'If they failed to find us down in Challacombe, then they must realise that we are up this way, for they came on the only track-southwards,' observed Nicholas.
'And they have dogs, which will pick up our trail,' added Peter.
Their leader stared down the slope to the track, thinking hard. 'What remains now is to defeat the bastards — or at least harry them until it becomes too dark, then we can slip away.' For five minutes, de Arundell described their plan of campaign, giving instructions to each man as to how they were going to carry out the ambush, The men made hasty preparations to their weapons, the half-dozen with bows now stringing them with the animal-gut filaments that they kept under their caps to protect them from rain. The others had swords, axes, iron-tipped staves, a couple of long pikes and a few wicked-looking ball maces swinging on chains from a short handle.
'Did you check again on their numbers, Peter?' demanded their leader.
'As I first thought, about twenty, all on horses of varying sorts. The two riding destriers must be that swine Henry Pomeroy and Richard de Revelle.'
'But no bowmen?' rasped Nicholas. 'Are you sure about that?'
The redhead nodded. 'I saw none, and the way most of them are sitting on their saddles suggests that they would be more at home with a cabbage hoe or a thatcher's rake!'
Nick o' the Moor gave rapid orders to his band of outlaws. He sent most of them up the two hillsides that sloped away from the great circle of Grimspound, ordering them to find somewhere to conceal themselves, either in hollows in the ground or behind large rocks. He placed an archer on each side of the shallow gully down which the stream tumbled to the valley below, the only practical approach to Grimspound. The other four bowmen he sent to hide in strategic positions on the slopes around the camp. Once again, he dispatched Peter up to the corner of the ridge, to signal when the intruders had reached the nearest point on the main track below. With luck, they might pass by and continue up the narrowing valley towards the Chagford road.
Together with Robert Hereward, he climbed up the flank of Hookney Tor to the north and they hunkered down in a slight hollow behind large tussocks of coarse grass.
'They are all mounted, so do you think they'll climb up here still on horseback?' queried Robert.
Nicholas shook his head, his face grim but lit with the expectation of battle, such as he had not experienced since the Holy Land. 'It's too steep and slippery with yesterday's rain. They'll have to leave their mounts down on the track, probably leaving a couple of men to look after them.'
Hereward crossed himself and muttered some prayer under his breath, then took a firmer hold on the long-shafted battleaxe that he held with a knuckle-whitening grip. They waited and shivered in the cold air, every man now silent in order not to betray their presence, as in that wilderness sounds carried a long way.
They watched intently, looking up at the ridge where Peter crouched on the edge of Hameldown Tor. A layer of grey cloud hovered like a moist blanket, blotting out the extreme tops of the hills, but leaving the lower slopes and the valley clear apart from a few wraiths of detached mist that drifted on the breeze. Nicholas de Arundell remembered similar ambushes in other campaigns and had the same thoughts: whether or not he would be dead within the next few minutes — and whether it would hurt so very much with a spear or sword through his belly.
His eyes strayed down to the steep slope where the stream cut its way through the peat to the track below, but suddenly he felt a nudge from Robert's elbow.
'Peter must have spotted them,' he hissed. They swivelled their eyes up and saw Cuffe running down the hillside, bent low and keeping out of sight of the road below. He stopped for a second and made urgent pointing gestures, then ran a few hundred paces more and dropped out of sight behind a slab of moorstone.
Silence fell again, but soon they could all hear the intermittent neigh of a horse and the faint jingle of harness, as well as the bark of a hound. A human shout next broke the stillness, and a muffled curse as a fretful stallion kicked out at another beast.
A few moments later, they saw the first heads appear, bobbing over the curve of rank grass as they climbed up the sheep track alongside the stream. The horses and hounds had obviously been left down below.
Nicholas had hoped to evade detection altogether, but he realised that it was a forlorn hope. Amongst these men were huntsmen and even poachers, who could easily recognise a recent footmark in the wet soil and realise than men had trodden the same path not long before.
Soon about a score of figures had risen out of the valley and were cautiously approaching the two stone pillars that marked the entrance to the ancient settlement. They were led by a pair who wore thick leather curiasses and round iron helmets, suggesting that they were part of the Berry Castle guard. Behind them strutted the sturdy figure of Henry de la Pomeroy, followed more hesitantly by the slimmer Richard de Revelle.
Nicholas stared across the few hundred paces of ground with loathing in his eyes. These were the men who had dispossessed him, driven his wife from her home and made him an outcast. He almost wished he had given his archers orders to strike them down where they stood, but even after the tribulations that had forced him to live like a hunted fox, remnants of his chivalrous upbringing prevented him from killing without warning.
He watched as all the invading force gathered inside the wide circle of Grimspound. There was much waving of arms on the part of de la Pomeroy, then some of the men went around the low circular huts, peering inside those that had not collapsed or lost their roofs. Soon there was a shout, clearly heard in the still air, and one of the searchers came out with what could have been a crust of bread — then another found a recently chewed piece of bacon. After a hurried conference, the faces of all the posse turned to scan the surrounding hills, their hands clutching their weapons in readiness for an attack.
De Arundell cursed under his breath. Though his men had been careless in leaving signs of such recent occupation, he was realistic enough to accept that he could not prevent the searchers from discovering their presence in the area. All he could do now was wait and see what happened.
After a hurried discussion between the two manor lords, their bailiff and the leading man-at-arms, and half a dozen of the more soldierly men came out of the enclosure and began walking cautiously up the slopes on each side. They had their swords or pikes at the ready and began searching behind each large rock and in every hollow. It was only a matter of time before they came upon one or other of the outlaws, and Nicholas felt it was beholden upon him to take the initiative. As he saw a big fellow wearing an iron helmet with a wide nosepiece clambering up towards his hideout, he suddenly stood up and brandished his sword, the light of battle glowing in his eyes.
'Stop there, or I'll slit your gizzard, damn you,' he yelled, his volatile temper flaring up. The man almost dropped his sword in surprise as the apparition seemed to appear from the very earth in front of him.
There was a roar from the rest of the posse down below as they caught their first sight of their quarry, but almost simultaneously, almost all, the outlaws, except the archers, popped up from their hiding places and gave answering yells of defiance as they waved their weapons at the foe.
The big man in front of Nicholas soon got over his shock and with a roar of triumph launched himself towards the outlaw leader. However, he was lumbering uphill and suddenly found himself facing two adversaries, as Robert Hereward hoisted himself from his crouch and stood alongside his master, brandishing a long staff with a wicked spike on the end. With a great shout, Nicholas went to meet the man, parried a swing from the big sword and kicked him hard on his shin.