By some miracle the rain had held off so far, but now the thin mizzle that had been blowing at him had grown into a genuine downpour, and he had to pull his hood more firmly over his head, settling his cloak about him and shifting his staff and belongings so that he could hold his hand nearer his shoulder, hunching himself against the cooler weather and trying to prevent as much of the rain as possible from running down his neck. It gave him the incentive to hurry and reach some form of shelter. Before long he saw the marks of carts in deep ruts in the mud at the side of the road, and the telltale smoke on his right, and set off to follow them, walking near the mud but not in it, and going carefully to avoid the thicker clumps of bramble that threatened to rip his hosen.
The great oaks and beech trees near the road suddenly disappeared, and instead he found himself in a little coppice. A large circular depression blackened with fire showed where a charcoal burner had been working, and all about were the little carts and belongings of about twenty travellers.
He knew there were about twenty. Their bodies littered the ground.
Wissant, French coast
After the last few days of running, Simon was for once glad to be able to set his feet on the deck of a ship, secure in the knowledge that no matter what the sea might hold for him, at least there was no risk of a sword in his back or an arrow in his chest. Compared with the land, the sea seemed, for once, to be safe.
He glanced back the way they had come, anxiously scanning the buildings at the quay for danger. In the morning’s grim light, there was little to be seen, only a gentle mist washing in from the sea and giving the grey waves a deceptively calm appearance. Simon wasn’t fooled by that. He knew the true dangers that lurked in the waters far from land. He had been tossed by storms, and even survived a wrecked ship in his time. It was not an experience he was keen to repeat.
‘You ready to sail, eh? Ha! I could murder one of these sailors and eat his carcass, I’m so hungry!’
The thickset, bearded figure who clapped a hand as heavy as a destrier’s hoof on Simon’s shoulder was Sir Richard de Welles, an enormous man with appetites to match his girth. His eyes crinkled in a smile.
He was tall, at least six foot one, and had an almost entirely round face, with a thick bush of beard that overhung his chest like a heavy gorget. His eyes were dark brown and shrewd, beneath a broad and tall brow. His face was criss-crossed with wrinkles, making him appear perhaps a little older than he really was, but Simon was sure he had to be at least fifty. His flesh had the toughened look of well-cured leather that only a man who has spent much of his life in the open air would acquire.
‘I am happy to be near shore,’ Simon said shortly.
‘Aye, but we’ll both be glad to away from the French, I dare say!’ the knight chuckled.
There was no denying it. In the last days they had ridden in great haste from Paris. In a short period they had managed to enrage the French king, irritate his sister, Queen Isabella of England, and ensure that they would be unwelcome forever in France. Meanwhile, the failure of their mission would reflect badly on them all when they finally had to explain their actions to the English king. And Edward II was not a man known for leniency towards those who he felt had been incompetent.
‘I’ll be glad to away, yes,’ Simon said. ‘And more glad to see my wife. I don’t know what’s happened to her.’
‘Aye, friend, I was forgetting that you had urgent business. Still, no matter! You should be home again soon, eh?’
Simon nodded. ‘I hope so. I hope so.’
Jacobstowe
Bill Lark, a short man with the dark, serious expression of one used to the harsh realities of life, was kneeling beside his fire when the knock came at his door.
‘Who’s that?’ his wife demanded. Agnes was a tall, buxom woman of five-and-twenty, with gleaming auburn hair when she allowed it to stray, and he adored her. Now she was standing with the wooden spoon in her hand by the pot she had been stirring.
‘Oh, ballocks!’ he muttered, lifting his son from his lap and passing him to his wife. ‘Take the Ant, eh?’ He stood and walked to the door, pulling it wide.
‘Hoppon? What do you want?’
The older man limped into the house, his weight all on the stick he clutched, his dog sliding in behind him, unsure of the welcome he was to receive. ‘Bailiff, I needs your help. Murder.’
Bill’s smile faded. ‘You sure?’
‘It’s over top of Abbeyford, Bailiff. Sixteen dead, I counted, but there could be more. They been killed, some of their goods set afire, but most’s been robbed from them.’
‘Ach, shit! All right, Hoppon, you reckon you can tell me where it is, or you need to show it me?’
‘You’ll find it. Follow the smell,’ Hoppon said. His face was twisted with disgust, but now he looked away for a moment. ‘It’s nasty, Bailiff. You understand me?’
‘Reckon there’s no misunderstanding that, Hoppon,’ Bill said as he unfastened his belt and reached for his long-bladed knife. ‘You have to go to the manor and tell them there. Then tell the steward to send for the coroner. Make sure he does. He’s a lazy git at the best of times. Best to remind him that if he doesn’t, it’ll be on his neck, not ours. Meantime, tell the priest too, and ask to have someone sent to me to help guard the bodies. I’ll need someone else with me.’
He pulled on a thick cloak of waxed linen, drew on a hood, and took a small bag that tied over his shoulder by two strong thongs. Grabbing a pot of cider and a hunk of bread, he stuffed them inside, before turning to his wife. He hugged Agnes and gave her a long kiss, before throwing a reluctant, longing look at the pottage that lay simmering over the fire. It was not his choice to be bailiff for the hundred, but he had been chosen and elected, and there was no escape from responsibility. This was his year.
The way was already growing dark as he left his house and took the long road that led almost like an arrow south to Oakhampton. Fortunately it was a popular route for men going to the market, and he could travel at some speed. There were other lanes that were not so well maintained, and where the way could be blocked by any number of fallen trees or thick glutinous mud in which a man could almost drown. From his perspective, any such areas were dangerous. A robber man might wait at the site of a pool of mud, hoping for a chance to waylay the unwary as they stepped around it, while a tree blocking a path might have been deliberately placed there. These were not good times for a man who needed to travel, he told himself.
It was fortunate that there was not far to go, and before it was fully dark he was in the coppice.
He knew that many would be affected by the sight that greeted him, but he was too old to worry about the presence of the dead. He had seen enough corpses in his time. Some years ago, when he was himself scarce grown, he had buried his own parents, both dead from some disease that struck them during the famine years, when no one was strong enough to fight off even a mild chill. Aye, he had buried them, and others. The sight of death held no fears for him.
Still, there were some scenes he did not enjoy, and while he wandered about the bodies, it was the sight of so many wounds in those who were surely already dead that made him clench his jaw. It made him consider, too, and he looked about the ground with an eye tuned to the marks left by the raiders. Horses had left their prints, and the occasional boot, he saw. So this was no mere band of outlaws; it was a military force, if he was right.
He gazed about him with a stern frown fitted to his face, and as the rain began to fall again, he hurried to collect some dry timber to start a fire.
Time enough for thinking later.
Third Tuesday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
Hythe, Kent