Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

They scanned the crumpled bodies lying among the ferns and long grass.

‘Gwyn is the only one who can recognise them now,’ said de Wolfe. True to his promise, he had let Stephen Cruch loose back in the tree line and the horse-dealer had vanished like a puff of smoke.

Gwyn ambled among the dead, turning some face up with his foot. After a while, he gave a shout. ‘This one’s Martin Angot, the fellow I saw with Cruch in the alehouse,’ he called. He looked at all the rest, then shook his head.

‘Robert Winter’s not among them. We’ve missed the leader, but now he has no one to lead.’

Ralph Morin stared around at the corpses strewn around.

‘What are we to do with these? They’ll be stinking by tomorrow!’

The guide and two of his fellows from Lustleigh deferentially tugged at their floppy caps, before making a suggestion.

‘We can get a bounty for each of these, sir. If we undertake to bury them all back in the wood there, can we take the heads and claim the bounty?’

Ralph and John roared with laughter, even at such a macabre suggestion. The thought of Richard de Revelle’s face, when an ox-cart trundled up to Exeter Castle filled with amputated heads, was too good to deny.

‘You do that, good man! And add those from the last camp to your collection for the sheriff. If he refuses to pay you, let me know.’

As the local men went enthusiastically about their business, the coroner decided that he would like to see what was in the camp up above.

The leaders of the expedition, together with Gabriel and two of the bowmen, began to walk up the slope towards the grassy platform where the ruined foundations lay. As they neared the edge, they became cautious, in case any surviving outlaws were laying in wait. The archers tensed their bow-strings and the others gripped their weapons, but all was quiet as they stepped between the mossy piles of stones, barely recognisable as the bases of old round huts.

In the centre of the jumble of rocks was a fire, a radiating ring of logs still smouldering. Some cooking pots and pottery mugs lay round about and the half-eaten carcass of a deer was spread on a large flat stone.

A few of the hut remnants had been partially and crudely rebuilt and roofed over with branches to make a couple of shelters, high enough for men to crawl inside.

‘What a way to live!’ said Reginald de Courcy in disgust. ‘Even animals fare better than this.’

‘Do you think we’ve wiped most of them out?’ asked Morin. ‘We’ve missed this man Winter — maybe he’s with another nest of the serpents somewhere?’

‘There can be very few of his gang left,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘Together with the ones we killed on the way, this accounts for most of those who the villagers allege were plaguing the countryside.’

‘We had better call at that camp Gwyn saw, down towards Ashburton,’ advised the constable. ‘I’ll take a dozen men and go that way back to Exeter.’

‘You’d best go with him, Gwyn,’ said the coroner. ‘You know exactly how to find it.’

But the Cornishman failed to respond. He had walked a little way from the group and was standing with his head cocked on one side, listening intently. Then tucking the handle of his mace into his belt, he slid out his sword and quietly advanced on one of the brush-covered shelters.

Bending down, he looked inside, and with a roar tore off one of the branches that straddled the stone walls.

‘Look what we’ve got here, Crowner!’ he yelled exultantly, waving his blade dangerously back and forth in the entrance of the shelter.

The others dashed over and Gabriel helped Gwyn drag off more of the crude roofing. Cowering inside the tunnel-like bivouac were four men, crouched against the end wall in a desperate effort to remain hidden.

‘Get out, blast you! Come out of there!’ yelled Gwyn, stabbing down with his sword to encourage the quartet to stumble out into the open.

De Wolfe stared in amazement when he saw who they had found.

‘God’s bowels! It’s the bloody foresters and their tame monkeys!’

With expressions of mixed fear and defiance, William Lupus and Michael Crespin came out of the shelter, followed by the ugly Henry Smok and another burly man, who John assumed was Crespin’s page.

Guy Ferrars was beside himself with rage, waving his fists in the air as he yelled at the foresters.

‘You’ll hang for this, you bastards! Consorting with outlaws, caught red handed in their very camp!’

Crespin looked desperately at his colleague, hoping for some deliverance. William Lupus glowered around at the leaders of the posse, racking his brains for an excuse.

‘We were taken prisoner by Winter and his men,’ he proclaimed. ‘Thank God you’ve come. They would have killed us.’

De Courcy gave Lupus a hard shove in the chest. ‘You bloody liar! If you were prisoners, how is it that you’ve still got your daggers in your belt and that lout there even has his mace?’

Lupus continued to bluster in an effort to regain the initiative.

‘What right have you to be here? This is Royal Forest, you have no power here! Where’s the sheriff? I want to talk to him.’

John stood right in front of the arrogant forester, his hooked nose almost touching his.

‘You can forget all that nonsense about Royal Forests! I’ve just returned from Winchester with a King’s Commission to clear up this anarchy and the sheriff is no part of it. We know about your dealings with Robert Winter — and Cruch the horse-dealer has confessed everything, including his priestly master.’

The surly forester seemed to slump with dismay at the coroner’s revelations, but de Wolfe had not finished.

‘Finding you skulking in Winter’s camp is the final touch. But I also want you in connection with several previous deaths and for refusing to attend my inquests.’

He stepped back and motioned to Gabriel and Gwyn.

‘Bind these men’s wrists and rope them together — and take those weapons from them. They’re coming back to Exeter with us, for a spell in Stigand’s jail in Rougemont.’

‘But only until we hang them!’ added Ferrars viciously.

Getting back to Exeter was a complicated operation, as John’s party had to return to the carts to shed their armour, collect the horses, then go on to Moretonhampstead to meet up with Ferrars’ group. By now it was too late to start out for the city, so the men camped overnight in the field where the sheep market was held. The town was scoured for enough food to last fifty men until morning, though at least Gwyn’s huge appetite was missing, as he had gone with Morin and some soldiers down to the southern campsite and would meet them in Exeter on the morrow.

By noon the following day they had all assembled back in Rougemont. John had travelled so much in the past week that he had to work out that it was now Tuesday. The borrowed men-at-arms went to their billets in the outer ward, to rest until they began the long tramp back to Portsmouth the next day, while the local leaders adjourned to the hall of the keep for refreshment and discussion about the whole forest affair. John, Ralph Morin, de Courcy and Guy Ferrars and his son sat at a trestle table, with Gwyn, Thomas, Gabriel and the ubiquitous Brother Roger sitting at the end, eager to hear what was decided. While castle servants scurried to fetch them ale and cider to wash down cold meats, bread and cheese, the coroner began the proceedings.

‘What about the damned sheriff? He must know we’re back, but he’s conspicuous by his absence.’ John looked across at the door to Richard’s chamber, which was firmly closed.