When he studied all the figures, there were nine who were clustered not too far from the monk, and these had two things in common: they all looked as though they were fighters of some sort, and they all had multiple arrow wounds. Only one was different — a fellow who had been stabbed five times in the back, and who was lying further away from the others, nearer to the perimeter. Surely he was killed first. Perhaps he had been the sentry?
Yes, this was the sort of picture he had grown used to in Guyenne, but not here, not in England. Still, where men lived, others would die. It was a rule of life. And while it made him sad to see children killed, it was also natural. Children followed the armies into battle, children worked, and some died. But while he was ready for that, it was the sight of the other little figures that had caused him to pause and stare with shock.
A puppy. A small black and white puppy, and its mother, she slashed and stabbed, the pup with a broken neck, both lying near a roll of torn and ruined clothing, as though they had been killed defending their master’s belongings. When he saw them, he suddenly found the breath stopping in his throat. It was so unnecessary. So pointless. Men and women, even the children too, could perhaps be viewed as threats. After all, it was possible that they might later be able to recognise the perpetrators of this violent little action and bring them to justice. But the dogs? There was no need to kill them too. He bent and picked up the two bodies, tears flooding his cheeks, cradling them for a long moment, before setting them down gently at the foot of a tree some way from the carnage of the camp.
It was that, more than any of the human bodies, that made him pause and stare about him, as though seeing all the bodies for the very first time. Someone had chosen to kill this little group. No, not just kill them — wipe them out entirely.
But why?
Abbeyford Woods, south of Jacobstowe
It was late that evening when Art Miller returned to the camp. And now he had at least some information for Bill Lark and John Weaver. He refused to speak until he had seated himself before their fire. Once comfortable, with a pot of steaming cider before him, he began to tell all he had learned, his voice quiet and reflective.
‘Seems there was a group of ten from Tavistock in one party, them and two monks. Everyone remembered them. One monk was really foreign, they said, and had such a thick accent hardly anyone could listen to ’un without they felt mazed. T’other was English, and a cheery fellow, with a pretty little dog and a puppy he held in his robe. Only the snout stuck out, they said, and he made the children laugh to see him. They arrived in Oakhampton a couple of days ago, and were asking about the best route to leave the town. They met with a party of travellers. One was a young family, mother, father, two children.’ Art glanced at Bill, shaking his head. ‘All told how happy and cheerful the children were. Lovely, lively little brutes, they said. There were others, though: four pedlars and tranters with their goods. One fellow from east. Apparently he said that there were dangers on the Crediton road, and the travellers were persuaded to go with him. It was him took them all northwards.’
‘Did anyone know where he reckoned the problems were?’ Bill asked, frowning.
‘No one heard him say, but there was one merchant I spoke to, a fellow called Denfote from up Exbourne way, who said that Bow had grown hazardous for travellers. The new lord there is keen to take money from all who pass his demesne. Denfote said he would always bypass it now.’
‘Did he know this man’s name?’
‘Yes — Sir Robert de Traci. Apparently him and his son have taken to demanding tolls on any roads about there. They’re a nuisance generally, but their arrogance, he said, would lead to them killing someone soon, so Denfote thought.’
‘Seems he knows how to predict the future, then,’ Bill said, shaking his head. ‘So how many were there in total?’
‘There were the twelve from Tavistock, the little family of four, the pedlars and this guide. All told, twenty-one.’
Bill considered, sipping at his hot drink. ‘That’s interesting. Since we had only nineteen bodies.’
‘That was what I thought you’d say,’ Art said.
Nodding, Bill stood. ‘I’d best take another look about this place, then. Make sure there’re no more.’ He hesitated, frowning. Then, ‘Art, you come too, eh? Maybe my eyes have been missing something.’
‘All right, Bailiff,’ Art said. He drained his pot and joined Bill as the bailiff began a circumambulation of the area. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘I reckon this looks like a simple attack of outlaws,’ Bill said.
‘So why don’t you think that?’
‘I said-’
‘Oh, I know what you said, Bill Lark, but I’ve known you longer than anyone else, and I don’t think you believe it any more than I do,’ Art said easily.
‘No.’ Bill was quiet for a little while, and then he began to tell Art about the blood, the man who surely couldn’t have walked back to join the others after all that loss. ‘I think that makes it look different.’
‘Best way to make sure a man’s quiet is to hit him hard in the kidneys or liver,’ Art offered. ‘Stab him there, and he soon loses his blood and dies.’
‘Aye. The others didn’t matter. But this one man was clobbered hard. That makes me think.’
‘What?’
‘Makes me think that maybe he was a guard, and the fellows knocked him down so that they could surprise the rest of the party.’
‘Why do that?’
‘To make their attack all the more complete? Perhaps they wanted to catch someone in the group — the man with his eyes taken out?’
Art winced. ‘Poor bastard. And it’s odd, too.’
‘What is?’
‘This man who was telling them to take the other route, he only had one eye himself.’
Third Thursday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
London
Sir Richard de Welles had a simple faith that whatever was going to happen would happen. It was all in the hands of God, and for that reason there was little point in worrying.
Once he had been a great deal less fatalistic. When he was a youth, he had held the belief that he could alter his life and make things better by dint of special effort. But then, when his wife had died, his attitude changed. She had been killed by a fellow he had trusted, and an event like that was bound to be enough to change his attitude.
So today, as he rode with the others under the imposing entrance to London Bridge, he did not concern himself with idle fears about the interview with the king. He had the comfort of knowing that he had done nothing in France of which he should be ashamed, and that knowledge gave him an assurance that he could see the others did not feel. If anything, his mood lightened as he jolted along on the great bridge, looking up at the flags fluttering, seeing the glorious painted buildings under which they rode. The horseshoes clattered noisily on the timbers of the drawbridge, and he could look down to see some boys playing on boats, shooting down by the massive piers of the bridge supports.
‘Look at them, Master Puttock,’ he said happily.
Simon only grunted in response, and Sir Richard smiled.
‘Simon, whatever happens when we see the king, there is nothing we may do about it now. Best thing to do is to enjoy the journey and leave the future to itself.’
Simon nodded, but there was no apparent ease in his manner. Not even when one of the little boats struck the point of a pier and shattered. All watching guffawed with laughter to see how the two lads inside were tipped out into the foaming waters, but not Simon or Baldwin. It left Sir Richard feeling sad that he could not lighten the mood of his friends.