No Law in the Land

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Second Saturday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael, nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II*

Nymet Traci, Devon, England

Sir Robert de Traci woke that morning knowing that the men would soon die, and all of them solely in order that he should reap a good reward. It left him with a sense of contented restlessness. He was keen to be up and about, but the warmth of his bed was a delicious distraction even without the benefit of a woman beside him. His wife was long dead, and it was a while since he’d enjoyed a willing wench.

It was a glorious morning. He rose and padded over to the window, staring out. The shutter was wide, and he could see from here all the way south over the tops of the trees in the little coppice a mile or so distant, to the dull greyish-blue hills that were Dartmoor. Often at this time of day he would find it impossible to see more than a foul mistiness, but today was most unseasonally clear and bright. Still, from the tang in the air, he had a suspicion that the weather would alter before long.

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