‘Really?’ Baldwin asked, one eyebrow lifted slightly.
Piers was glad to escape further questioning until they were all mounted on their ponies and ambling northwards to where Wylkyn had been found. Roger Scut remained at the inn with the two Constables, apparently sulking at the untoward allegation that he ate too much.
‘You raised the Hue and Cry when this new body was found?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Yes, sir. We advertised the murder as soon as we could, but there’s been no news yet.’ Piers sighed glumly. ‘We’ll be fined again when this comes to the courts.’
‘You still have some days,’ Baldwin said reassuringly as Piers led them out on the road towards the moors. Once the Hue and Cry was raised, the vill had forty days to find the culprit before they were liable to a fine.
‘Yes, sir, but I fear we won’t find those responsible.’
‘Did you know the dead man?’
‘Vaguely. I am Reeve to Sir Ralph’s Manor of Wonson, and Wylkyn was steward of Gidleigh to Sir Richard Prouse. I saw him sometimes.’
‘The First Finder is honourable?’ Simon enquired.
‘Elias is an honest man, not a thief,’ Piers stated. He recalled the expression on the old ploughman’s face as they spoke about the body and about Sir Ralph. The only illegal behaviour he could be guilty of was assaulting a knight, he thought.
‘Elias again? How honest is he?’ Baldwin smiled. ‘Honest enough to refuse money to find a body?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘He also found the girl Mary’s body, did he not?’
‘I think so, yes,’ Piers said loftily.
‘We know what I mean, then. All First Finders have to pay a fine, do they not? And they must provide two sureties who will also lose their money if the First Finder does not appear in the court. But a man can only be fined once to make sure he goes to court. A First Finder who discovers one body may often miraculously find other dead bodies in his vill. What would be the point of someone else finding a fresh corpse if the First Finder of another would be happy to state that he found it? I wonder how much Elias was paid to find this tin miner.’
‘I am sure that Elias wouldn’t… um…’
Baldwin chuckled softly. ‘There is no need for it to go any further. However, I shall want to speak to Elias and ask him who suggested that he should walk that way when he found the body.’
‘Elias will tell you exactly the same as I have,’ Piers said. He felt a little mournful. It would have been good to be able to unburden himself about Sir Ralph, about Elias seeing him just before finding Mary. Piers was also convinced that Elias knew something about this latest body as well. He had been very shifty when talking about Wylkyn. It wouldn’t surprise Piers to learn that Elias had not been the First Finder.
‘Remind us about this body,’ Simon said.
‘It’s a miner called Wylkyn. I heard his brother died the other day, as well. Fell in a bog. He was travelling down here – probably on his way to Chagford for the market.’
Simon snorted and gazed about them. ‘To buy, then.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Baldwin asked.
‘He wouldn’t come here laden with goods to be sold. Too much risk of being robbed. He probably had only a few pennies on him to buy some flour and a capon.’
‘He wasn’t alone, Master,’ Piers said. ‘He was one of a band.’
‘What happened to them?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Surely the other travellers would protect him – or was it the travellers who killed him?’
Piers was torn. He would have liked to tell the truth, that Sir Ralph and his son regularly beat and robbed travellers, but that might put his own neck at risk. He would be so glad to see Esmon arrested and sent to Exeter Gaol for the next court… but he knew that was unlikely. Judges didn’t gaol knights or the sons of knights. ‘I don’t know. I daresay they were so fearful that they ran straight to Chagford,’ he said lamely.
‘Really? Leaving one of their number dead? But when they arrive, they must surely tell the Port Reeve and call the Hue and Cry?’ Baldwin said.
Simon nodded slowly, studying the Reeve. ‘I think we should send a messenger to Chagford and ask for the men who reported the murder.’
Piers led the two men at a swift pace much to Hugh’s annoyance, for he loathed being on horseback, down one hill and up another. It was at the top of this, a scant mile away, that Piers waved to a lad standing near a blazing fire. As the men approached, Piers could see that the boy was terrified. His hands were shaking and his face was deathly white.
‘What is it, Henry?’ Piers asked gruffly.
‘Father, thank the Good Lord! Christ Jesus, but I was scared!’
‘This is your son?’ Simon asked with some surprise. The lad looked too sturdy in build for Piers, with a strong, slightly round face fringed with a thick, tousled mop of reddish-brown hair. The pallor of his face lent fire to his remarkably bright green eyes.
‘Yes, Bailiff. This is my son Henry,’ Piers said, ruffling his hair affectionately.
‘You look as though you have had a great scare,’ Baldwin said gently. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Sir,’ Henry said, glancing at his father and seeing the nod of approval before continuing, ‘it was the wind which unsettled me, and then, when it got dark, I couldn’t sleep because of the dogs.’
Simon nodded understandingly. ‘Wild dogs and wolves are a nuisance all over the west of Devonshire, just as they are in other parts of the country. Did any get close?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
Baldwin gave him an encouraging smile. ‘You lit a fire, that was a good idea. It would have scared away any animals.’
‘Most, yes,’ Henry said, and wrapped his arms about his chest as though protecting himself from the very memory of the previous night. ‘Not all. One group came close, very close. I thought I might be attacked and eaten, because they weren’t worried about the fire at all.’
Hugh was all sympathy for the lad. He’d spent enough time alone on hills to know how, every so often, a particular noise could frighten you – the way the wind caught in the branches of a tree from one direction, maybe the way that a branch creaked against another. Sometimes it could be just the sound of a bird stirring in the branches, or the awareness of something that couldn’t even be heard, like the grey, silent drift of an owl shearing through the air without the faintest rustle to mark his passing. That could be truly terrifying, Hugh remembered – until you realised it wasn’t a ghost but a damn great bird which might soon carry off a newborn lamb.
Still, Hugh reckoned it odd that dogs would approach a living man when he was near to fire. Flames scared off most animals, in his experience.
‘But you stayed close and protected the body?’ Baldwin pressed him.
‘Oh, yes! I wouldn’t sleep, sir,’ the lad said with some asperity, as though his integrity shouldn’t be in doubt.
‘Good. Then where is this body?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Over there, sir,’ Henry said, pointing.
He was indicating a shallow dip before a wall that surrounded a pasture. Baldwin walked to it, peering all about him. ‘Where?’
Piers shot him a look, then stared hard at his son a moment, before joining Sir Baldwin. ‘He was there, Sir Knight,’ he breathed. ‘Some bastard’s made off with his body, damn his rotten soul to hell.’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said musingly. ‘So, boy, it seems you weren’t that close after all.’
Simon nodded. ‘Aye – and it would seem that Sir Ralph was quite right, too, when he said we wouldn’t find a body.’
Surval watched the flames of his fire for a long time that morning, on his knees in the dirt like a man praying, exhausted from his exertions the night before.
He had been out most of the previous night, up near the road where Wylkyn the miner had been found dead, because he wanted to go and pray over the poor soul. Wylkyn was a pleasant enough fellow, the sort of man with whom Surval would h
ave enjoyed sharing a pot of ale in the past, especially after receiving that bird. It had been delicious.
Instead he had seen Sampson.
Usually Sampson was content to sit with Surval while the hermit cooked something for him or prayed for him. At such times Sampson would stop squirming and a light like a heavenly pleasure would seem to illuminate his features. Surval always thought that seeing Sampson sitting before his altar, the light from a candle shining on his simple wooden cross, made Sampson look like an angel. He was handsome at those times.
He hadn’t wanted to talk last night, though, and there was no ease in his face. Instead he had stammered and whined, pulling at Surval’s arm until the hermit had gone with him and helped him. Surval hadn’t wanted to help when he realised what Sampson intended, but Sampson explained that Esmon had told him to, and then Surval agreed.
This morning, he wondered why Esmon had been so keen to have that body hidden. He could have got his own men to move the corpse if he was truly that concerned about it, but instead he had told Sampson to go up to the moors and conceal Wylkyn. Not that hiding the body was difficult. Surval knew of several ideal hiding-places, and the one he had picked was perfect, especially with a few stones piled over it to protect the body from wild animals. Henry was fast asleep before they got there, so he was no obstruction. Dunderhead! He would pay for his failure. The Coroner would demand a princely sum for failing to protect the body from theft.
Gradually the noise of hooves broke into his thoughts. He rose and strode to the door. There, at the bridge, were a number of carters, their faces pale, their manner urgent and fretful, starting at every noise. Surval stood at his door, grasping his staff and leaning upon it like the old man he felt himself to be as he recognised their fear. These were the men captured and ransomed by Esmon. ‘Is there no end to their damned rapacity?’ he muttered to himself.
‘Old man! This is the right road to Chagford, isn’t it?’ The speaker was Alan, and Surval took in his thin, wispy beard and pale skin. Weakly-looking fool, he thought.
Alan sported a blued and half-closed eye, and he spoke with a slight slurring, because his jaw was bruised after being punched, but overall he felt happy enough. His worst fear, of being recognised as having escaped Sir Ralph’s men before, had not materialised, and he was still alive. That was better than the alternative, he reckoned.
‘Yes. You must follow the road up the hill there. Are you well, boy?’
‘I’m fine. Yeah, fine. Are there any footpads between here and the town?’
‘Hoy, Alan!’ another man shouted out. ‘We’ve told you there’s nothing else. For God’s sake don’t keep whining.’
‘Oh, shut up, Saul!’
‘What is he complaining about?’ Surval demanded grimly.
‘We’ve been ambushed, our goods ransacked, a companion taken from us, and there’s nothing we can do! Why – should we expect another attack?’ Alan asked.
‘Shut up, boy! Don’t talk about what you can’t change!’ The second man was a thickset fellow with the ruddy, well-lined features of one who spent much of his life in the open air. He had a bushy beard and black, suspicious eyes, which were made malevolent by their red rims, which Surval at first thought were due to lack of sleep or torture, but then he saw the man wipe his nose on his sleeve and heard him snort loudly. It was only a cold.
‘Wylkyn has gone – disappeared, for God’s sake! Do you feel nothing for him?’ Alan burst out.
‘No. Little enough. Can I bring him back? No. Can I give him back his goods? No. So what’s the point of complaining? We can’t do anything about it, so that’s that. Meantime, I’ve got a wife and children to feed. It’s buggers like you make that hard. Oh!’ He wiped at his nose again, muttering, ‘This damned cold. Flies in summer, colds in winter. You can’t do anything about either, damn them! Why did God send such pests to plague us?’
‘It was murder. Murder! They must have killed him! And now we’ve been held in his castle while his men go through all our goods! Does everyone passing through here get taken and held, their goods snatched from them?’
The older carter shrugged. ‘Yes. It happens. And we didn’t see anyone killed, did we? Maybe he ran off and we’ll find him waiting at Chagford. More to the point, if we don’t get on, we’ll miss the market altogether, and then we’ll lose the rest of our goods. My cheeses won’t last in the wet for long. So stop your bloody dawdling, boy, and get on!’
‘Hermit, what would you do?’ the boy Alan appealed. ‘You’re a man of God! In His name, what would you do?’
Surval could say nothing. The lad stared at Surval as though hoping for some sort of answer, an explanation for what had happened to him, a suggestion as to a course of action that might return that which had been stolen from him, but Surval remained silent. He bowed his head in shame, knowing that if he was a real holy man he’d be able to make this man feel better. But he had nothing to give. God knew, he’d tried often enough to help people, but how much use was he? It was bad enough trying to deal with his own shame and guilt.
The lad spat at the ground, disgusted by his rough treatment at the hands of Sir Ralph and Esmon’s men and equally disgusted by the hermit’s inability to offer even verbal support. He snapped his reins.
‘Godspeed, hermit. Buy a capon!’ the older man called. He flicked a penny at Surval, who automatically caught it and bobbed his head in thanks, then watched as the group ground past him, the axles squeaking and grumbling, the iron tires cracking over small stones and making pebbles fly.
Surval watched them go with a feeling of emptiness in his belly. He knew better than Alan or Saul what had happened to Wylkyn.
‘Poor Wylkyn!’ he murmured, shaking his head. It seemed obvious that Esmon and his men must have killed him, and yet there was little he dared do about it.
With that thought, he re-entered his chamber and prostrated himself before his cross, praying for the man’s soul, while all the time at the forefront of his mind was the picture of Wylkyn’s body lying in the shallow grave while he and Sampson set the stones all about it.
He could have gone to the Port Reeve at Chagford and told him all, but here he was, lying before his altar, begging God to forgive him. It made him feel his cowardice. If he had courage, he would go, and damn the consequences. Esmon and Sir Ralph were ruthless, they would trample any man who stood in their path. They should be restrained. Yet there were loyalties too strong to be broken, and Surval couldn’t throw the two to the dogs, even if they were guilty of killing Wylkyn.
‘Forgive me, Wylkyn!’ he implored.
They spent as much time as possible searching along the line of the road, then up and into the moors, before Baldwin took a look at the wall and peered over it. ‘Could they have taken him over here?’ he wondered aloud.
‘Baldwin, look at the sun!’ Simon said. ‘We have to get back for the court.’
Regretfully, Baldwin agreed. He went to his horse, but could not help staring over the wall again.
Simon noticed the direction of his gaze. ‘The boy Henry was asleep there. If someone took the body of Wylkyn away, they’d hardly drag it right over the lad’s head, would they? They must have carried it over that wall, I suppose, but where in all this shire did they hide the damn thing? Perhaps we could use dogs to find it.’
‘That’s possible,’ Baldwin agreed, and allowed himself to be led back to the castle. Once there, he found that many of the peasants still hadn’t arrived. On a whim, he turned to Piers. ‘How far is it to this boy Sampson’s home?’
‘Not far.’
‘Simon, would you mind sending Hugh to our inn and telling Thomas and Godwen to come here? I have a feeling we might need them. In the meantime, we could ride on to meet this Sampson and see if we can find out anything more about poor Mary.’
With that agreed, Piers took them down past the castle’s entrance, then right, heading westwards, along an old track. After a half mile or so, he climbed from his pony and led the way in among the
trees. ‘There it is.’
It was a rough dwelling of the sort that charcoal-burners might construct: rough timbers with the spaces filled by mud, and a roof of thick thatch stapled in place by hazel spars.
‘Sampson? You there?’ Piers called.
A vacant, fearful young man appeared, crouching to duck under the lintel. He had a nervous smile that twitched at his lips and made him look as though he was more stupid than Baldwin thought he probably was. In his experience, the men described as ‘fools’ could remember things as accurately as the brightest men. Not that it said much for the intelligence of the brighter men whom Baldwin had known.
He smiled to put Sampson at his ease, climbing from his horse. Sampson seemed to have a lame foot. It was something which often went with foolishness, Baldwin knew.
‘Master Sampson. I hear you were in the road when the poor child Mary was killed. Is that right?’
Sampson nodded slowly. He had told the Coroner already. He didn’t like that man. He was suspicious. This one was kinder. Had a nice face. Sampson quite liked his face.
‘Could you tell me what you saw?’
‘I didn’t see. I was lying down so they wouldn’t see me,’ Sampson explained.
‘I quite understand,’ Baldwin said. ‘What did you hear, then?’
‘They argued. He wanted her to take something. Something to stop her baby. No, she wouldn’t, no. Not that. Killing her baby. No. So he grew angry. Hit her. Heard that. He smacked her. And then he says, “What have I done?” and he cries, and he’s sick, and he runs off.’
Simon looked up sharply. ‘He was sick? And what of her?’
‘She was quiet.’
‘She must have miscarried,’ Simon said to Baldwin.
‘If so, she was unconscious, or she would have been crying out, calling for help,’ Baldwin mused. He looked at Sampson. ‘Was she still, as though she was asleep?’
Sampson frowned with the effort of recollection. ‘No, master. She was sniffin’. Sad. Very sad. Didn’t say anything, but wept.’
‘It does not sound as though she was in mortal pain or aware that her child was to miscarry,’ Baldwin murmured. ‘Sampson, did you hear a loud cracking sound?’
The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Page 22