Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

Sadly, though, he couldn’t very well avoid it entirely. He had asked a few of the grooms and some of the servants about the best way to get back to Exeter. One man had suggested taking the road south and there finding a ship to sail him along the coast, but Stephen had experienced ships before. He knew how unreliable the damned things were in the best of weather. Getting on a ship at this time of year was not to be borne. He understood that the winds were all too changeable, and that could mean either being held in port for days or weeks, or, worse, being tossed about on the open sea until every meal he had ever eaten had returned to haunt him.

There was no better suggestion, though, other than that he should head north, and pass through Oakhampton, thence to Crediton and Exeter. He had little choice, apparently. The alternative was a ride straight across the moors, but all the men he had spoken to were agreed that the roads there were still worse than the usual roads about here. Mostly there was a trail that could be followed over to the middle of the moors, but it was so boggy and treacherous that no one would offer much for his chances when he asked. The main road led from Lydford eastwards, but that was a perilous route: the mires were hideously dangerous, and too many people died on the moors each year. All agreed that it was safer by far to head north.

Stephen had his doubts, but he didn’t feel justified in mentioning the fact that the moors were to him less terrifying than the thought of meeting with Sir Robert again.

As the sky began to darken, he was already on his horse and heading north. He would ride to a small inn he had seen that morning and demand a room for the night. There were not many advantages to his job, but the fact that he could demand and expect to receive a room and food wherever he travelled within the kingdom was a great benefit on occasion.

The weather was cool, but at least for the moment it was dry, and he had on a heavy coat against the wind. This road was a foul one. It followed the line of the river at first, and then began to climb away, up one hill, and through Tavymarie, where the inn stood at the side of the road. At least here there was no need to worry about the dangers of Sir Robert, but even the mere thought of the man was enough to send a shiver down his spine.

He rode on along the valley of the Tavy, his horse’s shoes sinking into the mud regularly. The river had plainly been in flood a little while ago — hardly surprising after this summer’s weather, he thought. All about there was the rushing sound of the fast-moving waters, and he grew lulled by it. Not only that, perhaps. There was the natural feeling of a job done when he had delivered the last message. Now all he need concentrate on was the journey back to London, handing over his final messages, and then home for a rest. Riding so far for so long was exhausting at the best of times, but this had been the worst journey of his life, without doubt. If he never came to Devon again, he would be happy.

The patter of gravel against his leg and his palfrey’s flank made him blink. He had been close to dozing, and the drowsiness was hard to lose, even when his mount jerked his head up and down in anger at such treatment.

‘Messenger?’ a voice said.

Stephen snapped his head around and saw Osbert on his left, a sword already in his hand, kicking his horse forward with grim determination. There was no defence against a man like him on his left, and Stephen drew his own sword as he spurred his beast into a wheel, so that he could meet the attack on his right, but even as he did so, he saw the dark, malevolent form of Basil hurtling towards him from the south. Shooting a look northwards, towards Tavymarie, he saw two more men cantering towards him. It was a most effective ambush — but they hadn’t covered the east!

He hacked with his spurs, and felt the poor creature burst into action. There was a hedge lining much of the road here, but there was a small, narrow gap, which he could take. Whooping at the horse to egg him on, Stephen slapped him hard on the rump with the flat of his sword to encourage him, and bent low over his neck as they sprang through the little gap, not seeing the hempen cord stretched across it.

His horse caught the rope at the mouth, and it tore through the beast’s lips, catching on his teeth and jerking his mouth down to his breast, almost breaking his neck. There was a crack like a small cannon as the rope parted, and one end whipped around, cutting through muscle and tendons on the creature’s left shoulder like a razor and then ripping through Stephen’s thigh.

The pain made them mistime their leap, and instead of the beast’s forefeet landing square, both were angled away. There was a crack as a leg snapped, and suddenly Stephen was hurtling through the air. He had the foresight to drop his sword as he went, just before throwing his arms over his head. He landed in a pool of thick mud, which was at least soft, but winded and stunned, he remained there, panting, for a moment or two before he realised the danger.

‘Oh, Christ in chains!’ he muttered, and tried to stand. His head was sore, but it was the dull-wittedness from shock that slowed him. He could scarcely gather his thoughts as he forced himself to all fours. That was when he grew aware of the laughter.

Looking about him, he saw that his horse was thrashing about on his back, his foreleg flailing uselessly, whinnying in agony. The mud was flying up in all directions as he threw his hoofs about, and Stephen had to push himself away to be safe. And then, as he stared about him, he quickly fumbled in his message pouch. There were two, he knew, that should remain protected. He glanced down to check, and saw that he had the right ones. These he slipped under his shirt. These fools wouldn’t think to look there, he thought. There was no bitterness in his head, only a cold, firm resolve. He would die soon, he knew. His only conviction was that he would try to mark them beforehand.

It wasn’t the horse’s agony that was making the men laugh. It was Basil, who was trying to pick his way through the mud without smothering himself in it. In one hand he held a sword. Fortunately their attention was all on him, and none had seen Stephen’s quick extraction of the messages.

Better to die on his feet, he thought. He tried to stand, even tried to crawl to his own sword, but it was too far away, and his legs would not support him. He turned to face his opponent, pulling at his dagger as he did so, but Basil’s sword was already at his throat.

‘Go on then, you murdering prickle!’ Stephen hissed from clenched teeth. He had to clench them to stop them chattering.

‘We ain’t goin’ to kill you like that,’ Basil said. He leaned down, and suddenly slammed the pommel of his sword into Stephen’s temple. ‘No, you’re dying from an accident, master!’

The messenger was alive still, but his ability to resist was gone. As he was turned over and pressed face first into the mud, he could do nothing at first, and then, as the horror blazed in his mind and hideous pain started to sear his ravaged lungs, he was already too weak to fight back. He tried to kick, to punch, to pinch, anything, but the weight on his head was unrelenting, and his struggles gradually became more staccato as the life fled from him.

Fourth Monday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Furnshill

Baldwin knew something was wrong even as he slept. He was aware of a looming danger, a hideous and overwhelming presence. He dreamed that there was a menacing figure over him, and that although his sword was just to the side of his bed, he couldn’t reach it: he dared not. To move would be to alert the creature to his presence just as surely as calling out. The sweat was running from his body as he lay still, petrified with horror.