Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

But this man had displayed great cunning and skill so far. And he was no invalid, for all that his wound must almost have killed him when it was inflicted. Not many would survive such a blow, Simon knew.

The woods here for the most part were oak and beech with the occasional great elm towering over all else. There was no sign of Osbert, and increasingly they found there was no sign of the barrow tracks either. Here, in the freshly fallen leaves, there was little to show where it could have gone. And that meant that a resolute man could easily have placed himself up in a tree nearby after doubling back, and if he had a bow …

There was no point worrying about such matters. No. Better to ride on, and hope that the man would find it hard to pick a target. They continued, Simon aware at all times of the sound of his own breathing, the rasping quality in the cool air. It made him feel like an old man. Never before had he experienced this kind of strange harshness in his lungs. It was almost as though they had turned to stone, and it made him light headed. ‘Where is he going?’ he muttered to himself.

Baldwin overheard his words, and although he was not certain Simon wanted to hear from him, he thought it could do no harm to respond. ‘Up ahead is the road from Jacobstowe to Bow. I suppose he may be heading for that.’

‘Why, though?’ Simon wondered. ‘The faster route, and the safer one, would have been the road to Bow from his father’s home.’

‘That would have taken him back to Nymet Traci, and I doubt he’d have wanted that,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘And if he passed by there, he’d be going nearer to Bow,’ Roger grunted, ducking to avoid a heavy branch. ‘He wouldn’t want that either.’

Simon nodded, but he was unconvinced, and when they reached a clearing, he knew he had been right to question the man’s direction. ‘He’s collected something from here,’ he said. ‘The tracks are much easier to see now. They cut into the leaves and mud. The barrow is a lot heavier.’

‘The money,’ Baldwin guessed.

‘So I would think,’ Simon agreed. He was about to ride on when he caught a smell. ‘What is that?’

‘It’s dead, whatever it may be,’ Sir Richard said cheerily.

Simon saw the hillock in the leaves and pointed silently. It was Baldwin who let himself down from his horse and pushed the leaves apart. ‘A man, undressed, and somewhat the worse for his neighbours in the soil,’ he said.

The sight was repellent, and Simon was forced to turn away as his stomach rebelled. ‘He has a tonsure?’

‘Yes. This must be the errant monk — Brother Anselm,’ Baldwin said.

Simon nodded. Looking ahead, it was hard to see precisely where the tracks led, but he kicked his mount forward and they all moved on, Baldwin on foot now, his eyes scanning the ground about them. ‘Look! He turned west here.’

It was a strange place, this. As Simon’s horse reached the point where the track turned off, the sound of his horse’s hoofs grew markedly louder. It was not the trees, for they all looked much the same as before. And it was not some echo, but a louder, ringing sound. It made Simon think that the ground beneath was more substantial than the soft forest floor. There was another thing, too: the trees that grew here were sparser up ahead, as though there was a distinct line of soil that was harsher for plants. And then he found an old trunk of a tree that had pushed its way up through the soil. It had been constricted, the bole more bulbous above the ground than below, and all at once Simon saw why. As it reached up, the tree had dislodged some obstructions: dressed stone.

‘This is an ancient road,’ he breathed. Looking ahead, it was easier to see now. The road was so old that plants of all sorts had colonised it, but for all that the arrow-straight route was clear. It was a softer, yellower green than ordinary grass, and although the brambles had smothered it in places, there were yet more areas that were moderately clear.

They could move a little faster now. Although the branches and fallen trees hampered their movement, at least their path was better delineated, and they could see ahead for some way.

For Simon’s part, the idea that they should ride on at speed was taking hold. Although this man was not responsible for the capture of his daughter, nor for the threat of rape or death in the castle when Simon and Baldwin were trying to rescue her, yet he was aware of an overwhelming sense of hatred. Perhaps it was merely that Osbert was the last of the appalling group that had done so much to hurt the people of this area; perhaps it was the realisation that this man had killed and would do so again. It was not any desire to serve the Cardinal de Fargis, of that he was certain. No matter what the reason, he was determined to capture the man if possible. Osbert had participated in so many deaths, not only Anselm’s, and had tried to profit himself at the expense of all those he had seen murdered. It was enough to satisfy Simon.

And then he had another thought. This direction was leading back towards Jacobstowe.

‘What is he doing, going back to where he committed the crime?’ he wondered aloud.

‘It’s the only direction people won’t be looking for him,’ Roger said grimly. ‘And from there it’s not a long journey to Bude or some other coastal port, is it? He’s going to try to leave the country.’

Roman road near Jacobstowe

Hoppon was forced to hobble at speed to try to keep up with the man.

Since leaving the house, he had gone as fast as he could, his old dagger clattering at his side as he went. He had grabbed it at the last minute, hoping that he would not be forced to resort to it, but reluctant to go after Osbert without it.

If it was Osbert, of course. There was nothing he had seen so far that indicated that it was the man. It could as easily be some tinker or tranter who had happened across the old road and had decided to take the straight route. Except that now it was not an entirely straight route. A man trying that old path must negotiate the trees and roots that had churned the surface, as well as avoiding the great holes where men had dug up the dressed stones for their own use. And not many tranters would think of going by such a hidden route. Hidden routes meant hidden dangers. Men were happier to stay on the main roads.

He caught a glimpse, just a fleeting one, through the trees, and the sight made him set his jaw and hurry onward. Tab seemed to catch his mood, and stopped gambolling about his legs, instead moving with more purpose, as though he could see sheep to be rounded up and was keen not to fluster them.

The squeaking was loud now, and it was no surprise that Osbert couldn’t hear his approach. The noise was sharp and painful; then there was a loud crunch, and a curse.

‘The old git, he couldn’t even look after his barrow,’ Osbert said, and crouched low.

Hoppon could see that the wheel had dipped into a large hole, which had been concealed by the grass, and now, from the sound, part of the barrow was broken. It was enough to hold Osbert up. Hoppon moved forward cautiously, but even as he did so, Tab realised that his master felt that this was his enemy.

With a low snarl, the dog hurtled forward, determined to protect his master at all costs. He didn’t see Hoppon’s desperate signals. For his part, Hoppon saw only a monk in his robes, and urgently whistled and shouted to his dog. And then he realised that the monk had no tonsure.

Osbert heard the snarl and was up and facing the danger in an instant. It took him just a moment to see that there was only one dog, not, as he had feared, a whole pack of hounds on his trail. But one was enough. He drew his sword even as Tab launched himself at his leg. The dog’s teeth managed to grip his hosen, the canines ripping into his thigh, and then he brought the sword down, the point stabbing. It entered the dog’s back behind the shoulder blade and slipped down into his lungs, tearing through the ribs.