Chapter Three

It was a chill morning in early March when Hugh’s family was so brutally torn apart.

Hugh rose, as was his wont, in the hour before light, leaving his woman in their bed, her child snuffling and mewling in his sleep beside her.

He and Constance his wife had lived here for two years now, since they had first met early in 1321, and the birth of her son, young Hugh, had set the cap on their happiness, even though he was not Hugh’s child. He was the illegitimate son of a priest, but Hugh cared nothing for that. He adored Constance, and loved her child as if it were his own. An experienced shepherd, Hugh felt he had had more to do with the babe than its real father. When little Hugh was born, he had been there to help; when the infant first turned to suckle, old Hugh had held his head and guided mother and child; when little Hugh was old enough, it was Hugh who first took him outside, Hugh who first made him laugh, Hugh who had introduced him to the mangy dog, Hugh who had cleaned him through the long night when he had an attack of vomiting … Hugh adored the lad.

The fire was dead now. Hugh would need to fetch a faggot of wood from the store at the back of the house. He glanced back at the bedding. There was a visible lump where Constance lay, her sweet body clearly outlined under the blankets and skins, the child’s smaller figure almost hidden in her shadow.

Outside there was a definite chill in the air. The frost had held off, which was a relief, because Hugh was anxious about some of the plants he’d already set out in the vegetable plot, but with luck they’d survive. It wasn’t as cold as some of the mornings he’d woken to when he’d been a lad on the moors.

A lean, dark-haired man with the narrow, sharp features of a ferret, Hugh had been raised in a small farm near Drewsteignton, and his early years had been spent on the hills protecting the sheep. He had loved mornings like this out there. Yes, it was freezing for a man, and when you sat wrapped up in a thick cloak as well as a warm sheepskin jack, you still felt the cold seeping into your marrow. A man could die up there and no one find him for days; men had died like that. Hugh could remember one from the next vill, an older shepherd whose huddled figure was found by the boy who’d been sent into the hills with some bread and cheese for him. He’d been stiff as an oak staff when Hugh saw him, frost over his beard and eyebrows, and they’d had to carry him down to the vill like that. There was no point leaving him to thaw on the hill.

It was his time up there on the moors which had shaped the man he had become. For most of his life he had been dour and morose, unbending to the wind and the rain. He was known as one who would protect his flocks from any danger, whether it be men, beasts or the elements. Anyone who grew up on the moors learned self-reliance above all else, and a man who survived the depredations of the wandering gangs of trail bastons, the ‘club-men’ who robbed and killed with impunity in the last years of King Edward I’s reign, was one who was strong in spirit. He could cope with the worst that God could throw.

From the logpile he had a clear view of the moors several leagues south — his moors. Usually a line of hulking shapes that loomed on the horizon, today they gleamed in the low sunlight, and he felt a strong affection for them. He loved them as any man loves his homelands.

Hugh stood still, staring, struck with a strange emotion. Not a man prone to sudden fancies, he was aware of an unsettled feeling, as though he might never see this again. A melancholy apprehension swept over him, leaving him with a curious desolation. He was filled with uneasiness, a presentiment of evil, and the worst of it was, he had no idea what lay behind it. It was almost as though the moors were calling to him to leave his home and return to them, but he had no idea why the sight of a winter’s chill morning sun on the hill should make him feel so.

He shivered, an uncontrollable spasm that racked his compact frame, and he muttered, ‘Someone walking over my grave. That’s all.’

Crossing himself against Dewer, the Devil, he bent to his task and began to collect logs and a faggot of old twigs. He cast one last glance at the moors, and surprised himself by realising that he had a poignant longing to see again the rough, scrubby grasses, the heather, furze and rock. Even the black, square keep of the castle at Lydford would be a welcome sight. Not that he could go there just now. His master, Simon Puttock, wasn’t there. He was down at Dartmouth, the port all those weary miles away on the southern coast. Perhaps Hugh could return to Simon’s house for a little. He was still Simon’s servant, after all. He could visit to see that all was well with Simon’s household. .

What was all this about? He wasn’t leaving Constance and young Hugh on their own just now. Maybe when the weather warmed and there was a little less to do. He’d wait until then. It was plain daft to think of going at this time of year. He was mazed.

He turned from the view and trudged back towards the house, a small figure, easily missed in the great landscape about him, many miles from any town, his lands enclosed by the woods on the north, west and eastern sides.

Hugh didn’t mind. He liked being far away from other people; he had no need of them most of the time. As he shoved the door open and dropped the logs on the hearth, the vague feelings of concern faded.

This was his home. He was safe here.

The way led him along the road from the inn where he had stayed the night, and all Adam of Rookford could think of was the itching.

They must have been fleas. That grotty little tavern was probably alive with the damned things. In all Adam’s years, he’d never stayed in a hovel that was more likely to breed them.

He scratched at his neck and shuddered with the cold. Adam, always known as Adcock by his friends, was a man of two and twenty years, slimly built, with a face that would have been pleasing enough if it weren’t for the marks of the pox which scarred it. He had regular features, large, wide-set eyes under a broad forehead, a slender nose and rather full lips. His hair was dark, and already receding at the temples, so he knew well enough that before too long he’d look like his old man, Jack, who’d lost almost all his hair by the time he was thirty. Adcock could vaguely remember seeing him with hair when Adcock had been very young, but all his other memories had his father looking more like the vill’s priest than a servant in Sir Edward Bouville’s household.

Servant he had been, and proud, too. Adcock’s father had been with the Bouville family all his life, and the old devil had been justifiably satisfied with his position. He had new clothes each summer and winter, a gallon of ale a day, food, and money when he needed it. When he married Adcock’s mother, he was given a small plot not too far from the manor, and he was regularly granted time to go and visit it and see his wife, when his duties allowed. Adcock had only good memories of the old man.

Feeling another itch on his back, he grimaced and swore quietly. He’d not sleep in a cheap place like that ever again. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to. Not once he’d taken up his new position.

It was his own fault. If he’d set off when he’d meant to, leaving Oakhampton early in the morning, he’d have reached his new home by evening. As it was, there was the rush to say his farewells, going to see his mother at the last minute and accepting her offer of bread and cheese washed down with some of her best ale — well, he didn’t know when he’d see her again; she was getting quite old now, and wouldn’t live for ever: God willing, she’d still be alive when he next came this way — and after that he had to go and visit Hilda at the dairy, sneaking up behind her to grab her bubbies as she stood working the butter churn, making her squeak with alarm, silencing her scolding with kisses. It was hard to leave her behind — but they’d agreed she’d best remain until he had saved some money and they could wed.

That was a daunting prospect. Many of his friends had married, but somehow Adcock had never thought of himself as a husband. Yet here he was, ambling along on his pony and already considering how Hilda would look in a small cottage somewhere near the manor. He could install her there and go to visit her regularly, with luck. Perhaps, if the steward was an amiable, understanding sort of man, Adcock could find a place very close. With proximity he could see her more often, perhaps even stay with her each night?

But first, he told himself, he must take charge of his manor. Under the steward, he would be the most powerful man on the demesne.

The steward was Sir Geoffrey Servington, a man whose name inspired respect. He’d been a warrior for many years, and he and Sir Edward had been in all the important battles of the last thirty years. Now he was all but retired, of course, as was Sir Edward himself, although that did not dim his reputation. By all accounts he was a demanding, ruthless taskmaster, determined to squeeze the very last drop from his serfs, but that was what was sometimes needed. When they lived so far from their real lord, some peasants would grow lax and idle. It needed a man with a vigorous manner to keep them under control.

It was daunting to someone like Adcock, though. He only prayed that he might find in Sir Geoffrey a man who was accommodating and reasonable.

He was almost there. Through the trees that grew thickly on either side, he could see smoke and some buildings. They were the first he’d seen since he left that dreadful alehouse in Exbourne that morning. The memory made him scratch again at his neck.

There was not much to see. If he hadn’t spotted the buildings, he wouldn’t have guessed that this was a thriving little vill. He knew of Monk Oakhampton — the manor was owned by the monks of a great abbey, Glastonbury, and he had heard that it was a very profitable little place. It was no surprise, looking about the area here. There was the ribbon of silver-grey river on his left, promising drink and fishing, and the soil looked darkly rich. From the look of the fields, in which the crops were already creating a fresh lime-coloured carpet, the place was one of those in which farming never failed.

It boded well for the manor he was to join. Close by, surely it would have a similar lushness. Good husbandry and management of the land was all that was needed to make a place like this rich, and he would see to it that the manor where he was to be sergeant would grow in fame for its harvests.

He rode past the small cotts of the Glastonbury estate, and then on for another mile or so, until he came to a clearing in the trees from where he could see his new home.

It was a long, low building, looking a little grubby now where the limewash had faded and started to turn green, with a thickly thatched roof and the aura of wealth. Massy logs lay piled at one end, a makeshift thatch over the top to protect the wood from the worst of the rains. Smoke drifted from beneath the eaves, and there was a bustle about the yard as men darted here and there. Adcock could see that the buildings at the side were where the stables lay, because as he sat on his mount studying the place, he could see horses being brought out by grooms, all saddled and ready to be ridden. Soon a group of men stepped over the threshold and stood eyeing their beasts.

The man in front took Adcock’s attention. Even from this distance the fellow clearly had commanding presence, a round-shouldered man with grey hair already turning white. His face was grim, square, and broad as he donned soft leather gloves, and he contemplated Adcock from half-lidded eyes as the newcomer approached the hall. It was a cold, devious look, and when Adcock noticed an archer with a bow at the ready, an arrow nocked on the string, he felt a rush of fear flood his soul. He was suddenly aware that this man was dangerous.

‘Who are you?’ the commander called as he drew near.

‘Adam of Rookford, master,’ he answered quickly, feeling himself flush a little under the amused gaze of so many men.

‘Oh, aye, the new sergeant,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘You’ll be wanting to hasten inside, then, and find some ale after your journey. There’s bread and meats. Shout for the servants for anything you need.’

‘You are off?’ Adcock looked about him for the raches and other hunting dogs, but there were none about other than the odd sheepdog and cattle-herding brute.

‘Yes, we go to visit a neighbour or two,’ Sir Geoffrey said.

‘I thought you were hunting,’ Adcock said. He felt the eyes of all the men on him as he reddened and began to stammer. ‘I was looking for dogs, but then I realised there weren’t any for hunting. Not out here, anyway.’

‘You want to see my dogs?’ Sir Geoffrey asked, and a strange smile came over his face. ‘Perhaps later, eh? For now, you rest until I return.’

He took the reins of the horse brought to him by a shorter, narrow-shouldered youth, and swung himself into the saddle, adjusting his sword until it was more comfortable on his hip, tugging at his glove again, settling himself in his seat. Then he grinned at Adcock, and the new sergeant felt a renewed apprehension.

At his bellowed command, the other men clambered on their horses, and then, when he whirled his arm about his head and set off at a smart canter, the others followed behind him in an untidy, straggling mass.

Hugh was lost in contentment as he carried his tools down to the road where the hedge stood.

It was an old one, this. A good local hedge, with solid moorstone inside to support it, covered with turves. Earth had been piled at the top, and the first farmers would have thrown acorns and berries on to it, or perhaps planted young whips of hawthorn, blackthorn, rose and bramble. Anything that would help to form a prickly, dense mass. And as the years passed, the thin little plants had grown strong and tall, and when they were thick enough the farmers had come back with billhooks and slashers and axes, and had cut half through the inch-thick stems and laid them over, fixing them in place by weaving them between stakes. And the hedge had grown, solid, thick, impenetrable, self-renewing.

All that was long in the past. Hugh had kept his eyes on this one for the last two years, thinking that it was grown too tall and straggly, and he had begun work here a week and a half ago, cutting out all the dead wood, trimming the smaller branches, hammering in new stakes. Now he had to hack at the surviving plants so that he could lay them afresh.

It was all but done. He had only a few more hours’ work, and the field could be used again for pasture. That would be a good day. With luck, the ale that Constance had put to brew last week would be ready at the same time and they could celebrate their fresh little success with her best drink.

‘God’s blessings on you!’

Hugh peered through the hedge to see the priest from the chapel down the road at Monkleigh. ‘Father.’

‘This hedge is a mess. It must take a lot of effort to keep it clear?’

‘Yes,’ Hugh said, feeling his former sense of well-being begin to ebb away.

‘What is your name?’

‘I’m Hugh. Some call me Hugh Drewsteignton or Shepherd,’ he responded. He swung the billhook at a stem and sliced three-quarters of the way through the thick wood.

‘Well, Hugh Drewsteignton or Shepherd, are you one of the villeins of Sir Odo?’

‘No. My master lives at Lydford.’

The priest lifted his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Really? What are you doing here, then?’

‘My wife lives here.’

‘Your wife? Who is that?’

‘Constance.’ By now Hugh’s contentment was all but gone, and he wished that this priest would go too. There were some in the vill who had muttered when he had arrived there with Constance. It was noticeable that one or two had turned away from them when they went to the church door to be married, as though no woman before had ever wedded her man with a swelling belly.

The priest must have heard the tale, because he gave Hugh a very shrewd look. ‘I have heard much about her.’

‘So?’

‘She is a wise woman, so they say. Good with healing potions and salves.’

‘Yes. She learned it at Belstone.’

‘What did she do there?’

Hugh began to chop at the stems again, concentrating on the work in hand. ‘She was busy learning potions and the like, I dare say.’

‘Well, you look after her, man. She deserves all the care she can receive.’

Hugh ignored him, and soon the young priest was off again, walking slowly homeward down the Exbourne road, his feet splashing in the puddles and mud. For a moment Hugh wondered what he had meant, but then he shrugged. He had work to do.

Robert Crokers could have saved himself if he had kept his eyes open. The riders would have been clearly visible coming through the trees.

He had lived here only a few short months. Born at his father’s house at Lyneham near Yealmpton, he had been sent to Lord de Courtenay’s household when he was five, so that he could learn manners and humility, and he had hated it from the first. A great lord’s household was never at rest. When it was newly arrived at a manor there was the noise and bustle of unpacking, the fetching and carrying of boxes and chests, and the coming and going of the peasants bringing food for men and beasts; after a few days there would be more uproar as the men set off to hunt morning and afternoon, with raches and harriers snuffling and slobbering about the place, and horses stamping and chomping at their bits … and when all was done and the stores were gone, there was the trouble of packing everything up and preparing to leave for the next manor.

When he had heard that this little manor needed a new bailiff he had seen a chance to escape, and Lord de Courtenay’s steward had been kind enough to let him. Better that he should be at a quiet manor where he could annoy only a small number of people with his whining and moaning, rather than at Tiverton or Okehampton, where he could upset many more, the older man had said, and then grinned and wished him all good fortune.

This land was good, Robert told himself now. Up here at his house there was plenty of wood, while down at the vill the fields were bursting with health. In many parts of the country people were starving because of the terrible harvests, but here in Devon the populace was a little better provided for. Their diet was geared towards hardier crops, which could bear the dreadful weather. He sometimes thought that the peasants here were like the oats they grew. Both seemed stoical in the face of the elements.

His home was a small building, cob-built under a thatched roof, but it was comfortable and snug even during the worst of the winter’s storms. From the door, he could look over a large garden where he hoped his beans and peas would thrive, while beyond the beds was a small area of pasture which rolled down the hill south-west towards the river. The ford was in front of the house, and the lane from it led past his door and on up the hill towards the lands north and east: Iddesleigh and Monk Oakhampton. The way was cut through thick woodland, and few travellers ever passed this way.

Robert was making his way home, a man of middle height, slightly built, with a slender waist and narrow shoulders. He had fine features: his nose was straight, his lips were sensuous, and his brown eyes were intelligent and kindly; and he was as hungry as the peasants on the estate. Food had been plentiful enough through the cold, barren months, but now that winter was drawing to a close and the stocks were low his teeth were aching badly, as usual, and one or two were loose in his jaw as the scurvy started to take hold again. It was the same every year, ever since he’d been a little lad. When the food grew scarce, he began to suffer. If fortune favoured, he would soon recover. He always did when the weather improved.

He was almost at his house when he heard the drumming of hooves in the distance. The sound was loud enough for him to stop and turn, frowning. Horses were making their way down the rough road that led towards the Okement river and the ford that led to the big house over west. Robert had no cause to be anxious, so far as he knew. He was far from the main manor here, but who would dare to attack him on Lord de Courtenay’s lands? No one would be so foolish. Still, there was something about the relentless approach that made him turn back and move more quickly towards his door and the promise of safety within.

There was a sudden silence behind him, and he wondered at that. If the riders were heading for Fishleigh they must pass him, surely, and that would mean the noise of hoofbeats would grow … unless they had turned off and were even now haring off towards another homestead.

The thought was curiously unreassuring. If there were riders in force around the manor, he wanted to know about them. On a whim, he went to the edge of his garden, peering up the road through the trees. Sounds could play a man false up here. Sometimes he had heard voices which sounded as though they were from only a few yards away, and yet when he had gone to investigate, he had discovered that they were men talking at the far side of the river.

So now he stood frowning, straining his ears to discover where the riders could be. It was only sensible to be wary, especially with neighbours as unpredictable as the men under Geoffrey Servington. When he had first come here, he had been warned that Geoffrey’s men were prone to violence. Not long before there had been a scuffle of some sort, and Geoffrey’s men had killed Robert’s own predecessor.

There was a sharp explosion of noise, and he spun round to find the area before his house filled with horses. He had been too keen to listen out for the riders coming along the track to think that they might approach another way. Somehow these men had ridden through the woods and come at him from the river. He moved aside as their beasts stamped and pawed at the soil, snorting and blowing after their urgent ride.

‘You the bailiff here?’

Robert turned to find himself confronted by a thickset figure on a horse. He nodded.

‘I am Sir Geoffrey Servington. This land is my lord’s, bailiff. So I want you to leave.’

‘This is land of Sir John Sully. No one else’s,’ Robert said, but he was nervous in the face of all these men-at-arms. A black horse backed, stamping angrily, and Robert moaned when he saw it crush his carefully planted bean and pea plants.

Following the direction of his gaze, Geoffrey shouted, ‘Get off the garden! After all,’ he added, smiling evilly at Robert, ‘when we have our own man living here, we won’t want him to starve, will we?’