‘Want another, son?’ Gwyn was hardly old enough to be his father, but there was certainly many years between them. The other, a thickset, yellow-haired fellow with disconcertingly pale blue eyes, looked suspiciously at the huge, unkempt figure.
‘You buying it?’ he asked, in an accent from a long way east of Devonshire.
Gwyn gave another of his exaggeratedly furtive glances over his shoulder, then covertly displayed six whole pennies which he had clutched in his ham-like hand.
‘I struck lucky outside the fair today — the other fellow should be back on his feet within the week!’ He leered at the blond man, then waved at the chastened potgirl to bring more ale.
‘Nobody knows me in Ashburton — yet,’ he went on. ‘And I’m trying to keep it that way by getting out as soon as I can.’
The quarts arrived and, though the girl risked a simpering smile at the younger man, he ignored her, his attention now on this stranger.
‘I thank you for the drink, but what do you want with me?’
Gwyn sensed that here was a man who really did look over his shoulder much of the time. There was an alertness about him that confirmed he was uneasy in crowded places.
‘I was told, never mind by whom, that you lived among the wolves,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose.
‘That’s a dangerous thing to suggest, stranger. What if I do?’
Gwyn gulped the better part of a pint before answering.
‘I’m by way of seeking a place to lie up for a bit in similar company, if you get my drift. I’m tired of being on the run all the time, sleeping in a pigsty or a ditch and stealing every morsel of food or a few pence for ale — then often being too wary of taverns to spend it.’
The other man relaxed. This scruffy giant, who looked as if he had stolen his clothes from a scarecrow, could easily be another fugitive from justice.
‘You look as if you might be handy with a staff or a mace, friend,’ he said in a more affable voice. ‘How did you come to be on the road?’
Gwyn guffawed and clapped the other on the shoulder.
‘Off the road, more like it. I was an abjurer, sent from Bristol to take ship at Southampton, by the evil whim of the bloody coroner. I threw away my cross around the first bend in the road and stole the clothes of the first man who was big enough for them to fit me!’
He laughed uproariously again and poured the rest of his ale down his throat, some of it dribbling down the sides of his long, drooping moustache. ‘Now I’m working my way down to my native Cornwall, where I can slip back into my old trade as a tinner.’
The fair-haired man grinned, all suspicion now evaporated. Gwyn’s abjurer story was a common one — criminals who sought sanctuary in a church had forty days’ grace, during which, if they confessed their crime to the local coroner, they could ‘abjure the realm’ by promising to leave the shores of England as soon as possible. Dressed in sackcloth and carrying a home-made wooden cross, they would be directed by the coroner to a particular port, where they had to catch the first ship going abroad. If the weather prevented sailing, they had to wade out up to their knees in each tide, to show their willingness to leave England.
From sheer perversity, many coroners would send them to a far-distant port, to worsen their labour of walking and increase the risk of their being killed on the way. If an abjurer so much as strayed a yard off the highway, anyone was entitled to kill him on the spot without penalty. Injured victims or their bereaved relatives were quite likely to do this to the perpetrator of the crime. In fact, few abjurers ever reached their harbour, either being slain on the way or, far more likely, running into the forests to become outlaws, risking the penalty of being beheaded for the bounty.
So Gwyn’s story was not only credible but commonplace, and the younger man had no qualms about accepting it. Now it seemed that the hulking Cornishman was looking for a resting place for a time, on his journey home — and from the size of his muscles and his obvious acquaintance with the rougher side of life, he might be a useful addition to Robert Winter’s band of desperadoes.
‘My name’s Martin Angot — buy me another quart with one of those stolen pennies and maybe I’ll have some good news for you!’
For John de Wolfe, it was also something of a holiday. For the first time for months — in fact, since he had been laid up with a broken leg — he was experiencing some peace and quiet. The tranquil life of the manor at Stoke calmed his usually restless nature, and the absence of Matilda’s carping, surly behaviour felt like a weight lifted from his shoulders. Though he missed Nesta, a small part of his mind experienced relief that he was away from her present unhappy mood and her reluctance to go along with his willing acceptance of her pregnancy. He felt vaguely disloyal about this, but consoled himself that it was only for a couple of days. In the meantime, he luxuriated in the fond attention of his mother and sister, who appeared genuinely delighted to have him home. They fussed over him and over-fed him, as if he was the returned Prodigal Son.
His brother William, a rather reserved and inarticulate man, also seemed pleased to see him, and on this Friday morning they both went hunting together. Being well outside the bounds of the royal lands, there was no hindrance to their foray through the manor woods. John enjoyed a day’s carefree riding in the company of pleasant companions, but unusually for a Norman knight he was not a very enthusiastic hunter. Unless an animal was urgently needed for food, as it often was in his former campaigning days, or was a dangerous pest like a boar or fox, he found little joy in killing handsome beasts just for sport.
Today he was on a mare borrowed from William’s stables, as Odin was too large and clumsy for hunting. Their steward and two grooms rode with them, as well as a houndsman who handled the four dogs that ran alongside.
The Stoke lands stretched down towards the river, where thick woods lined the tidal mud banks. For a couple of hours they traversed commons and clearings, as well as the forest, without raising a single beast apart from a fox, who outpaced the hounds and vanished down a deep hole under an oak tree. Eventually they halted and let their mounts graze in a clearing while they took refreshment.
The steward had a bag of bread, meat and cheese on his saddle, and one of the grooms had a stone flagon of cider. William, though always treated with the greatest respect by his servants, had an egalitarian streak that was hardly typical of most manor-lords, and the other hunters sat with the brothers and shared the food, passing the crock of cider around from mouth to mouth.
Though the sky was half filled with cloud today, it was still fine, and in the warmth of early summer, with the birds bursting themselves with song in the surrounding trees, John lay back against a trunk and felt at ease with the world. The conversation drifted from topic to topic and came back to the lack of any success in the hunt that morning.
‘Do you not keep a woodward these days?’ he asked his brother.
William shook his head. ‘I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to spend half my life chasing around after buck and hind,’ he replied. ‘There’s no Royal Forest within five miles of here, so why go to the trouble and expense of a woodward?’
A woodward was to a private estate what a forester was to the royal lands. Hunting grounds of large estates, especially those running adjacent to royal demesnes, were called ‘chases’ — or, if walled or fenced, ‘parks’ — and the landowners were obliged to employ woodwards to police them and preserve the wildlife. These men had divided loyalties, for although employed at the landowner’s expense, they had to abide by the same code as the royal foresters and to swear fealty to the verderers, Warden and the King, reporting any breach of forest law that affected the royal interests. Most of the problems arose where a chase abutted against the King’s forest, and complicated rules existed to prevent beasts from the royal land from escaping — or being driven — into private ground.