Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

In all honesty, he wouldn’t know whether an attack like that was good or bad. It was only successful or not.

‘That man I spitted on my sword!’ Basil said exultantly. ‘I stuck it in his gut, and it just opened him from cods to collar, all his bowels spilling on the grass!’

Osbert remembered that. The man had been holding his hands over his head, as though that could be any protection! Basil’s sword had almost completely eviscerated him, and then some woman — his wife or sister — had run to his side, and Basil had paused, then ridden back to thrust his sword into her back, a short way below her neck, a cruel blow that had pinned her for a moment to the man. Then Basil had laughed, that high, keening laugh that showed always that his blood was up and his spirits flying, before tugging his blade free and hunting another.

The surprise had been complete, after all. Osbert had led them to the points where they could attack, and the little force had thundered in at the same time, hacking and stabbing all as they rose, befuddled, wiping the sleep from their eyes, before any could grab more than a dagger to protect themselves. Soon there was only the monk remaining alive. And he had endured a bad death, cursing them all in his strange foreign accent as they beat him, cut small incisions in painful locations, and finally, at Basil’s suggestion, took his eyes as well, just to make sure he really didn’t know where the money had gone.

‘Well perhaps you’re right,’ Basil said at last.

Osbert grunted his gratitude. Basil set off again, lolling indolently in his saddle, while Osbert followed a short distance behind. But Osbert wasn’t fooled, and he kept his dagger loose in its sheath.

Exeter

The castle was ever a bustling place, but today it was still more busy than usual, and Baldwin gazed about him with surprise as he entered the gates. Grabbing the arm of a clerk hurrying past with an immense pile of rolls in his arms, he asked what the reason was for all the activity.

‘There is to be a court of gaol delivery,’ the clerk snapped, snatching his arm away and hurrying on, clutching at his records as though fearing that they might be prised from his arms before he could deliver them.

Baldwin shook his head. The court might well delay matters. If he was to try to interrupt its decisions while it was sitting, the sheriff might feel it inconvenient at least. Many sheriffs could take umbrage at such interruptions, and Baldwin had no desire to set off on the wrong foot with the man.

‘Come,’ he snapped, and hurried over the courtyard.

Rougemont Castle was a sadly dilapidated fortress. The towers were in a poor state of repair, and parts of the curtain wall had been rebuilt recently after a collapse. Until thirty years ago, many of the towers had been without their roofs, and three had fallen twenty years before. The rubble from two still formed piles near the wall where they had stood. It was not a picture of martial or judicial intimidation.

However, it was the centre of justice for the whole of Devon, and the hall at the far end of the yard was the site of the courts held in the king’s name and in the presence of the sheriff, his deputy for the area.

Baldwin passed into the great chamber, and was relieved to see that the sheriff and his advisers were not yet in their seats. Some men mingled, indulging in self-important posturing behind the tables, while clerks set out their inks and reeds, knives and quills, ready to begin to record the great decisions that would soon be taken. Meanwhile there was a steady clanking and rattling of chains from the chambers nearby, where the prisoners stood in abject terror, waiting to learn whether they were to live or die today.

‘Where is the sheriff?’ Baldwin asked a guard, and the man looked as though he might tell Baldwin to leave the chamber and take up an affair with his own mother, before he saw the urgency and resentment in Baldwin’s eyes.

Soon Baldwin and Edgar were waiting in a chamber that was considerably smaller. They had been asked for their weapons, and Baldwin felt oddly undressed here without his sword. For some reason, it felt very peculiar to be preparing to meet another knight without it.

It was perfectly normal for a man to be asked to relinquish his weapons at another man’s hall. After all, assassination was an unpleasant reality, and one means of defending against such an attack was to ensure that visitors were unarmed. But it was more than that — it was also a sign of respect to the master of the house — and in this case, it was a mark of respect to the king himself, for this was his castle, and it was his sheriff holding court in his name.

There was a door at the far end of the room. The latch rattled, and the door slammed wide as a man strode in, tugging at gloves as he came. ‘These gloves are shite! Tell that prick of a glover that if he can’t adjust them to my hands, he can take ’em back and burn ’em, because I’ll not pay for ’em. Sod the bastard! Right, you, what do you want?’

He had reached a large throne-like chair, and now he flung himself into it with an expression of bitterness on his face. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

Sir James de Cockington was an arrogant man, fairly young for a sheriff, perhaps six-and-twenty, fair haired, with rather too much authority for Baldwin’s taste. He wore a thick blue tunic with plenty of golden embroidery at the neck and hem, and there was a lot of gold on his fingers. An emerald and a large ruby, among others, but Baldwin couldn’t see the rest as the man sat and waved his hands. His eyes were cold, his demeanour uncaring, rather as though he was a great lord and a retainer had come to plead with him for alms. He was undoubtedly good looking, but Baldwin felt that there was little generosity of spirit, for all his fine clothes and decoration.

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, not some mere petitioner,’ Baldwin said with restraint. ‘I am a King’s Keeper of the Peace. I believe that a respected woman of the city has either been hurt in an accident, or may have been taken by outlaws.’

‘Why?’

Baldwin felt Edgar’s pique at the sharp tone. ‘Because she left my house this morning and has not arrived here. She was not on the road I passed along, and-’

‘And you feel guilty at having let her travel alone, no doubt. Well, your guilt is your affair, Sir Knight, not the king’s. There are thirty men here to be hanged today, and I have to get through them all. So if you want this little chit, I suggest you hurry back home and check the roads yourself.’

‘This woman is a respectable-’

‘Respectable enough to visit you at night, eh?’ the sheriff said with a slow grin.

‘Your meaning?’ Baldwin asked quietly.

‘What did you do to her? Come, we’re all men here. Did you scare her when you pulled her clothes from her?’

‘She is the daughter of a good friend of mine,’ Baldwin said. ‘She suffered no indignity at my hands, nor would she ever.’

‘A good friend?’ the sheriff repeated, his head tilted slightly. ‘You don’t mean that wench married to the fellow in my gaol?’

‘You have her husband in the gaol, yes,’ Baldwin said coolly. ‘Perhaps this would be a good moment to enquire what his offence might be?’

‘He may be guilty of treason,’ the sheriff stated airily.

‘With whom; when; what was the nature of his offence-’

‘Do you mean to interrogate me, Sir Baldwin?’ the sheriff asked, slowly leaning forward to peer at Baldwin as a man might study a curious insect.

‘I mean to learn under what pretext an innocent man has been beaten, arrested and held.’

‘Then you should stay to listen in my court. Perhaps you will learn about justice and the exercise of it,’ the sheriff said, leaning back in his chair again. But all pretence was gone now. His eyes gleamed as he spoke. ‘In the meantime, the man will remain in gaol. Perhaps, if I can get through a heavy workload, we may listen to the case against this Peter. But then again, I may find that the court is slow today. Business can so often be lengthy, can it not?’