Fear in the Forest

by Bernard Knight

  Within ten minutes it was all over. Four of the outlaws managed to evade both the soldiers and their arrows and, being fleet of foot, fled across the scrub-covered ground and vanished into the trees. The rest lay dead among the scrubby vegetation of Easdon Down. Gwyn had dispatched two himself, crushing one man’s head with his mace and hacking the neck of another. De Wolfe, at the spearhead of the attackers, also accounted for two, running one through the chest with his sword and stabbing another in the throat with his dagger, after the man had wrapped the chain of his mace around John’s sword-hilt.

  He looked around at the scene of mayhem, with twenty-seven corpses lying on the ground. In the battles in the Holy Land, especially at Acre, and to a lesser extent in Ireland and France, he had seen ten times that number of dead in one engagement. Still, this was Devon, and he had a momentary twinge of conscience until he again recognised that any survivors would have been either beheaded or hanged.

  The only casualty among the attackers turned out to be Hugh Ferrars, who had received a hacking blow on his left arm. The sleeve of his hauberk had saved him, but he had a large bruise spreading from elbow to wrist. He seemed mightily pleased with it, as a token of his first wound in combat. Although well trained by his father and his squires, Hugh had been short of a war in which to fight, and now had something to boast about to his drinking friends.

  Gabriel was prowling with his sword amongst the defeated men, giving the coup-de grâce to one or two who still twitched, until all was still.

  Morin called back the soldiers to rest on the grass, then came over to where the Ferrars and de Courcy were talking to John de Wolfe.

  ‘Are there any more left?’ he demanded. ‘I suspect that any who stayed up in those ruins made a quick getaway across the shoulder of the tor. They’ll be a mile away by now.’

  Guy Ferrars, his rugged face redder than usual with the exertion and excitement, leaned on his long sword. ‘We’ll take a walk up there in a moment to see. What about this lot? Did we get the leaders?’

  They scanned the crumpled bodies lying among the ferns and long grass.

  ‘Gwyn is the only one who can recognise them now,’ said de Wolfe. True to his promise, he had let Stephen Cruch loose back in the tree line and the horse-dealer had vanished like a puff of smoke.

  Gwyn ambled among the dead, turning some face up with his foot. After a while, he gave a shout. ‘This one’s Martin Angot, the fellow I saw with Cruch in the alehouse,’ he called. He looked at all the rest, then shook his head.

  ‘Robert Winter’s not among them. We’ve missed the leader, but now he has no one to lead.’

  Ralph Morin stared around at the corpses strewn around.

  ‘What are we to do with these? They’ll be stinking by tomorrow!’

  The guide and two of his fellows from Lustleigh deferentially tugged at their floppy caps, before making a suggestion.

  ‘We can get a bounty for each of these, sir. If we undertake to bury them all back in the wood there, can we take the heads and claim the bounty?’

  Ralph and John roared with laughter, even at such a macabre suggestion. The thought of Richard de Revelle’s face, when an ox-cart trundled up to Exeter Castle filled with amputated heads, was too good to deny.

  ‘You do that, good man! And add those from the last camp to your collection for the sheriff. If he refuses to pay you, let me know.’

  As the local men went enthusiastically about their business, the coroner decided that he would like to see what was in the camp up above.

  The leaders of the expedition, together with Gabriel and two of the bowmen, began to walk up the slope towards the grassy platform where the ruined foundations lay. As they neared the edge, they became cautious, in case any surviving outlaws were laying in wait. The archers tensed their bow-strings and the others gripped their weapons, but all was quiet as they stepped between the mossy piles of stones, barely recognisable as the bases of old round huts.

  In the centre of the jumble of rocks was a fire, a radiating ring of logs still smouldering. Some cooking pots and pottery mugs lay round about and the half-eaten carcass of a deer was spread on a large flat stone.

  A few of the hut remnants had been partially and crudely rebuilt and roofed over with branches to make a couple of shelters, high enough for men to crawl inside.

  ‘What a way to live!’ said Reginald de Courcy in disgust. ‘Even animals fare better than this.’

  ‘Do you think we’ve wiped most of them out?’ asked Morin. ‘We’ve missed this man Winter – maybe he’s with another nest of the serpents somewhere?’

  ‘There can be very few of his gang left,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘Together with the ones we killed on the way, this accounts for most of those who the villagers allege were plaguing the countryside.’

  ‘We had better call at that camp Gwyn saw, down towards Ashburton,’ advised the constable. ‘I’ll take a dozen men and go that way back to Exeter.’

  ‘You’d best go with him, Gwyn,’ said the coroner. ‘You know exactly how to find it.’

  But the Cornishman failed to respond. He had walked a little way from the group and was standing with his head cocked on one side, listening intently. Then tucking the handle of his mace into his belt, he slid out his sword and quietly advanced on one of the brush-covered shelters.

  Bending down, he looked inside, and with a roar tore off one of the branches that straddled the stone walls.

  ‘Look what we’ve got here, Crowner!’ he yelled exultantly, waving his blade dangerously back and forth in the entrance of the shelter.

  The others dashed over and Gabriel helped Gwyn drag off more of the crude roofing. Cowering inside the tunnel-like bivouac were four men, crouched against the end wall in a desperate effort to remain hidden.

  ‘Get out, blast you! Come out of there!’ yelled Gwyn, stabbing down with his sword to encourage the quartet to stumble out into the open.

  De Wolfe stared in amazement when he saw who they had found.

  ‘God’s bowels! It’s the bloody foresters and their tame monkeys!’

  With expressions of mixed fear and defiance, William Lupus and Michael Crespin came out of the shelter, followed by the ugly Henry Smok and another burly man, who John assumed was Crespin’s page.

  Guy Ferrars was beside himself with rage, waving his fists in the air as he yelled at the foresters.

  ‘You’ll hang for this, you bastards! Consorting with outlaws, caught red handed in their very camp!’

  Crespin looked desperately at his colleague, hoping for some deliverance. William Lupus glowered around at the leaders of the posse, racking his brains for an excuse.

  ‘We were taken prisoner by Winter and his men,’ he proclaimed. ‘Thank God you’ve come. They would have killed us.’

  De Courcy gave Lupus a hard shove in the chest. ‘You bloody liar! If you were prisoners, how is it that you’ve still got your daggers in your belt and that lout there even has his mace?’

  Lupus continued to bluster in an effort to regain the initiative.

  ‘What right have you to be here? This is Royal Forest, you have no power here! Where’s the sheriff? I want to talk to him.’

  John stood right in front of the arrogant forester, his hooked nose almost touching his.

  ‘You can forget all that nonsense about Royal Forests! I’ve just returned from Winchester with a King’s Commission to clear up this anarchy and the sheriff is no part of it. We know about your dealings with Robert Winter – and Cruch the horse-dealer has confessed everything, including his priestly master.’

  The surly forester seemed to slump with dismay at the coroner’s revelations, but de Wolfe had not finished.

  ‘Finding you skulking in Winter’s camp is the final touch. But I also want you in connection with several previous deaths and for refusing to attend my inquests.’

  He stepped back and motioned to Gabriel and Gwyn.

  ‘Bind these men’s wrists and rope them together – and take those weapons from
them. They’re coming back to Exeter with us, for a spell in Stigand’s jail in Rougemont.’

  ‘But only until we hang them!’ added Ferrars viciously.

  Getting back to Exeter was a complicated operation, as John’s party had to return to the carts to shed their armour, collect the horses, then go on to Moretonhampstead to meet up with Ferrars’ group. By now it was too late to start out for the city, so the men camped overnight in the field where the sheep market was held. The town was scoured for enough food to last fifty men until morning, though at least Gwyn’s huge appetite was missing, as he had gone with Morin and some soldiers down to the southern campsite and would meet them in Exeter on the morrow.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In which Crowner John completes his commission

  By noon the following day they had all assembled back in Rougemont. John had travelled so much in the past week that he had to work out that it was now Tuesday. The borrowed men-at-arms went to their billets in the outer ward, to rest until they began the long tramp back to Portsmouth the next day, while the local leaders adjourned to the hall of the keep for refreshment and discussion about the whole forest affair. John, Ralph Morin, de Courcy and Guy Ferrars and his son sat at a trestle table, with Gwyn, Thomas, Gabriel and the ubiquitous Brother Roger sitting at the end, eager to hear what was decided. While castle servants scurried to fetch them ale and cider to wash down cold meats, bread and cheese, the coroner began the proceedings.

  ‘What about the damned sheriff? He must know we’re back, but he’s conspicuous by his absence.’ John looked across at the door to Richard’s chamber, which was firmly closed.

  ‘To hell with him,’ growled the baron. ‘I have a feeling his days are numbered as the King’s man in this county. I’ll be in London in a week or two, when I’m going to have a few strong words with some friends on the Curia – and be damned to de Revelle’s powerful patrons.’

  Between the steady champing of jaws and slurping of ale, the discussion went on.

  ‘We’ve broken the back of the main outlaw band, though there’s scores more of the bastards in the forest,’ said Ralph.

  ‘But they’re a disorganised ragtag, with no object other than stealing chickens and holding up travellers for their purses,’ said Reginald de Courcy.

  ‘A pity we didn’t get that Winter fellow,’ said Hugh Ferrars, in one of his rare utterances. ‘Where is he now? I wonder.’

  ‘Without his second-in-command, that Martin Angot, and with most of his men slain, he’s lost all his power,’ replied John. ‘Unless he can rebuild a gang out of the remaining villains that lurk in those woods, he’s no longer of any consequence.’

  ‘I suspect that Winter’s already fled from these parts, either up to Exmoor or across into Cornwall,’ grunted Guy Ferrars. ‘Without the support of Prince John’s mob, we can forget him.’

  The portly castle chaplain leaned forward to speak to de Wolfe, a quart of ale in one hand. ‘Crowner, yesterday, while you we all away, I met John de Alençon after a service in the cathedral. He asked me to tell you something interesting.’

  John suppressed some mild irritation. This priest, amiable as he was, seemed to have his nose into everything. ‘What was that?’ he grunted.

  ‘The archdeacon said that John of Exeter, our revered cathedral Treasurer, had told him privately that in the last few months, some considerable sums of money had come into the bishop’s palace. The purses were dealt with by Henry Marshal’s clerks, but had never appeared on any diocesan accounts and seemed to vanish equally mysteriously.’

  There were raised eyebrows and meaningful looks around the table. John of Exeter, unlike some of the senior canons, was a staunch supporter of the King and sided with the archdeacon and coroner when it came to opposing the Prince John faction.

  ‘Had the Treasurer no explanation of this?’ asked Lord Ferrars.

  ‘It seems not. He had no dealings himself with the money, but came across the matter by chance. It would appear that the funds were merely passing through the bishop’s custody, destined for somewhere else.’

  ‘Perhaps they were collected by a Cistercian monk?’ suggested Reginald de Courcy, with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘I wonder what’s happened to that fellow?’ queried Ralph. ‘Is it worth rattling the abbey at Buckfast to see if we could shake him out?’

  ‘Ah, I can also tell you something of that,’ said Brother Roger, beaming at his own erudition. De Wolfe groaned under his breath – this priest was a one-man spy ring. ‘A vicar-choral of my acquaintance told me that Father Edmund Treipas spent one night last week in the guest house in the palace.’

  Thomas de Peyne plucked up the nerve to butt into the discussion.

  ‘I heard the same tale from a secondary in my lodgings. The father had a large pack behind his saddle and apparently was on his way back to Coventry, where he came from in the first place.’

  De Wolfe slapped the bench in delight. ‘We’ve scared the fellow off! He must have heard of Stephen Cruch’s arrest and the bishop and his abbot have sent him packing, to save themselves any awkward questions.’

  Ralph brought the talk around to current problems.

  ‘What are you going to do about these damned foresters and their accomplices? The soldiering part is over. Now it’s down to you and the law.’

  ‘Hang the swine out of hand!’ snarled Ferrars, still smarting at the loss of his woodward and his deer. ‘Surely conspiring with outlaws is a felony? They were caught red handed.’

  De Wolfe shook his head. ‘They’re not declared outlaws – and they are still King’s officers. They will have to have a trial before the royal judges. I can’t advocate one sort of justice for some then hang others without trial.’

  Ferrars made noises that suggested that it was all a waste of time and effort, but de Courcy agreed with John.

  ‘Have your trial, as long as it doesn’t go to the Shire Court, where the damned sheriff would probably not only acquit them but give them a few marks from the poor box for the inconvenience they suffered!’

  The coroner used his teeth to strip the meat from a capon’s leg while he considered the matter.

  ‘Later today we must interrogate them down below.’ He pointed with his chicken bone at the floor, below which the prisoners were incarcerated in the undercroft. ‘The Warden of the Forest should be present, as well as this new verderer, de Strete. They are the seniors of these miscreants, they should hear what they have to say.’

  Guy Ferrars nodded reluctant acceptance of this alternative to a quick hanging.

  ‘We’d better have de Revelle there, too, whether he likes it or not. I want to see him squirm when he sees his accomplices confess.’

  ‘As he’s still the sheriff, however much we resent it, he surely must fulfil his responsibilities as the enforcer of the King’s peace in the county,’ added Reginald, always a stickler for convention.

  They agreed to assemble in the gaol after the bell for Compline, late in the afternoon. As John was fretting to get away to Polsloe, he left Ralph Morin to inveigle Richard de Revelle into attending in the undercroft.

  When John arrived at the priory, he found Nesta slightly better than when he had last visited, a couple of days ago. She still had a slight fever and her pallor was not improved, but she seemed more cheerful and had lost the haunted look that had so worried him over the past two weeks. When he complimented her on the improvement, she managed a smile that was almost like her old self.

  ‘It’s the nursing, John, they are so kind to me that I cannot fail to get better every day. If only this fever would leave me, I’m sure I could go home.’

  ‘You stay here until you are really well, my love,’ he admonished. ‘You can’t struggle up that ladder in the Bush in your condition – and I can’t always be there to carry you up myself!’

  They talked for a little while, with John as usual relating all his recent adventures. Nesta was overjoyed that he had not suffered any injury this time. He avoided asking her
whether she had seen Matilda, as last time this seemed to have caused her to give him some odd looks, but on his way out Dame Madge materialised in the corridor. She demanded once again that he display his wound for her inspection, and while he bared his hip he asked whether there was any change in his wife’s resolution to ignore him. The bony midwife for once seemed oddly reluctant to answer him, saying that he had better talk to the prioress about such matters. When she had satisfied herself that his rapidly healing wound needed no further attention, he dropped his raised tunic and thanked her for her devoted care of Nesta.

  ‘She is a sweet woman, Crowner,’ said Dame Madge. ‘We are all very fond of her.’ Her tone suggested that Nesta deserved better than to be wasted on an adulterer like John de Wolfe, but she did not elaborate.

  When he sought out Dame Margaret in her parlour, the nun who acted as her secretary told him that the prioress was at prayer in the new chapel and could not be disturbed. With a vague sense of foreboding, he climbed aboard Odin and set off for home, his mind divided between the problems of the foresters and of the women in his life.

  Soon after the distant bell in the cathedral tower rang for Compline, men began gathering in the gloomy vault under the castle keep. Even in the dry heat of midsummer, the grey walls and low arches of the ceiling were dank and slimed with mould – a fitting location for the misery and torment that often took place there.

  The four prisoners who were led out of the rusted iron door by the grotesque jailer were subdued and apprehensive even before they faced their accusers.

  Though they had been in the squalid cells only since that morning, they were already dirty and tousled. The green tunics of the two foresters and the leather jerkins of their pages were streaked with grime, wisps of dirty straw adhering to their hair and hose.

  With Sergeant Gabriel at one end and the obese Stigand at the other, they were prodded into a ragged line, clanking the heavy irons that secured their ankles. Their belts and weapons were laid out near by on the dried mud of the floor, and off to one side Stigand had helpfully set out a brazier, with branding irons stuck into the glowing coals.