Fear in the Forest (11 page)

Hennock lay about two-thirds of the way between Exeter and Sigford and was a larger village than the latter. Early the next morning, three riders came into Hennock and reined up outside the forge. It was a large shack set at the edge of the roadside, its walls of wattle and daub set in a rough timber frame. The sagging roof was covered with faded wooden shingles, which were less inflammable than straw thatch. Behind was a cottage sitting in a patch of garden, with two pigs penned in by a fence and a few chickens scratching in the dust.

The riders sat silently on their mounts for a few moments, listening to the rhythmic clanging of a pair of hammers on the anvil, as the smith and his eldest son rained precise blows on a red-hot length of rod than was destined to be a cart axle. A younger boy, about eight years of age, was in the shadows at the back of the hut, pumping away at a large leather-and-wood bellows to keep the charcoal of the furnace glowing almost white.

Eventually, forester William Lupus gave a curt nod to one of the others and his page slid from his horse and walked towards the forge. Henry Smok was utterly unlike the usual image of a ‘page’, being a bull-necked man of about forty, with a roll like a sailor and a coarse face surmounted by a tangle of dirty black hair. His breeches were coarse cloth and his brown leather jerkin was tightly belted to carry the weight of a broadsword as well as a dagger.

Smok ambled up to the open double doors of the smithy and stood insolently alongside the anvil, his thumbs hooked into his belt.

‘Hey, you! You’re wanted outside.’

Eustace Smith jerked his head up to look at the intruder. He was a crop-haired Saxon in middle age, his leathery face pitted with small scars from sparks and hot metal. The alternate clanging of the hammers ceased and the younger Smith stared uneasily at Smok.

‘As soon as we finish this piece, before it cools too much,’ he grunted.

The page gave the son a shove that sent him staggering. Though both the ironworkers were tough, muscular men, Henry Smok had the physique of a bull and the temperament of a bully.

‘Out, I said! Both of you.’

The craftsmen knew very well who Smok was and who would be outside. Like all villagers in the forest, they had suffered the arrogance of the foresters and their creatures for years. Reluctantly dropping their hammers to the floor, they walked out into the morning sunshine and looked up at the other two horsemen. One was the forester, the other Walter Tirel, a woodward employed by the de Pomery estate, but who often acted as an assistant to Lupus.

‘Well, William Lupus, what is it now?’ asked Eustace wearily. ‘Has your mare cast a shoe – or do you just want to increase the private tithes you extort from me?’

His words were bravely defiant, but there was a tremor in his voice.

‘Watch that mouth of yours,’ growled the forester, looking down at the smith as if he were a heap of manure.

‘We’ve come with some good news for you,’ sneered Walter Tirel, who acted as a sycophantic shadow to William Lupus. He was a thin, wiry man with one drooped eyelid that made him look as if he were permanently winking.

‘That’ll be the day when you bring anything but trouble,’ said the smith bitterly.

‘The news is that you’re going to work for the King,’ grated Lupus.

Eustace stood in his scorched and scarred leather apron, looking suspiciously from one man to the other.

‘What the hell do you mean?’

‘A new forge has been built at Trusham, two miles up the road.’

Eustace scowled at the reminder. ‘So I’ve heard – though why, I can’t fathom. There’s no need for two so close together.’

Walter Tirel grinned. ‘I agree, so now there’ll be but the one … at Trusham.’

Eustace gaped at the two mounted men, words failing him.

‘This forge is closed as from tomorrow,’ snapped William Lupus. ‘The new rule in the King’s forest is that smiths work only for the King. You’ll be paid a wage, like any other workman. But you’ll labour at Trusham, under a forge-master I’ve appointed. You’ll have company, for Lawrence the smith from Coombe is in the same position as yourself.’

‘The Coombe smithy is closed too?’ said Eustace’s son, aghast.

‘It will be from tomorrow, like yours here. Finish what work you’ve started, then take your tools across to Trusham in the morning.’

The elder blacksmith found his voice again.

‘This is madness! I have had this forge for fifteen years. I have a licence from my manor-lord and pay him rent for it.’

‘Lucky man! Now you can save yourself the rent,’ cackled Henry Smok, swinging himself back into his saddle.

Eustace advanced up to the forester’s horse, his fists clenching as incredulity gave way to anger. ‘You can’t do this! I’m away to see my lord or his steward. He’ll soon put a stop to your games.’

‘He has no say in the matter. This is forest land, the King does what he wishes here. So keep your tongue quiet and be at Trusham at first light tomorrow.’

‘What about the verderer? Does Humphrey le Bonde know of this?’

The smith stopped short, suddenly remembering that le Bonde was dead.

William Lupus leered down at him. ‘Yes, he’s no longer with us, is he? And the new verderer not only knows of it, he ordered it!’

He pulled his horse’s head around, ready to move away. Desperately, Eustace grabbed his saddle-girth.

‘What about my sons? Are we all to come to Trusham?’

The forester smacked his hand away with a gloved fist.

‘No, we don’t want to pay all your damned family. Just you. Be there at dawn, understand – or you’ll be in great trouble.’

They cantered away, leaving the smith devastated at the prospect of having his small income halved and his family almost destitute.

Some five miles away, on a densely wooded hillside above the Bovey river, Stephen Cruch was waiting on a sleek palfrey at the foot of some large rocks. Below him was a cataract where the river rushed even faster on its journey down from the moor towards Bovey Tracey and the sea beyond.

Few travellers would risk penetrating the forest alone, especially this far from a main track or a village, but the horse-trader seemed quite at ease as he sat quietly in his saddle. Near by, two sturdy moorland ponies grazed contentedly, secured by their head-ropes to hazel saplings. Stephen looked up at the bright summer sun, occasionally crossed by a few stray clouds, and estimated that it was around the eighth hour. A few minutes more and he started to become a little impatient. Untying a thong on his belt, he raised a cow’s horn to his lips, blowing hard through the pewter mouthpiece. The mournful sound echoed through the valley, competing with the rush of water between the granite rocks.

A moment later, there was an answering call from a distance, and with a smile he tied his horn back on his belt and slipped from the saddle. A few minutes later, a handful of men appeared, one on a pony, the other half-dozen on foot. The mounted leader went straight towards the tethered horses and examined them critically, before walking his own across to Cruch.

‘Satisfied with them, Robert?’ enquired the dealer. ‘You said you wanted them small and tough.’

‘They look well enough, Stephen,’ replied Robert Winter. ‘Short legs and good wind is what we need in the woods and on the moor, not some spindly, long-legged racer that would fall at every rabbit-hole and badger sett.’

He threw a leg over the folded blanket that did service as his pony’s saddle and came across to Cruch, who turned to his own saddlebag and drew out a leather flask. He held it out to the outlaw who took a long swig of the brandy wine made by the monks of Buckfast Abbey.

‘That’s something you miss when you live in the forest,’ he said appreciatively, drawing a hand across his lips. ‘’But I hope you’ve got something even more pleasant for me?’

The horse-trader delved again in his saddlebag and handed over the money pouch that Father Edmund Treipas had given him, though it weighed somewhat less now.

‘That’s what we agreed – but the price of two good ponies had to come out of it.’

Robert grunted. ‘I doubt you’ve lost on the deal yourself, Stephen. You’re a bigger thief than I am!’ A grin robbed the words of any offence. The other men, dressed in a motley collection of clothes, stood at a distance and watched the transaction with curiosity. They were a villainous-looking bunch, several of them carrying longbows, the others having pikes.

Robert Winter was a handsome man in his early thirties, with features quite different from those of the other men. Brown, wavy hair and a matching beard and moustache framed a slim face with high cheek-bones. A straight nose, full lips and intelligent hazel eyes might lead an observer to think that he was from an aristocratic family, though Cruch knew that he was from the merchant class. He led a band of several score of ruffianly outlaws that ranged over the south-eastern fringes of Dartmoor, from Moretonhampstead down through Widecombe and across to Ashburton. There were other outlaws scattered throughout the forest, but they had learned not to challenge Winter’s supremacy in robbery, theft and extortion.

‘Where are you living these days?’ asked Cruch casually.

Winter took another drink from the flask and tapped the side of his nose artfully. ‘Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies! We keep on the move, that’s the secret of survival – not that that bloody sheriff is much concerned with catching us. I’m more wary of that coroner fellow they brought in last autumn. I hear he’s a dangerous bastard – and one that’s impossible to buy off like most of the other law officers. I’d advise you to keep well out of sight when he’s around, Stephen.’

Cruch shrugged – he too had heard about Sir John de Wolfe, but their paths were unlikely to cross unless he did something unwise. As for Winter, after a man was declared outlaw at the County Court he legally ceased to exist and could be legitimately killed by anyone who fancied the attempt. Indeed, an outlaw was declared to be ‘as the wolf’s head’, for if anyone could slay him and take the severed head to the sheriff, he would be awarded a substantial bounty, similar to the persecuted wolf. Stephen Cruch persisted in asking where they lived, and after another swig of brandy wine Robert Winter became more expansive.

‘We have a few places deep in the woods, where we keep the ponies – and some caves we keep provisioned in case the going gets too hot. But oftentimes we slink into a village or even a town for a night or two. A fistful of money is marvellous for keeping innkeepers’ mouths tightly closed!’

The horse-trader knew that many outlaws crept back to their homes now and then – sometimes permanently. Many moved to another part of England where they were not known and slipped back into the community – some even gaining public office or becoming successful merchants. It was easier in towns, where the population was larger and less incestuous – in villages everyone knew everyone else and the frank-pledge system made it difficult for a stranger to become integrated. Cruch often wondered about Robert Winter, as an intelligent man like him was unlikely to spend the rest of his life skulking in the woods. He knew little about his past, except that he was from Exeter and had escaped a hanging there about three years earlier.

The outlaw’s voice brought him back to the present.

‘Have you any more work like that for me?’

Stephen’s monkey-like face wrinkled in thought. ‘Not at the moment. But the way I suspect things are moving, you may be needed for some more persuasion very soon. Things are changing fast in this bailiwick, but I can only pass on what others wish to have done.’

Winter rattled the money bag. ‘More like this will be welcome any time. Leave a message as usual at the alehouse at Ashburton when you next need to meet.’

Cruch nodded and carefully retrieved his wine flask before mounting up and riding away. Before he reached the track near the river, he turned in his saddle to look back, but men and ponies had already vanished without trace.

By noon, Nesta knew definitely that she was pregnant. She had been taken by one of her maids to a house in Rock Street, where the girl’s mother had examined her. She was the self-appointed midwife and herbal healer to the street and the adjacent lanes in that part of the city. A rosy-cheeked widow, fat and amiable, she made Nesta welcome in the pair of small rooms she occupied at the back of the dwelling. After expelling a pair of boisterous children, she asked the innkeeper about her monthly courses and any symptoms that commonly went with being gravid. Then, with the rickety door firmly closed against the urchins, the midwife put Nesta on a low bed against the wall and gently examined her under the cover of her full woollen skirt. After a patient and careful examination with her warm hands, both on her belly and internally, she smiled and invited Nesta to rise, while she wiped her hands on a piece of cloth.

‘No doubt about it, my dear. You’re going to be a mother, bless you!’

As Nesta shook down her shift and rearranged her skirt, she asked the widow whether she could tell how far gone she was.

‘Hard to say, my love. It’s early, just enough for me to be definite about it. But you’ve plenty of time yet to make swaddling clothes!’

With that Nesta had to be content, and after failing to get the woman to accept any payment she walked silently home with her cook-maid, who solicitously held her arm as if she were likely to go into labour at any moment.

When they arrived at the Bush, Nesta climbed the steps to her room and threw herself on the bed that John had bought her the previous year.

She lay unmoving for a long time, staring up at the dusty rafters and the woven hazel boughs that supported the thatch. It was on this bed, she thought bitterly, that she and John had so often made love – and where she had betrayed him, albeit for such a short time. Nesta was well aware that he had not been faithful to her – but this was the way of men, who could rarely refuse the favours of another woman. Yet she sensed that lately he had not wandered from her, though she was realistic enough to wonder whether this was from choice or lack of opportunity.

But his actions were no excuse for her, though she had been provoked several months ago by his neglect. She had known that it was from force of circumstances, before another coroner was appointed for the north of the county, but she should have been more understanding. As she stared up at the roof, her eyes filled with tears as doubt and indecision clouded her mind. The midwife had confirmed what she knew already, as for several weeks something inside had told her as plain as day that she was with child. She wished that the woman could have been more definite about the duration of her pregnancy, but the widow was no professional and had done her best out of kindness.