I patted his arm. ‘I understand,’ I whispered, and braced myself for what I was about to see.
I stared into the open back of the wagon where the two sprawled figures lay. The canvas, stretched over the willow framework, cast a gloom which made it seem, at first, as though both men were still asleep, but the sickly-sweet smell of blood quickly dispelled any such notion. As I leaned nearer, I was able to see that the head of Martin Fletcher, who lay stretched out with his feet towards the front end of the cart, was at a peculiar angle to his body, and that his exposed throat looked almost black, as did the stiffened breast of his shirt and tunic. The bedding and pile of costumes beneath him were also darkly stained, and, at his side, the supine body of Luke Hollis showed similar signs of abnormality. I touched the neck of each man in turn, and my fingers came away sticky with congealing blood. I shuddered.
‘Where did you sleep?’ I asked Peter Coucheneed, although I could guess the answer.
‘At the front, across their feet, from side to side of the wagon. Not so easily reached. It’s probably what saved my life.’
I grunted, but made no other reply. It was certain that whoever had killed Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis had been presented with an easy task. The back of the canvas hood was open to the elements, both men’s heads towards the cart-tail, both deep in an ale-soused slumber from which very little would have roused them. And, because of this, both were probably sleeping on their backs in order to breathe the easier. The silent-footed murderer would have had no difficulty in lifting each man’s head and cutting his throat with the minimum of fuss. Yet, having killed two, and with no danger of an alarm being raised, it would have been simple then to walk round to the side of the cart and dispatch the third. So, surely, if Peter Coucheneed had been spared, it was not because of his whereabouts in the wagon.
The next question to present itself was why had the two men been killed at all? I asked if anything had been stolen.
My companion shook his head. ‘No, nothing. What do we have that’s worth the taking? But do wolf-heads need a reason for what they do? They live by violence. The murder of innocent people is nothing more to them than sport.’ This was a point of view shared by most of the town’s inhabitants as word of the killings spread rapidly amongst them. The Sheriff, busy assembling his posse in the Priory forecourt, was too hard pressed to come himself but sent instead one of his sergeants, who had no hesitation in branding these latest murders the work of the outlaws. News had only just been received, within an hour or so of sunrise, of the looting of a farm and holdings in the parish of Berry Pomeroy. It was plain that the outlaws, returning to their lair, had come across the wagon, and slaked their blood-lust by murdering two of its sleeping inmates.
Such, at any rate, was the conclusion drawn by the sergeant, and eagerly taken up and repeated by all those who had gathered at Cherry Cross, attracted, as folk always are, by the, smell of death and destruction. In half an hour, it would be in every mouth, and quoted as Gospel truth, without any need for further thought or explanation. An atmosphere of hysteria pervaded the town and Foregate, for if the outlaws had not yet managed to breach the walls or stockade, it seemed as if they had come very close to doing so, far too close for peace of mind and comfort.
I left Peter Coucheneed to the ministrations of Granny Praule and Bridget, the former cock-a-hoop at thus finding herself the centre of attention, with a succession of visitors calling to inquire after herself and her guest. Four of the strongest Brothers from the Priory were summoned to take away the bodies, and I went with them, at Peter’s request, walking beside the litters.
Inside the town, all was feverish activity. Seemingly, from the numbers thronging the streets, few people remained indoors, only the very old and very young children. News of this latest outrage had spurred many able-bodied men to swell the posse’s ranks who might otherwise have hesitated to spend long days in the saddle, riding over rough and uncharted terrain. I saw Thomas Cozin, mounted on a mettlesome bay, his wife and daughters hanging devotedly about his stirrups and trying their best to dissuade him from such a hazardous enterprise. The Sheriff was dividing his volunteers into groups and placing each one under the direction of a sergeant. Plans were drawn up as to the ground to be covered by the different companies, so that as much of the surrounding countryside as possible would be covered.
I saw the bodies of Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis safely bestowed in the mortuary chapel, before leaving them to the ministrations of the Brothers. Pushing my way back across the crowded forecourt, I found myself unexpectedly accosted by Oliver Cozin. He was on foot and clearly not a member of the posse. He seemed irate.
‘Master Chapman, I’m glad I fell in with you. You have, some explaining to do, sir, have you not? Damage to my client’s property.’
I was confused, there being no room in my mind at that instant for anything other than the deaths of my friends. For however short a time I had known them, I had grown to count them as such, and Martin Fletcher, because of his likeness to his brother, had quickly found a special place in my affections.
‘Damage?’ I asked stupidly. ‘What damage?’
‘Don’t play the innocent with me, lad!’ was the sharp rejoinder. ‘I am talking about the gallery, which now lies in ruins, thanks to your heavy-footed carelessness. For Mistress Harbourne says you fell through its floor.’
‘She told you so?’ I demanded, feeling betrayed.
‘She told Master Colet when he observed the damage for himself, rightly deciding that she should not be held responsible for something which was not her fault.’
‘The wood was rotten,’ I answered truculently, at the same time wondering what else Grizelda might have been tempted to disclose.
‘Quite probably,’ the lawyer replied austerely, ‘but you should have informed me of the accident when I called yesterday morning, and not chosen Mistress Harbourne to confide in.’
I was in no mood for such a scolding. ‘If Master Colet thinks I shall pay for the repairs, he may rid himself of any such notion. I did you and him a favour by sleeping in the house, only to be turned out unceremoniously when my services were no longer needed. Good-day, sir!’ And I turned to walk away.
Oliver Cozin caught at my sleeve. His tone was still frosty, but his words slightly more conciliatory.
‘I mentioned nothing about payment, Master Chapman. But my client and I would have appreciated a little honesty.’ He took a breath and forced himself to unbend even further.
‘I am distressed to hear about these terrible murders. I understand that you befriended the mummers when they arrived in the town yesterevening. One of them, I am told, leaves a brother who is a monk at Glastonbury Abbey, known to you when you yourself were a novice there?’
The last words ended on a rising note of query, as though he could not quite credit that I had ever had so respectable a calling. I inclined my head in assent, and the lawyer continued with sudden warmth, ‘Then let us hope that the lord Sheriff and the goodmen of this town have successful hunting. Such foul deeds cannot be tolerated. Although for some of our number to be joining the posse,’ he added, glancing with concern in his brother’s direction, ‘is inexcusable folly! Good-day to you, Master Chapman!’ And he swung on his heel, elbowing his way through the crowd to Thomas’s side.
I remained, wedged in a corner of the Priory forecourt, staring after him. It occurred to me that everything which had recently happened amiss in the good town of Totnes, was being laid at the door of the outlaws. No other explanation was even contemplated, so large did the wolf-heads’ presence in the district loom in people’s minds. Watching the swirl of feverish activity all about me, I sensed the underlying fear, which this morning’s gruesome discovery had only excited still further. There was no gainsaying the fact that the robbers were evil men, and bore the stigma of murder as well as theft, but surely that did not make them guilty of every crime committed in the neighbourhood. Why should they have paused last night for wanton killing, without the possibility of gain? It made no sense. The killing, moreover, of two wandering mummers as poor and as homeless as the outlaws themselves, and for whom, if such men had feelings, they might have experienced a sneaking sympathy.