The journey was a silent one, apart from some gossip between the men-at-arms. The sheriff attempted conversation with Roland de Ver, but their common interests were so few that it petered out before many miles were covered. The abbot appeared to be sunk in contemplation as he trotted his mare, whilst the coroner and his man were so used to long periods of silence when on the move that any talking would seem to them like aimless chatter.
However, every few hours they stopped to rest and refresh themselves from provisions carried in their saddle-pouches and to feed their horses. Here they found their tongues to some extent, again mainly ribald badinage between the soldiers, but also some rather strained conversation between the leaders. As they neared the coast again in the early evening, de Wolfe felt it was time to make some plan of action. When they stopped just outside the tiny village of Martinhoe, just inland from the high cliffs, he broached the matter with Richard de Revelle, who was nominally the leader of the expedition.
‘It will be almost dark by the time we reach Lynmouth, so I suggest we camp overnight somewhere well short of the place where we can remain unseen. Then in the morning we can come upon them unexpectedly to see if there is truly any sign of piracy.’
The sheriff could find no reason to object to this, and Ralph Morin called across to the soldier who knew the area well to ask his advice about a suitable place.
‘Sir, there is a rocky valley further along from here, a mile or so short of Lynton. After dusk, it is unlikely that anyone would come there to discover us, if we camped on the western end of the defile.’
They continued until they reached the edge of the sea, where steep wooded slopes and bare cliffs dropped into the line of surf below. The track wound along the sides of several bays, then climbed up to moorland again and soon entered a trough-like valley, where the grass and bracken were dotted with jagged rocks, which appeared on the skyline like broken teeth. The man-at-arms with local knowledge saluted Ralph and said, ‘Lynton village is at the other end of this coombe, sir. If you wish to stay concealed, I would go no further – and light no fires.’
The constable sent three men back half a mile with the horses so that they could be tethered without fear of their neighing being heard in the nearby village. The rest spent an uncomfortable night wrapped in their cloaks and horse blankets, eating cold food, mainly hunks of meat and dry bread supplied by de Grenville before they left Bideford. At least no rain fell on them, but a mournful breeze whistled up the valley all night.
De Wolfe woke a few times – his body had become used to a bed after his years of tough campaigning and even the pile of dead ferns on which he lay failed to ease the ache in his limbs from the hard ground. The moon sped in and out of scudding clouds and lit up the eerie landscape, the fang-like rocks silhouetted against the sky. For those of a more imaginative turn of mind than John de Wolfe, such as his clerk Thomas, it was a place to conjure up illusions of evil spirits and the unquiet souls of the dead, but no such visions kept de Wolfe awake. He thought only of the soreness of his hips against the turf, and hoped that Thomas had managed to bring the difficult Bernardus along without too many problems.
Grey dawn came at last and everyone stretched, cursed and crawled to their feet to seek the small stream where they could drink and splash water in their eyes to awaken themselves. They ate the remainder of their provisions and the horses were brought back for all to remount and prepare for whatever the day might bring.
‘Abbot, there is no need for you to put yourself at risk any longer,’ said Richard de Revelle, with false solicitude. He was as anxious as the rest to see the last of the strange priest and his taciturn servants. ‘Once we get to the village you could carry on along the well-marked track towards Taunton.’
Cosimo smiled his enigmatic smile. ‘Thank you, Sheriff, but I will wait for my fellow-travellers, the Templars. It will be more reassuring to ride in their company.’
The six men from the Order had already announced steadfastly that they would ride with the law-men into Lynmouth, both from curiosity and a desire to help in keeping the king’s peace. However, de Wolfe still felt that both parties were determined to keep him in view until the bitter end, to make sure that he had not deceived them over the renegade Templar. Again, he decided that he would have to be cautious about meeting Thomas later in the day.
Once they were mounted, Ralph Morin suggested that they make all speed down to the port, to avoid giving any warning that might allow evidence of piracy to be hidden, so they set off at a brisk canter, the rested horses eager and frisky. As they thudded through the small village of Lynton, the villagers gaped open-mouthed at the sight of these troops, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere so early in the morning.
Lynton was perched above a deep glen, which dropped sharply down from Exmoor, the little river Lyn rushing through it. At the end of the village, past the small wooden church that de Wolfe intended to use as his rendezvous with Thomas, the track turned sharply down to the left into the glen and followed the stream as it tumbled towards the sea a quarter of a mile away. The cavalcade slowed as it navigated the steep slope and John found he had to avoid deep ruts if Odin was to keep his footing.
Gwyn, alongside him, pointed down with a finger. ‘Plenty of wheels pass up and down here! Can that all be for fish?’
Within a couple of minutes, they had reached the bottom of the glen, where the track flattened out on to a widening area above the beach, high wooded headlands rising on each side. Before it seeped through the pebbles, the river formed a large pool, filled at every high tide. A few small boats and curraghs lay on its banks, but beyond, on the wide, stony beach, a couple of bigger vessels were awash on the rising tide.
On either side of the track, between the river and the left-hand hill, stood a few small shacks and cottages, mostly of cog or wattle and daub. At the further end, almost on the beach, was a longer building, roofed with flat stones, which appeared to be an alehouse. A few surprised men came out of the buildings at the sound of hoof-beats, and after one look at the mailed soldiers, two turned tail and ran towards the sea. A few women and small children peered from doorways, fearful to come out at the sight of these menacing strangers.
The troop halted outside the tavern and the sheriff sent Gabriel and two men to run after the fleeing villagers.
De Wolfe trotted his horse up to de Revelle and the constable. ‘I think the beach holds the key to this,’ he said, sliding off his horse. ‘We can’t ride on pebbles, so let’s take to our feet.’
Cosimo and his two men stayed well back on their steeds, whilst the rest hurriedly tied their reins to some bushes that lined the bank of the stream. Then, running as fast as their mailed hauberks would allow, they followed Gabriel to the beach, where the muddy earth of the village street merged into the pebbles.
Around the left-hand corner of the valley, the beach widened until it reached a rocky headland further along, and on this extension of the strand, two long, narrow vessels were lying side by side, pulled up high and dry. Each had a series of thole pins for oars fixed in the bulwarks and a short, stubby mast.
‘Galleys, just as that captive said!’ howled Gwyn, as he stumbled over the oval grey stones that formed the beach.
Ahead, more than a score of men streamed out of a long, ramshackle wooden shed built well above the high-water mark at the base of the wooded slope. At the sight of the helmeted soldiers coming towards them, most ran back inside, but a few others sped away towards the steep, tree-covered cliff behind.