Gwyn had intended speaking to the porters at each of the city's five gates and now he had a better description of his quarry. As anyone going to Dartlnoor would probably choose either the West or the North Gate, he tried those first and struck gold at the second attempt.
At the top of North Gate Street he spoke to one of the gatekeepers, who was one of his hundreds of drinking acquaintances across the city. The fellow's job was to open and close the great doors at dawn and dusk, as well as to collect tolls from those who were bringing goods or beasts into the city. Without hesitation, he said he knew Maurice Axeworthy.
'Who doesn't, poor sod?' he exclaimed. 'Hardly miss him, with a face like that. Often riding through here, he is.'
Gwyn felt a tingle of excitement, as it was unusual for a mere house servant to have the frequent use of a horse to leave the city. Further questioning revealed that Gillian le Bret's man had for some weeks been in the habit of riding out early every Monday morning and returning later the same day.
'Reckon he must be going to visit a sick relative or something, maybe up Crediton way?' hazarded the porter.
Gwyn hurried back to Rougemont with his news and found his master in the hall of the keep, maliciously regaling the sheriff with an account of the verbal drubbing his wife had given to her brother that dinnertime.
'By Saint Peter's nose, didn't she let him have it,' he said with ill-concealed glee. 'Her tongue is sharp enough when she spears me with it, but for him, she dipped it in acid as well!'
Matilda had released all her pent-up disillusion and indignation at her brother's incessant wrong-doings which for years, she now realised, had blighted her life.
This time, her extraordinary affection for her new friend Joan de Arundell had heightened her exasperation and she had torn into Richard.
As de Revelle escaped from her tirade, she had hurled final threats at him and demanded that he undo the damage he and Henry de la Pomeroy had wreaked on the unfortunate de Arundells.
'You had best hurry, for my husband is about to petition Hubert Walter, and perhaps the king himself, for restitution of their manor — and retribution on you grasping pair of villains.' With this final barb, she had slammed the door on him, then promptly gone back into the hall, where she threw herself into a chair and burst into tears.
When de Wolfe had finished telling the sheriff his dramatic story, he turned to his officer. Gwyn told him of his discoveries about Maurice Axeworthy, and together with Henry de Furnellis, they discussed how they might use the information to their advantage.
'I'm sure this fellow meets someone out there in the country, so that news can pass back and forth between them,' claimed John. 'If we can follow this Maurice, we might be led to where Nicholas and his gang hide out.'
'A force of soldiers large enough to capture them would never be able to track men over open country,' objected the sheriff. 'They'd just melt away as soon as they spotted anyone following them.'
De Wolfe agreed. 'I'm not proposing a confrontation in the first instance,' he said. 'But if one or two of us could shadow this messenger, he may lead us to where they have their camp. Then we can return with enough of Ralph Morin's men-at-arms to overpower them and find out the truth about this alleged seizure of their manor — and see if our murderer is amongst them.'
'This servant can hardly be going deep into the moor,' observed Henry. 'Your porter says he goes out in the morning and is back before dusk. That must mean he meets someone on the way.
'It's always on Monday,' Gwyn reminded them. 'That's the day after tomorrow.'
'Then the sooner the better,' grunted De Wolfe. 'This is a task just for you and me, Gwyn. We'll leave the little clerk to his devotions and his parchments.'
Knowing that Maurice always left by the North Gate if he indeed was making a trip this week- his two trackers rode out early and concealed themselves in a clump of trees several miles beyond the city but, within sight of the first fork in the road. Straight on was Crediton, an unlikely destination for someone aiming for the high moor. Sure enough, when the tall horseman with the stained face passed by, he turned left, aiming west for Dunsford. His horse was a palfrey, a favourite with ladies, and this one had distinctive dappled grey markings.
They allowed him to get a considerable distance ahead before following. Both John and Gwyn had discarded their usual big steeds as being too conspicuous and had hired a pair of docile rounseys from Andrew's stables.
At Dunsford, they asked a shepherd driving a flock towards them whether he had seen 'their friend' on the road, a man with a discoloured face, and were told that he was not more than half a mile ahead of them.
Reassured that he had not already vanished into the woods, they carried on at the same pace and eventually came into Moretonhampstead, a village about twelve miles from Exeter. It was almost a small town, a busy place with a stock market and a few taverns that were thronged with freeman smallholders, horse traders and tinners.
'This Maurice knows me, so I'll keep out of the way,' said de Wolfe, as they reined in at the edge of the straggle of cottages and shacks. 'Leave your horse with me and go around the alehouses to see if you can spot that dappled palfrey.'
Ten minutes later, his officer was back, wiping his luxuriant moustaches with the back of his hand. 'Found him easy enough, in the inn with the sign of the plough outside. He's in a corner, eating a pie and talking head to head with a big, rough-looking fellow.' Gwyn pointed back to the village, which was spread around a crossroads. The tavern was a large thatched hut, almost on the corner of the road that went up towards Chagford.
'Would you know this other man again?' demanded de Wolfe.
Gwyn nodded. 'He's young, not above twenty, I reckon. And a thatch of ginger hair, brighter than mine, a real red-knob he is!'
John chewed his lip in indecision. 'Do we follow this one? Did he seem just a casual drinking mate, or are they meeting on purpose?'
'I've a gut feeling it's the real thing, Crowner. They were muttering close together, as if they wanted to keep their talk to themselves.'
'Right, get back in the saddle and hang around there until this ginger fellow leaves. We'll have to track him as best we can, though God knows it will be difficult once he leaves the road.'
And difficult it proved to be, following a horseman in open country without giving themselves away. They had had to wait for half an hour, until the carrot-haired man emerged and trotted off on a sturdy moorland pony. John and Gwyn split up, keeping just out of sight of each other, then alternating their positions in respect of the presumed outlaw so that he would not glimpse the same man every time if they inadvertently came within his view. For a couple of miles they were on a proper road, the one that ran southwards to Ashburton, but then the distant man turned right on to a track that went to the hamlet of North Bovey.
When they reached the village, there was no sign of him, and a boy herding goats at the side of the road said that no one had passed by in the last hour. Cursing, they wheeled around and, almost in desperation, took the only side track a quarter of a mile back. This led through trees to a bare heathland and Gwyn was able to find some hoof-prints in a boggy area where water was still oozing back into the cavities.
'Trodden very recently, I reckon,' he grunted. 'He must have come this way.'
Cautiously, they followed the track which began to climb on to the moor, a land of bare ridges with valleys which were filled with a patchwork of woods, waste and strip fields. As they went a mile or so beyond the village, now seen down below, the track became little more than a beaten path, with scrub and bushes on each side.
Though it was not raining, a thin mist hung over the countryside and the higher parts of the moor were lost in grey cloud. Gwyn and the coroner rode cautiously, their eyes straining for a glimpse of the man ahead, and their hands never far from the hilts of their swords.