Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

It was then that he saw a figure, or so he thought. It was a hunched form, that of a man who was bent under an intolerable load, it seemed, and then a wash of rain pelted across and the man was hidden from view.

A man. Clearly a man, Osbert told himself. After all, the old tales were nothing more than that: myths invented to upset children, stories designed to petrify the recalcitrant, used deliberately to make children fear disobedience and keep them in check. They were not likely to make a man fear.

No, the idea of the devil wandering about the moors to pick up unwary travellers, that was invention. As was Crockern, the spirit of the moors, vengeful, resentful, cruel. Just as the idea of pixies leading travellers astray into bogs and mires to leave them drowning slowly was clearly untrue. There was nothing to any of them. And yet …

Where was he? Osbert peered closely, but there was no sign of the indistinct shape he had seen. It had disappeared into the murk before him as efficiently as a wraith dissolving in a mist. And it made him shiver suddenly, as though there was a ghost out there right now, watching him.

No! There was nothing there. It was just the way the swirling mist was moving. He squatted again, telling his heart not to be so fearful. It was in truth nothing to worry about. And yet he found that his eyes kept returning to that place, as though he half expected to see someone appear again.

It was unsettling. Very unsettling. He moved back into the safety of the chamber, leaning up against the rock, and tried to rest. The cold was ferocious, and he could feel his feet starting to stab with pain now. When he looked at them, he had to wince. The furze and stones he’d passed over had slashed at them, and now the soles were mingled blood and filth, and the little of the skin he could see was blue with cold.

There was a rattle and a thud outside. His head snapped up, and his eyes moved quickly all over the landscape in front of him, his heart suddenly pounding. No one there. No one and nothing. The swirls of mist moved about and the rain fell in a constant curtain, obscuring all beyond a few feet from him, but his heart told him that there was something out there. Something that wanted his death.

He hadn’t regrets. He had enjoyed most of his life. What was unreasonable was that for the first time in his life he had tried to make something happen for himself. All the other projects he had worked on, he had been trying to help his master. This was the first situation in which he had been attempting his own profit — and it was the first and most ruinous failure he had suffered.

A clattering made him jerk awake. For a moment there he had started to slip into drowsiness and his head had begun to nod, but now he was fully alert and staring about him.

There was no animal that could have made that noise. That was a stone being tossed, or he was a Scotsman. Outside was a man, and someone who meant him ill. Well, Osbert was no coward, and he would not be easy prey. He slowly eased himself upright again, clutching the heavy cross in his hands, and edged to the front of his shelter. No one would say that he hid cowering in the back of a cave while someone was pursuing him.

There was a snick as a small stone hit the roof, but he wasn’t stupid enough to look up. The man was out there, hidden in the gloom, trying to tempt him to look around so that he could be hit from behind. He wasn’t going to fall for that, he thought.

An appalling, smashing explosion of pain over his ear, and Osbert was thrown sidelong into the rock beside him. His first coherent thought was to wonder why he was lying on the ground, and then he was trying to rise, but as soon as he did, there was a slam at his head again, and he was on the ground once more aware of the trickle of blood running down the line of his jaw and pooling below his Adam’s apple. Slowly he began to get up again, and this time the blow was over the back of his head, driving his face into the dirt and rock of the moor. He felt his nose crunch, he felt the water and mud in his nose, the tang of blood in his mouth as the teeth snapped, and his empty eye socket was filled with icy water. He tried to roll away to see who had attacked him, but it was impossible to even move that much.

And then there was one last crashing blow to his head, and he knew no more.

Crediton

The road back home was quiet.

Edith was aware of a faint unease in her belly as they rode, but she wasn’t going to tell her father that. There was enough on his mind already.

Sir Richard and Simon had ridden to Tavistock to speak with Cardinal de Fargis already, and had told him all that they had learned, as well as returning to him the chest with the king’s silver. The cardinal had been glad to receive it, Simon was sure, but it was not enough to compensate him for the death of two good monks.

‘Pietro was an old friend. And Anselm, so sad to see a man tortured by his desires. That he should have allowed them to rule his heart in so marked a manner — that is terrible. The poor man.’

‘He was willing to plot to have all those travelling with him murdered,’ Simon pointed out.

‘Was he? Or was that a matter over which he had little or no control? I do not pretend to see into a man’s heart, Master Puttock. That is God’s task. For me it is enough that I see so much sadness. So much greed and jealousy.’

‘You mean the selection of the new abbot?’

‘Which of the two men would you choose?’

Simon looked away. This was not something he could do. Any answer he gave must be hazardous, for whomsoever he chose would be sure to hear of it, and then the other would learn that Simon had not supported him. And either of the two monks was a bad enemy to have. Busse was known to have dabbled in magic to try to win his post, while de Courtenay was a perfect menace, and with his powerful connections could make life intolerably hard for a man like Simon. ‘I … er …’

‘Yes. I too have a similar problem,’ Cardinal de Fargis said with a wintry little smile.

‘It isn’t the kind of decision I’d be qualified to make,’ Simon said.

‘Either will prove to be a dangerous influence if the other is made abbot.’ The cardinal continued as though Simon had not spoken. ‘So perhaps it would be better if neither was to have it. And neither was to remain here.’

He looked up suddenly, and appeared to notice Simon for the first time. A faintly bemused expression wandered over his face. ‘Ah. And you heard about the king’s messenger?’

‘Yes. A great pity,’ Simon said, remembering the man with whom he had travelled.

‘He had a great number of messages still in his pouch, my friend,’ the cardinal said thoughtfully. ‘There were several from men around here who were writing to my lord Despenser. I think you should be very careful in his presence. He is a most dangerous adversary.’

It was those words that echoed in Simon’s mind now as he rode home, but Edith had no idea of the cause of his grim face and apparent ill humour. For her part, she was filled only with a determination to get back home to her husband as soon as possible.

‘You will come to see your mother?’ Simon asked.

‘Only for the night, Father. I have to get home and see my husband.’

‘Of course,’ Simon said, and there was a stilted pause.

‘I think I should return home,’ Baldwin said after a few moments.

‘I would be sad to see you leave and not come to visit, Baldwin,’ Simon said. ‘Margaret will be disappointed.’

Edith looked from one to the other, and then back at Edgar, who wore a most untypical expression of seriousness. She was suddenly struck with a sense of how these two men, both of whom she adored, had been driven apart. There was a gulf between them, where before there had been only comradeship. She would have thought that nothing could have caused them to become so distant from each other, and the fact that it had been caused by the threat to which she had been exposed served only to make her feel guilty. Looking back at Edgar again, she felt a quick resolve.