He cursed the carelessness with which he had detached his shooting device from the back of the privy. In the dark and in haste to remove it before anyone came to investigate, he had slashed his bare forearm against the end of the laminated leaf-spring that shot the missile.
The injury itself was not serious, but by the next day, the deep scratch had become angry, and by the day after it was oozing pus. He suspected that some evil miasma had splashed upon his device from the ordure pit below, where there was a wide opening for the night-soil man to shovel out the contents.
Denise, a handsome girl of about twenty years, seemed close to tears. 'You'll die, Geoffrey, I know you will, unless you have it seen to properly. I had an uncle who stabbed his foot with a fork when he was hoeing turnips… he died in the most awful convulsions a week later.'
The iron-worker glowered at her. 'Thanks, that really cheers me up! Look, if it's worse by tomorrow, you can call an apothecary.' He subsided on to the palliasse again, waves of heat passing over him in spite of the coldness of the room, which was heated only by a charcoal brazier set on a stone slab in the centre of the rush-covered floor. The dwelling was a single room at the back of a silversmith's shop in Waterbeer Lane, behind the High Street. It had been Denise's place of business when she was a working whore, but now Geoffrey's generosity allowed her to keep all her favours for him. He had patronised her for a long period as a regular client, but a brusque affection and sense of possession had gradually developed, so that he had even thought of marrying the wench once he had set up in his own business as a master craftsman, but those bastards rejecting his application had scuppered all his plans.
Still, he had almost got even with them all now; only the last venture against Gilbert le Bator had gone wrong — and left him with a poisoned arm into the bargain.
He had had to leave his employment when the arm became useless and, though his master knew he was sick, he doubted whether he would ever go back. Something told him that the failed attempt on the weaver's life the other night would lead to his exposure if he stayed in the city, so he had abandoned his mean hut on the marshes and moved in with his mistress. As soon as his arm had healed, he would leave Exeter and take Denise away to yet another fresh start, perhaps this time in Gloucester. But first of all, he had one last score to settle.
Matilda's new hobby of being solicitous to Lady Joan de Arundell caused her to be very concerned at the news that Sir Nicholas had disappeared. She made none of her usual complaints when her husband announced that he had to ride off at dawn the next day to look for Nicholas, and she even added her own exhortations to John to spare no effort in finding the former outlaw.
'He must be told of his release from this iniquitous stigma,' she exclaimed. 'That poor woman, at first full of joy at his salvation, is now plunged into misery because he has vanished.'
It was unlike Matilda to be so melodramatic, and John wondered at her state of mind. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if her going mad could be grounds for annulment of their marriage, then forgot the notion.
In the cold light of the following dawn, Gwyn waited patiently outside on his mare while de Wolfe had the farrier saddle up his favourite gelding for the ride to Dartmoor. They met Sergeant Gabriel and two men-at-arms at the end of North Street and sallied out of the nearby gate towards the village of Ide and then onward to Moretonhampstead.
The sky was by now a sullen slate grey, with a suggestion of pinkness nearer the horizon, and the leather-faced sergeant mournfully prophesied snow before evening. The air was cold and still, but the going was good and they made rapid progress at a steady trot up and down the fertile undulations that led to the high moor.
'Where are we aiming for?' asked Gwyn when the little town locally known as Moreton came into sight. 'We haven't the slightest idea where Nicholas may be holed up.'
'Let's talk to the folk in the tavern, maybe someone will have an idea,' growled John. 'It was there that Lady Joan's messenger used to meet one of the men from Challacombe.'
When they reined in at the alehouse and entered for a welcome jug of ale and some hot potage, they learned nothing of Nicholas de Arundell's whereabouts, but picked up many rumours of an attack upon him.
Like all tales in the countryside, they improved with the telling, and the exaggerations of the attack on Challacombe had expanded until it seemed impossible that any of the outlaws could have survived. The patrons that morning were eager to offer their versions of the drama to de Wolfe, until his habitually thin store of patience ran out and he grabbed the taverner by the arm.
'For Christ's sake, man, let's have some sense here,' he snapped. 'Have you any real idea what happened over in Challacombe?'
The chastened landlord held up his hands in supplication. 'It's all gossip, Crowner,' he pleaded. 'But certainly some armed band came up from Widecombe way and there was a fight with Nick o' the Moor's men.
One of the locals here, who's not above taking a rabbit or even an injured deer over that way, said he was in the Challacombe valley a week past and saw the old huts burnt out and no sign of any life there.'
'Is there no rumour of where they might have gone?' demanded Gwyn belligerently, for he did not like the look of this crafty fellow.
'Like will-o'-the-wisp is that Nicholas. They do say he has several hideouts across the moor, one of them being up towards Sittaford Tot.' This was one of the most remote parts of the high moor, with vast areas of deserted land around it.
'Might just as well tell us he's somewhere on the bloody moon' grumbled Gwyn.
They could get nothing more of any use from the men in the tavern and after finishing their food and ale, John decided to strike out for Challacombe, across the indistinct track along which he had been taken when he first visited Nicholas de Arundell. The snow was holding off, and again they made good time over the firm, dry ground so that by noon, they were coming down below Hameldown Tor across the grassy bowl that held the strange ancient stories of Grimspound. There was nothing to tell them that a major ambush had been set here not long before, and they continued down on to the track that led southwards down the valley. The bleak countryside seemed deserted, and apart from birds the only life they saw was a dog fox lurking alongside the Webburn stream. Within a mile, they came to the stunted trees that surrounded the old village where John and his officer had spent a night.
'All burnt out, Crowner,' called Gabriel, who was riding a few yards ahead of them; the two soldiers were at the rear. As they crossed the stream and came up the slope to the old walls, they could see that the rough thatch that had been on several of the huts had collapsed into a blackened mess. When they dismounted and walked inside the wall around the settlement, the acrid smell of scorched branches and bracken assailed their nostrils. Though the large moorstones that made up the walls were still in place, the interiors of the primitive dwellings were reduced to heaps of sodden, blackened debris from the roofs. An ominous silence hung over the old village, broken only by the eerie hoot of a disturbed owl from the nearby trees.
There was nothing to be gained by staying, and the coroner motioned the others back to their horses. Just as they were filing through the gap in the wall, Gabriel stopped and pointed across the yard that lay in front of the nearest huts. 'What's that there? It looks very recent.'
John's gaze followed his finger and saw a heap of earth in a corner, on top of which was fixed a crude wooden cross made from two branches lashed together with cord. When they all went over to look, they saw that the earth was freshly dug; no weeds were on the surface, and the broken ends of the cross were pale where living sticks had been snapped through.