Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

He strode from the room, unable to trust himself to say more. The behaviour of the man struck him as so dishonourable, so demeaning, he would have expected to see it in the actions of a mere tanner or scavenger, not in a man of position and importance.

But perhaps he was being unreasonable. The man was a merchant, not a knight. He was no warrior, but a man of numbers and money. He had no experience of coping with threats and the power of a man with money and men behind him.

Baldwin was still musing on Charles and his problems when he found himself confronted by the watchman again. Gil was frowning and chewing his inner lips.

‘You wanted me?’ Baldwin asked mildly.

‘Sir Baldwin, I don’t know whether it matters or anything, but there’s a man saw Mistress Edith earlier today.’

Baldwin was listening, but after a day of travelling, of being browbeaten by the sheriff, and now with his mind full of thoughts of the man he had just left, it took a moment before he comprehended what Gil had said.

‘What? Are you sure he said today ?’

‘Yes. It was old Arthur. I met him at the gate earlier. He said he was sure that he saw the mistress heading back west on the Crediton road. She didn’t look happy, he said, but the man with her was enough to make anyone look unhappy.’

Baldwin felt at last as though he was getting somewhere, and there was a wash of relief that flooded his body as he smiled at Gil, but then he realised what he had said. ‘Edgar, quick! Someone has taken Edith and has forced her to ride west from here. We must hurry and follow.’

‘We will not be able to leave the city now,’ Edgar said. ‘The gates will be shut.’

Baldwin nodded, but he looked at Gil. ‘This lady has been captured, you understand me? She has been taken against her will, and even now she may be lying injured at the side of a road — or suffering much worse at the hands of her captors. Will you aid us?’

‘Any way I can, Sir Baldwin,’ Gil said.

‘I need to leave the city. Now! ’

Fourth Tuesday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Nymet Traci

Edith woke with a sore head and the feeling that all was not well. As soon as she opened her eyes, her mouth fell open in a silent scream as the events of the last days came flooding back. She scrabbled away from the bed, falling to the floor and pushing herself backwards to the corner of the wall, where she sat, back jammed hard against it, panting hard like a trapped mouse.

Her hands were sore, but not so bad as she had feared the night before. Her neck was rough too, where the rope had abraded the skin, but generally she did not feel as though she had been too severely treated. In large part, she knew, that was due to the caution of her captor.

Looking about her, the room was a comfortable enough little chamber. She recalled last night seeing that it was in the solar of the hall. Where the knight Sir Robert had one end of the roof space for himself, this room at the opposite end of the hall had been allocated for her. It was warm up here in the eaves, but that was no cause for pleasure on her part. She was aware of an overwhelming rage at her treatment. Stolen away from the road, when she was trying to return to her home and her husband.

Her husband! In her fit of anger at being taken, she had forgotten all about poor Peter, and yet he was still there in the gaol in Exeter, no doubt. He would be terrified, sitting there in the gloom, without companionship or comfort of any sort. Just the thought of his suffering was enough to make the tears well up in her eyes again.

There was a window in the far wall, and she crossed to it, letting the shutter fall down and peering out. The view was to the west, but if she craned her neck she could see the huge rounded mass of Cawsand Beacon over to the south and west. It was enough to make her feel just a little soothed. There were few enough sights that could help her, but the knowledge that Dartmoor was close was itself balm to her soul. She had been so happy there with her parents at Lydford, at their old house.

While she stared, she heard the door open behind her. Instantly she whirled about, keeping to the wall. ‘What do you want?’

The man who had entered was only a little older than her. He had a beard already, which was thick and black, and his eyes were a strange pale grey colour. His body was slim, but powerful. He gave the impression of whipcord instead of muscles. ‘Awake? Good.’

‘Who are you?’

‘You can call me Basil of Nymet Traci, wench.’

She was suddenly aware of his power as he allowed his eyes to slip down her figure. He made her feel as though she was naked, as though he could see through her thin shift, and his gaze passed lingeringly over her breasts and her rounding stomach, down her legs, and back to her face again. ‘It is good to see that the daughter of the troublemaker is so handsome,’ he said. ‘It’ll make the whole process more interesting.’

‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’

‘What I would like with you would be a good roll in the hay, mistress. You look as though you’d be a bawdy wench. Do you know how to waggle your tail? But what you mean to ask is, why are you here, isn’t it? And that is easier to answer. You are being held here to make sure that your father behaves himself.’

‘What does that mean?’ Edith demanded. ‘He will behave honourably at all times.’

‘Oh, you’d best hope not,’ the man chuckled. He stood aside, and a small, frightened woman entered with a trencher holding some pottage and a wooden spoon, with a jug of ale in the other hand. She set them on the floor near Edith, and hurried from the room again. The man looked her over once more, with a smile of appreciation, and then closed the door quietly behind him.

She heard the bolt slide across, and then sat on her mattress, staring down at the food and drink.

It made her feel like throwing up.

Jacobstowe

‘Wake up, Simon, it’s time to get moving!’

Simon came to only slowly. The past day, with the travelling and the investigation when they had arrived here, had made him groggy. At least this time it was not a result of the coroner’s carousing for the night, he told himself wearily as he rolled himself off the palliasse. He shivered in the cool morning air as he pulled on a tunic.

‘Ye know, Simon, that drink last night was not all bad. I was quite taken by his strong ale. It was well flavoured, and it’s given me not the faintest after-effect whatever. Sometimes, you know, I can feel a vague lassitude in the morning after a few quarts, but today — no! I feel absolutely wonderful.’

They were in a small room at the rear of the tavern, a lean-to chamber that had all the comforts of a pigsty, but did at least appear to have clean straw in the palliasses, and although Simon was aware of an itch, he didn’t think it was the result of flea bites but of a straw that had stabbed him during the night.

There was a leather pail of water, and Simon went to it and cupped a handful over his head and neck. It was freezing cold, but enormously refreshing, and he closed his eyes and thrust his head into the bucket. ‘Ah, that’s better!’ he gasped.

‘You’re mad. Ye know that, don’t you?’ Sir Richard said with affable amusement. ‘Food’ll be ready in a few moments, so if you want some, ye’d best hurry.’

‘I will take it with me,’ Simon said as he pulled on hosen and boots. ‘I never eat this early in the morning.’

‘You will fade to naught if you’re not careful,’ the coroner said disapprovingly.

The door opened behind him, and Mark entered. He looked dishevelled and pasty, and entirely unamused.