Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

There was a kind of suppressed urgency about John Pasmere as Simon watched him. The fellow looked up at Simon, then out through the door towards the irritable coroner and the monk, and then to his fire. His mouth moved, although for some while no noise came, and then suddenly the dam broke, and he began to mutter.

‘There’s no one safe from those evil bloodsucking bastards. Who’d trust them to their word anyway? There’s no rule here except theirs, and then they make it up and change it whenever they want. The bastards! They live here, taking all they want, all we need, and threaten any man if he so much as raises a complaint, but when a decent man-’

‘Pasmere, calm yourself. I don’t understand …’

‘Oh yes, they can promise death and ruin, but what does that mean to us? Eh? We live in the shadow of the great lords all the while, and then they deign to notice us if they want something, but more often they ignore us. Unless we have something they want.’

Simon waited and watched. The man was working himself into a fine froth. He reminded Simon of a small dog he had once seen, tied up, barking at a cat that lay basking in the sun a short distance away. It was clear to all that the cat was there to taunt the dog, as cats will, and yet the only creature there who did not understand was the dog, working itself into a maddened fury and testing the strength of the thong binding it. In the end it was stilled when a man sent the cat flying with an accurately aimed stone.

John Pasmere was rather like the dog. Barking ineffectually, raging incoherently, he could no more harm his cat than could the dog. It was tempting to strike the man, but Simon could not do so. Instead he made as though to leave.

‘No, sir. I will be calm.’

Simon said, ‘I have no time to listen to a madman’s ravings. I have much to do if I am to seek to avenge the reeve and the others.’

‘It was the men — his men — Sir Robert of Nymet Traci. They’re the ones killed your man the reeve.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because it’s my fault,’ John Pasmere snapped, his face as hard as stone.

Nymet Traci

William atte Wattere sat on the stool with a grunt of satisfaction. The previous day had been painful. Sleeping rough was not novel to him, but to rise so early as he heard her horse pass him, and then the need to catch her making him hurry over packing, grabbing his horse, saddling and bridling the brute while he tossed his head and jerked against the cinch, did not improve his temper. And then he had to ride all the way almost to Exeter before he managed to get close enough, just so he could bind the bitch and bring her all the way back here again.

It hadn’t been easy, trailing after her. He had wanted to catch her the day before, when she was riding to Sir Baldwin’s house, but it hadn’t been possible. She had ridden like a woman possessed, and the roads, while not full, were less empty than the next morning. The next morning, however, while she was still a little fuddled so early, it had been much easier.

But that all meant a long day in the saddle. Perhaps he could have shortened the way, but at the time it seemed sensible to take a little more time and not scare her. A woman in more fear might have had a fainting fit, or panicked and tried to ride off, meaning he’d have to kill her, and she was no good to him dead.

My lord Despenser had told him to catch her and bring her here safely, after all. That was the purport of the message. Bring her here to Nymet Traci and make sure that she was protected. And then, later, when her father knew where she was, and had complied with Sir Hugh le Despenser’s demands, and the matter at Tavistock was resolved, then she could be released. Quietly.

Meanwhile, William intended getting outside a quart or two of wine and snoozing the day away.

He was in the buttery when a slim figure appeared in the doorway, a dark-skinned man in his early twenties. ‘Ale, you ballock-faced hog,’ the newcomer called to the bottler.

William looked at the bottler with interest to see how the fellow would respond. When he had first entered this little chamber, the bottler had immediately struck him as a man who would be enthusiastic about laying about him with a cudgel if any man was rude. He was about five feet six inches tall, but his barrel chest was enormous, and his biceps were each the size of a small oak. Still, even with the provocation offered by the man in the doorway, he made no comment. Instead he ambled slowly back to his bar and filled a large jug from the barrel. He stood for a moment with the jug in his hands, and William thought he would throw it over the new fellow, but instead he appeared to steel himself, and took the ale to the man.

‘Master Basil,’ he said, proffering the jug.

William watched as the man drank the ale, then lightly tossed the jug in the bottler’s direction, striding off before the man had managed to catch it.

‘Who’s he?’ William asked.

‘Sir Robert’s son,’ the man said gruffly. ‘You’d do well to avoid him.’

Wattere couldn’t agree more. He finished his drink and walked out into the sunshine, but here he almost tripped over a cat.

‘Hoi, you cretin! Be careful.’

Wattere was angry, having almost fallen, but there was something about the voice that seemed familiar, and when he turned, he saw the same man.

Basil was standing in the shadows, pulling on a piece of string that the cat was toying with as he dragged it away. He glanced at Wattere with contempt, then returned his full attention to the young cat.

It was a lively little thing. Golden, with white patches; almost a kitten. It reared up as the string was flicked upwards and then crouched to spring forward as it was drawn away. Gradually, pouncing and leaping, it was brought closer and closer to Basil, who grinned to himself. ‘You brought the girl here, eh?’

‘Yes. She is called Edith.’

‘I don’t give a shit what her name is. She is a fresh little chauntle, isn’t she? Ripe as a berry,’ Basil said with a smack of his lips.

‘She is a fair little maid, certainly.’

‘I’d bet she could squirm like a snake. Thighs like little pillows, and her lips as luscious as a fig.’

‘She’s only here to be kept safely,’ Wattere said pointedly.

‘Are you telling me what I can and can’t do in my own castle?’ Basil said, looking up. There was an expression of genuine surprise on his face, Wattere saw.

It gave him the confidence to speak out. ‘This castle is still owned by Sir Hugh le Despenser. Sir Hugh is my master.’

‘Oh.’

‘She is here because he asked me to bring her, and your father holds her for Sir Hugh. She is not to be molested, Master Basil.’

‘Really?’

Wattere felt his senses heighten. It was the way of a man when he was preparing to do battle, for every aspect of perception to increase. His hearing was never stronger, his nostrils could detect the faintest odours, his eyes appeared to be able to focus more intently, and as he stood there, the picture of apparent ease, he was aware of each and every muscle in his arms, in his shoulders, in his thighs, even in the fingers of his hands. All were singing to him the song of war, of killing and of death. ‘You don’t think my lord Despenser should see his orders honoured?’

‘Of course he should,’ Basil said. He flicked the string and smiled as the cat approached a little, then sprang back out of his reach, sitting and waiting for the next game. ‘His every whim should be honoured. In any castle he owns.’

‘You realise you are talking about the most powerful man in the kingdom,’ Wattere said.

‘Yes. Not in this castle, though.’

‘What?’