The Noble Outlaw Page 21

  Every morning, the coroner trudged up through the snow to Rougemont, where he discussed with Gwyn his proposed visit to Winchester. As they sat in the keep, warming before a huge log fire and supping the castle ale, he broached the subject of Thomas.

  'Should we take him? He'll slow us down, the way he rides that damned rounsey,' observed John.

  His officer shrugged, squeezing the ale from his whiskers with his fingers. 'Thank God, he's at last throwing a leg over its saddle now, instead of sitting on his arse sideways like a bloody woman. But he's still so damned nervous on the back of a horse, you'd think he was riding a tiger.'

  'He'd be much happier playing bishop in his little side chapel every morning,' conceded de Wolfe. 'So I think we'll give the poor little fellow a holiday and leave him here to commune with his Maker, rather than drag him half across England.'

  This agreed, they talked about the journey itself. The distance a horse and rider could travel in a day was very variable. In the depths of winter, there were only about nine hours of daylight, as opposed to more than double that in high summer. Without changes of horses, as were provided for the royal messengers and heralds, a beast could not be expected to toil along all day without rest and fodder. Then the state of the tracks was paramount - heavy rain which turned the surface into glutinous mud made it almost impossible to get very far. Hard frost, in which the ruts were frozen into stone, could cripple a horse's legs. Floods and the crossing of swollen rivers were additional hazards, so it was never really predictable how long a journey would take. In good conditions in winter, the most a rider could hope for was thirty miles a day, not the fifty that the official messengers might achieve with relays of mounts.

  'We'll have to reckon on five days to Winchester, if the weather improves,' grunted de Wolfe. 'And another three if we have to go on to London.'

  Two days after Twelfth Night, the weather warmed up a little and most of the snow melted, with the sages and wiseacres in the taverns forecasting that January would be relatively mild.

  But it was not only the coroner and his officer who had an interest in the weather - twenty miles to the west, two men in Berry Pomeroy castle were considering the same problem.

  The lord of Berry, Henry de la Pomeroy, was entertaining some of his friends, one of these being Sir Richard de Revelle.

  The main bond between Henry and Richard - apart from a venal love of money and power - was their continued, though covert, attachment to the cause of Prince John, Count of Mortain. When King Richard, the Lionheart, was imprisoned on the way home from the Holy Land, Prince John had made an abortive attempt to seize the English throne. He had been supported by many barons and high clergy, including Bishop Henry Marshal of Exeter - and amongst the hangers-on, who hoped for advancement under a new monarch, were Henry de la Pomeroy's father and Richard de Revelle.

  The two manor lords were sitting in a chamber in one of the twin towers that flanked the main gate. The ladies were in another room with their companions and tire-women, having left the men alone to drink wine before one of the several large braziers set around the chamber.

  They sat in heavy folding chairs with thick hide seats and backs, keeping them close to the fire. The wooden shutters on the window-slits kept out most of the wind, though even the easterly breeze had died down considerably.

  'There should be no problem getting up to the moor in this,' observed Henry. 'There will still be snow on the slopes, but the valley bottoms should be clear by then, unless it turns bad again.'

  De Revelle nodded, holding out his heavy glass goblet for a refill of the excellent red wine that Henry imported from Bordeaux. 'How many men will you muster?' he asked. 'I have arranged for a dozen of my retainers to come up on Monday.'

  De la Pomeroy fingered his heavy jowls thoughtfully.

  'I thought to take about the same number. That will be double the strength of Arundell's gang.'

  'Are you sure that he can be found up in that great wilderness?' asked de Revelle, concerned both for his comfort and his safety.

  'I sent one of my bailiffs up to Widecombe, to scout around and listen to the local gossip. Though there are a number of these cursed outlaw bands up on Dartmoor, it seems no secret that this Nick o' the Moor, as they call him, is the best known.'

  'But is it clear exactly where he hides out?' persisted de Revelle.

  'There is little doubt that he camps somewhere up in the vale of the Webburn. When we get near there, I have no doubt that my men will soon flush them out.'

  Richard still looked anxious. 'Are you sure that we will have enough men for this? We want no survivors to go carrying tales to my damned brother-in-law or the Justiciar.'

  His host rang a hand bell to summon a servant to bring more charcoal for the braziers. When he had gone, Henry answered his guest.

  'These men of Arundell's are village clods, who ran away with him when he fled. They have no talent for fighting, whereas most of the men I will take are men-at-arms from the garrison here. Together with your fellows, they will be able to wipe out this bunch with one arm tied behind their backs.'

  'When will we ride out then?' asked de Revelle.

  'As soon as possible, Richard. You said that your sister forcefully informed you that her husband is setting off to seek the Justiciar immediately the roads are clear of this snow. God knows how long he'll be gone if he has to chase Hubert Walter over half the country. So we should have a clear field to complete our business before he returns, if we set out at the same time.' Richard still looked uneasy, drumming his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair. 'There'll be hell to pay when he finds out, especially if he managed to obtain the support of the Justiciar over this.'

  'Kill these bloody outlaws now and then all we can be accused of is doing our duty!' reasoned Pomeroy. 'If your bloody brother-in-law has no one left to champion, the whole affair will fade away.'

  Henry de la Pomeroy shrugged his burly shoulders.

  He was a tougher character than the former sheriff.

  'We are respected landowners who have been pestered by the depredations of outlaws, who steal and rob on our lands, Richard! We have every right, indeed a duty, to flush them out by raising a posse to exterminate them.'

  He grinned wolfishly, showing his stained and chipped teeth. 'I might even claim the five-shilling bounty on each wolf's head that we collect up on the moor!'

  The following night, John de Wolfe strode away towards the Bush Inn, heedless of the steady rain that had moved in overnight, washing away the remnants of the snow and making the air feel almost mild after a month of continuous frost.

  'This will hamper your journey tomorrow, John,' said Nesta solicitously. 'The highway will be a morass of mud if it keeps on raining.'

  She put a quart of best ale in front of him, but was unable to sit with him for the moment, as the inn was busy. He looked up at her trim figure, her delicious bosom sheathed in a green linen kirtle, over which was a long apron. He hoped that he could have at least a few hours with her later that day, up in her little room in the loft, for it might be weeks before he could touch her soft flesh again. Nesta seemed to read his thoughts, for her green eyes twinkled and she bent to give him a quick kiss before gliding off to chivvy her kitchen maids in the cook-hut in the back yard.

  He sat alone at his table by the firepit, but his isolation was short-lived. The huge figure of Gwyn rolled in through the door from Idle Lane and, a moment later, Thomas de Peyne appeared, both of them sitting down opposite him.

  'Bloody rain!' began the Cornishman, echoing Nesta's complaint as he signalled to old Edwin to bring him a drink. 'This will add at least a day to our journey.'

  The little clerk looked smug, having been excused the torture of a long horseride. 'I'll pray for you every day, Gwyn, in the hope that that great fat backside of yours doesn't develop saddle sores.'

  John gave instructions to Thomas about the conduct of the coroner's business in his absence. The clerk was to record all details of every case repor
ted and seek the aid and advice of the sheriff if any death, rape or assault occurred. There was now a second coroner in the north of the county, who in desperate circumstances could be summoned.

  After they had thrashed out the routine for putting the coroner system on hold for at least a couple of weeks, de Wolfe turned to Gwyn.

  'Are you all set for an early start tomorrow? Has your family given you grief over your absences?' The ginger scarecrow grinned. 'My wife is usually glad to see the back of me every now and then. We love each other dearly, but absence makes the heart grow fonder. And I've promised my two lads that I'll buy them new knives at Candlemas if we're back by then.'

  'Candlemas? You'll not be away that long, surely?' Nesta had come back and was shocked that she might not see her lover again until the second day of February. 'I'll be looking for a new suitor by then, John de Wolfe.'

  John hastened to reassure his mistress that if the Chief Justiciar could be found at Winchester, they should be back within little more than ten days. He omitted to mention that if they had to go on to London, that time could be at least doubled.

  'You are going to great deal of trouble and discomfort for this Lady Joan,' observed Nesta, with a tightening of her lips which suggested the dawning of disapproval. 'I presume she is pretty? You could never resist a damsel in distress, could you?'

  John grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on to the bench alongside him, throwing his arm around her shoulders and hugging her to his chest. 'Jealous, are we?' he growled, planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. 'Yes, she is fair, though not at all my type. You are my type, you Welsh hussy.'

  Mollified, Nesta cuddled closer to him, oblivious of the grinning Cornishman opposite and the slightly askance glances of the celibate Thomas.

  'Very well, Sir Crowner, as long as you deliver her husband to her and don't get up to any of your tricks with the fair lady.' Like Matilda, Nesta was well aware that John had a roving eye, and though she felt that during the past months he had remained faithful to her, she accepted that like most active men he would have difficulty in resisting temptation if it was placed squarely in his path,

  'I'll keep an eye on him, cariad,' said Gwyn in the Welsh-Cornish patois they used between them. When Thomas was there, they usually reverted to English, but just to tease him Gwyn sometimes lapsed into the Celtic that was the first tongue of Nesta and himself, and which John had picked up from his mother when a child.

  Thomas scowled and in reprisal said something in Latin, which none of them understood, but which sounded sarcastic.

  John placated his clerk by telling him how much he depended upon him to look after the coroner's business while they were away. 'You know as much about the system as I do, Thomas. I have no doubt that all will be recorded on your immaculate rolls when we get back.'

  'What happens if another guildsman gets murdered, Crowner?' asked the priest rather tremulously.

  'Tell the sheriff and Ralph Morin, that's all that can be done. After all, it's their business to chase criminals, not mine. But don't meet trouble halfway, my lad. We've had no problems of that sort for a while, so offer up some spare prayer, in that chapel of yours so that it continues that way.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In which Richard de Revelle goes hunting on Dartmoor

  The coroner and his officer made better progress eastwards than they had expected, as the rain had melted away the snow but had stopped before the roads became totally mired. A moderate east wind helped to dry up the tracks and by the early morning of the day after they left Exeter, they were leaving an inn at Bridport and making their way at a brisk trot towards Dorchester.

  At dawn that day, men were also on the move many miles to the west, riding out from Berry Pomeroy Castle.

  Henry's bailiff Ogerus Coffin and the reeve from Hempston Arundell were at the head of the column, with the two lords behind them. Then came the rest of the men, a collection of castle guards, yeomen and freemen from Berry, seated on a motley collection of horses, ranging from an old destrier to several rounseys, and from a lady's palfrey to a few packhorses taken from a baggage train.

  Their armament was equally diverse, the guards having pikes and maces, the lords their swords, and the rest of the men a variety of weapons, including axes, staves and a couple of chipped, dented swords.

  One of the posse was the chief huntsman from Berry Pomeroy and he had brought four of his hounds with him, who loped at his horse's heels, when they were not darting off into the bushes to investigate the scent of foxes and badgers.

  Altogether, the posse consisted of twenty-two men, some ill at ease with this task, which was far removed from their usual occupation of ditching, thatching and ploughing - and several of them were secretly unhappy at having to harass the rightful inhabitants of Hempston, who they felt had already suffered enough.

  One of their leaders was also not all that enamoured of the affair. Sir Richard de Revelle felt that the day would be far better spent in his comfortable manor at Revelstoke, sitting before a large fire with a glass of brandy-wine in his hand, and with another large meal when dinnertime came along. Instead, he was jogging along a winding track alongside the River Dart, shivering inside his riding cloak in spite of the padded gambeson under his chainmail hauberk. He was the only one wearing any form of armour, apart from a few men with iron helmets. Henry de la Pomeroy had a thick tunic of boiled leather under his colourful tabard emblazoned with his family crest, though little of this could be seen for the heavy, fleece-lined serge cape that he wore over the top.

  The rest of the men were dressed in an irregular collection of outfits, including leather jerkins and several layers of woollen tunics; almost all wore breeches with cross-gartering on the legs.

  'At least that damned frost has gone,' bawled Henry, riding alongside de Revelle. He seemed eager for a fight, having been in several campaigns in France and Ireland in former years. Richard was a reluctant soldier, he had wanted to become a lawyer as a stepping stone to politics, but his Crusader father had insisted that after attending the cathedral school at Wells, he became a squire to a local knight. Richard had managed to avoid any serious fighting, though he had become a hanger-on to several campaigns in northern France, which was where he had come to the attention of John, Count of Mortain.

  Now he was trying to look as if he was enjoying this military escapade, having been persuaded by Henry that unless Nicholas was dealt with before the damned coroner persuaded Hubert Walter of the righteousness of de Arundell's claim, they would be in deep trouble.

  As the column trotted through Buckfastleigh an hour later, curious stares followed them, as the sight of a troop of armed men riding purposefully along was a disturbing sight. A number of villagers ran inside, bolted their doors and crossed themselves fervently.

  On they went, past the great Abbey of Buckfast, and then they began weaving through the valleys and over the downs of the rising ground that led on to the moor.

  By noon they had covered another seven miles to Widecombe, where they halted to rest their horses and eat the provisions they had brought in their saddlebags - hard bread, cheese or scraps of meat in the case of the villagers, though the bailiff had carried better fare and a flask of wine for himself and the two manor lords.

  'We'll not get back home by tonight, sirs,' he announced, stating the obvious. 'But I've told the innkeeper here that you two gentlemen will need a place to sleep, even if it's only by the firepit. The men can find themselves a barn or a cowshed.' After an hour's rest, they mounted up again and Henry de la Pomeroy conferred again with bailiff Coffin.

  'Where do we go from here?' he demanded, being unfamiliar with this remote area of the county.

  'Those miscreants are said to be somewhere on the West Webburn, the next valley to the west, Sir Henry. The alehouse keeper here is vague about it, I think he's afraid of vengeance from the outlaws if things go wrong.'

  'How good is that information, bailiff?' snapped de Revelle, still unhappy with this whole expediti
on, especially if there was likely to be any danger to himself.

  'Another of my spies from Ashburton says he has heard of Nick o' the Moor being camped somewhere up the vale of the West Webburn stream - though these villains are usually always on the move.'

  'Where the devil is that?' brayed de Revelle.

  'Widecombe is on the East Webburn brook, so it must be over there somewhere.' Ogerus Coffin waved vaguely to his left, where a misty grey hill obscured the view.

  'The innkeeper says we must go back a little way, then cross over the foot of that hill towards Ponsworthy, then follow the next stream northwards.'

  With these somewhat imprecise directions, the posse struggled back into the saddle and plodded off in the wake of the bailiff. An hour later, they were moving up a shallow valley, with grey-green slopes on either side and a small stream babbling down between straggling bushes and a few trees. There was no sign of habitation and the path was now reduced almost to a sheep track, forcing them to ride in single file.

  Heavy low cloud darkened the day, but there was only a slight mist and no sign of the dense fog that could roll down within minutes and make the moor a dangerous place for travellers. In spite of the reasonably good visibility, none of them noticed a figure high up to their left, peering, over a large slab of moorstone.