Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

The coroner and bailiff continued along the lane out of the village for a few hundred yards past the last of the cottages. Three fields of oats, wheat, rye and beans stretched away from the track in narrow stripes of different greens, then came a patch of common land, beyond which was the old fortified manor, nestling under the slope rising up to Manaton Rocks.

A deep ditch ran around a large square plot, guarded by a high fence of wooden stakes. Double gates stood open to the road, and John’s experienced eye told him that the manor had not feared any attack for many years, as the gates were rotten at the bottom, where rank weeds grew up against the planks. He followed the bailiff into the compound and saw in the centre a substantial manor house, built of granite moorstone, with a roof of thick slates. Stables, a byre, kitchen, brew-shed and various huts for servants half filled the rest of the space within the stockade. An older man came out of the main door, which was at the top of the steps over the undercroft.

‘That’s Austin, the steward,’ said the bailiff. ‘He’ll take you to the master.’

The grey-haired steward, a slow-moving man with a long, mournful face, greeted the coroner civilly and led him inside, the bailiff vanishing somewhere behind the house. The large hall, which had a fireplace and chimney in place of a fire-pit, had doors on either side leading to extra rooms, as there was no upper floor. Knocking at one on the left, the steward stood aside and followed John into a solar, which had glass in its one window, a sign of relative affluence on the part of the owner.

The lord of the manor rose from a window seat, where he had been drinking from a pot of ale and fondling the ears of a large mastiff, which looked suspiciously at the newcomer. Henry le Denneis grasped the coroner’s arm in greeting and bade him be seated on a leather-backed folding chair near by. He offered ale or wine, and while Austin brought another tankard filled from a pitcher on the table, de Wolfe took stock of his host.

Le Denneis was a burly man of about his own age, with a rugged, red face pitted with small scars. He was clean shaven and his sandy hair was flecked with grey. A loose house robe of brown wool was draped over his shoulders, revealing a short tan tunic over worsted breeches. He certainly was no dandy like Richard de Revelle, but gave the impression of being more interested in his land and crops, as was John’s own elder brother.

Henry le Denneis dispensed with any small talk and came straight to the point.

‘Have you found any sign of Elias Necke?’ he asked in a deep voice. John told him of the finding of the skull and the assumption that it was that of the tanner. Henry shook his head sadly.

‘A sad business. His whole family depended on their labours there.’

John took a deep draught of the ale, thankful to slake a thirst aggravated by the hot weather and the heat of the smouldering building.

‘You must already know that the fire was almost certainly started deliberately,’ he said. ‘His sons told me that he went out because the dog he kept at the tannery began barking late that night. The animal was found wandering later on. And now we have evidence that two men were seen crossing the fields towards the forest at about the same time.’

Manaton’s lord stood up and gazed pensively through the narrow window.

‘I have been afraid that something like this might happen — but not that a villager would lose his life.’

‘What’s going on in the forest these days?’ demanded de Wolfe harshly. ‘A verderer is murdered on the high road, the Warden is attacked in his dwelling — now a man is burned to death in his own tannery, all within a week. Surely this is no coincidence?’

Le Denneis refilled both their ale-pots and sat down with a sigh.

‘The tannery did not belong to Elias as a freeholder, he rented it from the Abbot of Tavistock — as indeed, I do this manor. At the Conquest, Baldwin the Sheriff took it from the Saxon Alwi — then it was handed on as a knight’s fee of the Abbey to one of my forebears, who came over with William of Falaise and fought at Hastings.’ He paused, as if contemplating his ancestors, then, with a jerk, brought himself back to the present tragedy.

‘The foresters have always been scheming, grasping swine, as we all well know. But we had learned to live with it over the years — and a few of them, like Michael Crespin, until recently have been reasonable enough in their demands.’

‘Who’s he?’ asked de Wolfe.

‘Another of the foresters in this bailiwick. He’s been around for many years and though he sees he gets his cut from whatever is going, he’s not quite as bad as that arrogant bastard Lupus, who I suspect is behind much of this present trouble.’

‘So what’s changed recently?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘Some weeks ago, they began to put the pressure on, in all sorts of ways. Their extortions became more blatant and penalties against the common folk became harsher and more frequent. Though the Attachment Courts are not supposed to pass judgement on any but minor offences against the vert, they started to mete out severe punishments instead of referring them to the forest Eyre.’

‘But that’s not legitimate! How can they get away with it?’

Le Denneis sighed. ‘Because no one stops them any longer. To be frank, the Warden is a weak man, getting old and largely unaware of what goes on in the forest. De Bosco never comes around to see what’s really happening on the ground, he’s content to leave it to the verderers.’

‘And what about them? Don’t the verderers keep a grip on what’s happening?’

The manor-lord gave a cynical laugh. ‘It’s not really their responsibility, they are supposed only to organise the lower courts. The only one to protest to the foresters at some of their excesses was Humphrey le Bonde. And look what happened to him — an arrow in the back!’

John gulped down the last of his ale as he considered what Henry had said.

‘So are the foresters responsible for all of this hardening of the regime?’ he demanded.

Le Denneis shrugged, his expression despondent.

‘They are the instruments of what is happening and they certainly gain personally from the extortions. But somehow I feel there must be others more powerful behind them.’

‘Do they actually perpetrate these acts themselves?’

‘Some of the time, yes. They — or their thuggish grooms — beat up villeins and free men alike who they consider to have made any infringement of the forest laws or who resist some new piece of extortion. But I doubt they would personally kill a verderer or fire a tannery, even if somehow they are behind it.’

‘So who may have done these wicked acts?’ persisted de Wolfe.

‘There are outlaws galore in these woods and moors. They’re not above doing the dirty work for a purse of silver. The main villains in this area are those who follow Robert Winter.’

John nodded. That name was not unfamiliar to him. He stood up ready to leave.

‘So where do you stand in all this?’ he asked. ‘Is there nothing you can do to protect your own villagers?’

Henry le Denneis walked him towards the door of the chamber. ‘I have no say in this,’ he said sadly.’I run my manor, I have my own moot court to control and discipline my people — but only in matters which are not related to the forest. The mill is mine, but not the tannery. If the foresters set up another in competition over towards Moretonhampstead, it’s none of my business.’

After they had said farewell, John walked back to the centre of the village, turning over in his mind what le Denneis had said. Somehow the coroner doubted that the lord of the manor’s proclaimed inability to do anything about the tannery was true, and he suspected that he may have had his palm crossed with silver to mind his own business. Yet now he would have the problem of finding other work for the sons of the destitute widow. De Wolfe also wondered what the Abbot of Tavistock would say when he heard that his tannery had been reduced to ashes, its rent so abruptly terminated.