It was a cool morning, but the clouds were very high and the sky was a perfect blue. Looking at it, Simon was convinced that the weather would remain dry and probably would grow quite warm. With that in mind, he didn’t pull on his heavier jerkin, but merely tugged his cloak around him. Later he would be able to loosen it as he became hotter with the ride.
Their road was fine all along to the place where they had been told the reeve’s body had been found. From there Simon eyed the ground carefully, looking for cart tracks and horses’ hoofprints. There were many of them all over the ground here. However, there was no road south that he could see being taken by any of the prints, only a steady movement east.
He continued along after them, his eyes for the most part fixed on the mess of mud and churned grass, but in reality there was no need for him to keep on staring down. The truth was, the men who had come here had been remarkably lax in concealing their way. Others might take a route of stonier paths, or ride up along a stream bed, but these had the arrogance of knights who knew that they were safe from arrest. Their position afforded them total assurance. Well, Simon intended to prove that they were wrong in that conviction.
It was as they rode up a hill that Simon realised how far they had already come. He could see on the side of another hill not far away a town that seemed familiar. He quickly ran through their route. They had already passed Sampford Courtenay and North Tawton, and now they were at the foot of the hill to Bow, he realised. A good distance already. But the trail was not leading them direct to Bow; it was heading more southerly.
There was a little hamlet, and as they trotted towards it, Simon saw an older man in his doorway shelling peas.
After giving the customary greetings, Simon indicated the path he was following. ‘Where do all these go, master?’
The peasant was a kindly old man with a ready smile. His hair was almost pure white, but his eyebrows were grizzled with black to show his original colour. His skin was the same dark, ruddy colour as Simon’s own, and his eyes were as brown as well-cured leather and as sharp as any lawyer’s. His name, he said, was John Pasmere.
‘Why do you want to know, sirs?’ he enquired.
‘Because they could be the prints of murderers,’ Sir Richard said.
The peasant kept his eyes on Simon. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Someone died?’
‘You don’t want to help king’s officers?’ Simon asked.
‘There are people whom it is not a good idea to upset, sir.’
Simon nodded. ‘And some will threaten much to a man who betrays them. Especially when the fellow is dependent upon them for his home.’
‘Aye.’
‘On the other hand, the men here may have set upon a large party travelling through, and robbed the king,’ Simon said. ‘Any who aid outlaws and felons who’ve robbed the king could be viewed as enemies of the king.’
The old man glanced behind Simon at the coroner. ‘Oh, aye? And what would a man do then, I wonder?’ he said sarcastically. ‘Have himself arrested and forced to tell under peine fort et dure?’
‘Very likely,’ Sir Richard grated. ‘Since a man concealing such information is aiding the king’s enemies, I’d personally recommend that it be pursued to the extreme limits of his endurance.’
‘Which would take hardly any time for you, old man,’ Mark said.
John Pasmere peered at the monk. ‘Aren’t you a little young to be warning older men about their life expectancies?’
Simon threw his reins to Mark, in large part to stop the young monk from making any further intervention. ‘Friend, let us enter your home for a moment.’ He dropped from his horse and walked to the house.
Inside it was a sparse little dwelling, but the man had obviously enjoyed the better weather of the summer. He had a filled wood store, his chimney had a whole ham slung over the fire, and there were herbs hanging from the rafters. ‘This is a goodly home.’
‘Meaning, I suppose, that it’ll be a shame to lose it? Look, sir, I know what you are about. You want me to tell you all, and you will threaten me with losing my home and limbs and life if I don’t. You see, the problem I have is, they threaten the same. And to be honest, I think that they will be the more savage about it. You understand my dilemma? I think my choice is made.’
‘That is interesting,’ Simon said. ‘Because I was going to do nothing but ask you. I have no threats to offer. Only the good of the vill and the shire. Whoever killed that party will continue to kill others. A man who thinks he has nothing to fear from the law is a danger to all.’
‘But he has no fear. Don’t you realise?’
‘Realise what?’
‘The man you seek has been given the right by the king and his friend.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘The king has a close friend and adviser,’ John Pasmere said with the attitude of a man tested beyond patience. ‘Despenser. And the man who did all this is a friend of the king’s friend. He has recently come here to take over the manor. With Despenser’s support.’
‘That is no reason to murder travellers. Nor a local reeve merely trying to learn what really happened,’ Simon said.
‘What reeve?’
‘The fellow elected to serve the vill of Jacobstowe. All I’ve heard says he was a good man.’
‘About this tall? Strong fellow?’
‘I don’t know. I never met him. But I heard much. And he didn’t deserve to die, certainly not without having his death avenged.’
‘I saw a man,’ John Pasmere said slowly. ‘He appeared here, just like you, and he was keen to learn who’d killed the travellers. This would be the same man, I think. Bill?’
‘Bill Lark. Yes,’ Simon said.
‘Shite! Those bastards! They think they can just slaughter any, don’t they?’ John Pasmere said, and he slumped down on to his stool.
Simon studied him closely. There was little to show his thoughts, but he had suddenly blanched, and all his strength, which Simon had seen out in the open air, appeared to have fled. He was now just an old man, aged before his time.
‘If you will tell naught, I will leave you, friend,’ Simon said quietly. ‘There’s no threats. But Lark had a wife and child. She’s widowed — the babe’s lost his father. How many others have to die?’
‘Poor bugger,’ John Pasmere said, shaking his head. ‘You say you are a bailiff. Is that true?’
‘Yes. I am,’ Simon said. He was about to explain that this was only a temporary position with the Cardinal de Fargis, that he had lost his old post on Dartmoor, but something made him hold his tongue. There were times, as his friend Baldwin often said, when it was better by far to be silent than to chatter on. Occasionally a witness wanted to talk, and then it was best to wait and listen.
There was a kind of suppressed urgency about John Pasmere as Simon watched him. The fellow looked up at Simon, then out through the door towards the irritable coroner and the monk, and then to his fire. His mouth moved, although for some while no noise came, and then suddenly the dam broke, and he began to mutter.
‘There’s no one safe from those evil bloodsucking bastards. Who’d trust them to their word anyway? There’s no rule here except theirs, and then they make it up and change it whenever they want. The bastards! They live here, taking all they want, all we need, and threaten any man if he so much as raises a complaint, but when a decent man-’
‘Pasmere, calm yourself. I don’t understand …’
‘Oh yes, they can promise death and ruin, but what does that mean to us? Eh? We live in the shadow of the great lords all the while, and then they deign to notice us if they want something, but more often they ignore us. Unless we have something they want.’
Simon waited and watched. The man was working himself into a fine froth. He reminded Simon of a small dog he had once seen, tied up, barking at a cat that lay basking in the sun a short distance away. It was clear to all that the cat was there to taunt the dog, as cats will, and yet the only creature there who did not understand was the dog, working itself into a maddened fury and testing the strength of the thong binding it. In the end it was stilled when a man sent the cat flying with an accurately aimed stone.