Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

The knock on her door was only the confirmation.

Furnshill

Edith almost fell from the horse at Baldwin’s door as she ran to it and pounded on the timbers. ‘Sir Baldwin! Sir Baldwin, help me!’

‘My dear Edith, whatever is the matter?’

She turned to find Baldwin behind her, Jeanne and his household approaching up the lane. ‘My husband, Sir Baldwin, he’s been taken by the sheriff, and I don’t know what to do!’

The door was opened, and she allowed herself to be brought inside, but she felt like one stupefied. Her hearing was less acute, her legs were unsteady, and she was all the while aware of a strange whooshing sound in her ears, which made her want to sit.

Sir Baldwin helped her to his own chair before the fire, and his wife began to issue commands. She told Edgar to fetch wine, Petronilla was ordered to bring cloths and a bowl of cool water, a maidservant was told to find some sweetmeats from the box in the pantry, and then all the other household members were ordered to leave.

‘I feel sick,’ Edith said. The nausea began in her belly, it was true, but it wasn’t only that. There was the foul noise in her ears again, too, and now she was aware of flashing lights before her eyes. It was enough to make her heave. She had to close them just to stop the lights, to stop the urge to vomit.

‘Let me!’ Jeanne said to her husband, who had never been good when the children were sick, and she bellowed at the top of her voice for Petronilla again, to bring a bowl. The noise of her shouting was almost enough to make Edith throw up on the spot, but then the pandemonium eased and she was aware of a cool, damp cloth at the back of her neck, another on her brow, and even as she retched, her chest and belly tensing badly, she was aware of the effect of them. She was beginning to improve.

‘Tell me what has happened,’ Baldwin said.

His voice seemed to come from a great distance, as though the result of closing her eyes had made her a little deaf. It was too difficult to concentrate, too disorientating, and she forced her eyes open again. ‘It’s Peter! He’s been arrested for treason against the king!’

Lydford

Simon woke with the blessed feeling that all was well with the world. He stretched languidly, aware that there were birds singing loudly outside, and smelled fresh bread baking. His head felt fine, his arms were unstrained, his shoulders worked easily, and his eyes, when he opened them, focused.

This was the best morning’s wakening he had known while staying with Coroner Richard. It was almost as though the coroner had not been with him yesterday.

Simon was soon in his old hall, which felt odd. Last night it had been different. Perhaps it was because he had arrived here as a stranger, and was invited in. This morning, though, it was more peculiar. He had woken in his house, but not in his bed, and walked down to the hall which was his, and yet was filled with different people, servants and clerks who were entirely unknown to him. It made his breakfast feel rather unsettling.

‘Ha! Simon, glad to see you surfaced! Can’t keep a trout from snapping at the bait, eh? I said you’d be here as soon as you smelled the food. Don’t suppose you slept too well, though, eh? Not enough wine,’ added Sir Richard in an undertone. ‘Pox on the clergy for keeping their booze to themselves.’

‘So, Bailiff, I hope I see you well?’ the cardinal said.

Simon nodded, bowing low. ‘Very well, my lord.’

‘And have you considered whether or not you would like to take on the duty I asked?’

‘I would be very happy to see what I can learn about the death of your man, if it was him.’

‘There is an easy way to find out. Inspect the body, and if it is poor Pietro, you will find a ragged scar as long as my hand’s breadth on his right thigh. Just here,’ he said, resting his hand on his upper thigh. ‘He was kicked by a mule once, and the brute had a worn shoe that was as sharp as a razor. It made a most impressive scar.’

The steward hurried to his side, and the cardinal nodded as he whispered in his ear. ‘Most interesting. There is a messenger from the king.’

Simon nodded, and he and Sir Richard stepped back as the dishevelled messenger appeared. He had clearly set off on his journey very early to have arrived here already.

‘Where did you come from, messenger?’

‘I was at Bow last night, my lord, and left there as early as I could to bring messages for you and for the abbey at Tavistock.’

‘Please refresh yourself while you are here, then. I am sure a little wine and bread would be good? You should not be travelling today, though. Today should be a day of rest.’

Stephen of Shoreditch nodded, but he could not say that he was travelling because he was far from keen to remain in the castle at Bow. He was sure that he was not safe there. ‘I shall take my rest when I reach Tavistock.’

‘Good. Good,’ the cardinal said. ‘In the meantime, you can join us as we go to the church, yes?’

‘I would be delighted to,’ Stephen said.

Simon thought he looked worn out, but so often, he guessed, most messengers must look like that. They had to travel at least five-and-thirty miles each day, and still be bright enough to relay verbal messages or instructions, as well as being prepared to collect a reply. It wasn’t the best job in the world.

There were worse, of course. And just now Simon didn’t envy the cardinal. He was clearly a man who was putting on a good face as he strode along the road with his clerks behind him, their gowns flying in the wind like so many bats, while the servants struggled behind. The breeze was gusting viciously every so often, and the women were forced to hold on to their wimples, the men their hoods and hats, as they walked down the road, past the great blockhouse of Lydford Castle, the stannary prison and courthouse, to the church just beyond.

Simon had always loved this church. Once Lydford had been a great focus for the rebels against King William, so he had heard, because the townsfolk refused to accept that they must lose all their privileges and customs to the upstart king. This town, which had stood for a hundred years or more, and which was so highly regarded by the ancient kings of Wessex that they had granted the place the right to mint coins, would not listen to this new king from Normandy.

They were crushed, of course, as all the rebellious towns and cities were; as all were still. The use of force, that was the most effective power a king possessed. That was why, when Bristol refused to pay the king’s tallage in 1312, King Edward II had sent the posse of the county against the city, and forced it to submit after a lengthy siege. And then his punishment of the city folk was exemplary.

But that was the way kings proved their right to rule — by regular exercise of overwhelming force. And this king was no different from his ancestors in that way. He was different because he used ruthlessness and vindictiveness on a scale never before seen. If a man was thought to have slighted him or his favourite, that man would be humiliated at best. Many were simply executed. But Edward took the whole concept of revenge to a new level, imprisoning wives, daughters and sons, and disinheriting boys for the infractions of their fathers. There was never a king who had used such formidable authority against his subjects before. Not in English history.

These reflections were enough to distract Simon from the sermon, which was, in any case, more lengthy than he would have liked, and the time passed moderately swiftly until the end of the service, when he found himself hemmed in by Sir Richard on one side and the messenger on the other.