A frightened-looking woman appeared from behind a rickety table, apprehensive at the sudden arrival of two tall men of military appearance. Again Ranulf took the lead in reassuring the ale-wife of their good intentions.
‘We are a force of soldiers on our way to London, good woman,’ he said. ‘We are staying in the churchyard for the night, but are seeking any food and drink that might be available.’
On learning of their numbers, the widow shook her head. ‘I might have enough ale in my crocks to give you a pint apiece, sir, but as for food, there is hardly enough bread in the whole village to feed twenty-five men!’
A man sitting on a bench against the wall got up and came over to them, touching his forehead in salute. ‘I killed a pig this morning, sirs, it’s hanging fresh in my croft. I’d sell it for a shilling, if you wanted to roast it.’
John looked at Ranulf. ‘Better than going hungry! Though it would take a few hours to roast on a spit.’
After some haggling, the crofter sold them the pig for ten pence, which Ranulf intended reclaiming from the Keeper as part of their expenses. ‘Best get the men organised, if they want to eat before midnight!’ advised de Wolfe.
They arranged for the ale-wife to supply all the spare drink she had, collected later by soldiers who carried the large five-gallon pottery crocks back to the churchyard. The old priest made no objection to starting a fire inside the ring of large stones which was used every time the village had an ‘ale’ for some celebration or other. The men entered into the spirit of the event, gathering fallen wood from the edge of the forest and when the gutted pig had been brought, it was turned on a makeshift spit supported on forked branches stuck into the ground.
Darkness was falling by the time the meat was cooked, making the scene look like some barbaric festival, with a circle of hungry men sitting around the fire, lit up by sizzling flares when gobs of fat dripped into the flames. As a log burnt through and fell, a shower of red sparks rose into the air, like a swarm of fireflies. When the sergeant-at-arms, who had appointed himself cook, declared the flesh ready to eat, every man, including the knights and Thomas, lined up to cut themselves slices with their eating knife or dagger. In spite of her pessimism about the amount of bread, the tavern widow had found enough coarse loaves to give every man a hunk, on which he laid his hot pork until cool enough to eat.
Together with some ale dipped from the crocks in a few pint pots and passed from mouth to mouth, the succulent meat and the comradely atmosphere satisfied everyone. By the time the hog had been reduced to a near skeleton, most of the men were ready to sleep, though four were obliged to stay awake to form the first watch to guard the treasure wagon until morning.
The rest ambled back to the little church and gratefully curled up on the earthen floor, wrapping themselves in their riding cloaks though the night was still warm.
All the horses had been watered at a stream than ran through the village and then turned out into a large meadow with a dry-stone wall around it. The cart, bereft of its draught animals, stood forlornly against the church wall, with two of the guards sitting on the driving-board and the other two crouched on the grass at the rear.
‘We may as well test the softness of the priest’s hay, I suppose,’ suggested Ranulf, leading the way towards the small barn. Its interior was almost completely dark, but a half moon and the remains of the fire gave them enough light to see that it was almost empty. At the end of spring, most of the stored roots like turnips and carrots had been used up and it was too early for much of this year’s produce to be gathered in.
‘Just enough hay to lie on, I reckon,’ said Gwyn, peering around in the streaks of fitful moonlight that penetrated the gaps between the rough planks that formed the walls. It was more a large shed than a proper barn, but was enough to hold the meagre tithes that such a small hamlet could produce for their priest. The five men shuffled around in the gloom and each found a corner or a nook amongst the remains of last year’s crops, curling up in their mantles and ignoring the rustling of mice and rats that were their fellow guests for the night. The coroner and the two knights from the Marshalsea decided to lay where they could see the precious cart through the open doors of the barn. Gwyn and Thomas preferred a spot against the back wall.
John found it warm enough to roll up his riding cloak to use as a pillow, after he had wriggled himself into a comfortable position on a thin layer of musty-smelling hay. He had pulled off his boots and laid his belt, which carried sword, dagger and pouch, on the ground alongside him. Too tired tonight to churn his personal troubles around in his mind, he fell almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.
Hours later, when the moon had declined almost to the horizon, he suddenly awoke, with the feeling that something was wrong. As an old campaigner, used to sleeping rough where danger was ever present, he was instantly fully awake. He heard Ranulf snoring nearby, but his nose and his ears told him that they were in danger. Jerking upright, he sniffed repeatedly and then got to his feet and hurried to the door, ignoring the jabs to his bare feet from debris on the floor. As he emerged into the near darkness, there was a sudden yell of ‘Fire!’ from nearby and William Aubrey stumbled around the corner of the barn, clutching his breeches around his backside, his belt hanging loose.
‘The thatch is on fire, come and see!’ He grabbed John by the arm, pulled him to the corner and pointed up. ‘I went outside for a shite and then saw flames!’ he gabbled. Almost at the same time, there were sudden cries of alarm from across the churchyard, where the four sentries were guarding the wagon.
‘Fire, fire!’ came the dreaded yells and going further out from the barn, John coughed as a wreath of smoke drifted down from above. Due to the overhang of the eaves, he could see nothing until he ran out into the coarse grass and weeds of the churchyard. Stumbling backwards and looking up, now he could see that part of the barn’s ragged thatch was alight and spreading rapidly, fanned by the slight breeze and aided by the dry state of the old straw after days without rain.
He heard shouts and running feet coming towards him, and turning saw that the soldiers from the wagon detail were racing towards the barn. A sudden thought occurred to him and he yelled at them urgently.
‘Get back to your posts, damn you! That’s more important than a poxy shed!’
The possibility that this could be some sort of diversion, to leave the treasure cart unattended crossed his mind, though it seemed highly unlikely. But the barn was undoubtedly on fire and John hobbled back to the entrance, cursing as small stones cut into his almost bare feet. As he went through the doorway, he was just about to start yelling ‘Fire!’ himself, when he dimly saw that Gwyn had risen to his feet and was starting to bellow a warning, as he pushed Thomas ahead of him to safety.
‘The bloody thatch is afire!’ hollered de Wolfe. ‘Give that other fellow a shake, Gwyn!’ he shouted, pointing at the inert shape of Ranulf, who seemed capable of sleeping through an earthquake. Scooping up his boots and his belt, John retreated to the door and hurriedly thrust his feet into his footwear and buckled on the belt. By now, the fire had reached the inside of the thatch and bits of burning straw were falling through the framework of twisted hazel withies that held it up. There was no danger to any of them, as by now Gwyn had hauled the bemused under-marshal to his feet and given him a push in the direction of the doorway, where Aubrey was tucking his shirt into his breeches and anxiously awaiting his friend.
A moment later, they were all outside and by now the men-at-arms who had been sleeping in the church had streamed out and were standing in a half-circle, staring impotently at the burning roof.
‘There’s no way we’ll save that now!’ called out the sergeant. ‘There’s no water here and by the time we get buckets to the stream, the place will be well alight.’