‘And why not, Osbert? After all, we were discussing how to unlock the abbot’s heart, weren’t we? I would think we have the key now. After all, what could be better to aid us than the daughter of one of his friends?’
Tavistock Abbey
Robert Busse walked the short distance from the choir to the chapter house, and had seated himself at the stone bench that was fitted into the wall when the knock came.
It was an irritation. There was so much for him to consider, especially with the sudden death of the messenger. ‘Yes?’
‘Brother, the men have discovered something.’
Busse sighed. If the whole community was going to behave like this overenthusiastic puppy, he would resign his post and run away to become a hermit somewhere far from here, he told himself. Oh, the boy meant well, but he was so keen to see Robert installed as abbot that he was always about his ankles like a devoted mastiff. Robert found he was forever tripping over the lad. Perhaps it was planned, he wondered. Perhaps in fact the boy was the devoted servant of de Courtenay, and spent his time about Robert so that the abbot-elect would grow completely enraged by his solicitous attention and give up all hope of the position.
The idea was enough to wipe away the final vestige of grumpiness, and in its place he fitted a smile. ‘How may I serve you, Peter?’
‘This!’
The lad dramatically opened his hand. In it was a pair of small cylinders. Robert recognised them instantly. ‘Where did you find them?’ he asked.
‘They were in the messenger’s shirt, Abbot.’
‘Nay, I am not abbot,’ Robert chided him gently.
‘But you will be, Abbot!’
Robert shook his head. ‘What are they?’
‘You must see them. The others, they were in his pouch or scattered about, but these two were inside his shirt and hidden. I suppose he thought that they were too important to be left behind!’
Taking them, the abbot-elect felt a tingle in his fingers, as though the small scrolls were themselves trying to tell him that they were to be most significant for him.
‘The seals are broken on them?’
‘I fear, Abbot, that the men who found the body didn’t think.’
He nodded, not believing a word of it. The men who would have found the body and brought it to the road would have been unlettered. These had been opened by Peter or another monk. Still, they had been already read, so he might as well do so as well.
The writing was tiny, to be able to fit in such a small scroll, but perfectly legible, and as soon as he took in the words, Robert Busse felt his mouth open in disbelief.
‘You see?’ Peter said, his voice hushed.
‘I will take these,’ Robert said. ‘You did right to bring them to me, Peter. And now, please leave me.’
He had never before held anything quite so shocking in his hands. For this was written proof that a companion of his in the abbey sought his murder.
Bow
The light was almost gone now and Edith realised that they were close to the end of their journey. As they clattered down the stony path towards the stone house she remembered as Sir Harold’s, she could see that it was a strong fortress. Where Sir Harold had lived in modest comfort and without exacting too much in the way of taxes from his serfs, the new owner of the house was more determined to impose his rule on the landscape.
It was clear enough in so many little ways. When she had last been past here, she had seen a pleasant home. It was a good-sized hall for a small household, set inside a circling wall of grey stone, but the wall was only some five to six feet high, so not a deliberately defensive enclosure. Rather, it was enough to keep the sheep and cattle from wandering, and to prevent foxes or wild dogs from attacking the chickens. Trees had grown up close to the walls to the north-east, making an attractive area for sitting on hot summer days. To Edith’s eye it had looked like a pleasant little homestead.
Not now. The wall had been expanded to encompass a broader area. The little barns and stables had grown, and there was a cleared swathe of land for a good bowshot in all directions. Where the original wall had been more use as a stockade, now it was a distinct fortress. There was more height to it, and added thickness, as well as battlements. It was made to withstand attack, and money had been spent to ensure that it would serve its purpose.
‘What has happened to Sir Harold?’ she asked nervously as they rode towards the little gatehouse.
‘He’s dead. This is the property of my lord Sir Hugh le Despenser now,’ William replied with a quick look at her. ‘He took it when Sir Harold died and his son, Sir Robert, was found to have committed treason. The de Traci family was disinherited immediately. It’s only by my master’s good favour that Sir Robert has been reinstated and pardoned. But my lord Despenser keeps ownership.’
Everyone in the kingdom knew Sir Hugh would take what he wanted and to hell with the owners. He had a reputation for cruelty that was unequalled.
‘Master, what do you want with me?’
‘I want nothing, mistress. It’s not me, it’s what Sir Robert and my lord Despenser want that should trouble you.’
He said no more, but led her to the gates, her mare’s reins in his hands. She had no means of escape — even sliding from the mare and running was no option. There was nowhere to run to from here. All the land about this northern wall of the house was clear of bushes. She would not make even a hundred yards before recapture. A man on horseback, even a knackered hobby like his, would surely run her down in moments.
The gates loomed up, grim grey moorstone with solid oaken doors that looked as though they could withstand the massed artillery of the king’s forces. Edith felt like a mouse in the claws of an owl. Utterly helpless. There was no escape from here. In her mind, she saw herself making off in a dozen ingenious ways: turning her mare at Wattere, spurring her so that she ran into him and knocked him from his beast, snatching her reins and riding like the wind until she was safe; getting close to him, close enough to pull his sword and strike, and then riding off; talking to him, persuading him that she was worth saving from whatever might happen in there, thankfully taking his protection as he fought off the whole of the guard … And then they were under the gates and inside the castle.
Behind her, she heard the slow grinding and graunching of the gates as they were pushed shut. And then there was a rumble as the massive baulks of timber were dropped into their slots to keep the gates closed.
It sounded like the gates of hell being closed behind her.
Jacobstowe
Sir Richard paused dramatically, and then gave a flourish with his hand. ‘This maid, then, was captured and bound by her captor, and was rescued by a saviour who wanted to assure himself of her condition, to make sure that she was unharmed, if you know what I mean, eh, fellows? He needed to know no one had been sheathing his pork sword where it shouldn’t have been sheathed, eh?’
His crudeness won a round of happy chuckles from his audience, and he was content as he refilled his quart pot. ‘So, she was happy to answer his questions. “Did he bind you?” She replied with a shake of her head and much discontent. “I am afraid he did, my lord.” Her saviour continued, “Did he bind your mouth to stay your protestations, child?” And she was able to reply with a sob, “Why yes, my lord. He did.” Her saviour was grim faced by now. “Did he tie you up so you couldn’t escape?” “Yes, yes, he did, my lord. To my disgrace, I could not save myself.” “Did he bind your legs?” But here she could smile. Eh? “Nay, my lord, for by God’s good grace, I made sure I kept my legs so wide apart he couldn’t bind them together!” Eh? Eh? Good joke, eh?’
Simon couldn’t help laughing. It was an old joke, but the coroner had a childlike delight in retelling it, and a number of other ones equally as bad. Often he was so incoherent by the time he reached the end of the joke, laughing so much at the approaching coup de grâce, that the enthusiastic audience could make out nothing of his words, but they would all laugh in any case. It was easy to see that the coroner, while in his cups and not working in his usual position of authority, was a good-humoured soul who enjoyed amusing people.