plague, or a flood.

‘All because of the Templars, he said! The cretin!’

Jeanne knew that Baldwin’s mood would soon pass. He was not a man who could dwell on the incompetence or stupidity of others for long. He knew how foolish men could be, and preferred to look beyond them to other men, of intelligence.

They had a short ride to their house, and on this day of rest Baldwin was looking forward to a good meal and an afternoon of utter peace. After the year he had experienced, the thought of such a day was enormously attractive. And for once there was no rain. It was not a bright sunny day, but nor was it cold or wet.

Still, he was still worried by all he had heard from his wife. The thought of the new sheriff was unpleasant, but there was nothing new about corruption in a sheriff. Baldwin was more concerned about the stories of violence in the shire generally. There were all too many outlaws now, since so many families had been dispossessed after Boroughbridge, and if their acts of violence were compounded by men who knew that they could rob or kill with impunity because of Despenser’s support, it would make life intolerable. ‘I wonder how Simon is faring,’ he muttered.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Jeanne said comfortingly. She slipped her hand through his arm and held on to him tightly, watching Richalda, their daughter, trotting uncertainly on ahead, stopping every so often to stare at an insect or into a puddle. Young Baldwin was being carried by Edgar’s wife, Petronilla, while Edgar was immediately behind Baldwin, his smiling face moving constantly, watching hedges and fences, always alert for possible danger. He had been Baldwin’s sergeant in the Knights Templar, and Baldwin knew that he could depend utterly on him.

It was a matter of pride to Baldwin that the household had grown so much now. Behind Petronilla came her own child, and then the various men and women who worked in the house or for Baldwin in the fields. It was a significant procession, he thought. Even Wat, who had been the bane of Baldwin’s life four or five years ago, when he had been merely the cattleman’s son and who had got himself beastly drunk at Baldwin’s wedding, had grown into a tall, good-looking soul of seventeen summers or so.

Baldwin had successfully managed to build a new life here after the horrors of the Templar persecutions. Perhaps he was extraordinarily fortunate to have been given this second chance — he only hoped and prayed that God had not given him this stability only to snatch it away again. Despenser knew that he had once been a Knight Templar, and that man was a bad enemy. It could all be taken away in an instant, Baldwin knew.

It was as they came in sight of the house that Edgar stepped forward.

‘Sir Baldwin,’ he said, ‘do you see the horse?’

Baldwin glanced at him, and saw that Edgar was looking ahead, a slight frown on his face. Following his pointing finger, Baldwin saw that in the roadway ahead, in front of his house, there was a horse thundering over the road. Even as he watched, it turned off and pelted along his pasture, heading to his door.

‘Edgar, you stay with the children and Jeanne,’ he said, and set off at a trot.

Jacobstowe

Agnes knew before the knock. She knew before the face in the doorway. She knew before he began to speak, and she could do nothing.

She had been distracting herself, sometimes even — God forgive her! — swearing at poor Bill. She was trying to see to the vegetables while at the same time looking after Ant and tending all the animals on her own.

There were others there who’d be happy to help her. She knew that. But the trouble was, she had her own way of doing things, and if they were to come and try to help, she knew that it’d take her ages to get things back to the order she was used to.

Except it wasn’t really that. The truth was, if she was to have another man come here to help her, she would feel as though it was admitting the fear she felt deep in the pit of her stomach: that he was dead.

He had never been away from home so long before. If he had gone to do any kind of work and been held up, he would always ensure that a message was sent to her, and if there was any doubt, he would have returned in person.

When he had gone, he said he would be no more than three days, maybe. To her that meant two days only. After that she had known something was wrong. And it wasn’t only the length of time, it was the sensation in her belly. There was an unnatural queasiness there that was unsettling. She knew, she knew , that it meant something was wrong. But there was no one for her to tell.