Thank the Good Lord that Dolwyn had not been discovered, nor the Bardi letter found, he thought.
West Sandford
There were times when he hated that lazy prickle. Gurt hoddypeak
Hugh scowled at the boy and aimed a kick at his backside. ‘You know ’tis not what I meant, you boinard,’ he snarled.
‘How’m I to know what you mean? You never explain anything to me!’
Rob was a whining, idle, ferret-like boy whom Hugh’s master Simon Puttock had somehow collected when he was living as Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth some while ago. The post had been intended as a reward to Master Simon, because he had served his lord, the Abbot of Tavistock, well — but the good abbot had had no notion of how devastating his kindness had been. Removed from his beloved moors, Simon had been like a fish out of water. His wife was reluctant to move to Dartmouth, because their daughter Edith was the sort of girl who’d fall for the first fellow to come along, and the idea of her being exposed to a bunch of rough sailors was not to be borne. So the family had separated, Simon going to the coast while his family remained in Lydford.
This little wretch had been his servant there in Dartmouth. And he still couldn’t wake up in time to make the morning’s fire.
‘More logs, I said,’ Hugh hissed.
‘Oh, “more logs, more tinder, more wine, more everything, Rob. Just do as I say, and don’t argue”!’ the lad said bitterly, mimicking Hugh’s voice. ‘You just don’t know what I-’
He broke off as Hugh hurled a short stick at him. ‘I said, more logs. I want a fire for the master when he returns.’
‘You need a slave, that’s what you need,’ Rob grumbled.
‘Shut your noise, boy, and fetch the logs,’ Hugh rasped, and watched from black brows as the lad sulkily dragged his feet out through the doorway.
Hugh made a small pile of twigs in readiness, then held a hand over the ashes of the night’s fire in the hearth. There was some heat in one corner, and when he blew gently on it, he saw a faint glimmer, but when he set a twig in it there was not enough heat to make it smoke.
Instead he took a little charred cloth and set it on his lap, preparing flint and steel, and then striking down sharply with the flint. The spark was so tiny, it might have been a mote of dust. He struck again, then four more times rapidly, until he saw the gleam of red on the black material.
Quickly picking it up, he blew to make it glow strongly and surrounded it with some wisps of old man’s beard and some fine twigs and birch bark. Soon smoke was rising, and he carefully set it down over the hottest part of the ashes, placing the handful of twigs overtop, and blowing soft but steady into it. There was a flicker of flame and he nodded, satisfied.
Hugh had been born not far from Drewsteignton, on a farm that was noted for its sheep. There, as a boy, he had grown wild with the animals. He had cared for few people, only his sheep and his dog, and it was not until Simon Puttock took him on that he discovered the pleasure of companionship. He had never regretted joining with Master Simon, although he wished that his own marriage has lasted longer. His wife and child had died in a fire, and many had been the times he had wished that he had died with them.
His own son would never have grown so bone idle as this, that much he knew.
There was a muttered curse, and the fellow appeared in the doorway, arms filled.
He wasn’t so bad, really, Hugh reminded himself. The lad had grown up in the port, son of a woman who gave herself in exchange for ale or wine. He had never known his father. The man was just one in a succession of sailors who had been entertained by his mother. It would have been a miracle for him to turn out any better. Most lads like him were dead before they were thirteen, and if not, they became sailors themselves. Fishermen or warriors for the King, it made little difference. Being employed by Simon had probably saved young Rob’s life.
‘Get the fire going, lad,’ Hugh said, having blown the little sparks into life, and rising from his knees, grunting to himself, he lumbered from the room.
This was his sanctuary, the small buttery at the farther side of the screens passage, in which the household’s ale and wine was stored. It was only a small chamber, but for Hugh, who had grown up without walls while he lived on the moors, it was as good as any man’s grand hall. He sat on a stool and drew a quart of ale into a leather jug, drinking deeply.
He was still there when he heard the rattle of hooves outside.
Near Mickleton
Dolwyn woke in the early light, head aching, bones sore and rubbed, and cursed the sun. Another hour of sleep would not have hurt him.
All the way here, he had hurried, desperate to catch up with Ham. He was used to it. In his time he’d been forced to hurry to battles, as well as away from them afterwards. He had bolted from homes when he learned that a posse sought him, he had joined posses in search of felons when told to, he had ridden at speed with the King’s messages from York to London and back. Once he had run from a woman’s husband, leaving his hosen, belt and knife behind somewhere on the bitch’s floor in the dark.
And in all those years he had never flagged, whether he was quarry or hunter.
He knew Willersey. Some years ago he had been to Gloucester, then was sent to Warwick, and on the way he passed through Broadway and Willersey. They had struck him then as ideal places for a man like himself. He could have taken the vills with very few men, and the rich land all about there would have fed and watered a goodly-sized force. Perhaps it was close to time for him to think again about such things. If he didn’t manage to free Edward of Caernarfon, he would have to think about another opportunity; perhaps he could raise a force in order to free him.
First, though, he wanted food, followed by revenge — the chance to silence a man who had seen him too close to the castle where Edward was being held. He also wanted that horse and cart.
He just wished his head didn’t hurt so much where that bastard had hit him.
Once up, his blanket rolled, he returned to the lane where the wide-set wheel-tracks stood out so strongly.
‘Right, you son of a pox-ridden whore!’ he muttered, and set off again, his bruised skull pounding with every step.
West Sandford
At the door, Hugh heard a familiar voice bellowing. It was almost enough to make him spill his ale. He walked to the hall, where the boy Rob was kneeling and blowing furiously in an attempt to keep the fire going, then along the screens passage to the open front door.
‘Sir Richard,’ he said.
‘That’s right, Sir Richard de Welles. Good God, man, you look like you swallowed a turd! Where’s your groom, eh? Someone needs to come and take me horse and see to it. Simon indoors, is he? I’ve a throat as parched as a wild dog’s in the Holy Land, and the idea of an ale is very welcome. If there’s a little cheese and bread, that would be good too. Or some cold meat. Anything, really. What, lost your tongue, man?’
‘Sir Richard, my master’s not here.’
Sir Richard de Welles stood with his legs spaced as though preparing to fight, his hands on his belt — a tall man, at least six feet and an inch in height, somewhat heavy in the paunch, and with bright, genial eyes set in an almost perfectly round face. His brow was broad and tall, and his beard was so thick and long it looked much like a gorget. He had a mass of wrinkles on his amiable features, most of which had been carved into his flesh by laughing.
Hugh knew the knight moderately well. Sir Richard had first met Hugh’s master Simon in Dartmouth some three years ago, when his skills as a coroner had helped Simon and Baldwin discover a murderer. Loud, apparently impervious to all types of drink, no matter what the quantity, with a head like an ox and a memory for foul jokes of all forms, he was an example of the sort of rough and crude, but honest and kindly, knight whom Hugh could respect.