Gwyn nodded in agreement. 'There are a dozen gangs of outlaws on the moor, all living in burrows and ruins. We've no idea where this Nick o' the Moors is hiding probably he has a half-dozen different lairs, miles apart. Looking for a needle in a hayrick would be easy compared with that!'
The sheriff abandoned his idea without rancour. 'I suppose you're right - and I don't want to spend Christ Mass freezing my arse off on Dartmoor, so we'll give up the notion of having a talk with this Nicholas.'
But Nicholas had not given up the notion of having a talk with them - or, more specifically, with Sir John de Wolfe.
Out on the high moor, a freezing fog filled the valley of the West Webburn stream, rolling into the bleak vale between Challacombe Down and Hameldown Beacon.
At the bottom, a scraggy collection of bare trees stood alongside the brook like black skeletons in the almost crystalline air. Amongst them, four men worked up a welcome sweat as they swung axes at logs felled some months back, which by now were dried out sufficiently for the fire.
The thud of the blades was muffled by the mist, but a steady morning's work had produced a respectable heap of firewood, and eventually Nicholas de Arundell called a halt. 'That should satisfy Gunilda for a day or two,' he declared, picking a leather jerkin from a bush and shrugging it on before the icy cold could bite into him again. 'I'll miss all this exercise when I recover Hempston.'
Robert Hereward threw down his own axe and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He looked disapprovingly at Nicholas, who had been his master in their previous life.
'It's not seemly for you to have to chop kindling, sir. You are still a manor lord, even if you have been shamefully deprived of your inheritance.'
Nicholas slapped him on the back as they walked up the slope from the stream towards the huts. 'Being outlawed levels all men, Robert. There is no aristocracy on the moor, only leaders of men and those who follow.' With the ginger Peter Cuffe following behind dragging a sledge full of logs and with Philip Girard clutching an armful of sticks, they made their way up to the largest hut, which had a wreath of blue smoke climbing from a hole in the roof. The village, consisting of a few part-ruined dwellings, had been abandoned long before. A few years of unusually severe weather had forced the last batch of settlers to give up trying to scratch a living from the thin soil and to move back down the valley to the lower and more hospitable land beyond Ponsworthy.
No doubt this cycle of pioneering and then disillusion had been repeated many times over the centuries - and would be again in the future. But at the moment, the crudely built shelters of large moorstone blocks were empty and the wall enclosing them had fallen in many places. Most of the thatched or turfed roofs had collapsed as their timbers had rotted, and only those intermittently colonised by tinners had been roughly repaired. The hamlet lay a hundred paces uphill from the Webburn brook, safe from the occasional flooding that occurred after cloudbursts on Hookney Tor and Headland Warren.
With Challacombe Down looming above it, the derelict houses stood in a sloping enclosure, some of them solitary huts, others in short terraces of square rooms. Crude openings for windows and doors were formed by lintels made from long slabs of grey moorstone. As timber was in short supply in that generally treeless heathland, all building was in drystone, apart from the rough branches used to support the roofs.
The late afternoon was drawing on as they unloaded their logs and stacked them against the wall in the communal living house. Gunilda was cooking a large pike that Peter Cuffe had caught yesterday in a pool downstream, but their supper was still an hour away. To calm their hungry stomachs, they each helped themselves to a bowl of thin potage, drawn from an iron cauldron simmering at the side of the fire.
'Cedric should be back from his post soon,' said Gunilda in her harsh voice. 'Not much point in him staying there in this fog.'
The outlaw band always kept a sentinel on watch further down the remote valley, perched up on the southern spur of Hamel Down. From there in clear weather, he could see a long way down the track that came up from Buckland. At any sign of men approaching, he could run back to Challacombe, and within minutes the gang could disperse up the sides of the valley and wait to see who came. If necessary, they could evacuate up to Grimspound, their next hideout a mile further away, which was an even more ancient village, set high in a side valley.
'He'll not be able to see his own toecaps up there,' agreed Girard. 'The higher you go, the thicker it gets.'
'By the same token, no one is going to come looking for us in this weather,' grunted Nicholas, blowing on the soup in his wooden spoon to cool it. They had rarely suffered any trouble in this respect: the law officers had only once attempted to seek them out, knowing that it was an almost hopeless task even if they had sufficient men and determination. Both the previous sheriff and the new one had lacked both these resources and left them well alone, as they did the other gangs that inhabited Dartmoor.
It was these last who posed the only real threat, as outlaw bands were sometimes jealous of the success of others and especially resented them poaching on what they considered their territory. Twice in the past year, gangs of even worse ruffians had tried to evict Nicholas from his village, but the superior tactics of a former Crusader and his more intelligent members, who had been manorial servants in Hempston, saw off the badly organised thugs who tried to overcome them, especially as a few of Nicholas's men were accomplished archers.
As the damp vapours brought on an early dusk, other members of the gang returned to the village. Cedric appeared from his eyrie, cold and shivering, then the remaining half-dozen men who had been on a foraging expedition down towards Moretonhampstead returned with a side of bacon stolen from a butcher's cart. In addition, they had six fowls taken from the manor farm at North Bovey and a purse containing fifty silver pence from a fat monk unwisely riding alone towards Ashburton. The dead chickens and the bacon were presented to an appreciative Gunilda, and the money was shared out equally amongst all the members of the illegal fraternity.
As darkness fell, they sat on the floor around the firepit and celebrated their successful day with ale and cider, until their leader turned the talk to a more serious vein.
'I told you yesterday, when I returned from Exeter, that I am determined to regain my birthright at Hempston,' he began. There were solemn mutterings of agreement from the men, though Robert Hereward deepened his habitual expression of resigned pessimism.
'My good wife, Lady Joan, planted a suggestion in my mind that has grown into a firm resolution,' he went on, his square chin lifted in stubborn resolve. 'The coroner, Sir John de Wolfe, is reputed to be a fair-minded man who despises injustice. My wife's cousin, who is now sheltering her in the city, has learned much about him since he returned from the Holy Land, where he served our king most faithfully.'
The men muttered 'God save the Lionheart' and 'Bless King Richard', as they felt their present exile was in good part due to the avarice of Prince John and his minions. The revenues of six counties, including Devon and Cornwall, had been granted to him by his carelessly generous elder brother at his coronation and even though John had been deprived of them after his treacherous rebellion two years before, the king had forgiven him and rashly restored many of his perquisites.
'What has this coroner got to do with our predicament?' asked Cedric, a young man who came from one of the old Celtic families on the Cornish border.
'My wife's cousin says that he has much to do with enforcing the king's peace, as the sheriff is not inclined to stir himself too much. But even more significant, this de Wolfe has the ear of King Richard and his Chief Justiciar, Hubert Walter.'
Nicholas explained that Sir John had fought closely with the Lionheart in Palestine and had been part of his bodyguard on the journey home from the Third Crusade. Robert Hereward, who had already heard the story, added a final recommendation.
'The coroner is well known to detest Sir Richard de Revelle, who is also his brother-in-law, He might welcome yet a
nother chance to discomfort him.'
'The problem is the means of approaching this upright coroner,' said Nicholas, taking up the tale again. 'As a wolf's head, I dare not appear openly before him in Exeter or anywhere in Devon. He is said to be a stickler for the law, whatever his personal inclinations, and would be duty-bound to seize me on the spot, which would be fatal.'
There was a murmuring as the men discussed this dilemma.
'So how can you ever plead your case to him?' demanded Peter Cuffe, the most outspoken of the younger men.
'You need a go-between to arrange a safe-conduct,' called out one of the others. Nicholas nodded at this sensible suggestion.
'That was my exact way of thinking, Rolf. How to accomplish it is the difficult part.'
'Can your good lady's cousin not intercede on your behalf?' asked another, but de Arundell shook his head emphatically.
'I cannot expose her to any risk - and my wife lodges with her, so I wish to keep them well away from any fear of discovery. No, it must be someone else.' The men were now hanging on every word. This scheme might bring them back within the pale of the law and let them return to their homes - or if it went wrong, it might take them to the gibbet. They waited for their leader to explain his intentions.
'We need him to come out here, where we can fully explain the situation and plead for him to put our case before this royal justiciar.'
Robert Hereward looked even more pessimistic than usual. 'And how in the name of the Holy Mother could you hope to do that?'
The noble outlaw leaned forward as if to impart a secret and his men instinctively did the same.
'At the moment, I have not the faintest idea,' he admitted.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In which Matilda attends midnight Mass
Early on Tuesday morning, the Eve of Christ Mass, it was still bitterly cold. The grey clouds that threatened snow had rolled away during the night, and a pale blue sky had left a heavy frost that glistened on every exposed surface. Over his undershirt, tunic and surcoat, John wore his thickest cloak, long and black, and reaching almost to the ground. It was wrapped tightly around him and secured on his left shoulder by a bulky bronze ring with a pin skewered through the cloth. He wore a grey felt helmet lined with cat fur, yet his ears were tingling before he reached the further end of High Street, on his way to the castle.
Up in Rougemont Castle, he again shunned his freezing chamber and went over to the hall in the keep, where a blazing fire had attracted a throng of people, all standing around warming their hands and, in some cases, their backsides, as they waited to see officials or did business with others clustered around the firepit.
He saw Gwyn towering over his neighbours at one side of the throng, with Sergeant Gabriel at his side, both holding earthenware mugs. As a gesture to the bitter weather, Ralph Morin, the castle constable, had ordered the servants to bring in a cask of ale and a supply of iron pokers. Over the growl of conversation, the sizzle of mulling was frequently heard, and John got 'himself a pot, warming his hands on the sides as he went over to join his officer.
'Where's our miserable little clerk?' he asked, after greetings were made. The description was no longer accurate, as Thomas had cheered up remarkably since being restored to the priesthood the previous month.
'Doing his duty in the cathedral,' growled Gwyn. 'Praying for the souls of some rich buggers, while the rest of us paupers can go to hell.'
As part of his reinstatement, Thomas's uncle, Archdeacon John de Alençon, had arranged for him to be given the clerical appointment of a preabenda doctoralis, one of the duties of which was to act as a chantry priest. Thomas had to intercede daily for the spirits of some deceased merchants who had left money in their wills for prayers to release them early from purgatory and wing them quickly on their way to heaven. Every morning, he went on his knees before one of the side altars in the cathedral and prayed before saying Mass on behalf of his dead patrons before the altar of St Paul, then went about his duties as coroner's clerk. Today no new deaths, assaults or rapes had been reported overnight, so the coroner and his officer had no need for their clerk and had a free couple of hours until the hangings just before noon, out on Magdalene Street. The fact that it was the eve of Christ's nativity made no difference to the final act in the administration of justice.
'What about the inquest on our dead glazier?' asked Gwyn. 'Are those few words out on the high road going to be sufficient?'
Though John was a stickler for the application of the law, he was flexible enough to bend some of the administrative rules when it seemed the sensible thing to do.
Theoretically, he had held the inquest, albeit with insufficient numbers in the jury, and now could have the body buried.
'There's little else we can do, unless some further facts come to light,' he said harshly. 'We're in the same position as with that cadaver from Smythen Street.'
'Do you think there's any connection between them, Crowner?' asked Gabriel, his rubicund face appearing above the rim of his ale jar.
John pulled the pin from the clasp of his cloak, as he warmed up in the heat of the fire and the hot drink.
'Impossible to say! Two master craftsmen, murdered in different ways in very different places. Apart from being senior guildsmen, they have nothing else in common, apart from a vague connection with those arch bastards farther down the county.'
'So what do we do now?' persisted Gwyn, using his fingers to wipe ale from his drooping moustaches.
'Might as well do what our clerk is probably doing at this moment,' grunted de Wolfe. 'Get down on our knees and pray for enlightenment!'
By the time de Wolfe walked back into the city from the gallows, the weak winter sun had melted much of the frost, but in the many shadowed areas of the narrow streets, there was still white hoar and crackling ice.
At home, Mary had cooked a meal designed to counter the effects of the severe cold: hot rabbit broth with vegetables and a spicy concoction of mutton, onions and rice, the latter imported from France on the same ships that took their wool to Barfleur. Away from the direct heat of the hearth, the gloomy hall was petrifyingly cold, the sombre tapestries that hung from the high walls doing little to insulate the timbers from the outside frost. Even in the house, John wore a heavy serge surcoat over his long linen tunic, and two pairs of hose to keep some warmth in his legs. Matilda was swaddled like a babe in one of her older velvet mantles, brought out of retirement because of its lining of marten fur. They sat huddled near the fire, where a pile of split oak logs had been placed ready by Simon, the old man who chopped their wood and emptied their privy.
As usual, silence was the order of the day, but at least Matilda seemed to have run out of things about which she could nag him. As the hanging of two thieves and a captured outlaw was too mundane for conversation, there was little left to talk about and they both stared sleepily into the flames, cupping their hands around mugs of wine warmed with hot water. John had no duties that afternoon and was waiting for Matilda to go either to snooze in her solar or out to her devotions at St Olave's, when he could slip down to the Bush to see Nesta, Soon Mary came in with another jug of hot wine, but before he could hold out his cup for a refill, there was a loud pounding on their front door and the cook-maid went to answer it.
'It's Gwyn, with an urgent message,' she reported, putting her head around the draught screens that shielded the inner door. Both she and Gwyn knew better than to invite him in when Matilda was at home, as she regarded the Cornishman as a common Celtic savage, almost as objectionable as the deviant pervert Thomas.
John hauled himself out of his chair and stiffly walked to the vestibule, shutting the inner door behind him.
'What is it, Gwyn?' he asked sourly, anticipating that the visit to his Welsh mistress was about to be postponed.
'Another killing, Crowner,' announced his officer with considerable relish. 'A right beauty this time!' Gwyn's idea of artistry would be thought bizarre by anyone outside the profession of sudden
death. De Wolfe stared at him, well aware of his officer's penchant for long-winded and sometimes dramatic explanations.
'What in hell d'you mean.., a beauty?'
'Another guildsman, but we know who he is this time. A master candlemaker from North Gate Street, by the name of Robert de Hokesham.'
The coroner groaned. Another prominent burgess of the City of Exeter done to death - what the hell was going on? 'Don't tell, let me guess! Was he strangled with a chain or did he have his neck punctured with a bloody great nail?'
The hairy giant, his bulbous nose almost glowing red with the cold and the ale he had drunk over dinner, grinned mischievously at his master. 'Neither, Crowner. He was pinned to a tree in St Bartholomew's churchyard by a long spike thrust through his left eye!'
St Bartholomew's churchyard was situated in the northwest corner of the city, just inside the encircling ramparts.
Surrounded by the mean huts and alleys of Bretayne, the small church had a relatively large plot of land for burials, used for those who had purchased a special dispensation to avoid being interred in the cathedral Close.
John de Wolfe and Gwyn marched through the narrow lanes, with Thomas pattering behind. This part of the city was the most disreputable, Bretayne being named after the original Britons, the Celtic inhabitants who had been pushed into this corner by the invading Saxons centuries before. It had remained poor, and the narrow alleys and passages between the rickety hovels were foetid and rat-infested. They passed St Nicholas's Priory with Osric, one of the town constables, hurrying on ahead.
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