‘Into that building, at once!’ yelled the sheriff, who seemed to have gained courage since his escapade on Lundy two days before. Holding up his sword in both hands, he trotted towards it, with the constable and the six Templars in a line on each side of him.
Sure that they were able to look after themselves without further help, de Wolfe diverted, Gwyn close behind him, to look quickly into the two galleys that lay on the beach. The first was empty, having no decking to provide any cover, but when they looked into the second vessel, he saw two men crouching below the gunwales. As soon as they saw that they were discovered, they leapt up with a yell, one brandishing a rusty spear, the other a long dagger.
De Wolfe still had his sword in its sheath and jumped back to gain time to slide it out, but Gwyn, with a chain-mace in his hand, swung it at the spearman and knocked the weapon out of the fellow’s hands as he jabbed with it. The man leapt out of the galley on the other side and ran for the cliff, followed by his accomplice, who did not wait to try his dagger on the coroner.
‘Let them go, Gwyn. We’re missing the party over there.’
They turned and ran towards the wooden building, from which almost a score of men had emerged, all now armed, to face the Templars and the sheriff’s soldiers. There was much yelling and screaming, but within five minutes it was all over. The local bandits were not only outnumbered but had no armour. Three were felled in the first few seconds, the Templar knights and their sergeants standing shoulder to shoulder forming an efficient killing team. Morin and the sheriff wounded two more, who collapsed bleeding on the stones, then chased three more away. The locals, mostly dressed in short seamen’s tunics and worsted breeches, fought valiantly: they knew they were in it to the death, either at the end of a sword or a rope. But their cause was hopeless and, after being gradually forced back and almost encircled by the soldiers, they suddenly broke rank and began to run away, dropping their weapons on the stones.
With no armour or swords to slow them, a couple made it through the closing ring of attackers and joined their comrades at the base of the cliff, where some had already vanished into the trees. The rest were seized by Gabriel’s men and thrown roughly to the pebbles, sword points at their throats or ribs.
The coroner and his officer, distracted by the scuffle at the galleys, arrived too late for any fighting, which the sheriff was quick to notice. ‘Maybe old age is slowing you up, John! Or are you losing your stomach for fighting, these days?’
The remark was too puerile to merit an answer and de Wolfe ignored him, addressing himself to Ralph Morin. ‘Half these rogues have got away across the beach. We should try to catch at least some of them, surely.’
Morin called to Gabriel and some men were sent lumbering across to the cliff to seize some of the fugitives. The soldier who knew the locality panted across to the constable. ‘Sir, they can get back to the village at Lynton up that bank. Shouldn’t we ride up there and catch them at the top?’
‘I’ll do that with a few of your men, Ralph,’ offered the coroner. With Gwyn, he began to trot back to the horses, Sergeant Gabriel and five men-at-arms behind them. But when they reached the alehouse and looked up what passed for the village street, he saw that they had further problems. One of the abbot’s men was hanging off his horse, one foot caught in a stirrup, his body on the ground. An arrow was sticking out of his neck and a large pool of blood was soaking into the soil.
‘Where the hell is Cosimo?’ shouted de Wolfe, staring around. The priest’s horse was still tied to a bush, but the saddle was empty and there was no sign of his other acolyte.
‘In there, Crowner!’ shouted Gabriel, pointing at the low doorway of the alehouse.
Figures were moving inside the dark interior and De Wolfe raced for the entrance, sword in hand and Gwyn at his back. He skidded to a halt on the threshold, looking at the tableau in the bare room. In the further corner, Abbot Cosimo was crouched against the whitewashed wall, kneeling on the earthen floor, whilst immediately in front of him, blood streaming from his left hand, was the second of his bodyguards. He held a sword and was waving it slowly between two ruffians who were crouched in front of him, one with a dagger, the other with an axe.
Only as de Wolfe darkened the doorway, did the two attackers realise his presence. The one with the axe began to turn, but the coroner gave a two-handed swing of his heavy sword, level with the floor, which took half the breeches off the man together with a considerable part of his right buttock. He screamed and dropped to the floor, his blood mingling with that which was running down inside the guard’s sleeve and dripping off his fingers.
The other man turned and jumped with his dagger at Gwyn, who had come in alongside his master. Almost casually, the red-haired giant spitted him with his sword through the centre of his chest, with such force that the point came out under the man’s right shoulder-blade. The guard turned and, with his sound hand, lifted the abbot gently to his feet, without a word to anyone.
‘Thank you, Sir John, that was most timely,’ shrilled Cosimo. ‘With only one arm, I fear that even this man of mine may not have able to protect me much longer.’
‘What happened, Abbot?’
‘We were waiting with the horses when, without warning, an arrow felled one of my men from his horse. The other was struck in the arm, though he plucked it out. When these two appeared, he ran me in here for shelter. But these two swine cornered us – perhaps they thought they could use me as a hostage to bargain for their own safety.’
‘Now that you are safe, I have to go up to the village above – some other villains are escaping,’ explained de Wolfe. ‘The sergeant here will do his best for the wound in your servant’s arm.’
He took with him Gwyn and the soldiers, they found their horses and galloped back up the glen, slowing to a brisk walk on the steepest gradient towards the top. Once on the flat, they stared at the score of crofts that was Lynton, scattered around an open area through which the track passed. There was no sign of anyone, for no doubt the inhabitants were hiding fearfully in their houses.
‘Those cliffs must come up behind the village – in those woods towards the sea,’ said Gwyn. They wheeled round to the right and passed between two huts and their tofts – the gardens and strips of land that made up the personal estate of each occupant. There were no fields on this side of the village, as it was too near the cliffs. Scrub and trees lay behind the dwellings, and spreading out, the riders pressed on as far as they could, until the undergrowth and the steep drop forced them to a halt.
‘There’s one – and another!’ yelled Gwyn, spurring his mare sideways to cut off a man who was crouching in the bushes.
Within minutes, they saw half a dozen figures creeping out of the trees. One was cut down by a soldier, and another was seized by the other men-at-arms, who leaped from their horses and grabbed the fugitive, who was exhausted after his frantic climb up from the beach far below.
Gwyn and de Wolfe pursued another pair, but they vanished between the crofts.
‘We’ve missed a few, damn it,’ snarled de Wolfe. ‘There were more than seven who made a run for that cliff.’
Leaving two of the soldiers to deal with the captives and the corpse, the coroner and his officer rode back into Lynton’s village street, but there was no sign of anyone. They cantered to the far end, almost to the start of the valley of rocks, but the track was deserted.
‘They must be hiding in the houses – maybe their own, for many of those shipmen must live up here. There are too few dwellings down in Lynmouth.’ John was annoyed that they had not been able to account for all the miscreants – it seemed as if most of the men in the two villages were involved in crime, from the way that they had fought or run before even knowing why the sheriff’s expedition had come.