'What poor soul is under there, I wonder?' murmured John. The two soldiers crossed themselves and even the agnostic Gwyn bowed his head in respect. De Wolfe only hoped that the occupant was not Nicholas de Arundell, but there was no way of telling what had happened. It was now obvious from the destruction of the camp and the recent grave that the outlaws had been attacked and that someone had paid with their life.
'Where do we go from here?' asked Gwyn, as they swung back into the saddle and began walking their horses back through the trees to the place where they had crossed over the little river.
'Deeper into the moor, north from here,' answered the coroner, with a confidence that he did not feel.
Dartmoor covered about four hundred square miles and the outlaw band could be almost anywhere within it, assuming that they had not been wiped out in the attack.
As they turned left on the main track, retracing their path towards Grimspound, those behind suddenly saw the sergeant tense in his saddle and grab for the ball mace that hung from his saddlebow.
A voice called out from behind the last tree in the copse that lined the stream, and a figure stepped cautiously out from behind it.
'Crowner! Crowner John!'
A ginger-haired youth, muffled in a cloak made of poorly cured deerskins, advanced on them, his hands held high to show that he was no threat. Gwyn was the first to recognise him as one of the outlaws.
'Peter Cuffe, it is you, Peter?' he roared.
The redhead came up to them, smiling now that he was in no danger of being brained by Gabriel's fearsome mace. Explanations soon followed, and it became clear that the youngest of the gang had been sent as a lookout. He had been three days on his own, sleeping in a shallow cave up on the ridge above and watching for anyone approaching the ruined village.
'Nick hoped that we would be contacted by someone. We were unable to send anyone to Moreton last week to keep the usual rendezvous, though next Monday we were going to be there, as we knew Lady Joan would be worried.'
He described the attack on Challacombe and the tactical withdrawal of the outlaws to Grimspound, where they had outwitted the invaders and made them flee.
'I knew it, roared Gwyn. 'Those bastards de Revelle and Pomeroy! Surely they must hang for this.'
De Wolfe shook his head sadly. 'For what? Attempting to clear out a nest of outlaws, as is their right and indeed duty? They could even have claimed the wolf's head bounty had they succeeded.'
'They did succeed in one instance,' said Peter Cuffe sadly. 'Poor old Gunilda died, that's her grave in the yard. We found her body when we crept back after those swine had left.'
There were growls of anger from Gwyn and the men-at-arms, but John kept his mind on the present situation. 'We are hoping for a pardon for you all from the king,' he explained. 'So I need to talk to Sir Nicholas as soon as possible. Where is he now?'
Peter Cuffe explained that after the ruination of Challacombe, they had withdrawn to a temporary camp, in cave shelters that were just about habitable. A few days later, they had moved again to slightly less miserable quarters in old huts belonging to an abandoned tin-streaming works above Chagford.
As the winter's day was rapidly advancing, they set off at once, Cuffe sitting up behind Gwyn. He had no horse, and the back of the Cornishman's big mare was the broadest of the group's steeds. The ginger lad guided their path, which meandered between the bare downs and valleys, going ever northward without ever meeting any habitation. Even though de Wolfe reassured Cuffe that he was no longer in any danger of being beheaded, two years as a fugitive were too deeply ingrained in the lad's soul for him to take any chances.
The early dusk was falling as they reached a small valley, little more than a deep gouge cut into the moor by a fast-running stream. They were near the eastern edge of the high moor, and in the far distance a few glimmers of light showed where a hamlet or farm nestled in the greener, more fertile land down below.
Directed by Cuffe, the riders went carefully down into the small gorge, their horses slithering on the mud and stones of the bank until they reached the stream, which babbled and gurgled between boulders on its rapid journey to join the Teign a few miles away. The ginger youth gave a piercing whistle, and an answering whistle came from a few hundred yards further down. In the gathering gloom, John saw the rotting remnants of wooden sluices and troughs where tin-washing had once been carried on. Underfoot, serried piles of gravel lay in a herringbone fashion, where the river bank had been dug out in the search for ore and the useless railings had been discarded.
The whistling had come from a pair of low huts, built as usual of dark moorstones piled on top of each other, roofed with branches and turf. Originally shelters for the miners and places to store their tools, the huts were now the refuge of the outlaw band, an even more primitive lodging than the old village at Challacombe.
As de Wolfe's party approached, men hurried out of the holes that formed the doorways and stood awaiting them in anxious anticipation. Foremost was Nicholas de Arundell, unshaven and dishevelled, as were all of his men.
'Thank God it's you, Sir John,' he said fervently, clasping the coroner's hands. 'What news have you for us?'
'Good, certainly hopeful, Nicholas,' replied the coroner, shivering as he slid from his horse's back. 'Your accommodation here looks less luxurious than that when we last met, but I would be glad of some shelter while we talk.'
The outlaw chief hustled them to the doorway of the nearest hut, but Gabriel said he would go with his two men to the other shanty, a few yards away. The dozen or so residents clustered around, and some took the visitors horses to join their own, which were tethered further down the stream. With much shouting about hot potage and ale, the two groups parted, and de Wolfe and Gwyn squeezed into the main hut, which was barely high enough to allow them to stand upright. Nicholas waved a hand expressively at the heaps of bracken that lined the walls, inviting them to sit down in a circle around a small ring of stones in the centre, which confined a smoky fire of logs hacked from the stunted trees in the valley.
'Thank God we are old Crusaders, Sir John. These are poor quarters even for us, but I know you will understand that we have little option, as those bastards once again deprived me of my home, simple though the last one was.'
As they squatted on the beds, Philip Girard, Martin Wimund, Robert Hereward and a couple of other men pushed into the hut and shuffled into places opposite, eager to hear any news. Peter Cuffe found a pitcher of cider in a corner and passed around some pottery mugs. 'The stew is being heated in the other place, there's a better fire there than this one,' he explained sheepishly.
'You'll not need to suffer this much longer,' began John, reassuringly. 'From this moment, the Chief Justiciar says that you are no longer outlawed and may return to your homes without fear.'
There was a babble of joyful astonishment and the coroner heard a similar uproar from the other hut, where on John's instructions, Gabriel had passed on the same message. For a few moments, he could hardly speak for a barrage of questions from the men, until Nicholas yelled for quiet.
'We beseech you, Crowner, tell us everything. We have waited so long for this.'
There was silence as John carefully related his visit to Hubert Walter and the promises that the Justiciar had made to them.
'This is virtually as good as the word of King Richard himself,' he concluded. 'But until the royal justices, in the shape of Walter de Ralegh, make a full investigation and pronounce on the matter, we must all tread carefully.'
This sobered the excited men a little, and Nicholas asked what exactly de Wolfe meant by this.