Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

‘What? Where?’ Baldwin snapped.

‘Osbert is John Pasmere’s son, from over there. Didn’t you know?’

Pasmere’s house

Osbert chewed the dry bread and sipped his ale through it, trying to moisten it in his mouth. ‘You eat this all the time, old man? Christ’s cods, it’s a miracle you’ve any teeth left!’

‘Shut your noise, boy. It’s better than most eat about here. There’s not much in the way of food since your precious master returned to the castle.’

‘Aye, the churl was keen to rob all about,’ Osbert said with a low chuckle.

‘So were his men. I heard about the murder of Jack.’

‘Eh?’

John Pasmere sneered. ‘ Eh? Eh? Jack Begbeer. A good man, he was. Not some miserable lying churl who deserved to die with a knife in his gut.’

‘In his throat, old man. I’m not so useless with a knife that I could miss a target like that.’

‘You killed him yourself?’

‘The others were all cowering from him,’ Osbert said. He took a slurp of ale from the cup at his side, chewing slowly. ‘I couldn’t let them see a peasant get one over me.’

‘My own son turned murderer, eh? Wonderful. So now we’ll both hang.’

‘Only if we’re caught. And I don’t mean to be.’

‘I never thought this would end with friends being killed, Os.’

‘Then you were a fool. Innocents always die. Don’t go all soft on me.’

‘You used to play with old Jack, though. What’d he ever done to you?’

Osbert looked at him. ‘What does that matter? He had provisions we wanted. And we had more weapons and I had more men. He should have let us take them.’

‘Was he raised to surrender to any cutpurse at the side of the road?’

‘Perhaps not. If he was, he’d be alive now.’

‘You shouldn’t have killed him, boy.’

‘What’ll you do now with the money?’ Osbert asked, bored with the recriminations about his actions.

John Pasmere stared into his little fire. He listlessly collected up fallen twigs and flung them into the flames. ‘Me? What would I do with a hundred pounds in silver? Or a third of it?’

‘A half, old man.’

‘You keep your half, and let the monk have his. There’s too much blood on this money. I want no part of it.’

Osbert was tempted to tell him then, but it was pointless. ‘You sure of that? If you are, I’ll just go.’

‘Yes. Go. I don’t have a son. Not any more. You are dead to me, Os. Take the money and flee. I only pray that one day you will go and beg forgiveness at the altar where Jack used to pray.’

‘P’haps. One day.’

‘Do it, Os!’ his father hissed, staring at him.

Osbert looked pathetic. ‘What is this? You were happy enough to win the money with me. What makes you so cross about it now?’

‘When we won it, those people would have died anyway. I didn’t have any part in killing them. Nor did you, truly. They would all have been killed by Sir Robert. But Jack, that’s different. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to have his life shortened. Can’t you see that, boy?’

Osbert fingered his nose, then pointed at his empty socket. ‘See this, old man? I won this fighting for the likes of the king and Sir Robert. What did it get me? Two shillings, one from each. And later Sir Robert realised I was still alive, and he gave me board and lodging. In exchange for some peace and meals, he let me run about the county stealing for him. What’s the difference between him and any outlaw? But since I took the money he wanted, I’ve got a life of my own again. You ask me why I killed Jack. Because I could. Because I saw no reason not to kill him. Ach, you can’t understand. You haven’t been marked like me. But now all is different again. Sir Robert’s dead, and soon his son will be too, if I’m any judge. There’s nothing for me here now.’

‘Then stay and farm with me!’

‘Do I look like I’d make a good farmer?’ Osbert said with a measure of contempt. ‘It’s not the life for a man who’s used to commanding others and taking what he needs.’

John Pasmere looked back into the fire. He appeared to shrivel into himself, misery etching his features. ‘Then go. And we won’t see each other again. I have no son.’

Osbert said no more, but drained his cup and finished his stale bread. He left soon afterwards, while Pasmere remained silent, his eyes glittering with the flames of the fire. Osbert took his father’s old barrow, and followed the track up north that led into the little coppice, and then out beyond to the thicker woods where the trails were harder to find.

The chest lay in the hollow under an old dead oak, and he went straight to it, pulling the heavy coffer out and staring at it with that odd tightness in his breast that he felt only when he had something like this, a valuable prize to enjoy. There was a lustfulness to his pleasure when he took a good one, and just now he felt the sensation like a fire burning in his belly.

He would have to make good his escape. And he knew exactly how to do that. He bent his legs, put his hands on either side of the chest, and then swiftly heaved it up, allowing it to drop into the barrow. It settled a little, and nearly fell sideways, but he managed to catch it in time, and propped it up with a branch. He had other work to do.

It was a good thing he hadn’t told his father about the monk, he thought, as he pulled the robes from a rotten, hollow tree. There was a bulge in the soil nearby. In the last few days leaves had piled up over the body, he saw. Soon the wild animals would have eaten all that remained of the fool. How any man could think that his life would be worth a bean after helping Os to take such a prize was beyond him, but the fool had, and now he’d paid the price in full for his stupidity. When they’d reached this place, Os had had Anselm help to thrust the chest into the hole, and while the monk was bending down, he’d taken a large branch and smashed it over his skull. Anselm had fallen like an axed steer, collapsing instantly. He didn’t even shiver or rattle his feet; he was alive one moment, and dead the next. Which was good, because Os had a use for his robes now. He pulled the habit over his own clothing, and bound it at his waist with the rope Anselm had used. His father should be proud: ballocks to praying at Jack’s church — he was as good as any priest now, he thought.

The idea made him chuckle as he pulled the hood over his head and took up the handles of the barrow. He pushed it hard, and before long he had reached the old, unused track. Still chuckling, he set off westwards.

The place was the same as Simon recalled it from the day before — was it really only yesterday that he and Sir Richard had come here trying to learn where the men had gone? It felt as though it was an age ago. A lifetime ago … a friendship ago.

He couldn’t look at Baldwin. The memory of his friend’s hesitance, or rather his refusal to let his weapon fall when the life of Simon’s daughter was at stake, was enough to make Simon feel sickly. It was foul, as though he had looked for a well-known and respected companion, only to find a stranger. The shock of that discovery made him question the entire basis of his friendship. It was as though a chasm had opened between them, undermining the relationship they had developed over almost a decade.

Simon and Baldwin were almost together, while Sir Richard rode behind them, throwing the occasional surly, suspicious glare at Roger, who jogged along beside him. As they reached Pasmere’s lands, Roger dropped from his pony and walked about the yard. After some while staring at the ground, he began a circuit around the house, while Sir Richard watched him from beneath his thick brows. At last, irritable at the lack of welcome, the coroner took a deep breath.