‘What’s beyond it, in the other direction?’ asked Ralph Morin.
‘Just trees, your honour. Miles of them, till you come out towards Halshanger Common, up on the moor. Not that anyone would want to go through there, unless you had armed men like your party. Riddled with outlaws it is, these days.’
The horses attended to, they rode on quickly to the lane and turned in off the road. Gwyn had considered dismounting and walking up, but thinking that even minutes might be precious he led the posse along the mile of track on horseback, now careless of any noise. The troops were told to keep their eyes open for anything to be seen on either side, though the low sun and dense bushes along the path made this difficult. The men were not in full battle array and wore only round helmets and leather jerkins, rather than their mail hauberks. Some wore swords, others had pikes and there were two bowmen, though this was meant to be a rescue mission rather than a fighting force.
Soon the clearing was visible ahead and Gwyn reined in his mare to point off to the left. ‘That’s where the dead man is, a couple of hundred paces away and just in from the edge of the trees.’
Everyone dismounted and lashed their reins to the nearest sapling, then Gabriel took three men and fanned out in the direction that the coroner’s officer had indicated. Morin led the way into the clearing and headed for the other side with three of his soldiers, while Gwyn struck off with the rest on the other side of the path, a direction in which he had not searched earlier. For a few minutes there was a general rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs as fifteen men searched the forest. Then a loud shout came from the left, which Gwyn recognised as Gabriel’s voice. He was calling the Cornishman’s name, so he went back to the path and dived into the darkening wood on the other side.
‘I’m coming! Have you found him?’ He was almost afraid to ask, in case the sergeant had stumbled upon John de Wolfe’s body.
Gabriel directed him by shouting and, as he approached, he called a question. ‘I thought you said this corpse had been stabbed through the belly and groin?’
As Gwyn stumbled up to Gabriel and another man-at-arms, the sergeant said, ‘This fellow’s had a sword stuck into the side of his chest, man.’
As he looked down, Gwyn’s bushy eyebrows rose an inch up his forehead.
‘That’s not him! That’s another one!’
This was a much smaller, younger fellow, with brown hair and a thin beard. His hessian tunic was saturated with blood all down his right side, clotting into the leaves beneath him.
‘The coroner’s been having a field day, if he saw this one off as well!’ observed Gabriel. A yell from another soldier announced that the first outlaw that Gwyn had come across had also been found, a hundred yards away.
‘To hell with these two,’ growled Gwyn. ‘Where’s the coroner, that’s all that concerns me.’
The search went on as the light began to fade. Ralph and his men tramped about the far side of the clearing and worked their way around to where the corpses lay, meeting up with Gabriel’s party, without finding anything. Constantly, the men called de Wolfe’s name without success. Gwyn went back to the other side of the path and combed the area with his soldiers. Eventually, as dusk fell, they all gravitated despondently to where the horses were tethered, tired and anxious.
‘God knows where he is!’ exploded Morin, his forked beard jutting like the prow of a ship. ‘We must have covered almost a square mile all around that clearing — but he could be five miles away.’
‘It’ll be pitch dark in half an hour. There’s little more we can do until morning,’ said Gabriel, mournfully. He was almost as devoted to de Wolfe as was Gwyn and the thought of him dying alone in some deserted forest was hard to bear.
Slowly and uneasily, the party went back along the track. This time they walked in single file, leading their steeds by the reins. In the near twilight, they still peered hopefully to either side and continued to call the coroner through cupped hands. Now even the birds were silent and only the rustle of the wind in the tree-tops answered them.
When they reached the road, a gloom deeper than the dusk settled upon them as they were forced to acknowledge their failure.
‘At least we didn’t find him dead or wounded.’ Ralph Morin tried to lift the mood, which was affecting even the youngest of the garrison guard, as all of them knew something of John de Wolfe’s past military reputation. As they walked up the road towards the inn, intent on some getting some food and ale inside them, Sergeant Gabriel voiced their concerns. ‘Now what do we do?’
Gwyn looked at the castle constable. ‘I don’t know what you intend, but I’m going back in there at first light — and I’m not leaving until I’ve found him, dead or alive!’
Morin grunted his agreement. ‘We’ll stay with you for most of the day, but I’ll have to take the men back before de Revelle returns. He’ll go crazy if he discovers that I’ve been away that long with some of the best of the garrison — especially if it was because of John de Wolfe!’
In an oppressive silence of defeat, they trudged up the road towards the alehouse.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In Exeter, the Saturday evening drinkers wandered from one tavern to another, the rumour about the coroner being embellished every time it was repeated. The same was happening around the market stalls and the trinket booths along the main street, where good-wives and their sisters gossiped incessantly about everything under the summer sun.
The tale grew from Sir John being lost in the forest to his having been abducted by Barbary pirates — and from his being kidnapped by Prince John to his having been beheaded by outlaws. Whatever version was related, the basic truth undoubtedly seemed to be that something very serious had happened to Black John. He was well known to virtually every one of the few thousand citizens of Exeter, and even if many were somewhat wary of the stern-visaged law officer, they all respected his reputation for even-handed honesty, uncommon amongst officials in authority. It did not take long for the rumours to reach Idle Lane.
A somewhat inebriated butcher, who had been thrown out of the White Hart for trying to pass a clipped coin, rolled into the Bush as the cathedral bell was tolling for Compline. He slumped down at a table and waved at Edwin for some ale. Across the room he noticed three acquaintances drinking near the window opening.
‘Heard the news, boys?’ he called across, his voice slightly slurred, but still piercing. ‘Our crowner’s been killed. The whole garrison rode in full armour this afternoon, to avenge him!’
There was a sudden silence in the taproom, immediately shattered by a crash as a pair of quart jugs full of cider exploded on the floor at the back of the room. Pandemonium broke out as Nesta slumped to the floor amongst half a gallon of drink and shattered pottery. As one of her maids, Edwin and a couple of customers rushed to her aid, another drinker cuffed the butcher’s ears for his insensitivity.
Another unlikely patron also hurried to Nesta’s side, as Thomas had just entered the inn. He had been worried about the Welsh woman all afternoon, since he had brought her back from her sorrowful escapade on the river-bank. As there had been no sign of Gwyn or de Wolfe for many hours, he had moped about the coroner’s chamber, too distracted to do much writing. Eventually he had gone to his lodging and then to a service in the cathedral, missing the dramatic return of Gwyn and the hurried departure of the posse from Rougemont. Not until a few minutes earlier had he heard the rumours about the coroner that were flashing about the city, which sent him hurrying down to the inn, fearful of the effect of the news upon Nesta in her present vulnerable state.
He was too late by a minute, but joined the throng clustered solicitously around the fallen landlady. One of them happened to be Adam Russell, the apothecary, who pushed his way through to where one of the serving maids was pillowing Nesta’s head on her apron.