The Noble Outlaw

by Bernard Knight

  At Dunsford, they asked a shepherd driving a flock towards them whether he had seen 'their friend' on the road, a man with a discoloured face, and were told that he was not more than half a mile ahead of them.

  Reassured that he had not already vanished into the woods, they carried on at the same pace and eventually came into Moretonhampstead, a village about twelve miles from Exeter. It was almost a small town, a busy place with a stock market and a few taverns that were thronged with freeman smallholders, horse traders and tinners.

  'This Maurice knows me, so I'll keep out of the way,' said de Wolfe, as they reined in at the edge of the straggle of cottages and shacks. 'Leave your horse with me and go around the alehouses to see if you can spot that dappled palfrey.'

  Ten minutes later, his officer was back, wiping his luxuriant moustaches with the back of his hand. 'Found him easy enough, in the inn with the sign of the plough outside. He's in a corner, eating a pie and talking head to head with a big, rough-looking fellow.' Gwyn pointed back to the village, which was spread around a crossroads. The tavern was a large thatched hut, almost on the corner of the road that went up towards Chagford.

  'Would you know this other man again?' demanded de Wolfe.

  Gwyn nodded. 'He's young, not above twenty, I reckon. And a thatch of ginger hair, brighter than mine, a real red-knob he is!'

  John chewed his lip in indecision. 'Do we follow this one? Did he seem just a casual drinking mate, or are they meeting on purpose?'

  'I've a gut feeling it's the real thing, Crowner. They were muttering close together, as if they wanted to keep their talk to themselves.'

  'Right, get back in the saddle and hang around there until this ginger fellow leaves. We'll have to track him as best we can, though God knows it will be difficult once he leaves the road.'

  And difficult it proved to be, following a horseman in open country without giving themselves away. They had had to wait for half an hour, until the carrot-haired man emerged and trotted off on a sturdy moorland pony. John and Gwyn split up, keeping just out of sight of each other, then alternating their positions in respect of the presumed outlaw so that he would not glimpse the same man every time if they inadvertently came within his view. For a couple of miles they were on a proper road, the one that ran southwards to Ashburton, but then the distant man turned right on to a track that went to the hamlet of North Bovey.

  When they reached the village, there was no sign of him, and a boy herding goats at the side of the road said that no one had passed by in the last hour. Cursing, they wheeled around and, almost in desperation, took the only side track a quarter of a mile back. This led through trees to a bare heathland and Gwyn was able to find some hoof-prints in a boggy area where water was still oozing back into the cavities.

  'Trodden very recently, I reckon,' he grunted. 'He must have come this way.'

  Cautiously, they followed the track which began to climb on to the moor, a land of bare ridges with valleys which were filled with a patchwork of woods, waste and strip fields. As they went a mile or so beyond the village, now seen down below, the track became little more than a beaten path, with scrub and bushes on each side.

  Though it was not raining, a thin mist hung over the countryside and the higher parts of the moor were lost in grey cloud. Gwyn and the coroner rode cautiously, their eyes straining for a glimpse of the man ahead, and their hands never far from the hilts of their swords.

  After another two miles or so, the landscape grew bleaker as they rose towards the upper plateau of Dartmoor. The mist thickened into wreathing shapes as the breeze whispered through dead grass. Eventually, the path dipped steeply down into a combe along the bottom of which ran a clear stream; bushes, dead brambles and some stunted trees filled the glen. As they splashed through the brook, Gwyn, who was in the lead on this narrow path, suddenly stopped and whipped out his sword with a hiss of steel. A man on a short-legged moorland pony had moved out from behind the bushes and now confronted them, It was not the ginger youth they had been following, but suddenly he also appeared behind the first fellow, an older man with unkempt dark hair. The redhead jabbed a finger at them and spoke excitedly.

  'That's them, Philip. Been following Maurice and then me all the way from Exeter.'

  So much for our clever plan, thought John as he hauled out his own sword. The two men who confronted them kept at a distance and made no move to threaten them. They had daggers in their belts, and the dark one had a short spear across his saddle, but he let it lie there undisturbed.

  'Sir John de Wolfe, the crowner?' he asked in a broad, rural accent.

  De Wolfe stared at him in surprise. 'How the hell do you know who I am?' he demanded, holding his sword at the ready. 'And what do you want? Who are you anyway?'

  The man smiled thinly. 'A lot of questions, Crowner! Old Maurice told Peter here who you were, though God knows how you got on to him. And I am Philip Girard, once a huntmaster in happier times.'

  He was a thin, haggard man of about John's age, the skin of his face looking as if it had been dried over an open fire. He wore a tattered leather jerkin over worsted breeches and an open cloak of frayed moleskin with a round hood. John noticed that he had a hunting horn on his belt, as well as the dagger and a short sword.

  The coroner gruftly acknowledged his identity. 'And this is my officer, Gwyn of Polruan. Now, are you proposing to prevent us from continuing our journey?' he added with a hint of sarcasm.

  Girard grinned. 'And just where were you proposing to journey to, sir? With no one to follow?' He pulled the horn from his belt and gave a long double blast that echoed around the banks of the little glen.

  'What's that for?' demanded Gwyn aggressively, waving his sword at the huntsman.

  'You'll see in a moment, sirs. Until then, can I invite you to follow us for a few miles? The choice is yours, you can turn back now, if you wish.'

  Gwyn flushed and moved his horse forwards a few feet towards the speaker. 'Don't tell us what we can or can't do. I'll Cut your bloody head off if you don't get out of the way!'

  'Hold fast a moment, Gwyn,' called de Wolfe, then directed his piercing gaze at Girard. Am I right in thinking that you are one of de Arundell's outlaws?'

  'I am one of Sir Nicholas's men, yes,' admitted the man, emphasising the noble title of his leader. 'He has been hoping to have the chance to talk to you, as long as it was on equal terms... Though I never thought we would come across you in this fashion. Maybe it is the will of God.'

  'Equal terms?' snapped John. 'I am a law officer and you and your master have been legally declared outwith that law. The only true terms would be for me to lead you back to the gallows in Exeter on the end of a rope.'

  Philip Girard smiled wanly. 'That won't be happening today, Crowner.' He gave another single mournful blast on his horn, and almost immediately three men on horseback burst through the bushes. Muffled in ragged clothes, they were a menacing trio, bearded and longhaired.

  'You are still welcome to come or go, Sir John, but I doubt even fighters with such a doughty reputation as you and your squire would prevail against we five, if you contemplated arresting us.'

  John was intrigued by the situation, sharing little of Gwyn's truculent indignation at being ambushed.

  'So what are you proposing, eh?'

  Girard, who was obviously the senior member of this bunch, answered for all of them. 'We know from Maurice, when he comes each week to Moreton, that Lady Joan wants her husband to take our predicament to the highest authorities. Sir Nicholas ardently wishes to explain everything to you in person, but could not devise a way of bringing this about. Now you seem to have taken the matter into your own hands.'

  Gwyn was still smarting from being outmanoeuvred by the outlaws. 'We followed your carrot-knob to discover your hideout, so that we could return with a troop of men-at-arms to flush you out,' he growled.

  All the men grinned at this. 'It's been tried more than once,' retorted the ginger youth. 'But have you ever tried catching a
ferret in a cornfield?'

  De Wolfe kept to the main issue. 'So you want us to come and talk to Nicholas de Arundell, is that it?'

  The former huntsman inclined his head. 'As a matter of honour - and we still have that left, in spite of every misfortune that has been heaped upon us - we swear that we will conduct you to him and see that you return safely.'

  John looked acoss at Gwyn, 'It's up to you, you can turn back if you wish. But we came to find Nick o' the Moor and now we are being offered guides to that very end.'

  Gwyn seemed to accept his master's confidence and he settled back into his usual amiable burnout. He slid his sword back into its scabbard. 'Very well, as long as they've got something to eat and drink in their den, wherever it is.'

  The atmosphere suddenly lightened, and John also sheathed his weapon. 'We'll come with you, then, on those terms. How long a journey will it be, for it looks as if we'll not get back to Exeter this day?'

  'More than an hour from here, sir. We can feed and bed you for the night, primitive as it might be. Though I'm sure that will be no novelty to the pair of you.' He pulled his pony around and led the way along the path, the other four outlaws failing in behind Gwyn and de Wolfe.

  'We must soon leave this track and cut across country,' said Girard. 'My friends and I are not popular with villagers and smallholders in these parts.' He smiled rather sadly.

  'Neither would I be pleased if my hens and goats vanished and the cabbages disappeared from my croft.' They struck off up the valley and followed the stream, then went through woodland until they came out on the lower slopes of a bare hill with strangely rounded rocks on the top.

  'That must be Easdon Down, where we fought last year,' muttered Gwyn, as he recognised the scene of a fight against a different band of outlaws. The man in front continued around the base of the down, and once again they plunged into the forest, avoiding a small village on their left.

  Philip Girard rode his pony without saddle or stirrups, with just a folded blanket over the beast's back and a bridle to control it. Even so, he kept up a fair pace given the difficult terrain, especially when they were in dense woodland.

  'Is it much further?' demanded Gwyn, seeing another and much higher barren hill appear in front of them.

  Their guide turned and pointed ahead.

  'We're passing Heathercombe Down, then we'll go between King Tor and Hamel Down. A mile beyond that and we're there.'

  They left the trees and climbed up across desolate moorland, the east wind now catching them again, blowing wreaths of thin cloud across the upper slopes.

  Reaching a saddle between two high bluffs, they began descending towards a distant valley, but before they reached it, they crossed an odd structure.

  'What the hell's this place?' asked Gwyn, his Celtic sensitivity tuned to some ancient vibrations. In the bowl of moorland between the two bluffs, a waist-high wall of blackened moorstones made an almost perfect circle, a bow-shot across. The stones were in a double line and the remains of a ditch lay outside the circle. Dotted around inside were the remains of small round huts, most with stone doorposts and some with angled entrance passages. Three or four had rough roofs of branches and turf, though these seemed to have been added recently. Girard stopped his horse at the far side, where there was a flagstoned entrance to the compound.

  'This is Grimspound, an ancient village,' he said. 'Far older than Christ's birth, so the wise men say, though how they can tell, I don't know. The folk that used to live in the place we use now, claimed it's haunted and certainly most people down the valley wouldn't come near here at night, for fear of seeing the little folk.' They jogged on, riding down steeply from the mysterious stone camp into the main valley, but John was still intrigued.

  'Who put roofs on some of those huts?' he questioned.

  'A couple were made by passing tinners, as a shelter when caught by bad weather, but we repaired some others as a refuge should some large force come against us in Challacombe,' he replied.

  John had heard of Challacombe but never been near it, as it was in a remote part of the moor. At the bottom of the slopes they reached a track that ran southwards down a valley through which a stream babbled. On each side were high bare hills and at the bottom, alongside the brook, a few sparse trees grew. The old huntsman took them about half a mile farther, as the wind dropped and the mist crept down from the moor.

  'That's where we live, if you can call it living,' said Philip Girard bitterly. He pointed across the stream where, beyond a thin copse of stunted, black trees, the irregular outlines of some low, crude buildings could be seen behind an old wall. In single file, they rode towards them and crossed the stream over a rough bridge of fallen logs. As they approached the enclosure, men came out through a gap in the surrounding walls and waited for them to dismount.

  'That's Sir Nicholas, our lord,' murmured Girard to the coroner, indicating the figure standing in the middle of the small group, staring at the newcomers. John saw a stocky man in his mid thirties, dressed in much the same type of clothing as his men. A leather jerkin and worsted breeches seemed the most practical garb for living in these wild conditions. Girard dismounted and hurried ahead to explain to his master what had happened.

  De Wolfe stepped forward, as did Nicholas de Arundell, so that they met on the patch of rough ground that separated the two groups.

  'You are welcome, Sir John,' said Nicholas in his deep voice. 'I only wish it was in more civilised surroundings.' The two men weighed each other up, making no move to grasp each other's arm in greeting. John took in de Arundell's strong, rather stubborn features, but Nicholas held his gaze unwaveringly. The younger man recognised an even tougher character, de Wolfe's dark face carrying the stamp of grim resolve and determination.

  'We are both old Crusaders, I understand?' grunted de Wolfe. 'We never met in Outremer, which is hardly surprising given the chaos and turmoil we all suffered.'

  'I was delayed for almost a year in Sicily, fighting another war,' explained Nicholas. 'But we have other matters to discuss first, so please come into our shelter, which at least will be warm and where we can feed you.' As they walked into the compound where the stone shacks were built, the former steward, Robert Hereward, made himself known. Then Philip Girard introduced Gwyn to the other men. Inside the largest of the huts, the fire had been built up to defeat the cold outside; though the fumes seeking to escape through the gaps under the thatch prickled the men's eyeballs. Daylight from the open door and the flames gave enough illumination for the visitors to see the sparse furnishings and the piles of bracken where some of the men slept.

  At Nicholas's invitation, they sat at the trestle table and from the other end, the old woman shuffled forward, carrying some wooden bowls and a loaf of bread.

  'This is Gunilda, the most important member of our tribe,' said Nicholas. 'She keeps us fed and moderately clean, God bless her.'

  The woman put her load on the table and nodded at the visitors, before going to the firepit to take a blackened cauldron off the stones near the edge. After she had ladled out a thick vegetable potage into their bowls, the other men crowded round with their own pots and dishes, then went to sit or crouch around the fire to eat.

  'There'll be venison later on,' promised Hereward. 'Peter Cuffe, our best archer, got a hind yesterday down towards Widecombe. That's a hanging offence, I know, but you can't be hanged more than once!' There was a guffaw of laughter from the outlaws; Gunilda distributed more hunks of bread to them and went back for the ale pitcher.

  De Wolfe, who had been silently taking in the situation, began asking questions of de Arundell.

  'Are these all your company?'

  'They are, apart from a lookout down the valley. We are now only twelve men - and a woman.'

  'And this is your permanent home?' asked John.

  'At present, though we have several smaller hideouts scattered over the moor. We need to be able to vanish within minutes if anyone comes against us.'

  Gwyn raised his
head from his soup bowl. 'Does that ever happen?' he asked.

  Robert Hereward, also sitting at the table, answered with a nod. 'Yes, but not often, thank God. A year ago, a large gang of desperate men from over the Tavistock end of the moor took it into their heads to finish us off, but we melted away and they achieved nothing but wrecking this place. It is poor, but soon mended.'

  De Wolfe picked up the ale pot which Gunilda placed before him. 'So no law officers have come against you?'

  Nicholas shook his head. 'Not for a long time, thank God. In the earlier days, Richard de Revelle tried to pursue us here with the excuse that he was sheriff, but he sent only a few men and we soon lost them in the wildness of the moor.'

  'This place is very remote, being near the centre of Dartmoor,' added Philip Girard. 'There is often bad weather and it is easy to evade those clodhoppers who march up the valley. Our sentinel spots them in plenty of time and we just vanish.'

  There was a pause, then the coroner spoke again. The tone of the meeting changed perceptibly and the other men around the hut listened attentively, for possibly their lives depended upon what was to be said.

  'You must understand that as a senior law officer, I should not be here, except to arrest you all or strike off your heads. But I have heard certain things about you, which I need to investigate further.' He paused and looked sternly around the ring of faces seen dimly in the poor light. 'Officially, I am not here - understand?' There was a muttered chorus of agreement.

  'Now, I need to know exactly what happened at your former manor - and what has transpired since then.' He took a gulp of ale and looked expectantly at Nicholas de Arundell.

  The blue eyes in a handsome, rather flushed face looked back at him steadily. 'I will start at the beginning, Crowner.

  Probably like your own family, we Arundells came over at the time of William's conquest, and settled mainly in Sussex and the West Country. The Bastard gave much land to Roger, the first of the Arundells down here in the west, most of it in Somerset and Devon, though lately many of the family have settled in Cornwall.'