The village was built on a promontory jutting out into the sandy estuary of the two rivers, the open sea a mile away to their left, where wide dunes edged the ocean. There was no proper port, as in Ilfracombe, and vessels were beached on the sheltered side of the low peninsula. Four or five small fishing boats lay above the tide-line, but there was no sign of any deep-sea ship. The village seemed deserted at first, but as they trotted along the single track between the dozen dwellings, a few women, some with babies on their hips, came to the doorways to stare at them.
‘There can be no pirate fleet working out of here, surely to God?’ asked the sergeant, looking in disgust at the place they had ridden for almost two days to reach. ‘They would be hard put to raise a crew for one decent vessel in a place this size.’
Gwyn was doubtful. ‘I agree it seems unlikely – yet a dozen fit men, with a few weapons between them, could prevail against a small merchantman if they were better sailors and better fighters.’
De Wolfe glanced around him. Seeing only women and children, he said, ‘Let’s find someone we can question.’ One of the men-at-arms dismounted and went across to the nearest thatched hut, where a fat woman was leaning against the doorpost. A moment later, he came up to the coroner’s stirrup. ‘She says all the men are either out fishing or at the manor court in Bideford. But there’s a sick man two houses along.’
They moved a few yards down the sand-blown track and the soldier went into another dwelling. He came out with a middle-aged man hobbling on a single crutch jammed into his armpit. With recent memories of his own broken leg, the coroner slid from his horse and went across to meet the invalid. ‘I’m Sir John de Wolfe, the county coroner,’ he said courteously.
The man nodded, his bald head shining in the sudden gleam of sunlight from between the scudding clouds. ‘Your soldier told me. What trouble have you brought to this poor vill?’ The arrival of a troop of men-at-arms and a king’s official could never be good news, but the man became less anxious when he learned that they were seeking news of pirates. ‘Here, in Appledore?’ He sounded incredulous at the suggestion. ‘We scratch a living in the fields behind here, and some of the men catch a few fish for our lord and to sell in Barnstaple. We don’t even have a proper reeve – the one from Bideford comes to boss us about.’
‘That needn’t stop you taking a boat out pillaging now and then,’ challenged Gwyn, glowering at him.
‘We don’t have a sea-going vessel – nothing bigger than those.’ He swayed as he pointed his crutch at the beached fishing boats, none of which were more than twenty feet in length.
Gwyn stared at them then agreed. ‘That Breton lad said the boat that attacked them was rowed by six oars a side. So it would have to have that many sets of thole pins along the gunwales. It would be far bigger than those cockleshells.’
Gabriel had a suspicious nature and was not yet convinced. ‘Those are only the boats here at the moment, fellow,’ he growled. ‘You must get larger vessels at other times?’
The villein shook his shiny pate. ‘I tell you, we don’t have a bigger boat! The traders all go up-river to Bideford. It’s more sheltered and there’s a quay and a proper town there. Sometimes a vessel from Wales or Cornwall will bring us a load of lime for the fields and take away some grain, but that’s only a couple of times each year.’
‘What’s in that bigger hut?’ demanded the coroner, pointing to a wattle-and-daub shed with a tattered thatch roof that came down almost to ground level.
‘Part is a barn, with the winter hay, and a stock of lime and clamps of turnips for the winter. All gone now, we’re living on fish.’
To be sure that the building was not stacked to the rafters with looted merchandise, the visitors went across to look, but the villager was right: the mouldering interior held only the remnants of the hamlet’s winter stores.
De Wolfe dismissed the man and led the party away, trotting back along the west bank of the Torridge towards Bideford. ‘If there is any piracy in this area, it can surely be carried out only with the knowledge of Richard de Grenville,’ he said. ‘The men of his various villages could never vanish to sea for days on end without him knowing.’
‘Maybe his steward or reeves are in on the conspiracy without his knowledge?’ suggested Gabriel. He and Gwyn rode at either side of the coroner.
The Cornishman, used to the ways of seaside villages, dismissed the possibility. ‘Where would they get a vessel big enough to go out to sea without their lord knowing? They couldn’t afford to build one or keep it without his knowledge. Either he is the architect of the piracy or we’re barking up the wrong tree in thinking it may be Appledore.’
‘What about outlaws?’ asked Gabriel. ‘God knows, there are thousands roaming England’s forests and moors. Any at the coast could set up as pirates instead of as highway robbers and thieves.’
Gwyn pulled his fingers through his luxuriant moustache. ‘Possible – but where would outlaws get a decent vessel? Only by raiding a village or port and stealing one, and there’s no reports of such a crime in the West Country.’
As they rode, they discussed other possibilities. Perhaps the pirates had come across from Wales, Ireland or even Brittany, but Alain had been adamant that his attackers had spoken English, which ruled out any incursions from the Celtic countries.
A score of men and boys passed them in the opposite direction, going back to Appledore after attending the fortnightly manor court as witnesses, jurors and appellants. They gave curious and somewhat frightened looks at the party of armed strangers coming from their village, but apart from muttered acknowledgements and tugging at forelocks they trudged past as fast as they could.
‘That lot doesn’t look as if it could ambush a ship,’ muttered Gwyn. ‘Stealing a couple of pigs would be about their limit.’
By now they had returned to Bideford. The small town had half a dozen vessels grounded along its quayside and the rising tide was beginning to lift some of them off the muddy sand. Gwyn’s nautical eye scanned each intently for six sets of oar pins, but they all seemed innocent of such additions.
The town’s defences were an earthbank topped by an old wooden stockade, though the three gates had been rebuilt in stone. Richard de Grenville lived in a small castle, which was more a fortified manor house, but he was absent from his domains in Winchester, petitioning the Chancellor, Walter Longchamp, about some land dispute. His wife and family had gone with him, leaving his steward in charge, who had presided over the court that day. Now he pressed the coroner to food and drink and invited the party to stay overnight. While eating good bread and cheese and drinking some of de Grenville’s best wine in the castle hall, John broached the matter of piracy with him.
A burly man of about de Wolfe’s own age, with a black beard and moustache, the steward answered, ‘We suffered the loss of a vessel last year. Some say it sank after leaving here for Bude, but we never found any signs of the wreck.’
‘So why d’you think it was pirated?’ asked John.
‘One dead body was washed up on Braunton Sands a fortnight later. He had wounds that I’m sure were from an axe or cleaver. Some said they were due to being pounded on rocks by the waves, but there are no rocks where he was found. And I say the injuries were from a sharp-edged weapon.’
‘That was before you had a coroner to look into it,’ said de Wolfe. ‘Almost the same thing has happened near Ilfracombe and we need to find who’s responsible – then hang them!’ He told the steward bluntly, that Appledore had been under suspicion, but this raised a laugh rather than indignation. ‘Those dolts couldn’t capture a coracle full of nuns, let alone a merchant vessel! It’s a wonder they can find the sea with their fishing boats, they’re that stupid. It’s the in-breeding, you see, in a place so small and remote.’