‘Hoppon, you’re all alone up here, aren’t you?’ Bill said, looking about him as though for the first time.
‘You know I am.’
‘And I’m on the edge of the vill too. Even men who live with their families in the middle of Jacobstowe, they still have only a few homesteads about them, eh?’
‘Aye. What of it?’
‘These men were happy enough to kill all those men and women. And the children, Hoppon.’ Bill’s eye lighted on Tab at his side. The dog’s eyes showed their whites as he gazed up at the bailiff. ‘They even killed a bitch and her whelp. Do you think you or I or any other could stand against such a force? No. So should we accept that, and wait until they come here and kill you and me, maybe my little Ant, rape my Agnes, and knock Tab on the head? You think we ought to do that?’
Hoppon growled deep in his throat, but his eyes wouldn’t meet Bill’s. ‘You know that’d be wrong. I couldn’t let that happen.’
‘If we don’t stand up to these bastards, we may as well throw them all our families and belongings, Hoppon.’
Hoppon passed him a cider cup, and drank deeply from his own, still not meeting Bill’s gaze. ‘You think I’m a coward?’
‘No. You had your leg harmed in that fire, Hoppon. I know that well, just as do all the others here. Your courage isn’t doubted by me, old friend.’
‘What do you want me to do? I didn’t see them. Nor did anyone.’ Hoppon was truculent, but Bill was unsure why. Unless he felt guilt at not admitting to knowing something. That was something Bill felt he had to press.
‘Hoppon, I’ve been all the way to Oakhampton, asking all whether they heard anything that night. No one did, so they say. These men didn’t go north past Jacobstowe itself. I’ve been west from the road too, but there’s no sign of people going that way. The only place they could have gone is here. Right by you.’
‘You say I heard them?’
‘You are a good fellow. I know you as well as I know any man in this vill. And I know you have a dog there.’
‘What of him?’
‘He has the ears of a bat, Hoppon. He would hear a mouse fart in the woods.’
Hoppon grinned a little at that. ‘He is a good guard.’
‘How many were there, Hoppon? Which way did they go?’
Now Hoppon met Bill’s gaze at last. He glowered at him. ‘What’s the point, Bill? If we find out who they were, the most likely thing is, you and me’ll be found hanging by our heels from the tallest oak in Abbeyford. That what you want? What of Agnes then?’
‘And if we don’t, they’ll think they can kill, rob or rape any one of the folk about here. Do you want to live in fear all your life, Hoppon?’
‘I’ve never lived in fear, Bill. Never will.’ And then he shook his head. ‘Ach, what’s the point? You’re determined to see yourself killed, are you? Well, it was Tab. He woke up and woke me too. Heard something. I didn’t. Thought it was a ghost at first. Then I heard the horse neigh. It came up from Abbeyford, then east up behind my place.’
‘How many?’
‘I’d reckon on fifteen or so. No more. But I heard them, true enough. There were weapons rattling all the way.’
‘And you know who led them?’
Hoppon nodded, but then he turned away. ‘But you’ll not hear the devil’s name from me.’
Chapter Six
Barnstaple, north coast of Devon
Roger had made good time in his march northwards.
In part he reckoned it was due to the grim realities of life on the road. The sight of the dead travellers had been a great shock to him, and urged him on to greater efforts in order to reach his destination. The idea of being caught himself out in the open was enough to lend greater urgency to his pace. There were too many who were willing to prey on men who passed by, and Roger had no wish to be another victim.
The sights and sounds of the sea were like a triacleur’s potion to him. They invigorated him. The cries of the gulls, the steady slap and wash of the waves, the odour of fish and seaweed, all hit him like a woman’s touch. They soothed and eased, they caressed his very soul. Here, he thought, he could gain some sort of work to keep his body and spirit healthful.
But when he reached the town, it was soon clear that all his efforts were in vain. He had gone to the docks as soon as he arrived, keeping hold of his meagre reserves with great care; if he could find a berth on a ship, he could save the money. Any ship’s master would feed his sailors, and Roger would be able to hoard his cash.
It was not going to happen, though. He could understand that now, as he walked along the narrow streets of the port, jealously eyeing the shop-boards. They all had an enticing array of goods for sale, and in the end he was forced to succumb to the urgent demands of his belly. He bought an egg, and pierced both ends before sucking it dry. After that he felt an increased hunger, though, rather than a diminution. He had to buy a small loaf of bread and a little cheese, which he ate sitting on the harbour wall, staring out to sea. All the ships that arrived he watched avidly, and as soon as a ship was docked, he wandered over to speak with the master. But each time he was eyed with suspicion, and there would be a shaking of the head and sidelong glances until he left.
He knew what it was, of course. The sailors up here might well go as far as Chatham or London, by sailing about the bottom of the land and up the Thames, but although they would travel far and wide, they were all wary of a man whose accent they couldn’t recognise. Oh, a man from Ilfracombe, or one who’d been brought up by the sea at Bude, even, would be all right, but Roger’s accent was from the south of the shire, and there was no one up here who would trust him. He was foreign, and no shipmaster liked a foreigner on his ship. Foreigners were alien, and might bring bad luck to a voyage.
It was possible, he considered, that he might be able to get a post on another ship — perhaps a little fishing boat, or one of the small ferries that plied their trade across the mouth of the river — but that was not what he wanted. He wished for the escape that the broad, wide seas offered a man. Escape from the memories of war and disaster.
By the end of the second day, he was half ready to give up. His resources were reducing too quickly in this expensive town, and if he kept on spending at this rate, he would soon have nothing. And then he’d have to resort to some other means of finding money. Although how was a different matter. If he wanted to sail, he wondered whether he should find a larger port, a place like Bristol, perhaps, where there was a real city and sailors travelling all around the country. Except there was no telling whether he would be any more popular there than he had been here. He could go to London. There, so he had heard, the people were used to men from all over. They had Dutchmen, Germans, French, even some Galicians and Savoyards. So long as he didn’t end up on a Genoese slave galley, he should be able to find a position there. But London was hundreds of miles away.
He began to wonder whether he would be best off returning to Plymouth. Or maybe Dartmouth?
Third Sunday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
Sampford Chapple
It had taken him more than a little while to find the tracks.
The idea that the men would have ridden past Hoppon’s house so close showed that either they were foolish, or they were supremely confident in their power and safety. They had passed within a matter of yards of the house. It would have been a miracle if Hoppon’s dog hadn’t started barking in defence.
Bill Lark bent as he followed the trail. It was his own fault, and he blamed himself entirely. The trail must have been fine on the first days after the murders, and if he had been a little more diligent, he would have found it. There were plenty of men, after all, and a few carts, and their tracks were clear enough now he was here. What had happened seemed to be that they had ridden over a large swathe of brambles, and even where the carts had rolled, the brambles had sprung back up again by the time he had gone to seek the trail. He’d simply ridden past without seeing the signs. Many would. Many had. But he was angry with himself. He shouldn’t have done so. He prided himself on his abilities as a tracker and hunter, and now he had failed so utterly on the first occasion when it mattered. And to lose the trail of so many men …