Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

Exeter’s West Gate

Baldwin stood at the gateway with a deepening frown on his face. It was past the middle hour now, and the sun was beginning the long, slow journey to the west, and there was still no sign of Edgar.

That was unfair, he told himself for the hundredth time. The distance from his house to Simon’s, followed by the journey from Simon’s to Exeter, meant that there was little likelihood that Edgar could have reached here yet. And every moment that passed meant it was more likely that he had found Edith there with Simon. So Edith and Simon would have to mount their own horses to make the journey here, which would hold up matters a little longer — all of which meant that it was good news that he had seen no one yet. If there was bad news, Edgar would arrive all the sooner.

He forced himself to sit on a nearby bench and lean against the wall. Every so often in the last week the sun had broken through the clouds, and when it did, the flash of warmth would make a man feel as though he was a king. But not today. Today Baldwin felt more like a pauper who craved any form of succour. It was strange how the disappearance of Edith had shocked him. It was only to be expected, of course, because she was in his care from the moment she arrived at his house, but it was hardly his fault if the wayward woman had decided to leave without telling him.

Ach, in God’s name he prayed that she was safe. It would break Simon’s heart were she to be hurt. She could have fallen prey to thieves or outlaws; she might simply have fallen from her horse, and even now be lying in a ditch, for all he knew. The idea of the poor child sobbing in the dirt made his scalp tighten. He could feel the anxiety as a tightening band over the top of his skull.

It was intolerable ! He stood, striding to the gate again. At this time of day, the flow of people in and out was not at its peak — that would be when the gates first opened and all the farmers from around would wait patiently to enter the city to sell their produce — but it was busy for all that, and Baldwin had to curb his tongue as he was jostled and shoved by the peasants who were fighting to get inside.

And then, thank the Lord for His mercy, Baldwin saw a familiar face in among the people pushing their way up the steep hill: Edgar.

Instant relief flooded his soul. At last the others were here. And without a doubt, Simon would be just behind, concealed by the throng. Hopefully Edith would be with them both, he thought, peering around the faces approaching him. He could see Edgar clearly enough, but there was no one else with him, so far as he could tell. No sign of the father or daughter.

The tension in his head grew steadily until Edgar was with him. ‘She was not there?’

‘No, nor Simon either. He’s over at Tavistock, Sir Baldwin. He went there with Sir Richard of Welles.’

Baldwin stared out to the west. ‘Sweet Jesus, Edgar. She could be anywhere, couldn’t she?’

‘I saw no sign on the road. There are not that many roads she could have taken,’ Edgar said reasonably. ‘If you did not see her on your path, then surely she will be either already in the city, or-’

‘She is not. I have hunted for her already,’ Baldwin said.

‘Then perhaps she has halted for some food?’

Baldwin looked at him. ‘What did you tell Margaret?’ he said, not bothering to dignify the comment with a response.

Edgar was patting his mount’s neck as he spoke. ‘Nothing. I only asked whether Simon was there, but when she said he was not, I did not tell her that Edith came to see you. I thought that without Simon there, it would not be kind to tell her.’

‘Good. The last thing we need to do is leave her in a state of fear as well,’ Baldwin said. ‘Dear God, where can she be?’

He walked away from the crowds, away from his servant. There was nothing to be gained by any further remonstration or mental self-flagellation. It would not help Edith. This was a time when action was required. He paced up and down, head down, deep in thought, while he considered options. At last he took a deep breath and returned to Edgar.

‘Very well, we have to raise the posse to search the roads if we can. I shall have to ask the sheriff if he could support the hue and cry being sent along all the paths from here to Furnshill. It is possible that she lies somewhere between Furnshill and Sandford, but we shall have to take that risk.’

‘After all we’ve heard about the sheriff, is he likely to help?’ Edgar said without emotion.

‘We shall have to see,’ Baldwin said.

Jacobstowe

The church had been filled to overflowing as the vicar stood at the altar and went through the formal ceremony that acknowledged Bill’s death, but Agnes knew nothing about that. Her eyes remained fixed upon the funeral hearse and the form of her husband beneath.

Her eyes were gritty from tears and from lack of sleep, and whenever she blinked, it felt as though she was rubbing dirt into the lids, but the pain didn’t concern her. It was almost welcome, as though this was her penance for still living when her darling Bill was gone. How could he do that to her! Just die, without a passing word to say how much he loved her, without saying all those things she’d wanted to hear. There had been no leave-taking, other than the perfunctory form, as though he would only be gone for a few hours. Now he was dead, and she must cope with all the aftermath.

But perhaps it was a justified punishment, for so crassly trying to put all the blame on him for her feelings now, when after all, his poor beautiful face was evidence enough that her man was the one who had suffered and paid for his mortal sins in those last moments of life.

Oh, if only she had been there to take vengeance on the men who did this!

The vicar was motioning to her to turn, and she realised that the hearse was being lifted, to be carried out to the cemetery. In a daze, she followed it, behind the vicar, as he mumbled his incomprehensible words in that weird language.

The graveyard was behind the church, and from here she could see the sweep of the land about. The cemetery was high up, as though the souls would need a tall springboard to make their way to heaven. Not that her man would.

It was a cool day, the sun smothered by grey clouds, and she could feel a shiver run through her body as she looked down. The grave looked so desolate. She would have liked to sprinkle flowers in there. Forget-me-nots, cowslips, poppies, all the flowers he had adored. But this time of year there was nothing. Nothing at all. Even the last roses had given up their petals. All poor Bill could have was his hood. She had brought it with her, tucked into her bosom like a talisman against this hideous ending.

Ant sniffled, and the vicar hesitated, glaring at him as though it was the boy’s fault that he had been interrupted. He should have understood that a child’s despair could not be willed away or thrashed from him. He had to have his cry. It was the natural way.

Anyway, what was the use of the vicar’s words, when no one could understand them? Some said they liked to hear them because they were comforting, like the little rag dolls children would take with them to bed. Well, she had no need of such toys. She would have been happier if he would only talk to her in English, in the good tongue of the land here, the language her husband had spoken, but this gobbledegook was meaningless. It was the language of the priests and vicars who tried to protect souls, and who couldn’t protect her man from those who wanted to kill him. The religious folk were no good to her. She needed a man who could find her husband’s murderers and kill them for her. But there were none about who could do that. The coroner himself had said as much.