Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

‘It is possible. I didn’t consider that,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘It is rather out of the way, for someone riding from Furshill, unless she managed to cross the river much further north.’ He frowned. That was unlikely. No, it was more probable that she had not come here, but had ridden straight to Simon’s. She would want his support and her mother’s sympathy.

He left the gatekeeper and rode on as fast as the streets would allow him to the carfoix, and then turned into the cathedral close. He wanted to ask for the bishop’s aid. Baldwin had the strong impression that this affair could only be resolved with negotiation, no matter what the reasons behind the arrest were.

The bishop’s palace stood at the south-western edge of the close. Baldwin rode straight to it, and soon he was in the bishop’s hall.

Bishop Walter sat at his desk as Baldwin strode in. Baldwin crossed the floor to him, kneeled, and kissed his ring. ‘My lord bishop, you have heard about Simon’s daughter and her husband?’

‘The city is all talking about it,’ Bishop Walter said.

‘Simon will be on his way here already, I expect. My lord, you must help us to have the boy Peter freed. You know what Simon’s temper is like. We have to stop him from doing anything that could exacerbate matters.’

The bishop put his hand on Baldwin’s sadly. ‘You don’t realise, Sir Baldwin. The sheriff has the full support of Despenser. I am afraid I don’t think there is anything you or I can do. The boy will have to remain in gaol until the sheriff decides to put him on trial. And we just have to pray that when he is put to trial, the sheriff and his friends don’t present false evidence or have others to lie in court. But,’ he added heavily, ‘for my part, I believe that such a hope is forlorn.’

Abbeyford Woods

Mark stopped his mount and looked about him as they approached the clearing where the bodies had been found. He had a faint superstitious wariness about the place. It felt … foul . There was some repellent atmosphere that lingered, he was sure. It was the sort of feeling that would make any monk recoil, and he held back, aware of a curious and deeply unpleasant feeling in his belly, as though he was preparing himself for the sudden appearance of a series of demons and ghosts, all ready to assault him. It was, for a moment, supremely terrifying.

And then the moment passed. A single beam of light from the sun burst through the clouds and trees above, shining down into the clearing, and Mark smiled, because he knew God had chosen to ease his mind.

The knight was not happy with him. Well, he wasn’t happy to be here at the beck and call of such an arrogant pig of a man. He had the eating habits and drinking capacity of a hog. Mark had seen him at their short breakfast, guzzling ale until it ran down his chest, mingling with his beard and staining his tunic, chewing while drinking. Utterly revolting. Clearly one of those lower-level rural knights with little in the head and less in the heart.

Mark blew out a long breath and cast about him. The most important thing was the money. That chest with the coin inside was a large casket, fettered with iron and padlocked. It was too much for one man to carry, much too much. It was on a cart, with the archers set about it and two men-at-arms on horseback to give added protection. Not that they had succeeded, of course, he thought sadly, thinking of Pietro and Brother Anselm. He didn’t know Pietro de Torrino well, of course. The portly old fellow had only arrived here in Devon with the cardinal. Brother Anselm was different. He had been at Tavistock for an age. A quick-witted, humorous fellow, Anselm was always playing practical jokes. If it was true that he was dead he really was going to be sorely missed. He was one of those characters who made the misery of cold nights in the church in mid-winter almost bearable.

There was a flash from the sun glinting on metal, and Mark wondered what it might be. Probably an arrow lying on the ground, its energy spent. The men who attacked here must have expended a number of missiles to be able to wipe out so many speedily enough to ensure that none escaped, he thought.

It was a most distressing thought. The idea that a group of men could willingly set themselves to attack a band of wanderers, slaying men, women and children. The charcoal burner had spoken of the nineteen people found here, but he denied that he had heard anything. Almost certainly he was lying — but who could blame a man for being silent on such a matter? As he had said, few would want to expose themselves to the risk of being attacked from men of this sort. And yet no one appeared to know who was responsible, nor where they came from.

He caught another glimpse of the sparkle from the sun. On a whim, he kicked his little beast on, and rode over towards it.

The thing, whatever it was, lay in the midst of a thorny bramble, and he was most reluctant to do anything about it. In truth, he was just thinking about leaving it, when he noticed that a large stick had fallen from a tree nearby. It appeared so fortuitous, that he wondered whether God had been leaving him a most virile clue, and he groaned to himself, dropped from the saddle, and picked up the stick. With it, he was able to push aside the worst of the brambles and see what it was that had glinted so fascinatingly.

There was a thong of leather set in it, and he hooked this with his stick and tried to lift it free, but naturally the thong was untied. It had been removed from a man’s throat, after all. Mark had to push down the worst of the brambles, and then risk reaching in to grab his prize. It was a marvellously wrought crucifix, a most rare item, made from silver, with tiny enamelled decorations up and down each part. Truly, it was a beautiful piece of workmanship.

‘Mark? Mark, where are you?’ he heard Simon call, and he poked about a little more in the brambles, hoping to find something else, but there was nothing.

‘Look. I found this over there in the bushes,’ Mark said. ‘I know this piece of work. It was Pietro de Torrino’s. It’s not English-made. I think he brought it with him from his homeland.’

Simon picked it up and sighed. ‘Yes. I suppose they took it from him and dropped it as they left.’

Mark nodded. The coroner, however, was less convinced. ‘What do you mean? Over there? That’s far from the way in or out, ain’t it?’

It was Mark who frowned and said, ‘So what? Perhaps he took it off himself and flung it away so that no one would take that which he most prized?’

Simon said, ‘Sir Richard, do not forget — we were told that the monk had been tortured. His eyes were put out before he died, so they thought. If that was so, perhaps they were questioning him about where he had thrown his cross?’

‘If they saw it fly through the air, they’d have known. Oh, I suppose the bastards could have just been trying to make him suffer for throwing the thing away. They wouldn’t have found it in the middle of the night, though, would they? No one with a brain would think they could in a wood like this, eh?’

Simon weighed the crucifix in his hand. ‘You’re sure this was Pietro’s? Well, if so, you’d best keep hold of it and take it to the cardinal. But it is curious that it was thrown away. A man like Pietro, surely, would value something like this so highly that he wouldn’t fling it into the woods? He would hold on to it, hoping that he might escape death from his captors. Not many would willingly slay a priest or a monk.’

‘You have a point,’ Sir Richard said. ‘But slay him they did, and the cross was in the bush, so read me the riddle, Simon.’

‘If I could do that, I would be a coroner or keeper!’ Simon chuckled. ‘But I’m a mere seeker of the truth in my own little way. Come! Let’s see what else may be found.’