Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Sir Baldwin, you must certainly come and rest at Father’s house. You have risked your life to help us, and I would not hear of you continuing tonight.’

‘Edith, if he says that he should carry on to his wife, you are in no position to prevent him,’ Simon said.

‘Father, I owe perhaps my life to Sir Baldwin. If it were not for his swift response in riding after me to rescue me from Sir Robert of Traci, you would not have learned of my predicament and I might well still be there now — raped and injured. Yet you would see him leave to continue his journey at night in the cold? For shame!’

Simon’s jaw clenched, and he threw her a look of such pain that she wanted to apologise, but then with relief she heard him repeat his invitation to Sir Baldwin to stay the night.

‘Please do, Sir Baldwin,’ she said. ‘And then perhaps tomorrow you can ride with me to Exeter to protect me? I should be most grateful for your company.’

‘Of course,’ Sir Baldwin said with a gracious little bow. ‘I would be honoured to ride with you, if your father has no objection.’

‘How could I object?’ Simon responded, but he looked at neither of them. Instead his eyes remained fixed resolutely on the road ahead.

Tavistock Abbey

Brother Mark stepped into the chapter house and crossed the floor to the stone seat at the further wall. He sat, his eyes downcast, as he contemplated his decision.

It was some little while later that the other brothers filed in.

In the past, all the monks would have been chattering and laughing as they walked in, but not today. Not for the last few days. There had been a curious air of nervous expectation ever since the body of the messenger had been found and rumours had begun of the messages from Brother John found in his shirt. Although there had been attempts to keep news of the messages secret, it was impossible to prevent so many monks from enjoying the potential of such juicy gossip. It had flown about the abbey in a matter of hours.

It was the cardinal who entered last, and he walked to the middle of the chamber and looked about him with the cold, measuring eye of an executioner considering his next victim.

‘I am aware of the stories that are circulating about the two brothers who are in contention for the abbacy. They are both here now. I require them to step forward.’

Mark watched as the two monks approached the cardinal and stood, one at either side, their hands clasped, heads down like penitents.

‘These two have acknowledged their faults, and will now show their repentance by exchanging the kiss of peace,’ the cardinal said.

Of the two, Mark reckoned that Robert Busse was the less reluctant. With a show of distaste, he stepped forward and waited. Brother John wore a glower of loathing on his face as he contemplated his enemy. But then, he had plotted the murder of Robert. If the rumours were all true, he was guilty of terrible ambition and pride. Brother Robert himself was little better, though, if the stories of his thefts of gold and silver from the treasury were correct.

Brother John gave a gesture of disgust and went to meet Robert, and both gave a quick glance to the cardinal. He made no movement, and the two suddenly came together and exchanged a swift peck. As they stepped apart, Mark was sure that both would have wiped away that kiss if they were not being watched.

This was shameful. It was the sort of situation that Mark would expect from knights. He could remember now his animosity to Sir Richard de Welles, and felt shame. Sir Richard was a deeply honourable man in comparison to these two. It was appalling. It left Mark feeling tainted by their presence and their awful shame. Perhaps his own offence was less significant than he had realised. It was possible, after all, that God had given these two as a proof that his crime was of little import by comparison.

The chapter meeting continued with the business of the day being conducted swiftly enough, and then the cardinal made to leave.

‘Cardinal, I have to confess …’

‘Then you must walk with me,’ the cardinal said.

Brother Mark was perplexed, for the brothers were supposed to confess their sins in full chapter, so that all would know their guilt. It was a most effective means of persuading monks to consider carefully before committing an offence against their order. But if the cardinal said that Mark must walk with him, walk he must. He scurried out after him, and found him taking the air in the cloister.

The heavy rain of the last couple of days had ceased now, but it was still very damp all about, and Mark was aware of the splashing as he stepped through the puddles on the pavemented cloister area. ‘Cardinal, I have to confess to a crime. A serious crime.’

‘You helped tempt a man so that he could be extracted from a sanctuary.’

‘I … yes.’

‘The man was already guilty of participating in murders, in the murder of two monks, I think?’

‘But no matter what the crime, he was in the church, under the protection of the Church.’

‘True. And he had killed two of the Church’s most devoted servants.’

‘But surely I still committed a crime?’

Cardinal de Fargis stopped and looked at him. ‘What do you wish me to tell you, Brother Mark? That you were wrong to leave temptation in his path? If you had not, would he have abjured the realm? Yes, in all likelihood. So you hastened justice. And you did not force him to take the crucifix, did you? It was he who guided his own hand to take it. Not you.’

‘I just thought that my-’

‘Brother Mark. I understand that the item taken by the man was the crucifix worn by poor Pietro. Yes? Then I think we can look on the matter as being one of divine judgement. You were the willing tool of God. He chose you to bring justice to the man Osbert. And for what he did to poor Pietro, he deserved no sanctuary.’

Bow

The priest brought another bowl of water to him as he lay sweating, complaining about the cold, whining and moaning in his agony. It was enough to make the priest weep gently to himself, sad at the sight of so much misery and despair.

William atte Wattere had no idea where he was. The room was a darkened chamber that could have been a gaol, but with his burning anguish there was no need for bars and locks. He could not have stood had he wished to.

He had been here in the bed since the evening he had been brought here. The father had seen to all his needs as best he could, but it was clear by the end of the first day that all he could hope to do was alleviate some of the man’s dying pains. There was clearly no aid for him while his soul remained in his body. All a man could hope and pray for was that his suffering would at least end when he was dead. And it was for his life after death that the priest was praying now. As he mopped Wattere’s brow with a rag dipped in cool water mixed with vinegar, his lips mumbled the prayers he hoped would be most efficacious.

‘You’ve seen him?’ Wattere spoke suddenly, his good hand snapping up and grasping the priest’s wrist.

‘My son, calm yourself. Who? Who do you ask if I’ve seen?’

‘The man … He’s there! Don’t let him take me!’

The ravings of a madman. But with this enormous wound, it was a miracle he wasn’t dead already. The sword had cloven through his shoulder, through his collar bone, and wedged in his shoulder blade, so they said. It had taken his assailant some while to lever it free. And that sort of wound was only rarely survived. The fever had broken the next day, and no one expected him to live. With his whole body shrieking, it was hardly surprising that he would see nonexistent people.

Still, the old priest glanced over his shoulder to make sure. ‘My son, there’s no one there.’