No one had. As he stood here, near the archers and their master, it was clear that there had been no alarm. All was as he had left it.
The dog was awake, though. She lay with her head resting on her paws, just as she had every night. It was no bad thing that Anselm had chosen to keep the pup in his robe when they had left Tavistock, Osbert reckoned. It made the bitch less distressed to sleep without him. She had grown accustomed to having her pup back during the day, but sleeping alone.
Osbert silently made his way to the bitch. He heard her stir, and then give a low growl. It was as he had expected. Quickly he threw the puppy’s body to her, and he saw her move in a flash, turning to sniff at the little corpse. As she did, he stepped forward and slipped his dagger into her back, grabbing her muzzle as he did so. The surprised yelping lasted only a moment or two, and then there was nothing to worry about.
In some haste now, he retraced his steps to the bushes, and was soon in among them, moving fast for a man of his age and size. But for all that he was over two and forty years old, he had lived here in this area for most of his childhood, and he knew the land well. The cart, he knew, had gone off northwards from here, and he would meet it later. Rather than head north, he would take the steeper, slightly more swift route east, down the valley’s side to the river, and up the other side. The cart would rejoin the trail a full half-mile further on.
He made his way down the slope, slithering on the soggy grasses, almost tripping twice in thick tussocks, and then splashed his way through the river, which was quite full after the rains. On the other side, he was about to make his way up the slope when he heard the hoofs.
There were twelve of them. The man in front he knew, and the son at his side. He knew that they were noted for their ruthlessness. Across this land, these two were feared by all the peasants and farmers. No man passing near their castle could hope to be permitted to continue without paying tolls for the use of the roads. A man who refused soon found himself watching his blood pool on the ground as he died.
Aye, he knew these men. How could he not? He was their servant.
‘Is that you, Osbert?’ the leader called.
‘Aye, Sir Robert, it’s me. They’re in the camp as we planned. Encircle them, and you have them all.’
Chapter One
Third Monday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
Farmstead near Jacobstowe, Devon
On the day the murders were discovered, old Hoppon grunted as he rose to his feet and kicked the charred sticks together, then hauled the log nearer, before bending down to blow steadily. Tab, his dog, stirred and stretched, wagging his tail hopefully as Hoppon limped to the door and peered out.
‘Another shite day, feller,’ he muttered, reaching down. Tab had arrived by his side already, as always, and his fingers found the slim ears, scratching at the rough, wiry coat at the base of the dog’s skull. ‘You think Noah’s coming back? It’s wet enough, I’d swear. Christ’s ballocks, what I’d give for a day of sun for once.’
It had been like this for so long now, he could scarce recall a time when it hadn’t been damp underfoot. Hoppon could remember the worst years when the rain fell all through the summer, the dreadful years when all starved more or less. The famine had struck ten years before, and lasted on and off for the next seven years, although it was the first two that had been the worst without doubt. Especially for him with his badly burned and damaged leg.
Tab wandered out and cocked a leg at the edge of the little clearing, and it was then that Hoppon saw the smoke rising through the trees.
‘The poor bastards. Foreigners aren’t safe,’ he said, peering through the thin drizzle with a scowl.
Hoppon thought no more about it. He had enough work to be getting on with without worrying about others who had incurred the wrath of the local magnates. In any case, he had the unpleasant conviction that the smoke was not from a camp fire. Last night, late, he had heard horses. Only one kind of man travelled in darkness, and it was not the kind of man he wanted to offend.
No. He had much to do, and so he wandered outside to his chickens and began to sprinkle a few grains for them, but even as they squabbled and bickered, his eyes kept being drawn up to the column of smoke, wondering what was happening over there.
Abbeyford Woods, south of Jacobstowe
Roger, a thin-faced man in his middle twenties, was early to rise that morning. It was his way to be on the road as dawn lighted the way for him. He was happier to be busy, and in his life that meant walking. It was lonely, now, without her. Better to keep walking than think about her. It wasn’t like she was his wife or anything.
There were many trees here, and that was itself a relief. As he went, he gathered up some tinder for his fire that evening. It was the usual start to any day, collecting thistledown in handfuls, then birchbark, thin, papery strips that curled into little cylinders. All were carefully wrapped in the remains of an old shirt, and then thrust inside his clothing, next to his belly, so that they should be dry by tonight for his fire.
When he saw the smoke, at first he was happy that he was near people with food. After sleeping in the open, with only his ragged old cloak to cover him, the thought of sitting at a friendly fire with a bowl of hot minted water or posset was enormously attractive — especially if it meant he could hear some news or just share some conversation. He had been walking alone for a long time now. And a party of travellers would hardly look upon a single wandering sailor as a threat to them, so surely they would be hospitable.
His road here was a narrow, grassed pathway. He had walked all the way from Dartmouth, hoping to get to the north coast, where he had heard that there were jobs for skilled seamen, but the weather had slowed him. Every day seemed to bring more and more rain, and the rivers had all swollen while the roads had grown more and more clogged with mud. For Roger, it meant that his pace had been reduced to a quarter of his normal progress. What had looked like a four- or five-day march, with luck, had already taken him a week, and he was only halfway. It was no surprise that the thought of a little company and a warming fire was so attractive.
The road here led along the top of a ridge. He had come here from Oakhampton, hoping that the river would have subsided a little. He’d been waiting for two days now, and at last he had been able to cross. That was late in the day last evening, and after that he had made his way up the heavily wooded side of the hill, and built himself a shelter of sorts with fallen boughs set against a tree. It wasn’t warm, nor dry, nor comfortable, but at least he could feel that there was a roof over his head, and once he had a small fire burning, he had been as content as he could be.
He passed a second roadway to the east, which fell down the side of the hill towards the river, and then he was following a pleasant, straight route with trees on either side that did not fully obstruct his view. The direction seemed to him to lie directly north, and he was happy to be able to speed his pace at last, lengthening his stride to suit the firm ground.
The smoke he had seen seemed to lie some few hundred yards ahead when he first set off, but as he marched on, he realised that it must be a half-mile distant. He passed a crossroads, then his road began to descend, although only shallowly, and the smoke remained some distance off on his right. It was as he saw the clouds break slightly, and felt the faint warming of the sun on his shoulder, that he began to smell the woodsmoke on the air.