Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

Tab gave a whimper and tried to pull away, but the terrible pain of the blade transfixed him. Try as he might, he couldn’t escape, and although he snapped up at the blade in a frenzy, it was to no avail. With the blood spraying from his nostrils as he desperately tried to get away, Tab began to shiver, and at last slumped, while Osbert set his boot on the dog’s back and tugged his sword free.

‘You old cretin. Did you think you could stop me?’ he snarled as he approached Hoppon.

Near Jacobstowe

Simon and Baldwin were both feeling the excitement mounting now. Simon instinctively drew a little nearer to Baldwin as they rode, their pace increasing as they found areas of brighter light, where the trees were thinner. All he could hear was the snap and crackle of his cloak in the rushing air.

The path was dangerous, he could see. There were stones dug up every now and again. No doubt it was the locals taking them in order to build houses and sheds. Dressed stone was not so easy to come by that a Devon farmer would turn his nose up at it. But it did mean that there were the twin risks of both potholes and loose rocks above the ground, either of which could break a horse’s leg. But for now, Simon did not consider the risks. He was concentrating on the capture of this last member of the castle’s team.

‘Simon! Hold!’

Baldwin’s urgent cry made him turn, and then he saw the two figures at the side of the road. He reined in, his horse digging long ruts where his hooves skidded on the soft grass, and was aware of Sir Richard and Roger pulling up to avoid him, then he was off his horse and running to the man.

Hoppon was breathing stertorously, his hands fixed over his belly as though trying to hold his blood in his body and let none escape. From the stains on his shirt and the gore that soaked the grasses at his side, he had not long to live, Simon thought. The man’s face was already grey and pasty from the cold as death took his warmth from him.

‘It’s Osbert. I heard him on the path. Thought to stop him. Speak with him. Tab wouldn’t wait; went for him. I tried. Tried to get him, but he was too quick.’

Simon saw the little dog’s twisted, bloody body and felt a wave of revulsion. This pair were no threat to anyone. There was surely no need to kill them. As he watched, Roger walked to the dog, and to Simon’s surprise crouched at the dead animal’s side, stroking Tab’s soft ears and the rounded head, while tears ran down his cheeks. There was no sobbing, no overt anger, but Simon could feel the man’s emotion. It was a slow, building rage.

‘Where did he go?’ Simon said quietly.

‘To the town. Jacobstowe. He’s clad in monk’s robes. Anselm’s robes.’

‘You will be avenged, Hoppon,’ Simon swore. ‘We’ll send a man to look to you.’

‘No. I’m … dead. Catch him. All I ask. Jacobstowe.’

Simon nodded and stood, but then he was struck with a wonderful terror. Edith was in Jacobstowe. She was in danger!

He ran to the horse, leapt into the saddle, snatched up his reins, and was off.

Jacobstowe

Osbert was sweating as he shoved the cursed barrow up the road. It had been hard work to make it so far, and now the swyving wheel was buggered, it was hard to keep the damned thing in a straight line. It wanted to waver off to the right all the time. At the first opportunity he would have to get rid of it and find another, one that was working. Or he could get this one mended, perhaps. It wasn’t as though he needed to worry about money, after all.

This roadway was rutted and muddy, which didn’t help. It was as though the land itself was trying to hamper his escape. At least Hoppon had been so incompetent in the way that he’d tried to slow Osbert’s progress that his impact had been minuscule. Hopefully no one else knew that he might come this way. With luck, he could rent a cart at Jacobstowe, for it would be impossible to carry the box any distance. It was far too heavy, and the square sides made it a difficult object to transport on the shoulders. Perhaps, he wondered, he could sling it from a pole, if he could find some rope. Set a pole like a yoke about his neck? No, the damn thing was simply too heavy. He needed a cart of some sort.

Blessed relief! At last he could see the buildings of Jacobstowe. He would see if he could find some means of transport there, and hopefully soon be on his way in more comfort. Even if there was nothing to be had, surely there would be a smith or wheelwright who could mend the barrow.

He shoved with renewed vigour at the handles, and slowly made his way up into the vill itself, where he cast about him with eager wariness, trying to make sure that he was safe and that no one had made any apparent gestures, pointing at him, or hurrying away at the sight of him. There was nothing. Nothing at all. As he pushed his ungainly barrow down the road into the vill, he felt the anxiety sloughing away like dried mud from a waxed cloak, and he began to walk more upright, like a man who was at ease in the company of others. He even nodded to a man who made the sign of the cross at him.

This was easy. He ought to have got hold of such garb before, if this was how people looked at a monk. It was much easier than any other form of concealment. He would have to keep this by, just in case he might have a need of it in the future. It was good and thick, too. Be useful in the cold weather. Not that he would have to worry about the weather. It wasn’t as if he was going to be stuck in the misery of mud and soggy leaves again, like when he was living rough with Sir Robert.

Shame Sir Robert was dead. In his own way he had been a good man. Still, the bastard had never compensated him for the ruin done to his face. One shilling. Twelve lousy pennies. That was all his dedication had been worth.

As he entered the main street, he reflected that it was all for the good anyway. The bastard would have been a problem before long. As soon as people started saying that the money had definitely been there, Sir Robert would have started thinking. There’d never been anything wrong with his brain, after all. No, and the man would have soon begun to wonder whether even his oldest companion might be worth questioning in more detail. Osbert would have. He wouldn’t have waited so long, neither. He would have had a man like himself stretched over a table and beaten until he admitted where the money had been hidden, and the man would have been very fortunate if that was all that had happened to him.

The road opened out here in the vill. There was a broad area in the midst of the houses, which had been churned into mud by the passage of carts and horses. To the north end of the vill there was a marvellous sound, a ringing noise, like bells. A smith, he told himself, and threw himself forward.

But as he moved, he heard the noises he had been dreading for all the last miles. A roar, a bellowed shout, and the blast of a horn.

Jacobstowe

It was Sir Richard who saw him first. ‘There! There, in the monk’s sacking! That’s the bastard!’

Simon had been staring at the ground, wondering whether they had been led astray by some malevolent spirit who had persuaded them to follow a will-o’-the-wisp trail rather than the murderer’s, and he glanced up with shock to hear the coroner’s bellow. ‘It’s him!’ he cried, seeing the man thrust at his barrow with more urgency, and grabbed his horn, giving the three blasts that warned others of felons being pursued. Then he was spurring his mount to greater efforts, leaning down, willing the beast to be first in this race. He wanted the man’s blood on his sword.

Faster and faster along the road they flew. Mud and dirt sprayed up on all sides, and Simon was liberally splashed when Baldwin’s mount went through a broad puddle, and then they were up the last little rise and entered the vill at the canter.