'I'll keep an eye on him, cariad,' said Gwyn in the Welsh-Cornish patois they used between them. When Thomas was there, they usually reverted to English, but just to tease him Gwyn sometimes lapsed into the Celtic that was the first tongue of Nesta and himself, and which John had picked up from his mother when a child.
Thomas scowled and in reprisal said something in Latin, which none of them understood, but which sounded sarcastic.
John placated his clerk by telling him how much he depended upon him to look after the coroner's business while they were away. 'You know as much about the system as I do, Thomas. I have no doubt that all will be recorded on your immaculate rolls when we get back.'
'What happens if another guildsman gets murdered, Crowner?' asked the priest rather tremulously.
'Tell the sheriff and Ralph Morin, that's all that can be done. After all, it's their business to chase criminals, not mine. But don't meet trouble halfway, my lad. We've had no problems of that sort for a while, so offer up some spare prayer, in that chapel of yours so that it continues that way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The coroner and his officer made better progress eastwards than they had expected, as the rain had melted away the snow but had stopped before the roads became totally mired. A moderate east wind helped to dry up the tracks and by the early morning of the day after they left Exeter, they were leaving an inn at Bridport and making their way at a brisk trot towards Dorchester.
At dawn that day, men were also on the move many miles to the west, riding out from Berry Pomeroy Castle.
Henry's bailiff Ogerus Coffin and the reeve from Hempston Arundell were at the head of the column, with the two lords behind them. Then came the rest of the men, a collection of castle guards, yeomen and freemen from Berry, seated on a motley collection of horses, ranging from an old destrier to several rounseys, and from a lady's palfrey to a few packhorses taken from a baggage train.
Their armament was equally diverse, the guards having pikes and maces, the lords their swords, and the rest of the men a variety of weapons, including axes, staves and a couple of chipped, dented swords.
One of the posse was the chief huntsman from Berry Pomeroy and he had brought four of his hounds with him, who loped at his horse's heels, when they were not darting off into the bushes to investigate the scent of foxes and badgers.
Altogether, the posse consisted of twenty-two men, some ill at ease with this task, which was far removed from their usual occupation of ditching, thatching and ploughing — and several of them were secretly unhappy at having to harass the rightful inhabitants of Hempston, who they felt had already suffered enough.
One of their leaders was also not all that enamoured of the affair. Sir Richard de Revelle felt that the day would be far better spent in his comfortable manor at Revelstoke, sitting before a large fire with a glass of brandy-wine in his hand, and with another large meal when dinnertime came along. Instead, he was jogging along a winding track alongside the River Dart, shivering inside his riding cloak in spite of the padded gambeson under his chainmail hauberk. He was the only one wearing any form of armour, apart from a few men with iron helmets. Henry de la Pomeroy had a thick tunic of boiled leather under his colourful tabard emblazoned with his family crest, though little of this could be seen for the heavy, fleece-lined serge cape that he wore over the top.
The rest of the men were dressed in an irregular collection of outfits, including leather jerkins and several layers of woollen tunics; almost all wore breeches with cross-gartering on the legs.
'At least that damned frost has gone,' bawled Henry, riding alongside de Revelle. He seemed eager for a fight, having been in several campaigns in France and Ireland in former years. Richard was a reluctant soldier, he had wanted to become a lawyer as a stepping stone to politics, but his Crusader father had insisted that after attending the cathedral school at Wells, he became a squire to a local knight. Richard had managed to avoid any serious fighting, though he had become a hanger-on to several campaigns in northern France, which was where he had come to the attention of John, Count of Mortain.
Now he was trying to look as if he was enjoying this military escapade, having been persuaded by Henry that unless Nicholas was dealt with before the damned coroner persuaded Hubert Walter of the righteousness of de Arundell's claim, they would be in deep trouble.
As the column trotted through Buckfastleigh an hour later, curious stares followed them, as the sight of a troop of armed men riding purposefully along was a disturbing sight. A number of villagers ran inside, bolted their doors and crossed themselves fervently.
On they went, past the great Abbey of Buckfast, and then they began weaving through the valleys and over the downs of the rising ground that led on to the moor.
By noon they had covered another seven miles to Widecombe, where they halted to rest their horses and eat the provisions they had brought in their saddlebags — hard bread, cheese or scraps of meat in the case of the villagers, though the bailiff had carried better fare and a flask of wine for himself and the two manor lords.
'We'll not get back home by tonight, sirs,' he announced, stating the obvious. 'But I've told the innkeeper here that you two gentlemen will need a place to sleep, even if it's only by the firepit. The men can find themselves a barn or a cowshed.' After an hour's rest, they mounted up again and Henry de la Pomeroy conferred again with bailiff Coffin.
'Where do we go from here?' he demanded, being unfamiliar with this remote area of the county.
'Those miscreants are said to be somewhere on the West Webburn, the next valley to the west, Sir Henry. The alehouse keeper here is vague about it, I think he's afraid of vengeance from the outlaws if things go wrong.'
'How good is that information, bailiff?' snapped de Revelle, still unhappy with this whole expedition, especially if there was likely to be any danger to himself.
'Another of my spies from Ashburton says he has heard of Nick o' the Moor being camped somewhere up the vale of the West Webburn stream — though these villains are usually always on the move.'
'Where the devil is that?' brayed de Revelle.
'Widecombe is on the East Webburn brook, so it must be over there somewhere.' Ogerus Coffin waved vaguely to his left, where a misty grey hill obscured the view.
'The innkeeper says we must go back a little way, then cross over the foot of that hill towards Ponsworthy, then follow the next stream northwards.'
With these somewhat imprecise directions, the posse struggled back into the saddle and plodded off in the wake of the bailiff. An hour later, they were moving up a shallow valley, with grey-green slopes on either side and a small stream babbling down between straggling bushes and a few trees. There was no sign of habitation and the path was now reduced almost to a sheep track, forcing them to ride in single file.
Heavy low cloud darkened the day, but there was only a slight mist and no sign of the dense fog that could roll down within minutes and make the moor a dangerous place for travellers. In spite of the reasonably good visibility, none of them noticed a figure high up to their left, peering, over a large slab of moorstone.
Having noted their appearance and numbers, the ginger-headed lookout slipped back over the skyline of the ridge and ran like a hare ahead of them, easily outpacing the horses who were stepping delicately along the stony path, anxious to avoid twisting a hoof.