Fear in the Forest (14 page)

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.

It was still too soon for the inquest to begin, and when he reached the oblong green in the centre of Manaton de Wolfe looked for his officer and clerk to seek some food in the alehouse. Henry le Denneis had offered him a meal, but he preferred to eat with his own men. Gwyn was already standing at the door of the tavern, a quart pot in his hand.

‘Here comes our little spy,’ he said affectionately, waving his pot in the direction of the church of St Andrew opposite. Thomas was coming down the path from the priest’s house, his limp accentuated by his haste. He crossed the grass towards them, his shapeless cloth pouch of writing materials swinging from his lowered shoulder.

‘We can talk over our bread,’ snapped John, leading the way into the low, dark room of the alehouse. Most of these primitive hostelries were run by widow women, who had little other means of livelihood and who were often expert brewers. This one was a fat, amiable woman, who in spite of smelling strongly of the privy brought them a couple of tasty mutton pies and a platter carrying a fresh loaf, butter and hard cheese. Thomas, who disliked both ale and cider but was forced to drink one of them by default of anything else, settled for a pint of turbid cider and the two larger men took more ale. They sat at a rough oak trestle, the only table in the room, and as they ate and drank, the clerk told his story.

‘This parish priest seems better than many,’ he began, his gimlet eyes flicking from one to the other. ‘In spite of looking like a serf from the fields, he can read and write and doesn’t seem to be a drunk. But he thought I was still an ordained priest myself and I didn’t trouble to contradict him, so we got on quite well.’

The coroner had learned that Thomas could be very useful in ferreting out information from the local clergy by pretending to be in Holy Orders. He was a highly intelligent young man, well educated and with an insatiable curiosity that made him a valuable investigator. On a number of occasions he had been able to tease out local gossip and discover confidential information that the coroner himself would never have obtained.

‘It seems that Elias the tanner was a devout man and confided a lot in Father Amicus, especially during his recent troubles.’

‘What recent troubles?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘Several weeks ago the foresters came and announced that he must close down his tannery, as the King had established a new one near Moretonhampstead.’

‘You say ‘foresters’ – was it more than one?’

Thomas was crestfallen. ‘I didn’t think to ask that, Crowner. They offered him and his sons jobs in the new place, but Elias told them to go to hell. Apart from wanting to carry on with his own business, he and the lads would have had to travel miles each day and get a pittance in return.’

‘So what happened?’ asked Gwyn.

‘The tanner told them to clear off, but the thug who was one of the forester’s henchmen tried to beat him up. The sons dragged him off and gave him a hammering, then the forester and his men rode away, yelling threats of retribution. It looks as if those threats have come home to roost.’

De Wolfe digested this, along with the last of his mutton pie.

‘Did the priest tell you anything else of use?’

‘He said that the foresters and woodwards have become much more aggressive of late. They used to turn a blind eye to a bit of poaching, if it was only coney or partridge or taking a few fallen branches for firewood, as long as the cottar slipped them a couple of pence now and then. But recently they have come down hard, dragging offenders off to the gaol or hauling them up before the court.’

‘It seems the same story all over the forest,’ mused John. ‘Anything else?’

‘Father Amicus reckons the outlaws are becoming more bold around here. One of them, belonging to this gang of Robert Winter, even slips into confession now and then. The priest wouldn’t reveal what was said, of course, but he had the feeling that the foresters and the outlaws had agreed not to interfere with each other.’

That was about all that Thomas had to relate before it was time to go outside to hold the inquest on the pathetically scanty remains of the cremated tanner. Most of the village of Manaton was gathered on the green as a jury was assembled and the usual ritual was gone through, with the skull being paraded around carefully by Gwyn of Polruan. The inevitable conclusion was that Elias Necke had been killed unlawfully by unknown persons, but as the coroner was delivering this verdict he was incensed to hear hissing and sullen curses coming from the crowd.

At first he angrily assumed that they were disagreeing with his findings, but then he saw that their eyes were focused on someone behind him. Turning, he saw that a pair of horsemen had come up silently on the turf and were sitting behind the circle of villagers, listening to his final pronouncements.

The growling of the Manaton men increased and a few shaken fists and louder blasphemies showed the depth of feeling against the newcomers.

The leading man was bony faced and grey haired, sitting stiffly erect on his horse. He wore no mantle over his dark green tunic, on which was the horn badge of a forester. The other man was younger, but coarse featured and unkempt. As the crowd continued to demonstrate their ill feeling, a sneer appeared on the forester’s face as he looked down with obvious contempt at those who reviled him.

Father Amicus, perhaps bolder because of the protection of his cloth, pushed forward until he was almost against the stallion’s nose. He had donned a rather threadbare cassock for the inquest, in place of his workman’s smock. Looking up angrily at the rider, he pointed an accusing finger.

‘This is partly your work, William Lupus! I don’t know what role you played in the fire that killed this poor man, but Almighty God will know, be assured of that!’

The forester deliberately yanked on a rein, so that the horse’s head lunged against the priest and made him stagger backwards.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Father,’ he snarled. ‘Stick to the cure of souls and keep your nose out of business that doesn’t concern you.’

De Wolfe and Gwyn simultaneously moved towards the forester, shoving aside surly villagers to get to the priest’s side.

‘Are you this William Lupus I keep hearing about?’ rasped the coroner.

‘I am indeed – and I suppose you’re this new crowner I keep hearing about,’ replied the forester, with deliberate insolence in his voice.

‘Keep a civil tongue in your head!’ roared Gwyn. ‘Else I’ll pull you off that bloody horse and use your face for a door mat!’

Lupus ignored the threat and looked down at de Wolfe.

‘You have no authority here, this is the King’s forest.’

John looked up at the man with contempt in his dark face.

‘Don’t talk such arrant nonsense, fellow! I was appointed coroner by the King himself. His writ runs everywhere in England where death, injury or serious crime is suspected. Don’t think for a moment that your trivial powers extend to anything other than dealing with the theft of firewood or poaching a buck or boar!’

The taut features of the forester flushed at the insult to his importance.

‘You can’t speak to me like that, damn you!’ he shouted, his normal impassive composure shattered.

Gwyn grabbed his leg and pulled, causing Lupus to sway dangerously in his saddle. Only his feet jammed tightly in the stirrups allowed him to keep his balance.

Immediately, his ugly page Smok spurred his mare alongside Gwyn and aimed a blow at the Cornishman’s head with a short staff. Gwyn dodged it easily and with a roar of anger reached up and grabbed Smok around the waist in a bear-like grip. To the cheers of the people crowded around, the ginger-haired giant hauled the page clean out of his saddle and dumped him on the ground, where he aimed a series of kicks at his buttocks and shoulders.

‘That’s enough for now, Gwyn, let him be,’ ordered de Wolfe, after Smok had let out a tirade of yells and curses. Gwyn stepped back and the page scrambled to his feet and backed away, his piggy eyes blazing with hate.

William Lupus sat rigid, tight lipped with anger. It was something new for him to have his authority in the forest challenged so publicly.

‘You’ll regret this, de Wolfe!’ he hissed.

‘Sir John de Wolfe to you, fellow,’ snapped the coroner, with deliberate arrogance. ‘You’ll address a knight who carries the King’s commission with proper respect! Remember that you’re nothing but a common gamekeeper, even if you wear a fancy badge on your tunic.’

White faced with rage, Lupus pulled his stallion’s head around to leave, but John grabbed the bit-ring to stop him.

‘Wait, I’ve not finished with you yet. Get out of that saddle.’

The forester looked about him, ready to break away by force, but he found Gwyn on the other side, grinning up and rattling his sword in its scabbard.

With seething ill grace, he slowly dismounted and handed his reins to Henry Smok, who had got to his feet and was glowering at Gwyn, now his mortal enemy.

‘Well, what is it?’ he snarled to the coroner.

De Wolfe stood with his hands on his hips, his sword hilt prominently displayed as he glared at the other man.

‘I’ve been hearing bad tidings about you, William Lupus. I don’t know what your game is, but believe me, from now on you’re a marked man. So tread carefully, forester! Stick to your vert and your venison and don’t dare to question the powers of the King’s coroner again, d’you hear me?’

In spite of his innate arrogance, Lupus’s gaze dropped before the vulture-like figure of de Wolfe. He swung away and muttered threateningly under his breath, ‘You’ve not heard the last of this.’