Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

‘Then you could take me away from here, man! Don’t leave me here to be raped and slain by a fool in a drunken fit! What can I do to protect myself?’

Wattere winced and looked away as she stood. ‘Mistress …’ Suddenly a vision appeared before him: a picture of a dead cat, gold and white, with scarlet blood dribbling from its mouth, the head hanging at an impossible angle like a man swinging from a gibbet. It was enough to make his resolve waver as he looked back at this lovely fair-haired … child . ‘What can I do?’

‘Work out a way to take me from here,’ she pleaded. ‘I am only weak, I’ve no weapons, nothing! You brought me to this — surely you can think of a way to help me escape?’

He stared down at her, and thought of the cat. The idea of this maid lying on the bed, blood at her thighs, was enough to make him feel a surge of guilt. The other idea, that the next time he saw her she might be lying on the bed with her neck broken, a trickle of blood lying at her mouth’s corner, was enough to reinforce the guilt and urge him to action.

‘I will see what may be done,’ he said. He hesitated, and then reached behind his back. Withdrawing a small dagger, he gave it to her, and then stood with his breath stilled, half expecting her to stab him.

But no. Instead she gave him a thin smile and took the knife, which she secreted inside her tunic. ‘For that I thank you, Master William. But please, please try to think of a means of escape for me? Please?’

He felt a strange twisting in his breast — an impossible urge to grab the knife back and return to normalcy; but then a pull at his soul made him stop himself. He could not force this woman, this girl, to submit to Basil. That man was no better than a felon waylaying a maid in the street. The difference was, he had her at his power because Wattere had brought her here. It would be better for her to kill herself than submit.

No, Simon Puttock was no friend to him, but his daughter was no more Wattere’s enemy than was the Archbishop of Canterbury. She did not deserve this fate.

‘I will do what I can,’ he said with a firm nod of his head. Then he turned and fled before her tears of gratitude could melt his heart any more.

Road near Nymet Traci

Agnes was not sure about this hard-handed stranger. He looked too worn and battered. Of course, many travellers looked worse, but that was little consolation. This one looked like a man who would have little compunction in taking a woman for his own, and she would not allow that. No man would have her, she resolved.

He had swung her out into the road, and now he followed her, as nimble as before.

‘So you are a sailor, then,’ she said as he dropped lightly at her feet.

‘You know many sailors up here?’ he asked with some surprise.

‘We see them. Often they come past here as they walk from coast to coast.’

‘I can believe it,’ he said wryly. ‘But there are no jobs at either coast.’

‘Not even for you?’

‘Plainly you see more in me than the shipmasters of Devon,’ he said mildly. But already he was staring along the road in the direction the men had taken, back east. ‘Did you know any of those men?’

‘No. I’m not from near here. I live in-’

‘Jacobstowe. Yes — I know.’

‘You sound as though you know them, though.’

‘I saw them a few days ago. That one-eyed bastard in front? He was up the road from here, and I saw him kill a man.’

‘Who?’

‘Just some farmer,’ Roger said.

Agnes felt her face blanch. Her legs began to fail her, and she felt herself waver. ‘Who?’

‘Don’t know. Just some fellow on his way to market, I think.’

He realised her weakness, and quickly took her elbow, holding on to her until the spasm had passed.

‘Are you well, mistress? Do you want to sit?’

‘No, I am fine. But I want to see that one-eyed devil hanging.’

He nodded, as though this was the most natural desire of any woman. ‘Let’s see if we can tell where they were going. I think they must live not far away from here, for it was close by where I saw them kill the farmer.’

Nymet Traci

The yard was clear enough for now. All the castle’s men had repaired to the buttery with the ale they’d confiscated from the alewife transporting it to Bow, and already half the men were singing a series of bawdy songs. Their rough singing could be heard all about the courtyard, and the fact that they seemed already to be drunk was reassuring, but he couldn’t just jump on top of them all. That was impossible.

He stood indecisively for a while, outside the hall, listening to the raucous babble from inside. Up on the walls, he could see more men walking about. They weren’t drunk. And from a quick glance, it was clear that there were at least four of them up there, two at the front, and two chatting in the farther corner. Security today was not a major concern.

There had been times before when Wattere had felt incompetent. Most recently was earlier in the year when he had been told to evict a man, and shortly thereafter had found that the tables had been turned on him. And here he was, seriously contemplating making a lunatic bid to save that same man’s daughter. His wounds stung him with renewed vigour at the mere thought — and yet he was not persuaded to turn from the decision he had taken up there in Edith’s room.

‘You all right, old man?’

A youth of not yet twenty, he was. He had a face erupting with spots that gave him a humorous appearance, but any suggestion that he was prone to such an easy temperament was discounted by the unfeeling expression in his cold grey eyes. He was a little taller than Wattere, but although Wattere felt fairly sure that he could best the lad in a fight, he was not here to pick quarrels. Instead, he made a muttered response, ducked his head and walked over to the stables, where he went to his mount and checked the beast over. There was cause for bitterness there. The horse had not been brushed and cleaned from their last journey, and there was still dried mud clinging to his forelegs.

There was no excuse for not looking after a horse. It made him angry to see his own animal being ignored. But here he was in a strange castle. It would not be sensible to cause a fuss. Especially when he was trying to conceive a plan to help Edith escape. So he merely gritted his teeth, walked to the corner where the brushes were all stored, and grabbed a couple. While making long, regular sweeps over the horse’s back and flanks, he watched the activities in the yard.

He had no idea how to save the child. Perhaps she could simply hide from the guards, and later, when they had gone to find her, she could make her way … But there was nowhere to hide in that little chamber. Nowhere at all. It was impossible. There was nothing he could do here all alone to try to rescue her. It was just ridiculous to think that he could.

Rubbing down the mount, he allowed his thoughts to turn to the more sombre reflection that it was entirely due to his obedience to his master that she was here. Sir Hugh le Despenser had always been a good master to him, though. Reliable, in all ways. If a man betrayed him, he knew what he could expect, just as a man who provided good service for him knew that he would be rewarded. He had himself enjoyed Despenser’s favours over the years. And now he was here in a castle in the wildlands of western Devonshire with a beautiful young woman, having delivered her, so it would seem, to be toyed with by the son of a friend of Despenser. She would soon be raped or dead, if he was any judge.

He had performed similar tasks in the past, capturing women and men so that they could be held hostage, but never before had he known this kind of despair. In the past, they had been treated moderately well, and released when they had served their purpose. He wouldn’t have procured them had he known that they would be treated in the way that Edith would soon be.