Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

The abbacy was entirely in the hands of God. Robert Busse would not demean the position by stealing to gain it.

Abbeyford Woods

Simon and Sir Richard gazed about them as they returned to the wide space in the middle of the trees. It was a glorious place for a camp, and Simon could easily understand why it would have been chosen, although there was one detail that confused him. It had been in his mind already, but Mark’s discovery of the crucifix had somehow solidified it. ‘What were they doing so far north of the road from Oakhampton?’

Sir Richard looked at him questioningly. ‘Eh?’

‘Just look at this place. The Exeter road is due east from Oakhampton. If they’d been going to the king, they’d have carried on to Exeter and London, so they’d have left Oakhampton by the Crediton Road. Why turn north?’

The coroner shrugged. ‘That is something to consider,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps they were lost? It happens. I once left a town near London and started off towards home, as I thought, but when the clouds cleared I learned I was heading off to Scotland. When it’s cloudy, it is easy to become confused.’

Brother Mark sniffed haughtily. ‘It was a clear day.’

‘What was?’

‘The day that these fellows left. It was just over two weeks ago, and we have had excellent weather from then until a week ago. Do you try to tell me that they would have had the immense stupidity to think that north was east? If this was the group, there were two good brothers with them, and although Pietro didn’t know the area, Brother Anselm would never have made so elementary an error.’

‘Oh, really?’ the coroner said, and would have continued, but then he frowned, and nodded. ‘Even a monk with a butcher’s crop must know where the sun rises and sets.’

‘Well, Anselm did. I know he was good at directions. It makes no sense for him to have come up here.’

Simon left them and began searching about the area.

The charcoal burner was standing watching the three, arms akimbo, an expression of amusement on his face. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Anything that could tell us what happened here,’ Simon said shortly. ‘Sometimes the men who commit acts of this nature can leave signs behind to show who they were.’

‘There’s no doubt who they were,’ the charcoal burner said.

‘You know?’ Simon asked.

‘I reckon anyone east of here would be able to guess. They don’t often come here, but just recently there’s been a number of folks killed on the roads.’

‘Not here, you say?’ Sir Richard demanded. ‘Where, then? Who do you think could be responsible?’

‘Sirs, I come from Coleford. I only wander over here a few times each year. Round my home, there are always stories of men being knocked on the head and their goods stolen. And I’m told that there is a large force in Bow. A force of men that would be able to fight even a large party of travellers.’

The coroner’s face took on a scowl. ‘Bow? That’s where Sir Robert lives, isn’t it? He’s a knight.’

Brother Mark gave a short harrumph.

‘What is that supposed to mean, Brother Mark?’ Sir Richard said sharply.

‘Only that there are enough knights who have failed to live up to their chivalric ideals. Would you be so shocked to learn that this Sir Robert was another in the same mould?’

‘Monk, you overstep your position,’ Sir Richard said. ‘But in this case you may be right.’

Brother Mark sniffed disdainfully.

‘Do you know many who live about this area?’ Simon said to the charcoal burner.

‘A few. Most are up at Jacobstowe.’

‘How far’s that?’ the coroner said, still eyeing Brother Mark suspiciously.

Simon could answer him. ‘It’s only a matter of a mile or so. I assume that’s where they took the bodies?’

‘I reckon,’ the charcoal burner agreed.

‘Did you tell the coroner about your suspicions?’ Simon said.

‘No. He didn’t see me. The others around here, they all wanted to keep it quiet.’

‘That’s stupid,’ the coroner declared. ‘Keep it quiet and they’ll be fined all the more.’

‘Aye, perhaps that’s true,’ the burner said easily. ‘But at least they won’t have Sir Robert of Traci coming to visit and ask ’em why they have been telling stories about him.’

Crediton

William atte Wattere had kept a tight grip on her all the way from the Exe to here, and Edith dared not make a sound as they rode up the high street, only praying that none of her father’s friends might see her and ask where she was going.

There were enough people whom she knew here. This was the town where she had gone all the time when she was a child, the only large market town near her home. And her father had regularly brought her here with her mother when he came to have discussions with the priests, especially Dean Peter at the church. It had sometimes seemed to her that more of her life was spent here in Crediton with her mother in the shops than was spent at their farm.

Surely someone must see her and comment? She hoped not. The thought of the man’s reaction were that to happen was too dreadful to contemplate. It made her shiver, and she could feel the hot bile in her throat at the thought. If anyone challenged them, he had made it clear what he would do.

The road was a great broad swathe through the centre of the town, and the rich red mud was stirred by travellers, splashing liberally over horses and men alike. People at the side of the road would dart back away from any approaching horse and rider: all were reluctant to stand too near and have their finest clothing stained and ruined. Few even turned to look as she was led up the slight incline that gave on to the town proper from the flat pastures east of the town. There was one woman whom Edith was sure she recognised, a woman called Beatrice, who was the wife of a silversmith, but the woman only frowned at the fast pace of the horses, and turned with a scowl of contempt at people who threatened other folk’s tunics with their urgency.

There were monks and canons, traders, hawkers and merchants all over the town. They were most of them known to Edith personally, and if she were to call to them, some might recognise her, perhaps even run to her aid.

‘Oh Holy Mother, please don’t let them know me,’ she whispered.

Because by the time anyone managed to reach her, she would be dead. Wattere had slipped a rope about her neck, and even now it lay there, a heavy, prickly mass that felt like death itself. If she was to try to ride away, if she was to merely stop, or turn her horse aside, he had threatened that he would immediately spur his own beast, and drag her from hers by the throat. She would be throttled within a few yards, if she didn’t break her neck.

Not that anyone would see it. He had carefully bound it about her throat and then hidden it beneath her cloak so that prying eyes wouldn’t notice. All anybody could see, if they were close enough, was a cord joining her horse to a loop over his wrist.

But it did mean she daren’t call out. Any opportunity for doing so had flown as she cowered from him and he tightened the hemp about her like an executioner on the gallows. No, she dared not call for help, even though the thought of what he might do to her was enough to leave her petrified with terror. Although if he was going to rape her, surely he would already have done so, wouldn’t he? And he must know that there was no point trying to rob her. She had nothing of any value on her person. No, it was more likely that he wanted her for some other reason.

But if it wasn’t rape, and it wasn’t to steal from her, she had no idea what that reason could be. All she knew was that worry about her fate was sending her half mad with fear.