John towered over him and glared down into his face.
'I might be the Pope, but in fact I'm the king's coroner for this county. Where's your master, whoever he is?'
Suddenly servile, the septic young man tugged at his dirty forelock. 'Begging your pardon, sir. The bailiff is beside the house there.' He pointed to the open door, where a couple of chickens were exploring across the threshold. John and his officer thrust the reins of their steeds into his hands and walked across to the front of the manor house, a rectangular block made of heavy timbers and surrounded by another ditch, over which a few planks led to the door.
Inside, there was one large hall and several small rooms partitioned off at the back. A central firepit was ringed with whitewashed stones, inside which a glowing heap of logs cast some warmth on those sitting nearby.
A few trestle tables, some benches and stools completed the furniture. Half a dozen men were sitting there, an old woman and a young girl waiting on them with jugs of ale and bowls of potage brought in through a back entrance from the cook-shed behind.
'Which one of you is in charge?' snapped de Wolfe.
A heavily built man of about forty, with an acne-scarred face, rose from a bench. 'That's me, sir. Ogerus Coffin, the bailiff.' His tone was cautiously respectful, as he recognised John for a Norman knight by his manner and by the quality of the sword hilt that was visible under his open mantle.
Several of the men rose from the table and stood aside as the bailiff waved the visitors to a seat and then sat down himself.
'What can I do for you, sir?' asked Ogerus. 'You'll have some meat and drink, no doubt?'
As another man gestured to the old woman to bring more ale, mugs and food, John brusquely introduced himself and his officer.
'We have several murders and an assault in or near Exeter, which may have been committed by someone connected with this manor. I am seeking out any information, especially about the outlaws who left here with the former manor lord, Sir Nicholas de Arundell.' Ogerus Coffin gave a guttural laugh, but several of the other men looked uneasy at this news.
'Nick o' the Moor and his gang of ruffians? That's ancient history, that is. Must be better part of three years since he ran off.'
The crone poured ale for John and Gwyn, and a platter of cold pork and thick slabs of coarse bread was bumped on the table before them.
'Have they been around here lately?'
The bailiff's small eyes roved around, surveilling his companions. 'Haven't seen much of them lately, have we, lads? Last time must have been three months back, when they came by night and stole half a dozen chickens and a couple of suckling pigs.'
'How do you know it was them?' asked Gwyn.
'They scratched a sign on the door of the tithe barn, like they did a couple of times before.'
'What sort of sign?' demanded John.
One of the older men pointed up at the wall above the door, where a crude shield had been painted on the timbers. Though faded and deliberately defaced, six white swallows on a black ground were still visible.
'They left that Arundell device on the barn door, cut with the point of a dagger. That one up there has been here since his father, old Roger, built the house.'
'The place is looking pretty shabby now,' observed Gwyn. 'Does no one care for it any longer?'
Ogerus shrugged. 'It's only the land that interests Sir Henry and Sir Richard. They share the income, but don't need the house. I live here most of the time, though I'm really bailiff of Berry Pomeroy. My lord has put me here as caretaker, to supervise the working of the fields.'
John decided they were wandering off the subject.
'Do you know of any among them who might descend to murdering?'
One of the others, the one who had pointed out the shield, broke in ahead of the bailiff, apparently anxious to defend the former lord.
'They get up to some thieving, that's for sure, but they have to live and only steal food or money. They've never killed anyone nor even grievously harmed a soul.'
Ogerus scowled at the man. 'I know where your sympathies lie, Alfred Gooch! You should have gone off and joined them. Didn't they kill that man from Berry when the first squabble started?'
'That was an accident,' mumbled Alfred, sitting down and shutting his mouth.
'And you can think of no one who might have a particular grudge against Sir Henry or Sir Richard?' persisted de Wolfe.
There were a few muffled sniggers. 'I can't say as to that, Crowner,' grunted the bailiff. 'It's not my place to relate tittle-tattle. But no doubt Arundell and all his tribe up on the moor would gladly see them both dead.'
John seized on part of what the man had said. 'Up on the moor. Where up on the moor might they be?' Again there were snorts and chuckles of derision from the others.
'Like bloody will-o'-the-wisps, they are,' said another fellow, who had a hunting horn at his belt. 'They got half a dozen places they can hide, and can flit from one to the other at the drop of a hat. Not that they're alone up there, there's plenty of outlaws besides them. Dartmoor is big enough to hide a couple of armies.'
Having no help on that score, de Wolfe turned to another aspect of his investigation. 'What exactly happened when Sir Nicholas was turned out of this place? I've heard different tales from different people.'
Alfred spoke up again, braving the bailiff's obvious displeasure. 'It was a bloody scandal, sir! First they threw out his wife with some yarn about him being dead in foreign parts, then when he shows up at that very door there, hale and hearty, he gets set upon and sent packing.'
Ogerus Coffin glared at him again. 'Watch your mouth, Alfred Gooch. That's not how it was at all.'
'I was there, for Christ's sake,' retorted Alfred, defiantly.
'And so was I — and got two broken ribs for my trouble,' shouted the bailiff. 'De Arundell set upon us, calling on some of the men who were here before we took over to join him. They killed Walter Frome and were only defeated when we sent to the castle for help.' There were some subdued grumbles of disagreement from a couple of the men, but they seemed afraid to defy their bailiff openly.
John decided he would only get a censored version of the truth from Ogerus Coffin and turned the discussion into questions about the geography of the manor and how men would get there from Dartmoor. It seemed that the obvious way would be to come down the Dart Valley, into which the little Hems stream joined only a mile away. The valley ran inland to reach Buckfast and, beyond it, Ponsworthy and Widecombe which were at the southern edge of the high moor.
'I reckon wherever they are, they keep mostly to the eastern part of the moor,' said another fellow. 'I doubt they dwell over towards Lydford or Tavistock way, for there are other big gangs of outlaws in that direction who wouldn't take kindly to too much competition.' Even this opinion was of little use in tracking down Nick o' the Moor, as the areas involved were still enormous, a rugged terrain of heathland, bogs, stony ground and tors, all subject to dense cloud, gales, horizontal rain and deep snow, according to the season.
When they had eaten and drunk the plain fare, de Wolfe decided that there was nothing more to be gained by staying. A final demand to the men to search their minds for anyone who might have a particular reason to want Pomeroy and de Revelle dead was met by shrugs and surly looks, without any helpful suggestions. Gwyn would have liked to take Alfred Gooch aside and have some quiet words with him, but the bailiff and the others gave him no chance to steer Alfred away from their company, and a few minutes later they turned their horses' heads towards Exeter, which they hoped to reach before dark.
As her husband was trotting his stallion homewards that afternoon, Matilda had another visitor, after several of her St Olave's friends had come and gone. Joan de Whiteford arrived bearing a gift of 'wardonys in syrup', a sweet concoction of preserved pears flavoured with cinnamon, ginger and saffron, prepared by her cousin's cook-maid.