The Noble Outlaw

by Bernard Knight

  John's gaze followed his finger and saw a heap of earth in a corner, on top of which was fixed a crude wooden cross made from two branches lashed together with cord. When they all went over to look, they saw that the earth was freshly dug; no weeds were on the surface, and the broken ends of the cross were pale where living sticks had been snapped through.

  'What poor soul is under there, I wonder?' murmured John. The two soldiers crossed themselves and even the agnostic Gwyn bowed his head in respect. De Wolfe only hoped that the occupant was not Nicholas de Arundell, but there was no way of telling what had happened. It was now obvious from the destruction of the camp and the recent grave that the outlaws had been attacked and that someone had paid with their life.

  'Where do we go from here?' asked Gwyn, as they swung back into the saddle and began walking their horses back through the trees to the place where they had crossed over the little river.

  'Deeper into the moor, north from here,' answered the coroner, with a confidence that he did not feel.

  Dartmoor covered about four hundred square miles and the outlaw band could be almost anywhere within it, assuming that they had not been wiped out in the attack.

  As they turned left on the main track, retracing their path towards Grimspound, those behind suddenly saw the sergeant tense in his saddle and grab for the ball mace that hung from his saddlebow.

  A voice called out from behind the last tree in the copse that lined the stream, and a figure stepped cautiously out from behind it.

  'Crowner! Crowner John!'

  A ginger-haired youth, muffled in a cloak made of poorly cured deerskins, advanced on them, his hands held high to show that he was no threat. Gwyn was the first to recognise him as one of the outlaws.

  'Peter Cuffe, it is you, Peter?' he roared.

  The redhead came up to them, smiling now that he was in no danger of being brained by Gabriel's fearsome mace. Explanations soon followed, and it became clear that the youngest of the gang had been sent as a lookout. He had been three days on his own, sleeping in a shallow cave up on the ridge above and watching for anyone approaching the ruined village.

  'Nick hoped that we would be contacted by someone. We were unable to send anyone to Moreton last week to keep the usual rendezvous, though next Monday we were going to be there, as we knew Lady Joan would be worried.'

  He described the attack on Challacombe and the tactical withdrawal of the outlaws to Grimspound, where they had outwitted the invaders and made them flee.

  'I knew it, roared Gwyn. 'Those bastards de Revelle and Pomeroy! Surely they must hang for this.'

  De Wolfe shook his head sadly. 'For what? Attempting to clear out a nest of outlaws, as is their right and indeed duty? They could even have claimed the wolf's head bounty had they succeeded.'

  'They did succeed in one instance,' said Peter Cuffe sadly. 'Poor old Gunilda died, that's her grave in the yard. We found her body when we crept back after those swine had left.'

  There were growls of anger from Gwyn and the men-at-arms, but John kept his mind on the present situation. 'We are hoping for a pardon for you all from the king,' he explained. 'So I need to talk to Sir Nicholas as soon as possible. Where is he now?'

  Peter Cuffe explained that after the ruination of Challacombe, they had withdrawn to a temporary camp, in cave shelters that were just about habitable. A few days later, they had moved again to slightly less miserable quarters in old huts belonging to an abandoned tin-streaming works above Chagford.

  As the winter's day was rapidly advancing, they set off at once, Cuffe sitting up behind Gwyn. He had no horse, and the back of the Cornishman's big mare was the broadest of the group's steeds. The ginger lad guided their path, which meandered between the bare downs and valleys, going ever northward without ever meeting any habitation. Even though de Wolfe reassured Cuffe that he was no longer in any danger of being beheaded, two years as a fugitive were too deeply ingrained in the lad's soul for him to take any chances.

  The early dusk was falling as they reached a small valley, little more than a deep gouge cut into the moor by a fast-running stream. They were near the eastern edge of the high moor, and in the far distance a few glimmers of light showed where a hamlet or farm nestled in the greener, more fertile land down below.

  Directed by Cuffe, the riders went carefully down into the small gorge, their horses slithering on the mud and stones of the bank until they reached the stream, which babbled and gurgled between boulders on its rapid journey to join the Teign a few miles away. The ginger youth gave a piercing whistle, and an answering whistle came from a few hundred yards further down. In the gathering gloom, John saw the rotting remnants of wooden sluices and troughs where tin-washing had once been carried on. Underfoot, serried piles of gravel lay in a herringbone fashion, where the river bank had been dug out in the search for ore and the useless railings had been discarded.

  The whistling had come from a pair of low huts, built as usual of dark moorstones piled on top of each other, roofed with branches and turf. Originally shelters for the miners and places to store their tools, the huts were now the refuge of the outlaw band, an even more primitive lodging than the old village at Challacombe.

  As de Wolfe's party approached, men hurried out of the holes that formed the doorways and stood awaiting them in anxious anticipation. Foremost was Nicholas de Arundell, unshaven and dishevelled, as were all of his men.

  'Thank God it's you, Sir John,' he said fervently, clasping the coroner's hands. 'What news have you for us?'

  'Good, certainly hopeful, Nicholas,' replied the coroner, shivering as he slid from his horse's back. 'Your accommodation here looks less luxurious than that when we last met, but I would be glad of some shelter while we talk.'

  The outlaw chief hustled them to the doorway of the nearest hut, but Gabriel said he would go with his two men to the other shanty, a few yards away. The dozen or so residents clustered around, and some took the visitors horses to join their own, which were tethered further down the stream. With much shouting about hot potage and ale, the two groups parted, and de Wolfe and Gwyn squeezed into the main hut, which was barely high enough to allow them to stand upright. Nicholas waved a hand expressively at the heaps of bracken that lined the walls, inviting them to sit down in a circle around a small ring of stones in the centre, which confined a smoky fire of logs hacked from the stunted trees in the valley.

  'Thank God we are old Crusaders, Sir John. These are poor quarters even for us, but I know you will understand that we have little option, as those bastards once again deprived me of my home, simple though the last one was.'

  As they squatted on the beds, Philip Girard, Martin Wimund, Robert Hereward and a couple of other men pushed into the hut and shuffled into places opposite, eager to hear any news. Peter Cuffe found a pitcher of cider in a corner and passed around some pottery mugs. 'The stew is being heated in the other place, there's a better fire there than this one,' he explained sheepishly.

  'You'll not need to suffer this much longer,' began John, reassuringly. 'From this moment, the Chief Justiciar says that you are no longer outlawed and may return to your homes without fear.'

  There was a babble of joyful astonishment and the coroner heard a similar uproar from the other hut, where on John's instructions, Gabriel had passed on the same message. For a few moments, he could hardly speak for a barrage of questions from the men, until Nicholas yelled for quiet.

  'We beseech you, Crowner, tell us everything. We have waited so long for this.'

  There was silence as John carefully related his visit to Hubert Walter and the promises that the Justiciar had made to them.

  'This is virtually as good as the word of King Richard himself,' he concluded. 'But until the royal justices, in the shape of Walter de Ralegh, make a full investigation and pronounce on the matter, we must all tread carefully.'

  This sobered the excited men a little, and Nicholas asked what exactly de Wolfe meant by this.

  'There is no doubt that t
he stigma of outlawry has been lifted from you all, as there will be no going back on the word of the king's chief minister. But as to Hempston Arundell, we have to wait for Waher's verdict, though knowing him as I do, I doubt there will be any lack of sympathy for you.'

  'So what does that mean as far as we are concerned?' asked Robert Hereward.

  'I need Sir Nicholas back in Exeter straightaway, as he must appear before the sheriff, who may wish formally to remove this curse of being an outlaw - and as soon as de Ralegh arrives next week, he will want to see Sir Nicholas.'

  'And the rest of us?' demanded Martin Wimund.

  'As I said, you are entitled to leave this place as free men. The problem is that Henry de la Pomeroy and Richard de Revelle still occupy the manor they stole from you and will not take kindly to your turning up there before official decisions have been made.'

  'So where can we go?' pleaded Philip Girard. 'Most of our band came from Hempston. Our homes are there, and our families.'

  John looked across at Gwyn, now dimly visible in the twilight of the unlit hovel. 'No doubt you will all be required as witnesses when Walter de Ralegh begins his enquiry next week, so I do not see any objection to you being housed in Rougemont for that short period. Do you think that is possible, Gwyn?'

  His officer bobbed his head over a pot of cider. 'The garrison is small these days, so there's plenty of room.

  I'll ask Gabriel, and if he thinks it's practicable, we must get permission from Ralph Morin, the castle constable.' De Wolfe turned back to Nicholas, who looked haunted, as if he feared this was a dream or a cruel joke, and that he would soon wake to find that he was still an outlaw.

  'I suggest that you return with us to Exeter in the morning', John said. 'No doubt that kind cousin of your wife will accommodate you in her house. The men must, I'm afraid, stay here for a day or so until we send for them to come down to Rougemont. It would be too risky for them to return to Hempston until the threat of Westminster is held over those bastards down there.' He suggested that Nicholas go over to the other hut and explain the position to the other half of the band, while he was away, Martin Wimund, the former reeve of Hempston, told John of the attack on Challacombe and the routing of Pomeroy's force up at Grimspound.

  'They killed poor Gunilda, a defenceless woman,' growled Girard. 'We found her body, and buried it, when we went back to look at the wreckage of our homes after they fired them.'

  'She may have fallen and cracked her skull,' said Hereward. 'But there were bruises on her, and however she came to die, those swine were responsible.' Nicholas came stooping back into the shed and posed another question: 'We defeated twice our number up at Grimspound,' he said. 'Our archers saved us, but killed two of their men in the battle. Will we be indicted for murder over that?'

  John de Wolfe, sticking scrupulously to the law as he saw it, scratched his stubble as he deliberated on this.

  'An inquest must be held eventually and I am the coroner for the south of the county. I will hear the evidence, but this was virtually an act of war. You were attacked without provocation by a much larger force, whose members undoubtedly wished to kill you all, so you had no option but to act in self-defence by whatever means you could. That sounds like a good reason to call the deaths justifiable homicide. But we must put the matter to an inquest jury when the time comes.'

  The more formal part of the discussion over, the men fell to animated talk about the future and the prospect of seeing their families once again. They trooped out into the open and mixed with their fellows from the other hut. A few who were not from Hempston, but who had drifted into the outlaw band later, wondered what was to become of them, but Nicholas promised that they would be welcome in his manor when it was restored to him. 'We have stuck together in good times and mostly bad, so I'll not see you thrown out to fend for yourselves, good men that you are.'

  It was almost dark, but the excited men felt in no mood to sleep, so another hour or more passed before they divided themselves between the two huts and curled up on their crude beds, wrapped in every garment they possessed, but still half-freezing in spite of the glowing wood on the central firepits.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In which the royal justices arrive

  Nicholas returned to the bosom of his family in Raden Lane with great rejoicing, his wife being overjoyed to have him free of the furtive constraints that had required him to skulk into the city in disguise. One of her first tasks was to take him to buy some decent clothes and boots, in place of the worn and dirty raiment he had had on the moor. Her cousin generously gave them both money and two good-quality cloaks that had belonged to her late husband. De Arundell walked with his wife through the crowded streets in a state of nervous awe, hardly able to believe that at any moment he would not feel the heavy hand of arrest on his shoulder.

  'We owe everything to Sir John de Wolfe,' said Joan as they walked back towards her cousin s house, the old servant Maurice walking behind them, carrying their purchases from the Serge Market and several shops in High Street.

  'Indeed we do, but be cautious, sweet wife,' answered Nicholas. 'Our troubles are not yet over, for we have to see what comes from the deliberations of Walter de Ralegh next week - and to be sure that King Richard has confirmed the Justiciar's promises. I doubt those swine down in the west will give in without a fight.'

  'You fought them once and won, husband,' protested Joan loyally.

  'I will meet any man in a contest of arms - but those bastards Pomeroy and de Revelle have influential friends and are expert in manipulating the law to their advantage.'

  Joan refused to allow her husband's caution to dampen her joy at having him back, and when they returned again to Raden Lane she was able to share her delight with her friend Matilda de Wolfe. The coroner's wife had heard from her husband that Nicholas had returned with him from the moor, and she had hastened to Gillian le Bret's dwelling to offer her felicitations. She was eager to cast her eyes on de Arundell's romantic figure, as he had been by turns a knight, a manor lord, a Crusader, and then a hunted outlaw.

  Nicholas welcomed her graciously as the woman who was the wife of his saviour John de Wolfe, as well as someone who had befriended Joan in spite of being the sister of one of the villains. Matilda was instantly charmed by this handsome man, and her resolve to side with John against her brother's cupidity was strengthened on the spot.

  'Lady Matilda has been very kind to me, Nicholas,' declared Joan, as they settled around the hearth in Gillian's hall. Over pastries and wine, they discussed the future, and Matilda, a different woman when away from her husband, was encouraging about the outcome.

  'My husband, the king's coroner, is very influential,' she affirmed grandly. 'He is acquainted with many powerful people - and indeed the king himself is by no means unaware of his worth, for John was a member of his personal guard when Richard returned from the Holy Land.'

  She avoided mentioning that her husband had been unable to prevent the monarch from being captured in Vienna on that ill-fated journey.

  'It's not the worth of your John that worries me, good lady,' responded Nicholas. 'But that other John, Count of Mortain, who may well use his considerable influence to confound the good that your husband has already achieved.'

  Gillian le Bret broke in reassuringly. 'Sir Walter de Ralegh is originally a local man, albeit one who has risen high in the chambers of power,' she said. 'He knows the politics of the West Country very well and is a strong character, faithful to King Richard. He is unlikely to be intimidated by the barons and bishops who are beholden to Prince John's ambitions.'

  Matilda held her tongue about the fact that it was Walter who had officially ejected her brother from the office of sheriff and had sworn in his successor, Henry de Furnellis. Although she was now firmly against Richard over his part in the seizure of de Arundell's manor, there was a limit to how much she was willing to acknowledge publicly concerning his treachery.

  'We can only wait and pray until next week, when the
king's judges will hear the matter,' said Joan practically. 'I am sure they will uphold justice and undo the wrong that has been visited upon us. My only wish is to get back to our home in Hempston and live quietly, to pick up the broken threads of my life!'

  Matilda laid a comforting hand on the younger woman's shoulder.

  'Amen to that,' she said piously. 'I'll add my prayers to yours, twice each day until Walter de Ralegh arrives.'

  'We know now that it was definitely this Geoffrey Trove who is the culprit, but where the hell is he?' De Wolfe sounded more aggrieved than angry as he took the stripped bone of a sheep's shank from his platter and dropped it on to the rushes for the expectant Brutus.

  'Perhaps he's already in hell, if he was as sick as that ironmaster suggested,' grunted Gwyn from the other side of the table.

  'He might have left the city altogether,' said Nesta 'The fact that he's vanished surely means that he knows he's been marked down as the killer. Wouldn't he want to get as far as possible away from Exeter?'

  It was evening, and John was supplementing his supper at home with some extra sustenance at the Bush, with Gwyn enthusiastically following his example. That afternoon, the big Cornishman had returned to Exe Island with Osric, and between them they had kicked down the door of Geoffrey's hut. Amongst the sparse furnishings was a workbench, on which was an iron frame about the size of a quart pot, containing a powerful spring device. It was obviously the machine that had discharged the bolt that had injured the guild master in Rock Lane. Gwyn had brought the strange weapon down to the tavern, where they studied it with interest.

  'Evil as he must be, he is a clever fellow and a very good craftsman,' said John, peering appreciatively at the fine workmanship of the mechanism.

  'Is that blood on one corner?' observed Nesta, whose younger eyes were the keenest. She pointed to a sharp edge where the end of the strong laminated spring projected beyond the square casing. Gwyn spat on his forefinger and rubbed it on the brown stain. It came away reddened and he nodded in satisfaction.