Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

Today there was a fine smoke coming from the sides of the oven. It was a perfect-looking pile, Simon thought. Once the smoke had stopped fighting its way from the chamber inside, and the whole oven had cooled, the burners would leave it for some days before breaking into it to retrieve the cooled coals from within. That was more than a week and a half away for this one, by the look of the smoke.

‘God speed, friend,’ Simon said.

Charcoal burners had a reputation for being surly, but in Simon’s experience it was generally the result of living so many months each year away from all other people. They tended to spend all their time in the woods, and the chance of meeting another human was remote.

This man was not like the others he had known, though. At the sight of Simon and the others, he grinned broadly and doffed his cap respectfully. ‘Masters, you are welcome.’

‘Master, God give you a good day,’ Simon responded.

‘Here he always does, master,’ the burner said with a laugh. ‘He gives me water to drink, food to eat, and all the wood I need for my work. What more could a man ask?’

‘You are alone?’ Sir Richard asked.

‘Aye — but there are others in the woods within a short distance,’ the burner said, and his smile became a little fixed, as though he was wondering whether these men had come to rob him.

Simon soon soothed him. ‘Friend, I am sent with the good coroner here to learn more about the deaths of a number of men here some weeks ago.’

‘You’re a coroner? You weren’t here for the inquest.’

Sir Richard shook his head. ‘I am the coroner for Lifton, for the king. However, there is a religious aspect to this attack, and Cardinal de Fargis has asked us to enquire into the details.’

‘Those poor travellers? Ah, that was a bad business.’

‘Did you see them?’ Simon asked.

‘When the coroner came, I went to witness it. I thought it was right, you know? Seemed wrong for the folks there to have all been killed and no one go to tell their story for them.’

‘Were there not many there at the inquest?’

‘Oh, most of us went in the end. But people weren’t going to at first, because of nervousness.’

‘Why?’ Simon asked.

‘Why do you think? There was a man there, a priest, I think. He was a crophead. They’d cut his eyes out. Coroner said it might have been before he was killed. Who’d do a thing like that? A bunch of outlaws big enough to kill so many must have been a large band indeed. And any man who goes to try to help catch such people is likely himself to be killed. No one wants to take risks. But we who live here in the trees have an appreciation of how to treat people. And we have strength in our numbers.’

Sir Richard nodded. ‘Yes, and the best thing is, you’re all used to working with your hands and sharp tools, eh? Any felon trying his luck with coppicers would find himself down one arm! Eh?’

‘Well, there is that,’ the man said equably.

Sir Richard grinned and looked about them. He knew perfectly well that there were other coppicers near, and almost certainly all watching him. ‘You can tell them to loosen their bowstrings, friend.’

‘I expect you were asked much about the night of the attack?’ Simon said.

‘Yes.’

‘Did you hear any attacking men that night? Passing up this road, say? Returning in a hurry?’

‘No, there was nothing. The bastards must have come from north of here.’ The man was very convincing in his certainty.

‘Can you show us where the folks were all found?’ Simon asked.

The man eyed him and the others for a moment, and then gave a nod. ‘Yes, master. Follow me.’

Furshill

The journey to Simon’s house was at least a half-morning’s ride, while that to Exeter was a little longer. Baldwin spent the early morning rushing about gathering necessary items ready for his journey, bellowing orders to the servants and his wife, before taking a late breakfast with Edgar.

‘Do you go to Simon’s house with all the speed you can muster,’ he said. ‘I am depending upon your speed, Edgar. You must tell Simon about his daughter’s husband and her predicament. Tell him that the sheriff is an ally of bloody Despenser, and that the man is no friend to Simon. You can also tell him that Edith’s father-in-law heard the sheriff say that it was her fault his son was in gaol.’

‘Are you sure Simon should hear that?’ Jeanne asked quietly. ‘He may not take heed of caution if he’s told that.’

‘I can calm him when he reaches Exeter,’ Baldwin said. ‘For now, I deem it essential that he understands the full danger of the situation. Tell him all that, Edgar, and then ride with him.’

Jeanne said, ‘Would it not be better for you to go to Simon, Baldwin? Then you could try to dissuade him from any rashness.’

‘My love, how could I stop him? This is his daughter and her husband we are talking about. I would not think even the bishop himself could persuade Simon to remain quietly at home, say, for his own security.’

Later, as he rode quickly along the faster road to Exeter, he was reminded of those words.

It was impossible to ask a man to remain safe at home when his daughter was in danger. And Baldwin was convinced that Edith was in trouble of a very serious nature. If the sheriff saw fit to take her husband, the repercussions would be extremely grave. For the man to behave in this manner, he must be certain in his own mind that he was secure. Despenser — perhaps the king himself — must have assured him that he was safe.

There was another aspect of the affair that gave Baldwin some pause for thought. The comment about poor Peter only being in danger because of Edith and Simon had been made to Edith’s father-in-law, and that surely meant that the sheriff’s words, and the implicit challenge in them, had been intended to be relayed to Simon. Baldwin’s fear now was that there was a trap being set for Simon in Exeter. And he intended to be there for Simon when he arrived so that he could protect his friend.

He made good time. For once the weather had held, and as he clattered down the Oakhampton Road to the old inn at the foot of Cowick Street, and began to thunder at a canter over the massive bridge, past the chapel of St Edmund on his left, past the reek of the tanner’s works on Exe Island, and up to the great gate itself, he was aware of an increasing fear for Simon’s safety.

His luck held at the gate, too. The porter here, Jankin, was a younger man, with the cheerful disposition of a tavern keeper with a new brew to sell. His brown eyes were a light colour, with a little red in them, and he had the appearance of a man who was never far from a happy thought. He looked as though he would be more at ease before a fire with a jug of strong ale near to hand. ‘Sir Baldwin, God speed!’

‘God give you a good day,’ Baldwin returned. ‘Good Master Jankin, have you see my friend Simon Puttock’s daughter this morning?’

‘Mistress Edith? No. She hasn’t passed by here. I know her well.’

‘Are you sure? She was sleeping at my house last night. You have heard of her husband?’

‘Peter, the son of Charles the Merchant? Yes. The whole city knows about his arrest. There is no sense in it, Sir Baldwin. Nobody can make sense of that. He is as rebellious as a sheepdog. He wouldn’t hurt the king for anything.’

‘No, I agree. But he has been accused, so must be arrested. These are hard times, my friend. Edith was so fearful, she left my house before light this morning. I assumed she came back here, but you are sure she didn’t pass by?’

‘I would have seen her. There’s been no sign of her today,’ Jankin said with certainty. ‘Could she have ridden to the north gate instead of mine?’