'Halt, in the name of the king!' The feeble candleglow from the horn lantern reflected off the steel blade of a sword held by the man who had shouted, and it dimly revealed another figure standing behind him wielding a pike.
'Can't be another thieving pedlar!' muttered the driver to his mate. Aloud, he demanded to know who was holding them up. 'If you are seeking to rob us, you'll have to answer to the bailiff of Axmouth — and the Prior of Loders. '
The two men standing in the middle of the track approached, and as they did so the moon slid out from behind a cloud and gave a far better light than the lantern.
'I am the Keeper of the Peace for this Hundred, fellow,' snapped Luke de Casewold. 'I want to know what you are doing hauling a cart around the king's highway at this hour of the morning?'
'There's no law against that, is there?' growled the driver truculently. 'This isn't a borough or city with a curfew.'
The Keeper brandished his long sword. 'Get down from there! I want to know who you are and what you have in that wagon. Quickly now!' He motioned to Hugh Bogge to go around to the tailboard of the cart. 'See what they have in the back. Here, take the lantern!'
The driver, a thickset man with a face like one of his oxen, made no move to climb down, and his companion, an equally ruffianly fellow, also ignored the law officer's demand.
'We are just delivering goods from Axmouth,' growled the carter. 'One of the wheel bearings cracked in Honiton and we wasted hours finding a blacksmith. I have to deliver the rest of the goods to Ilminster by morning, so we had no choice but to travel all night.'
De Casewold cackled derisively. 'Don't give me that, you liar! Do you crack your wheel bearings regularly, then? Several times now I've seen a cart like this on the roads late at night.'
The driver looked at his companion and shrugged. 'We've done our best,' he muttered cryptically and began to climb down from the driving-board.
There was a cry from the back as Bogge unlashed the cords holding down the tail-flap and the Keeper hurried around to him, followed closely by the two men. Luke found his clerk holding up his lantem and staring aghast into the back of the wagon. Two men, brandishing long daggers and heavy cudgels, were advancing towards them past a pile of kegs and bales. As they stepped back, the law officer and his clerk found that the driver and his mate were blocking their retreat, both now having wicked-looking knives in their hands.
It was Tuesday before the bodies were found. A mile outside the hamlet of Rawridge was a large area of common land, rising to the edge of dark forest. Soon after dawn, a shepherd had rounded up several score of his flock to check on new lambs that were appearing late in the season. His two black bitches had done their work, and the sheep were safely inside a crude pound with a hurdle across the entrance.
An old man of almost sixty, he squatted with his back against the dry-stone wall and pulled a hunk of bread and a piece of cheese from a cloth pouch on the belt that clinched his ragged tunic. His dogs lay nearby, watching him intently with their pink tongues hanging out, until he shared the scraps with them. Then, with an effort, he hauled himself to his feet and forced his aching joints to take him up towards the trees, where a clear spring bubbled out of the hillside. As he bent to scoop water to his lips with his cupped hands, one of the bitches ran off into the woodland. When he called sharply to her to come, she stood uncertainly, whining and looking back at him.
Alfred knew every nuance of his dogs' behaviour, probably better than he could read his wife's moods. He realised that something was worrying the animal, especially when the other bitch ran after her and began snuffling in the scatter of last autumn's leaves. Ambling after them, content that his sheep were safe for the moment, he pushed through the sprouting brambles and nettles along the tree-line to where the dogs were keening.
It was obvious at first sight what was upsetting them.
The beech and oak leaves had been disturbed, older black mould from below being mixed with the paler leaves. The younger dog had been scratching at the pile, and a human hand projected like a claw.
Alfred was in a dilemma, as he knew a little about the rules announced by the manor-bailiff a year or two ago concerning dead bodies. He was now the 'First Finder', and his instincts were to turn around and forget all about it, as any involvement with the law was bad news. He stood for a few minutes staring at the hand, which was undoubtedly attached to a corpse beneath. Then a combination of a sense of duty, a fear of retribution and a touch of pride at being the centre of attention for a short while decided him that he had better do something about this. Gingerly, he kicked away some of the soggy leaves and exposed an arm, which was bloodstained above the wrist. As a shepherd, he was well used to gory dead animals, such as sheep ravaged by foxes and the occasional wolf, as well as to slaughter-time and the pig-killings. He gripped the dead hand and pulled vigorously, when a shoulder and a head surfaced above the leaf mould. Hardened as he was, the sight of a gaping cut throat that had nearly severed the head was something of a shock, especially when the disturbance of the corpse had caused a leg to appear at the other side of the heap of leaves.
Dropping the wrist, he backed away, muttering little-used prayers under his breath and making the sign of the cross. Then, whistling at his dogs, he began hurrying back down the common, intent on fetching his manor-reeve as soon as possible.
By mid-afternoon the coroner was approaching the scene with his officer and clerk, brought urgently from Exeter by the news that a king's law officer and his clerk had been foully slain. They had been summoned by the bailiff of Honiton, after the manor-reeve from Rawridge had brought him the news.
'I went straight up to this vill, Sir John, to check for myself,' he reported as they rode the last half-mile to Rawridge. 'I recognised the poor souls straight away. I knew the Keeper fairly well. Though to tell the truth he was something of a nuisance, he should not have come to an end like that.'
'And the other one? That was his clerk, Bogge?' growled de Wolfe.
'It was indeed. A harmless fellow, he put up with the Keeper's odd ways well enough.'
They passed the village, away to their left, and continued for almost a mile, before leaving the Ilminster road and climbing across the common land to where a group of men were standing, where the grass gave way to forest. One was the manor-reeve, another the old shepherd who was now firmly the First Finder, whether he liked it or not. The rest were villagers, including the parish priest, a fat Irishman who was mumbling prayers over the corpses. Inevitably, Thomas de Peyne soon joined him, adding his supplications in much better Latin, though averting his squeamish eyes from the carnage as he chanted.
There was little they could do at the scene, except to have the bodies pulled clear of the forest floor, where most of the leaf mulch and twigs could be brushed off, so that the full extent of the injuries could be seen.
'Right mess they are in, poor devils,' grunted Gwyn, bending over the familiar figures as they lay grotesquely twisted on the coarse grass.
Hugh Bogge had been beaten about the head so severely that his face was hardly recognisable. However, his death was due to several deep stab wounds in the neck and upper chest, soaking his tunic with blood, much of which had dried to a brown crust. Luke de Casewold had even more horrific injuries, in that his head was almost detached from his neck by a single massive cut that completely severed his windpipe and gullet and bit deeply into the joints between the bones of his spine.
'That's no dagger wound; that must have been a sword!' said John decisively.