‘What happened to them?’ Ranulf asked.
‘They had been unearthed by some animal. They were rotting, rather mangled, then tossed about by the hunting dogs. They were put into a leather sack; a verderer took them into the city for burial in a pauper’s grave. Look, I’ll show you.’
They left the trackway and entered the forest. The sunlight began to fade as the path wound along between holm, oak, elm, larch, black poplar, sycamore, beech and copper beech. The sky became shut off, the sunlight blocked out by the thick canopy of leaves and entwining branches. Their horses became uneasy at the rustling amongst the bracken and the sudden, startling song of some bird. Now and again there would be a break in the trees, and they’d cross a clearing where the grass grew long and lush and wild flowers filled the air with their heady scent. Then back into the green darkness, as if entering some strange cathedral where the walls were wooded, the roof green and the distant bird-song the chanting of some choir. Ranulf, frightened of nothing, stopped his banter with Claverley and peered nervously about. Corbett rode ahead, guiding his horse carefully, ears straining for the snap of the twig or a footfall which could mean danger. Now and again his horse would toss its head, snorting angrily. Corbett tightened his reins, stroking his horse’s neck, talking to it gently.
‘Of course, I’ve already been here,’ Claverley declared in a voice which seemed to boom amongst the trees. ‘It’s not far now.’
He pushed his horse forward and they entered a small glade. Claverley pointed to an outcrop of rock in the centre where the soil had been dug up and piled on either side of a hole. Corbett nudged his horse forward and carefully examined where the grisly remains of that mysterious victim had been buried. He stared at the rough cross carved on the rock.
‘Is there any settlement round here? A village or hamlet?’
Claverley shrugged and scratched his cropped hair. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘Well, there’s nothing behind us.’ Corbett remarked. ‘And there’s no trace of any settlement to the left or right, so let’s keep to the path we are following.’
They rode deeper into the forest. Corbett closed his eyes and prayed that the assassin from Framlingham had not followed them; he reined in, his horse whinnying at the acrid tang of the woodsmoke.
‘There’s something ahead,’ he called back.
‘Possibly a verderer,’ Claverley replied. ‘Or a woodcutter.’
At last the trees thinned and they rode into a clearing. At the far end, just in front of the line of trees, was a large, thatched cottage, its roof heavy and sloping. On either side of it were wooden sheds or byres and stacks of logs, around which scrawny-necked chickens pecked at the earth. A gaggle of geese, alarmed at their approach, turned from their feeding and fled screeching towards the house. The door opened and a mongrel dog came yapping at them, followed by two children dressed in ragged tunics, their hands and faces covered in soot, their thick hair greasy and matted. They showed no fear but stared up at these unexpected visitors, chattering in a dialect Corbett couldn’t understand.
‘What do you want?’
A man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark-brown tunic, a piece of rope around his protuberant belly, leggings of the same colour pushed into black, battered boots. Over his shoulder a woman peered nervously at Corbett and his companions. The clerk raised his hand in peace. The man put down the axe he carried, called off the dog and walked towards them.
‘Are you lost?’ he asked.
‘No. We are from the city.’ Claverley edged his horse forward. ‘We are investigating the remains found in the clearing.’
The man glanced away. ‘Aye, I heard about the excitement,’ he muttered. He shuffled his feet nervously and turned to shout something at the children.
‘Can we come in?’ Corbett asked. He pointed across at the well. ‘Perhaps a stoup of water and something to eat? We are hungry.’
‘Master,’ Maltote spoke up, ‘we have just — ’ He shut up as Ranulf glared at him.
Corbett dismounted and held his hand out. ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s Clerk — and you?’
The woodcutter lifted his windburnt face, though he refused to meet Corbett’s gaze. ‘Osbert,’ he muttered. ‘Verderer and woodcutter.’ He glanced back at his wife. ‘You’d best come in!’ he declared grudgingly.
Corbett told Maltote to guard the horses and they followed the woodcutter and his family into their long, shed-like house. A fire burnt on the stone hearth in the centre, the smoke escaping through a hole in the room. At the far end was a loft reached by a ladder where the family slept: there were a few sticks of furniture and shelves with some cooking pots on them.
‘You’d best sit where you can.’ The woodcutter pointed to the beaten earth floor.
Corbett, Ranulf and Claverley sat near the hearth. Corbett chatted to Osbert’s wife, putting her at her ease whilst her husband filled pewter cups with water. The woman smiled, pushing back her hair, and leaned over to stir the pot which hung above the hearth.
‘It smells delicious,’ Corbett remarked, though the odour was less than savoury.
‘What do you want?’ Osbert asked. He served the water and sat down opposite them. ‘You are a king’s clerk. You are used to eating better than this. Your servants carry water-bottles so you don’t need a drink.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘And you, Master Osbert, have very sharp eyes. As do I. You buried those remains, didn’t you?’
The woodcutter’s wife scuttled away to look after the children who sat near the wall, thumbs in mouths, watching their visitors.
‘You found the remains,’ Corbett continued. ‘And, because you are an upright man, you buried them. You dug a hole beneath the boulder, hoping that would keep wild animals out and, with your axe, scratched a faint cross on it.’
‘Tell him,’ Osbert’s wife pointed at Corbett. ‘He knows!’ she shouted. ‘Or we’ll all hang!’
‘Nonsense,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘Just tell me, Osbert.’
‘It was just before dawn,’ the woodcutter replied. ‘I was out hunting a fox, one of the chickens had been taken. I heard a whinny and found the horse just off the road: its leg was damaged. The horse limped towards me. I thought I’d died and gone to helclass="underline" the mangled legs of its rider were still in the stirrups. Blood and gore drenched the saddle. The horse was blown: I took the remains and buried them beneath the rock. I said a prayer, then I brought the horse home. I threw the saddle down a pit. I couldn’t sell it, it was too soaked in blood.’
‘And the horse itself?’
Osbert swallowed hard and pointed to the pot. ‘We are eating it.’
Ranulf coughed and spluttered.
‘We are hungry,’ Osbert continued. ‘Hungry for meat. All the deer have gone. They’ve got more sense than to stay near the city.’ He spread his dirty hands. ‘What could I do, Master? If I took the horse to market, I’d hang for a thief. If I’d kept it, the same might happen. The animal was sick, its leg was damaged and I know little physic. I killed it: gutted its belly, salted and pickled the rest and hid it away in a little hut deep in the forest, hung over some charcoal to smoke it and stop the putrefaction.’
‘And what else did you find?’ Corbett asked. He took two silver coins out of his purse. ‘Tell me the truth and these will be yours; there’ll be no recriminations over what you did.’
Osbert wetted his lips and pondered but his wife acted for him. She went to the far end of the hut, climbed the ladder to the bed-loft and returned carrying a set of battered saddle panniers over her arm. She slung these at Corbett’s feet.
‘There was a little money,’ Osbert grumbled. ‘Now it’s all gone. I bought the geese with it. What’s left is there.’
Corbett emptied the contents out: a jerkin, two pairs of hose neatly darned, a belt, a collection of small metal pilgrim badges and statues of saints, cheap geegaws to be bought outside any church. Finally a few scraps of parchment. Corbett studied the faded ink on these.