The Noble Outlaw

CHAPTER SIX

The next few days up to the Sabbath passed fully, with no more deaths reported to the cold weather intensified and even the foul central gutters of the streets froze solid, though snow held off despite the leaden skies.

De Wolfe had some routine matters to deal with, such as taking a confession from an approver in the foetid cells that served as a prison under the castle keep. The thief had been caught red-handed when a gang robbed a house near the East Gate, mainly because he had broken his ankle when he jumped from a window, his Confederates having escaped. Now he was trying to save his neck by incriminating them as well, and the coroner's clerk had to take down his pleas to present to the justices when they eventually arrived. Matilda was still in a moderately amiable mood, anticipating the social and religious celebrations that would accompany the feast of Christ's Mass. This would begin in a few days' time and continue until Twelfth Night at Epiphany.

John woke early on Monday to another bitterly cold morning. After breaking his fast on honeyed gruel, bread and boiled eggs in Mary's cook-shed, he made his way up to Rougemont on foot, treading carefully where runnels of ice coated the steep lane up to the castle gatehouse. His stark room at the top of the spiral stairs was too cold to endure and he found Thomas and Gwyn down in the guardroom, where Sergeant Gabriel and a man-at-arms had a log fire going inside a ring of stones in the centre of the bleak stone chamber.

'Don't get yourself too comfortable, Crowner,' warned Gwyn, brushing the crumbs of a large fish pasty from his moustache. 'We've had warning of a new corpse discovered out on the high road towards Ashburton.'

'Who is it, do we know?' John asked as he accepted a pint pot of ale from Gabriel, who had just warmed it up by mulling it with a hot poker taken from the fire.

Gwyn shook his tousled head. 'Some carter reported it late last night. The local bailiff told him to take the news to the city, as he was going that way from Totnes.'

De Wolfe groaned at the casual way that people ignored the king's regulations. 'God's guts, Gwyn, does no one ever learn? It's been well over a year since the law was laid down about dead men, yet few take the slightest bloody notice!'

An hour later, the three members of the coroner's team were riding out of the West Gate, Thomas bemoaning the fact that he had to get on his pony so early in the day. Though after months of taunting by Gwyn, he had at last abandoned riding side-saddle like a woman, he was still a reluctant horseman and jogged miserably along in the wake of the two bigger men, who were perched comfortably on their larger mounts.

The carter, who could not be found that morning, had left vague instructions as to the location of the body, which allegedly would be guarded by some local villagers — though de Wolfe doubted that they would have stayed overnight, in the hard frost, just to keep a corpse company. They splashed through the ford across the Exe, trying to ignore the icy water which was thrown up on to their legs, and took the high road which eventually led to Plymouth. After well over an hour's riding, delayed by the poor performance of their clerk, they reached a point about seven miles from the city, where they were approached by a rider wearing a heavy green cloak. As he cantered towards them on a brown mare, Gwyn automatically felt for the hilt of his sword, though a lone horseman was hardly a threat.

'Are you the crowner, sir?' asked the man diffidently as he came up to them. He was a lean, tanned individual, wearing a woollen hat under the hood of his cloak. John did not need to see the insignia of a hunting horn embroidered on his tunic to guess correctly that he was one of the forest officers, the Royal Forest beginning several miles nearer Exeter.

'I am Robert Lacey, sir,' he announced, 'The body lies about three miles further on from here.' He turned his horse and as he rode alongside them as they continued westward, de Wolfe questioned him about the corpse.

'There is little I can tell you, sir,' said Lacey. 'I knew nothing of it until late last night when a cottar came to my dwelling. I went to view it this morning, but though they had told a carter to notify you, I thought I had better ride towards the city in case he had not found you.'

'What manner of death is this?' demanded De Wolfe.

The forester shook his head as if bemused. 'I've seen nothing like it before, sir,' he said as they jogged along. 'It's strange indeed, as you will see.'

And so it proved, as John was to discover when they arrived at the scene. Rounding a bend in the hard, rutted track, they saw several men huddled under a tree at the side of the road; clutching ragged cloaks and sacks about themselves in an effort to keep warm. That section of the road went through dense forest, with bare trees lining the road for a half-mile in each direction.

Dismounting, they approached the group who appeared to be villeins, together with one man obviously of somewhat higher status, who introduced himself as the reeve of Chudleigh, the nearest village half a mile away. They were led through the dead bracken and brown, leafless bushes to the edge of the trees and there saw an extraordinary sight.

'He was just like this when Walter here found him,' muttered the reeve, a cadaveric man who looked almost as bad as the corpse.

Slumped against the bole of a young beech tree was the body of a middle-aged man, his knees resting on the frozen ground. Though his head was drooped so that his chin rested on his chest, his body was prevented from falling forwards by a chain passing around both his neck and the narrow trunk of the tree. He was fully dressed in a tunic of good brown serge, and on the ground nearby was a cloak of similar colour. All John could see of his head was sparse, sandy hair, for his face was buried in the folds of his tunic.

'God's guts, what's been going on here?' boomed Gwyn, standing with his hands on his hips, looking at the bizarre scene. Thomas, peering fearfully around the Cornishman, crossed himself vigorously and began muttering under his breath in Latin. De Wolfe said nothing and, without touching the body, walked around the tree and looked at the chain which was supporting the body. He saw that it was of rusty iron with links each about two inches in length, typical of those used on ploughs or cart harnesses. The two end links had been joined together by a wooden spike jammed through them, and another, thicker piece of branch had been forced between the chain and the tree trunk, tightening it closely against the corpse's neck.

Coming back to the front of the body, de Wolfe bent and grasped the hair, pulling up the head against the rigor so that he could see the face. Several of the villagers gasped when they saw the features, and Thomas fell to crossing himself again, for the tongue was protruding and the face was mottled with red and purple patches.

'When was he found?' demanded the coroner, glaring at the group of men peering at the corpse.

'Just before dusk last evening, sir,' gabbled one of the men. 'I was searching for a goat that had strayed and came across him as I walked down the track.' Gwyn bent down and lifted one of the arms, nodding knowingly. 'Stiff as a plank!' he declared.

As it was obvious that death had occurred many hours earlier, de Wolfe did not bother to pursue the matter.

What concerned him more was the method of death, and he prised up the eyelids to confirm that the whites were spattered with tiny blood spots.

'Untie that damned chain, Gwyn,' he commanded.

His officer pulled out the pieces of wood and the chain fell free, the dead body slumping forwards as its restraint was removed. The Cornishman lifted it with surprising gentleness and laid it flat on the ground, though death stiffness kept the knees bent upwards.

'No doubt he was throttled by that thing,' Gwyn grunted, holding up the chain by one end and displaying its length, which was considerably more than a yard.

De Wolfe was crouching again, examining the neck of the corpse. A pattern of blue bruises lay across the front of the neck, each one corresponding to the links of the chain. Below this the skin was pale, but above it the blueness was marked, and was peppered with small bleeding points in the skin. 'This chain was tightened while he was still alive, the poor bastard!' he snapped.

Standing up again, he glared at the handful of men who were staring bemused at the body. 'Anyone here know who he might be? And how he got to this spot?'

There was a shuffling and a murmuring, then the reeve spoke up. 'Not anyone from Chudleigh, sir, that's for certain. And by his dress, he's a townsman, not grand, but certainly no pauper.' He gestured at the decent clothing and the good pair of riding boots on the corpse. 'The poor fellow must have been on a horse, but God knows where that is by now.'

This was a veiled hint that any good beast left wandering in the wilds of Devon would be spirited away by anyone lucky enough to catch it, for a decent nag was worth a good many shillings.

Thomas ventured his usual good sense in a practical suggestion. 'He has a scrip on his belt, Crowner,' he offered. 'Maybe there is something in that which might tell us who he was.'

A large leather purse was attached next to the buckle on his belt, which was plain, but of good quality. Gwyn crouched and undid the laces which held the flap of the purse closed, then poked his fingers inside.

'He's not been robbed, that's for sure,' he said, displaying a handful of silver pennies and a crude fin medallion of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers. 'That didn't do him much good, did it?'

'Anything else in there?' demanded de Wolfe.

Gwyn fished around again and produced a piece of parchment, folded into four. Knowing that the only one who could read was their clerk, he handed it up to Thomas. 'See if there's anything on that, genius!'

The little priest opened out the yellowed sheet and rapidly scanned it. 'It's a merchant's order, Crowner. For window glass and lead fixings, with a list of shapes and sizes, with some drawings.'

John's black brows came together in surprise. 'He must be a glazier, then. Is there any name we can put to him?'

Thomas shook his head. 'No, but we know where this came from. It's from Berry Pomeroy Castle. Sealed with de la Pomeroy's crest in wax.'

John's bushy eyebrows went up. 'Odd! One of my damned brother-in-law's partners in crime. He must be wanting to spend some of his ill-gotten gains.' Glazing was extremely uncommon, only the houses of rich merchants, a few barons and some of the wealthier cathedrals and churches having anything but wooden shutters or oiled linen screens across their windows.

'The steward or bailiff there would be able to tell us his name,' grunted Gwyn.

'But the victim must surely be from Exeter,' exclaimed Thomas. 'There can be no more than two glaziers in the city, so it should be easy to identify him.'

De Wolfe pondered the best plan of action. Though he was supposed to hold the inquest where the body was found, it was obvious that these country bumpkins would know nothing of the circumstances of the victim's death. There was no one else in the vicinity to ask, and it seemed pointless to go through the rigmarole of sending for a jury from the four nearest villages and determining presentment of Englishry. However, the law was the law and he made up his mind quickly, deciding at least to make a gesture at the proper formality.

'I will hold a short inquest here and now, using these good folk as the jury. Then we will take him back to Exeter, where he surely must belong. Thomas, quickly record the names and place of dwelling of all these men here — and you, Forester Lacey.'

Within minutes, he had raced through a form of inquiry, getting Thomas to record the few salient facts.

He directed the vestigial jury to return a verdict of murder and then turned to Gwyn, waving a hand at the corpse on the ground.

'Wrap him decently in his cloak and lash him across your mare, behind the saddle. And bring that length of chain with you — we'll see what we can discover about him back in the city.'

After such an early start, they were back at Rougemont by noon. The dead merchant was temporarily laid to rest in a cart shed, one of the lean-to shacks that lined the walls of the inner ward. John went back to Martin's Lane to stable Odin with the farrier opposite his house, then went in to dinner.

Matilda was still in what was for her a relatively benign mood, and as they ate their poached salmon, she deigned to listen to his story about the corpse on the Plymouth highway. When he mentioned the likelihood that the victim was an Exeter glazier, her interest was aroused.

'What was his appearance, John?' she snapped, with apparent concern.

'Difficult to say, as his face was discoloured and distorted by the mode of his killing. Why do you ask?' His wife looked genuinely worried. 'One of my friends at the church is the wife of a glazier, the warden of his guild and a man in a very good way of business, too.' Even in such circumstances, Matilda could not resist emphasising the importance of her acquaintances. 'There are only two master glaziers in the city; may God grant that he is not her husband.'

'The victim was of middling height and had thin, fair hair,' answered John. 'He looked about fifty years of age, though it was hard to tell.'

Matilda heaved a sigh of relief. 'Then it is not him, thank Jesus Christ! I have seen Adele's husband occasionally at St Olave's and he is tall, fat and, like you, has an abundance of black hair.'

At least, thought de Wolfe, this seemed to point to the other glazier, though Matilda could not put a name to him. As soon as the meal was over, he grabbed his cloak and hurried round to Hugh de Relaga's burgage in North Gate Street, a fine town house that befitted a rich merchant. De Wolfe's portly friend was in his hall, digesting his dinner over a glass of wine imported from Gascony. After John exchanged a few pleasantries with his wife, she tactfully withdrew to her solar to leave the men to their talk, and soon John was sitting across the firepit from Hugh, a glass in his own hand. Without preamble, he told his friend that another of his guild masters had met a violent end, and soon the shocked portreeve had named the strangled victim as Hamelin de Beaufort, a glazier with a house and workshop in Rack Lane, which led down towards the quayside. Hugh was horrified to hear of the cruel method of killing and as with Matthew Morcok, was totally mystified as to why such an unremarkable craftsman should have been murdered.

'Surely it must have been highway robbery?' he protested. 'Our roads are becoming unsafe for honest folk to travel upon. I don't know what the world is coming to!'

De Wolfe shook his head firmly. 'His purse still contained a good handful of silver. No footpads would have left that behind. And the garrotting was utterly unlike what some thieving outlaw would inflict.'

The portreeve seized upon John's words. 'Outlaw! What about Richard de Revelle's claim I've heard rumoured, that this Nick o' the Moor was responsible for the killing in Smythen Street? This spot on the Plymouth road is not that far from Dartmoor.'

John shrugged. 'I see not the slightest reason to give that any credence, Hugh. Why should an outlaw want to slay a glazier, for God's sake? And with Morcok, how would a Dartmoor outlaw carry a body to a loft in the middle of the city?'

Hugh threw down his unfinished glass of wine and hauled his rotund body to its feet. 'I must go down to Rack Lane this instant,' he announced. 'Perhaps de Beaufort will be there, perhaps it's all some horrible mistake. If not, I must convey the sad news to his wife and offer her some comfort on behalf of the guilds.' The coroner laid a restraining hand on the impetuous merchant's arm. 'If you know this Hamelin by sight, it is best that you come with me to Rougemont and look at the body just to make sure. We don't want to upset his wife needlessly if it's not him.'

The hope was ill-founded, however, and half an hour later, a pale-faced Hugh stood outside the cart shed in the castle, wiping his clammy forehead with a gaudy silk kerchief.

'Poor fellow, it's him right enough. But what a ghastly way to die. There are some evil bastards about, John!'

De Wolfe gently steered his friend across the inner ward towards the keep. 'We had better have a word with Henry de Furnellis first, then go down to the glazier's shop to break the news and ask a few questions.'

The sheriff was equally concerned and mystified at this second death of a senior guildsman and in spite of his usual reluctance to get involved with investigations, he decided to accompany them down to Rack Lane.

'At this rate, we'll be getting short of masters to run the merchant guilds,' he said as they marched down Castle Hill, with Gwyn and Thomas trailing behind the three senior officials. 'Maybe Bridport or Southampton are trying to rid themselves of Exeter as a trading competitor.'

His weak attempt at levity fell on deaf ears and they hurried on through the chill afternoon down to the bottom end of the city where it sloped sharply down towards the fiver. Near the Water Gate which led directly to the quayside, many workshops and storehouses had congregated. They were thriving on Exeter's economic growth, which was based mainly on the export of tin, wool and cloth, though many other trades flourished in the city.

Almost at the bottom of the slope was a house with a shop at the front, the wide shutter on the large window of the ground floor being let down on hinges and legs to form a display stall for the wares of Hamelin de Beaufort's business. Some fine glass drinking goblets imported from Cologne, a few chalices for religious use and a number of glass ornaments and bowls were carefully placed on view, as were some small panels of leaded light, segments of coloured glass intended for rich men's houses or some church where money had been donated for a window, in return for masses said for a departed soul.

De Wolfe turned in to a door at the side of the stall and entered the front workshop, where several craftsmen and a couple of young apprentices were working away at glass panels set on benches. In a room behind, he could hear the rhythmic squeak of a bellows and see the glare of a small furnace where glass was being reheated by a journeyman and another apprentice.

Looking around the faces raised expectantly towards him, he chose the eldest, that of a heavily built fellow of about forty wearing a thick leather apron scarred with burns down the front.

'Your master is not here?' he asked neutrally, in a last faint hope that there had been some error about identity. The man's swarthy features took on a worried expression, as he recognised both the sheriff and the county coroner.

'I wish he was, sir. There's business to attend to and he should have been back from his trip last evening.'

De Wolfe soon confirmed that it was indeed Hamelin de Beaufort who had gone to Berry Pomeroy Castle and failed to return. The workshop was thrown into turmoil when the coroner gravely explained that their master was dead. John assumed that their panic was due to the thought of losing their employment, but it transpired that the glazier's business was a partnership with Hamelin's brother, who would no doubt carry on trading.

Hugh de Relaga, discovering that Hamelin's wife now his widow — was in the living quarters upstairs, took himself off to deliver the sad news, much to de Wolfe's relief, as he hated and almost feared that task and the emotions it provoked.

Henry de Furnellis, feeling that perhaps he should make some contribution to the case, asked a number of questions about Hamelin's movements and affairs, but the journeymen and apprentices knew nothing to throw any light on his murder.

'He was a strict master, but a fair one,' said the older craftsman. 'We had no cause for complaint. He was a good guild member and abided by the rules to the letter. It's a real tragedy that he should be struck down so foully.'

Further enquiries amongst all the workers yielded nothing. The coroner's team took a description of de Beaufort's missing horse, which was a tan-coloured gelding, but John suspected it had probably been sold already by whoever had caught it after it ran from the scene of the killing. There were plenty of unscrupulous horse dealers who would not hesitate to spirit away a stolen horse to Totnes or Tavistock and sell it well away from anywhere where it would be recognised.

The sheriff and de Wolfe left the portreeve with the family to console them and to make arrangements for the burial of the dead man, which the guilds would organise. As they were near the Bush tavern, the pair decided to call in for refreshment. Gwyn came with them, though Thomas, never keen on drinking, made his way to his lodgings in nearby Priest Street.

The inn was fairly quiet at that hour of the afternoon and Nesta had time to sit with them near the fire. As always, her soft heart was saddened to hear of the death of Hamelin, though she had never met him.

'I grieve for his poor widow, suddenly being told of his cruel death,' she said sadly. 'I sometimes worry about you, John, also putting yourself at risk with all these unsavoury people you have to deal with.' She was thinking particularly of last month's escapade down on the south coast, when John had rescued his wife and brother-in-law from a very dangerous situation.

Henry de Furnellis, bluff and to the point as always, leaned forward, his bloodhound face staring into the glowing logs. 'Why two guildsmen, killed in such strange ways? Are we going to see more such deaths?' De Wolfe shrugged as old Edwin limped across to refill his ale jar. 'We've not the slightest notion as to why these two were slain, so no one can answer that,' he grunted. 'I had better talk to some more guild wardens, to see if they can throw any light on the mystery.'

Gwyn, who had sat himself down at the far end of the table in deference to the presence of the two king's officers, entered the discussion. 'Are you really sure that this outlaw fellow has nothing to do with it, Crowner?' he rumbled. 'Why should de Revelle be so worked up about him?'

'Because one of them was found dead in his precious schoolhouse, that's why. If he had turned up next door, he'd not have shown the slightest interest.'

The sheriff scratched the sparse grey hair behind his ear, where a flea was irritating him. 'And now there is this connection to de Revelle's crony. Would it not be worth trying to find this Nicholas to see if he had any involvement?'

Nesta, who had heard about Nicholas from John, made some tutting noises. 'He sounds a decent enough outlaw, who's been persecuted by that damned de Revelle, so it seems a pity to seek him out to hang him.'

De Furnellis took a pull at the quart pot of cider he had grasped in his brawny hand. 'Maybe we could catch him, then let him gain sanctuary and allow him to abjure the realm after you've questioned him?' he suggested.

The coroner snorted in derision. 'Some hope, Henry! Those moor men can vanish like magic into that huge wilderness. And imagine it in this weather: a posse would die of exposure before they laid eyes on a single hair of those outlaws.' The posse comitatus was a band of men raised by the sheriff, charged with hunting down criminals or traitors anywhere in the county. Though John was a seasoned warrior, having fought in Ireland, France and Outremer, he was no moor man, but he knew what a vast area of inhospitable hills, heathland and deep valleys made up the central part of the county. Scores of men had died up there, lost and exhausted in the mists and blizzards that could sweep in at a moment's notice.

Gwyn nodded in agreement. 'There are a dozen gangs of outlaws on the moor, all living in burrows and ruins. We've no idea where this Nick o' the Moors is hiding probably he has a half-dozen different lairs, miles apart. Looking for a needle in a hayrick would be easy compared with that!'

The sheriff abandoned his idea without rancour. 'I suppose you're right — and I don't want to spend Christ Mass freezing my arse off on Dartmoor, so we'll give up the notion of having a talk with this Nicholas.'

But Nicholas had not given up the notion of having a talk with them — or, more specifically, with Sir John de Wolfe.

Out on the high moor, a freezing fog filled the valley of the West Webburn stream, rolling into the bleak vale between Challacombe Down and Hameldown Beacon.

At the bottom, a scraggy collection of bare trees stood alongside the brook like black skeletons in the almost crystalline air. Amongst them, four men worked up a welcome sweat as they swung axes at logs felled some months back, which by now were dried out sufficiently for the fire.

The thud of the blades was muffled by the mist, but a steady morning's work had produced a respectable heap of firewood, and eventually Nicholas de Arundell called a halt. 'That should satisfy Gunilda for a day or two,' he declared, picking a leather jerkin from a bush and shrugging it on before the icy cold could bite into him again. 'I'll miss all this exercise when I recover Hempston.'

Robert Hereward threw down his own axe and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He looked disapprovingly at Nicholas, who had been his master in their previous life.

'It's not seemly for you to have to chop kindling, sir. You are still a manor lord, even if you have been shamefully deprived of your inheritance.'

Nicholas slapped him on the back as they walked up the slope from the stream towards the huts. 'Being outlawed levels all men, Robert. There is no aristocracy on the moor, only leaders of men and those who follow.' With the ginger Peter Cuffe following behind dragging a sledge full of logs and with Philip Girard clutching an armful of sticks, they made their way up to the largest hut, which had a wreath of blue smoke climbing from a hole in the roof. The village, consisting of a few part-ruined dwellings, had been abandoned long before. A few years of unusually severe weather had forced the last batch of settlers to give up trying to scratch a living from the thin soil and to move back down the valley to the lower and more hospitable land beyond Ponsworthy.

No doubt this cycle of pioneering and then disillusion had been repeated many times over the centuries — and would be again in the future. But at the moment, the crudely built shelters of large moorstone blocks were empty and the wall enclosing them had fallen in many places. Most of the thatched or turfed roofs had collapsed as their timbers had rotted, and only those intermittently colonised by tinners had been roughly repaired. The hamlet lay a hundred paces uphill from the Webburn brook, safe from the occasional flooding that occurred after cloudbursts on Hookney Tor and Headland Warren.

With Challacombe Down looming above it, the derelict houses stood in a sloping enclosure, some of them solitary huts, others in short terraces of square rooms. Crude openings for windows and doors were formed by lintels made from long slabs of grey moorstone. As timber was in short supply in that generally treeless heathland, all building was in drystone, apart from the rough branches used to support the roofs.

The late afternoon was drawing on as they unloaded their logs and stacked them against the wall in the communal living house. Gunilda was cooking a large pike that Peter Cuffe had caught yesterday in a pool downstream, but their supper was still an hour away. To calm their hungry stomachs, they each helped themselves to a bowl of thin potage, drawn from an iron cauldron simmering at the side of the fire.

'Cedric should be back from his post soon,' said Gunilda in her harsh voice. 'Not much point in him staying there in this fog.'

The outlaw band always kept a sentinel on watch further down the remote valley, perched up on the southern spur of Hamel Down. From there in clear weather, he could see a long way down the track that came up from Buckland. At any sign of men approaching, he could run back to Challacombe, and within minutes the gang could disperse up the sides of the valley and wait to see who came. If necessary, they could evacuate up to Grimspound, their next hideout a mile further away, which was an even more ancient village, set high in a side valley.

'He'll not be able to see his own toecaps up there,' agreed Girard. 'The higher you go, the thicker it gets.'

'By the same token, no one is going to come looking for us in this weather,' grunted Nicholas, blowing on the soup in his wooden spoon to cool it. They had rarely suffered any trouble in this respect: the law officers had only once attempted to seek them out, knowing that it was an almost hopeless task even if they had sufficient men and determination. Both the previous sheriff and the new one had lacked both these resources and left them well alone, as they did the other gangs that inhabited Dartmoor.

It was these last who posed the only real threat, as outlaw bands were sometimes jealous of the success of others and especially resented them poaching on what they considered their territory. Twice in the past year, gangs of even worse ruffians had tried to evict Nicholas from his village, but the superior tactics of a former Crusader and his more intelligent members, who had been manorial servants in Hempston, saw off the badly organised thugs who tried to overcome them, especially as a few of Nicholas's men were accomplished archers.

As the damp vapours brought on an early dusk, other members of the gang returned to the village. Cedric appeared from his eyrie, cold and shivering, then the remaining half-dozen men who had been on a foraging expedition down towards Moretonhampstead returned with a side of bacon stolen from a butcher's cart. In addition, they had six fowls taken from the manor farm at North Bovey and a purse containing fifty silver pence from a fat monk unwisely riding alone towards Ashburton. The dead chickens and the bacon were presented to an appreciative Gunilda, and the money was shared out equally amongst all the members of the illegal fraternity.

As darkness fell, they sat on the floor around the firepit and celebrated their successful day with ale and cider, until their leader turned the talk to a more serious vein.

'I told you yesterday, when I returned from Exeter, that I am determined to regain my birthright at Hempston,' he began. There were solemn mutterings of agreement from the men, though Robert Hereward deepened his habitual expression of resigned pessimism.

'My good wife, Lady Joan, planted a suggestion in my mind that has grown into a firm resolution,' he went on, his square chin lifted in stubborn resolve. 'The coroner, Sir John de Wolfe, is reputed to be a fair-minded man who despises injustice. My wife's cousin, who is now sheltering her in the city, has learned much about him since he returned from the Holy Land, where he served our king most faithfully.'

The men muttered 'God save the Lionheart' and 'Bless King Richard', as they felt their present exile was in good part due to the avarice of Prince John and his minions. The revenues of six counties, including Devon and Cornwall, had been granted to him by his carelessly generous elder brother at his coronation and even though John had been deprived of them after his treacherous rebellion two years before, the king had forgiven him and rashly restored many of his perquisites.

'What has this coroner got to do with our predicament?' asked Cedric, a young man who came from one of the old Celtic families on the Cornish border.

'My wife's cousin says that he has much to do with enforcing the king's peace, as the sheriff is not inclined to stir himself too much. But even more significant, this de Wolfe has the ear of King Richard and his Chief Justiciar, Hubert Walter.'

Nicholas explained that Sir John had fought closely with the Lionheart in Palestine and had been part of his bodyguard on the journey home from the Third Crusade. Robert Hereward, who had already heard the story, added a final recommendation.

'The coroner is well known to detest Sir Richard de Revelle, who is also his brother-in-law, He might welcome yet another chance to discomfort him.'

'The problem is the means of approaching this upright coroner,' said Nicholas, taking up the tale again. 'As a wolf's head, I dare not appear openly before him in Exeter or anywhere in Devon. He is said to be a stickler for the law, whatever his personal inclinations, and would be duty-bound to seize me on the spot, which would be fatal.'

There was a murmuring as the men discussed this dilemma.

'So how can you ever plead your case to him?' demanded Peter Cuffe, the most outspoken of the younger men.

'You need a go-between to arrange a safe-conduct,' called out one of the others. Nicholas nodded at this sensible suggestion.

'That was my exact way of thinking, Rolf. How to accomplish it is the difficult part.'

'Can your good lady's cousin not intercede on your behalf?' asked another, but de Arundell shook his head emphatically.

'I cannot expose her to any risk — and my wife lodges with her, so I wish to keep them well away from any fear of discovery. No, it must be someone else.' The men were now hanging on every word. This scheme might bring them back within the pale of the law and let them return to their homes — or if it went wrong, it might take them to the gibbet. They waited for their leader to explain his intentions.

'We need him to come out here, where we can fully explain the situation and plead for him to put our case before this royal justiciar.'

Robert Hereward looked even more pessimistic than usual. 'And how in the name of the Holy Mother could you hope to do that?'

The noble outlaw leaned forward as if to impart a secret and his men instinctively did the same.

'At the moment, I have not the faintest idea,' he admitted.