The Noble Outlaw

by Bernard Knight

  'They are all mounted, so do you think they'll climb up here still on horseback?' queried Robert.

  Nicholas shook his head, his face grim but lit with the expectation of battle, such as he had not experienced since the Holy Land. 'It's too steep and slippery with yesterday's rain. They'll have to leave their mounts down on the track, probably leaving a couple of men to look after them.'

  Hereward crossed himself and muttered some prayer under his breath, then took a firmer hold on the long-shafted battleaxe that he held with a knuckle-whitening grip. They waited and shivered in the cold air, every man now silent in order not to betray their presence, as in that wilderness sounds carried a long way.

  They watched intently, looking up at the ridge where Peter crouched on the edge of Hameldown Tor. A layer of grey cloud hovered like a moist blanket, blotting out the extreme tops of the hills, but leaving the lower slopes and the valley clear apart from a few wraiths of detached mist that drifted on the breeze. Nicholas de Arundell remembered similar ambushes in other campaigns and had the same thoughts: whether or not he would be dead within the next few minutes - and whether it would hurt so very much with a spear or sword through his belly.

  His eyes strayed down to the steep slope where the stream cut its way through the peat to the track below, but suddenly he felt a nudge from Robert's elbow.

  'Peter must have spotted them,' he hissed. They swivelled their eyes up and saw Cuffe running down the hillside, bent low and keeping out of sight of the road below. He stopped for a second and made urgent pointing gestures, then ran a few hundred paces more and dropped out of sight behind a slab of moorstone.

  Silence fell again, but soon they could all hear the intermittent neigh of a horse and the faint jingle of harness, as well as the bark of a hound. A human shout next broke the stillness, and a muffled curse as a fretful stallion kicked out at another beast.

  A few moments later, they saw the first heads appear, bobbing over the curve of rank grass as they climbed up the sheep track alongside the stream. The horses and hounds had obviously been left down below.

  Nicholas had hoped to evade detection altogether, but he realised that it was a forlorn hope. Amongst these men were huntsmen and even poachers, who could easily recognise a recent footmark in the wet soil and realise than men had trodden the same path not long before.

  Soon about a score of figures had risen out of the valley and were cautiously approaching the two stone pillars that marked the entrance to the ancient settlement. They were led by a pair who wore thick leather curiasses and round iron helmets, suggesting that they were part of the Berry Castle guard. Behind them strutted the sturdy figure of Henry de la Pomeroy, followed more hesitantly by the slimmer Richard de Revelle.

  Nicholas stared across the few hundred paces of ground with loathing in his eyes. These were the men who had dispossessed him, driven his wife from her home and made him an outcast. He almost wished he had given his archers orders to strike them down where they stood, but even after the tribulations that had forced him to live like a hunted fox, remnants of his chivalrous upbringing prevented him from killing without warning.

  He watched as all the invading force gathered inside the wide circle of Grimspound. There was much waving of arms on the part of de la Pomeroy, then some of the men went around the low circular huts, peering inside those that had not collapsed or lost their roofs. Soon there was a shout, clearly heard in the still air, and one of the searchers came out with what could have been a crust of bread - then another found a recently chewed piece of bacon. After a hurried conference, the faces of all the posse turned to scan the surrounding hills, their hands clutching their weapons in readiness for an attack.

  De Arundell cursed under his breath. Though his men had been careless in leaving signs of such recent occupation, he was realistic enough to accept that he could not prevent the searchers from discovering their presence in the area. All he could do now was wait and see what happened.

  After a hurried discussion between the two manor lords, their bailiff and the leading man-at-arms, and half a dozen of the more soldierly men came out of the enclosure and began walking cautiously up the slopes on each side. They had their swords or pikes at the ready and began searching behind each large rock and in every hollow. It was only a matter of time before they came upon one or other of the outlaws, and Nicholas felt it was beholden upon him to take the initiative. As he saw a big fellow wearing an iron helmet with a wide nosepiece clambering up towards his hideout, he suddenly stood up and brandished his sword, the light of battle glowing in his eyes.

  'Stop there, or I'll slit your gizzard, damn you,' he yelled, his volatile temper flaring up. The man almost dropped his sword in surprise as the apparition seemed to appear from the very earth in front of him.

  There was a roar from the rest of the posse down below as they caught their first sight of their quarry, but almost simultaneously, almost all, the outlaws, except the archers, popped up from their hiding places and gave answering yells of defiance as they waved their weapons at the foe.

  The big man in front of Nicholas soon got over his shock and with a roar of triumph launched himself towards the outlaw leader. However, he was lumbering uphill and suddenly found himself facing two adversaries, as Robert Hereward hoisted himself from his crouch and stood alongside his master, brandishing a long staff with a wicked spike on the end. With a great shout, Nicholas went to meet the man, parried a swing from the big sword and kicked him hard on his shin.

  As the man grunted with pain, de Arundell swung the flat of his yard-long sword against the side of the fellow's head and he fell to his knees, blood streaming from his lacerated ear.

  'Clear off, you bastard,' screamed Hereward, his own battle lust awakened. He prodded the man in his sword arm with his spiked staff and though the tough leather jerkin prevented any deep injury, the man screamed with pain.

  By now, other single combats had begun, as the few invaders outside the enclosure were being attacked by Nicholas's men. They had the advantage of the higher ground and within a few moments, two of the Berry men were lying wounded and the others had taken flight back down the slope. Most of those in the compound were racing to the opening to join the affray, though a few were scrambling over the wall, a difficult task as it was not only chest-high, but was double, with a space between the two layers of moorstone.

  As a dozen men began jostling through the entrance, the outlaw archers made themselves known, standing up to loose off a rapid succession of arrows into the press of figures pushing through the narrow gap. There were screams of pain and the rest of the men dived back to take cover behind the grey stones of the palisade.

  Amongst them were the two knights, with Richard de Revelle lying almost flat on the ground, shaking with fear as he watched two wounded men dragging themselves into cover.

  'Bloody archers,' yelled Henry de la Pomeroy, livid with anger rather than fear. 'Where in hell did they get archers?'

  Had he but known it, the six men in the outlaw band had made themselves expert bowmen by sheer dint of practice. Often with little to do between forays, they had spent their time in learning the skill from Morgan, a man from Gwent in South Wales, the home of the longbow. Outlawed for an alehouse brawl in Plymouth, which had left a man dead, he had joined the band almost at the beginning and taught those interested how to make bows and how to use them. Hundreds of hours of practice had strengthened their arms and sharpened their eyes so that, though not up to the standard of professionals in an army, they were more than proficient in a close-quarter situation like this.

  As most of the Berry posse cowered behind the protective wall, the few that had clambered over it were in various stages of fight with Nicholas's men. One was set upon by Martin Wimund and another outlaw, receiving a hearty kicking that left him senseless on the ground, while another had managed to fell Peter Cuffe with a blow from a heavy staff. His assailant was about to finish off the ginger-headed youngster, with his dagger, when the nearest ar
cher saved Peter's life with an arrow through the assailant's throat.

  'What in Christ's name do we do now?' hissed Richard de Revelle to Henry, as he cowered against the boundary wall.

  'Break out and attack the swine,' snarled Pomeroy, his temper getting the better of his good sense. 'They had luck and surprise on their side just then, but it can't hold.'

  He was wrong. As Henry waved to the men sheltering around him and got them to dash with him to the gap in the palisade, they ran into another shower of arrows that killed another man-at-arms and slightly wounded Henry in the leg.

  Cursing, he dragged himself back into the shelter of the wall, where de Revelle, who had not stirred an inch, looked at the injury and declared it not to be serious, just a glancing cut above Pomeroy's ankle.

  As the blaspheming lord bound a kerchief around his leg to staunch the bleeding, there was a loud shout from the nearby slopes.

  'Pomeroy! De Revelle! Are you listening? This is Sir Nicholas de Arundell. Can you hear me?' Henry struggled to stand up, putting his weight on his good ankle and using the lumpy stones of the wall to pull himself erect.

  'Be careful, man,' hissed de Revelle desperately. 'He may put an arrow through your head.'

  De la Pomeroy might be a bully and a boor, but he was no coward, and ignoring Richard's warning he hoisted himself high enough to peer over the palisade.

  He saw Arundell, looking much rougher than he remembered him, standing on higher ground a hundred paces distant. Two other men, one an archer with an arrow ready on the string, stood alongside him. Looking round, Henry saw a dozen men encircling the camp, several more of them archers.

  'What do you want, you murdering thief!' he yelled at Nicholas.

  'I've murdered no one,' de Arundell called back. 'And neither am I a thief, like you and that snivelling coward de Revelle. Where is he, anyway, has he died of fright?'

  Pomeroy looked down and hissed at his co-conspirator.

  'Stand up, for God's sake! Show yourself, will you?' Reluctantly, Richard slowly rose and peered over the wall. When he saw the archers, he dropped again, but Henry grabbed his cloak and hauled him up to stand alongside him.

  'Give yourself up, de Arundell,' blustered Pomeroy. 'You are outnumbered.'

  This was met by a chorus of laughter from the men surrounding Grimspound and for devilment, one of the archers loosed off an arrow which smacked against a stone within a foot of de la Pomeroy's head. He jumped and de Revelle ducked below the parapet once more.

  'And for what shall we give ourselves up to you, Pomeroy?' shouted Nicholas. 'To be hanged or beheaded?'

  'You are outlaws, damn you,' raved Henry. 'We are a lawful posse, come to cleanse the moor of your evil presence.'

  'Lawful posse, my arse,' retorted de Arundell. 'Only the sheriff can raise a posse - and he knows the righteousness of my case, as does the coroner, who is riding to petition the king about your wrongdoing.' Henry ground his teeth in frustrated anger. There was nothing he could do to confound this bold outlaw.

  He and his men were trapped inside the ring-wall, with half a dozen archers able to massacre anyone who tried to make a dash for it through the narrow portal, 'Can't we hide inside these little huts?' quavered de Revelle.

  Henry looked down at him with contempt. 'What good would that do, you fool? They could come to the doorways and pick us off like rats in a barrel.'

  The knight they had ousted from Hempston was calling to them again. 'You started this fight, damn you. I wanted no part of it, and if you had not followed us up here and tried to kill us, we would have left for another part of the moor.'

  Pomeroy, thankful that Nicholas did not yet know that his old woman retainer had been killed, now realised that there was nothing to do except save his skin and whatever dignity he could salvage.

  'So what do you propose, outlaw?'

  'I want no more killing or wounding. I never wanted any in the first place. If you throw down your arms, you can walk out of this place and take your dead and wounded with you.'

  There was a mutter of agreement from the men cowering inside the pound, echoed fervently by Richard de Revelle. 'Agree to it, accept his offer at once!' he hissed.

  Henry gave him a scathing glance, but realised that he was right - they were trapped and had nothing left to bargain with. He shouted across to Nicholas, still standing on a tussock with a sword in his hand.

  'Very well, but remember, there will be another day, and next time you will be overwhelmed.'

  De Arundell gave a cynical laugh. 'Tell that to King Richard or his Chief Justiciar when they haul you before them. For now, just drop your weapons and clear out of here! You'll not find us in this area again, if you are foolish enough to come seeking us before royal retribution is visited upon you.'

  The light was failing by the time the men from Berry had tramped despondently down to the road to regain their horses. They carried two dead men and two who had suffered arrow wounds. Two more who had lesser injuries were helped along by their compatriots, including Henry de la Pomeroy himself, who leaned heavily on the arm of his bailiff as he limped along to his stallion on a damaged leg.

  A pile of swords, pikes, maces and staffs lay inside Grimspound, though Nicholas chivalrously agreed that the two knights could keep their swords, so long as they promised not to unsheath them again that day. As the winter dusk approached, the outlaws watched the defeated posse ride away down the valley, the archers keeping a watchful eye for any last-minute treachery until the cavalcade had vanished out of sight. Two of their men had slight injuries, though Peter Cuffe had soon recovered from his blow on the head.

  'Where do we go from here?' asked Robert Hereward as the gloom thickened.

  'We can stay up here tonight, sheltering in the huts. But some of us must go back down to Challacombe to make sure that the place is unusable after that fire. And of course, to seek for Gunilda. I have a bad feeling about her,' he added grimly.

  After their ignominious defeat at Grimspound, Henry de la Pomeroy and Richard de Reverie headed back to Berry Pomeroy Castle to lick their wounds and to hold an inquest on their failure and the possible consequences. The darkness obliged them to spend the night at Widecombe and it was noon the next day before they limped home. That afternoon, the east wind moaned around the towers of the gatehouse as the two men sat in Henry's chamber easing their aching limbs after their long ride back from the moor. The gash in Pomeroy's leg had been cleaned and bound by one of the servants, but it still smarted enough to be a reminder of the fiasco at Grimspound.

  They had eaten and now settled in chairs set on each side of a large brazier, a jug of Loire wine on a nearby table providing frequent refills for the silver goblets they held.

  'It was those bastard archers who undid us,' snarled Henry for the fifth time. 'I'm going to hire a couple of Welshmen to train those clods of mine to shoot!' Richard was more of a realist. 'Don't waste your money, Henry. It takes years to make a man competent with a longbow - and I'll warrant we'll get no second chance against Arundell and his gang.'

  'So what do we do about it now?' rasped de la Pomeroy, splashing more wine into his goblet. 'Run and shelter under Prince John's skirts, I suppose?' His tone was bitterly sarcastic.

  'What else do you suggest?' retorted Richard huffily. 'Without his support, we could be in serious trouble.

  Do you want to go the same way as your father?' he added maliciously, referring to the elder Pomeroy's suicide at St Michael's Mount. When accused of treachery to King Richard, he had ordered his physician to open the blood-vessels in his wrists, so that he bled to death, rather than face the Lionheart.

  Henry was too worried to take offence. 'So how do we go about it? You are close to the Count of Mortain.'

  A shutter rattled in the wind as de Revelle considered his answer. 'We must get ourselves to Gloucester as soon as we can and hope that the Prince is there. His support is vital to us. After all, he was nominally the sheriff of Devon when we seized de Arundell's manor - and h
e had had Devon and Cornwall in his fief at the time, so he could be considered to be Nicholas's ultimate landlord.'

  Henry saw little that was helpful in this tortuous argument, but grudgingly agreed that a clever lawyer might be able to draw some legal justification from it. 'Sounds a thin excuse for us kicking out de Arundell's family and sequestering his lands,' he said. 'Still, if you think we are in personal danger over this, then by all means let us ride to Gloucester.'

  Richard de Revelle, who had a much more perceptive and cunning brain than the boorish de la Pomeroy, was adamant. 'It's our only defence, Henry! I know this damned man de Wolfe. He's like a bull-baiting dog, he never lets go once he's got his teeth into something. Comes of being a bloody Crusader, I suppose. We need to speak to Prince John before de Wolfe gets back from kissing Hubert Waiter's arse!'

  At the same time that afternoon, in a workroom behind a large forge on Exe Island, just outside the western wall of the city, a man was bent over a complicated device lying on a bench.

  He murmured under his breath as he worked, filing a slot in a piece of iron that was part of a mechanism that consisted mainly of a powerful leaf-spring held back by a trigger device. The contraption seemed to owe much of its design to a cross bow, except that it was very much smaller and the bow part was replaced by a single arm.

  The man, a fellow with a heavy, sullen face, was fashioning every piece with loving care, working from a diagram scratched on a square of slate with a sharp nail.

  A lock of hair fell incessantly across his forehead and he brushed it aside with almost obsessional regularity.

  Alongside the device he was fashioning, were several other metal articles, including large door locks, parts for ox-cart axles, iron swivels, and rings for horse harness.

  From the yard outside came the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil and, from an adjacent workshop, the tapping of a punch clinching over rivets, as other journeymen and apprentices went about their business.