‘Good. Perhaps the rest of our journey will be all the more peaceful,’ Sir Richard said with a chuckle. ‘In the meantime, we should hurry ourselves if we are to make our way to a house in time for dark. Simon, you know this area better than me, I am sure. Which is our best direction?’
Simon pointed. ‘Straight up to Oakhampton, thence to Abbeyford. If there is anything to be learned, it will be up there.’
Their journey took them a little past the middle of the morning. Before noon they were already ambling along the roadway through the woods.
‘A good old wood, this,’ the coroner remarked, looking about him with an appreciative eye. ‘I would like a place like this myself. A man could make a lot of money from it.’
‘Yes. The people about here have good incomes,’ Simon agreed. ‘The charcoal burners make good use of it, and there is always enough for the coppicers to gather.’
That was obvious. No matter where they looked, little glades had been harvested. There was little that would go to waste in a wood like this. Even as they rode along, they could see wisps of smoke from some of the charcoal burners’ ovens. Simon glanced about him, and then picked a broad track that led them in among the trees.
The path was straight at first, and then curved to the left and round to the right until they were almost riding back the way they had come. At the end of their path there was an area of an acre or so, in which the trees had been cut back. Coppicing was an ancient art, and Simon could see that this little clearing was well maintained. The coppicer would cut back the stems from the trees initially when they had reached seven or eight feet in height. Naturally the trees would try to grow back by thrusting up with two or even three more stems, and after six or seven years the coppicer would return to harvest these too, and so the round of harvesting would continue. Each year enough poles would be taken for making handles, for building, for cropping to make faggots for fires, or for charcoal.
At the far edge of the clearing there was a charcoal burner with his tent. When making an oven to roast the poles for charcoal, it was essential that the burner remained at the site all day and night, watching and carefully helping the fire to cook the coals without ever catching light. A week’s work in cutting, and another in carefully building the fire could be wasted by a little carelessness. Simon had worked with charcoal burners in his time, and knew how difficult it was to make a good oven. The burners would build a large pyre of wood, with a chimney in the middle. About this large circular oven they would then construct a massive earthwork, first smothering all the wood with ferns, and then layering soil over the top, until the whole heap was a man’s height and twice a man’s height in diameter, with only a small hole in the top. At last when all was ready, and it was plain that there were no other holes from which any smoke could leak, they would drop burning coals down into the midst of the chimney, and once the fire was well caught they would block the top with more ferns and earth.
That was the fascinating time for Simon. He would watch as the smoke started to leach out from the soil. Sometimes there was a disaster, and a hole would appear in the earth, and when that happened, the burner would quickly shovel more soil over the top, sometimes sprinkling water too, to keep the soil together. Otherwise the entire crop of charcoal would merely burn like wood, and the burner would find only ash remaining when he opened the oven.
Today there was a fine smoke coming from the sides of the oven. It was a perfect-looking pile, Simon thought. Once the smoke had stopped fighting its way from the chamber inside, and the whole oven had cooled, the burners would leave it for some days before breaking into it to retrieve the cooled coals from within. That was more than a week and a half away for this one, by the look of the smoke.
‘God speed, friend,’ Simon said.
Charcoal burners had a reputation for being surly, but in Simon’s experience it was generally the result of living so many months each year away from all other people. They tended to spend all their time in the woods, and the chance of meeting another human was remote.
This man was not like the others he had known, though. At the sight of Simon and the others, he grinned broadly and doffed his cap respectfully. ‘Masters, you are welcome.’
‘Master, God give you a good day,’ Simon responded.
‘Here he always does, master,’ the burner said with a laugh. ‘He gives me water to drink, food to eat, and all the wood I need for my work. What more could a man ask?’
‘You are alone?’ Sir Richard asked.
‘Aye — but there are others in the woods within a short distance,’ the burner said, and his smile became a little fixed, as though he was wondering whether these men had come to rob him.
Simon soon soothed him. ‘Friend, I am sent with the good coroner here to learn more about the deaths of a number of men here some weeks ago.’
‘You’re a coroner? You weren’t here for the inquest.’
Sir Richard shook his head. ‘I am the coroner for Lifton, for the king. However, there is a religious aspect to this attack, and Cardinal de Fargis has asked us to enquire into the details.’
‘Those poor travellers? Ah, that was a bad business.’
‘Did you see them?’ Simon asked.
‘When the coroner came, I went to witness it. I thought it was right, you know? Seemed wrong for the folks there to have all been killed and no one go to tell their story for them.’
‘Were there not many there at the inquest?’
‘Oh, most of us went in the end. But people weren’t going to at first, because of nervousness.’
‘Why?’ Simon asked.
‘Why do you think? There was a man there, a priest, I think. He was a crophead. They’d cut his eyes out. Coroner said it might have been before he was killed. Who’d do a thing like that? A bunch of outlaws big enough to kill so many must have been a large band indeed. And any man who goes to try to help catch such people is likely himself to be killed. No one wants to take risks. But we who live here in the trees have an appreciation of how to treat people. And we have strength in our numbers.’
Sir Richard nodded. ‘Yes, and the best thing is, you’re all used to working with your hands and sharp tools, eh? Any felon trying his luck with coppicers would find himself down one arm! Eh?’
‘Well, there is that,’ the man said equably.
Sir Richard grinned and looked about them. He knew perfectly well that there were other coppicers near, and almost certainly all watching him. ‘You can tell them to loosen their bowstrings, friend.’
‘I expect you were asked much about the night of the attack?’ Simon said.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you hear any attacking men that night? Passing up this road, say? Returning in a hurry?’
‘No, there was nothing. The bastards must have come from north of here.’ The man was very convincing in his certainty.
‘Can you show us where the folks were all found?’ Simon asked.
The man eyed him and the others for a moment, and then gave a nod. ‘Yes, master. Follow me.’
Furshill
The journey to Simon’s house was at least a half-morning’s ride, while that to Exeter was a little longer. Baldwin spent the early morning rushing about gathering necessary items ready for his journey, bellowing orders to the servants and his wife, before taking a late breakfast with Edgar.
‘Do you go to Simon’s house with all the speed you can muster,’ he said. ‘I am depending upon your speed, Edgar. You must tell Simon about his daughter’s husband and her predicament. Tell him that the sheriff is an ally of bloody Despenser, and that the man is no friend to Simon. You can also tell him that Edith’s father-in-law heard the sheriff say that it was her fault his son was in gaol.’
‘Are you sure Simon should hear that?’ Jeanne asked quietly. ‘He may not take heed of caution if he’s told that.’