Fear in the Forest (30 page)

‘But what about this?’ called Gwyn, who had wandered across to the fallen tree. He bent and held something up. The others hurried across to him as he straightened up and held out a short, curved bow.

De Wolfe took it from him and studied it closely. ‘Home made – you couldn’t do much damage with this. Not even strung – and where are the arrows?’

‘Was he hoping to drop a buck or a doe with this?’ asked Gwyn.

‘He had been poaching for years, so he knew what he was up to,’ observed Matthew Juvenis.

‘Much more likely he used it for partridge or pheasant,’ said John.

Gwyn suddenly crashed away, vaulting over the old tree trunk.

‘Here are some arrows! Short ones, all snapped in half.’

He came back with some rather crude arrows in his hand, all three broken in mid-shaft. There was nothing else to be found, and they made their way back to the road, where Father Amicus was waiting with the horses. They walked towards the village, leading their mounts by the bridles. When they reached the village green, John gave his orders for the inquest.

‘Two hours after noon, Gwyn. Get as many men as you can from the village. We have no chance of collecting them from farther afield in time. But everything points to those bloody foresters being involved, so do your best to get them here.’

Gwyn looked dubious. ‘Where shall I look for them?’

‘You’ve four hours yet. Send a few men to the next villages to seek them.’ He turned to the bailiff. ‘Have Lupus and Crespin been seen here recently?’

Matthew turned questioningly to the villagers who had gravitated around them since they got back to the green.

‘They rode through yesterday,’ offered one man. ‘Didn’t stop here, just carried on towards Bovey.’

De Wolfe grunted. ‘So they were in the vicinity when he died. We need to get their side of the story.’

‘If they deign to come, the bastards!’ complained Gwyn.

Gwyn’s pessimism was justified, for when the hour came for the open-air inquest on Manaton’s village green there was no sign of any of the forest officers. Two villagers, who had joined the bailiff and reeve in riding to nearby villages, returned to say there was no sign of them, but the reeve reported that he had come across both William Lupus and Michael Crespin in an alehouse in Lustleigh. Not only had they refused in the strongest possible language to attend the inquest, but they had threatened the reeve with immediate violence if he didn’t clear off that instant. The aggressive page Henry Smok had grabbed the reeve by the neck of his tunic and dragged him out of the tavern, throwing him to the ground outside.

‘Tell that damned crowner that he has no right to interfere in the affairs of the forest!’ Lupus had yelled as a parting shot from inside the taproom. The reeve was still seething with anger when he reported this to de Wolfe, and the coroner added a few more black marks to the reckoning that he intended to have with the foresters.

Without the most obvious witnesses, the inquest was a waste of time.

John went through the usual formalities quickly, mindful of the distress of the family. The wife, a sickly-looking woman, bare footed and wearing a patched kirtle, stood with her arms around two small, thin girls, a boy of about fourteen standing protectively at her side. They were Saxons, and the Presentment of Englishry, which at least avoided any question of a murdrum fine, was made by two villagers who said they were cousins of the dead man.

The jury consisted of almost all the male inhabitants of Manaton, who filed past the handcart and were shown the wound and the broken arrow. Father Amicus was the First Finder, and John accepted that his calling the bailiff, reeve and shepherd was enough to constitute raising the hue and cry. Though technically the coroner could have amerced the village for not sticking rigidly to the legal requirements of knocking up the four nearest dwellings, his anger at the forest officers outweighed any thought of adding to the burden of the villagers.

He called the villagers, bailiff and reeve to state for the record, which Thomas was busily writing on his roll, that William Lupus and Michael Crespin had been summoned but had not appeared.

‘I therefore attach them in the sum of five marks each to appear before the next County Court to answer for their failure.’

He was not sure whether he had the power to do this, especially as the sheriff, who ran the County Court, would do all he could to frustrate him. Theoretically, if they failed four times to answer a summons to the County Court, they could be declared outlaw, but with de Revelle’s present attitude, this seemed impossible. The coroner could attach them to appear before the King’s Justices at the next General Eyre, but as the last one had been held in Exeter only recently, it was unlikely to return for several years. The Commissioners of Gaol Delivery were due in a few months to try those languishing in prison awaiting trial, but he was not sure whether non-appearance at an inquest was enough to imprison the foresters, unless he brought in a verdict of murder against them. And even if he did, who was going to arrest them? Given the strange situation in the forest, the usual officers of law enforcement, such as the manor bailiffs and the Hundred sergeants, would be likely to be either unwilling or incapable of arresting officials who seemed to have the backing of the sheriff, the new verderer and even a gang of outlaws.

Still, John was damned if he was going to let them get away with either murder or flouting the King’s coroner, so he rounded off the short inquest with his directions to the circle of jurors.

‘My inquest is to determine who, where, when and by what means this body came to his death. His identity is well known to you all and his Englishry confirmed. You have seen the wound, a cowardly shot in the back, so the means of death is clear and the day it was inflicted, namely yesterday, equally certain. The foresters William Lupus and Michael Crespin were known to have passed through here then. The arrow is of a type used by them and the deceased was admittedly a well-known poacher.’

He paused to glare around the assembly from beneath his beetling black brows.

‘Take all together and it is obvious that we needed to hear from these forest officers. But they have not deigned to attend and have ill used your reeve, who was sent to summon them. In their absence, I cannot hear any explanation from them and the evidence is so scanty that no verdict can be reached today. I therefore must adjourn this inquest to another time determined by circumstances.’

He nodded dismissal at the throng and then walked across to offer his awkward, but none the less sincere, sympathy to the widow. The parish priest was now at her side and John turned to him.

‘I trust there are some means of giving support to this unfortunate woman, Father,’ he growled. ‘She seems to have had little before and now has less.’

Father Amicus nodded. ‘We will do our best, Crowner. Her husband was a villein of our manor-lord. I am sure he will feel some responsibility for her sustenance. Maybe he can employ her in the kitchen at the manor house.’

This reminded de Wolfe of Henry le Denneis’ absence.

‘I presume your lord knew of this matter? Was he told?’

The bailiff nodded. ‘I went to give him a full report this morning. He was unable to attend the inquest as he had a flux of the bowels.’

That sounded too convenient to be true, thought the coroner. He guessed that the lord of Manaton was afraid of offending either the forest regime or the King’s coroner and had decided to keep clear of them both. As the handcart was pushed into the churchyard opposite for a night in front of the altar before burial, John had a final word with the bailiff.

‘I need to confront these two foresters as soon as I can. Are they still likely to be found in Lustleigh?’

‘I doubt it, Crowner. Robert Barat says they were merely eating and drinking there, so God knows where they are by now. But I know where they must be tomorrow, for there’s a Woodmote to be held, and they must appear before the verderer to present their cases.’

This was another name for the lower court of the forest, officially called the Attachment Court, held every forty days, which gave it yet another title.

‘And where will that be held?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘In this bailiwick, always in Moretonhampstead, in the market hall. You’ll undoubtedly find Lupus and Crespin there.’

John looked at Gwyn and Thomas de Peyne, who had just gathered up his parchments and writing materials and stuffed them into his sagging shoulder pouch. ‘Right, you two, we’re having another night away from home. It’s not worth riding back to Exeter and returning in the morning, so we’ll take ourselves to Moreton and find a bellyful of food and a penny bed.’

Moretonhampstead, known locally as Moorton, was a large village part-way between Ashburton and Chagford, two of the stannary towns of Devon where crude tin was assayed. Moorton, though there was much tin-streaming near by to the west, was primarily an agricultural centre and boasted a covered marketplace at its central crossroads.

Though only an open structure of wooden posts supporting a steep thatched roof, it was a prestigious symbol to the inhabitants and brought in many traders, itinerant chapmen and their customers to spend their pennies in the alehouses, tannery and forges. Tuesday was their big market day, when in addition to the crowded stalls and floor displays in the market hall there were sheep, pigs and cattle for sale and barter in two open spaces a few yards up the road.

However, even on other days the market was still in use, with regular booths for butchers and pastry-cooks. Country men and women sat on the earthen floor, offering a chicken, a duck or a kid – or vegetables from their tofts. But every forty days the traders knew that there was no space for them in the market hall, as the woodmote required it for its proceedings. This was where all offences against the forest law were first prosecuted, though only transgressions against the ‘vert’, the greenery of the forest, could be judged, and then only if the worth of the offence did not exceed four pence. All other matters, especially those against the ‘venison’, the beasts of the forest, could only be recorded and sent on for trial to the Forest Eyre, the great Assize of the Forest that met no more often than every three years. Those unfortunate enough to be imprisoned to await trial, rather than be bailed by attachments, often died in the squalid gaols, like the miscreants imprisoned in the city.

An hour after the early dawn, the coroner’s trio rolled off their straw pallets in the loft of one of the three inns. They had eaten well enough the previous evening and John and Gwyn had drunk and yarned in the taproom until late, while Thomas had wandered to the church to pray, meditate and indulge in his favourite pastime of misleading the parish priest into believing that he was still in Holy Orders. By dusk, they had rolled themselves in their cloaks in lieu of blankets and slept soundly, in spite of the ever-present fleas – though both John and his clerk had a few minutes unease over Nesta, before slumber overcame them.

That morning in the inn they ate bread and cheese and drank sour cider, a pale shadow of the food on offer at The Bush. Gwyn felt obliged to supplement this meagre breakfast with a mutton pie from a stall, as, although the market was closed, the wooden houses on the corners of the crossroads opposite had shops at ground level, their goods displayed on the lowered shutters. Booths, stalls and pedlars’ trays offered plenty of sustenance, so even on a Woodmote day no one with a few coins need go hungry.

The three sat on a big log placed outside the alehouse as a seat and watched the participants gather for the court. A chair, a trestle table and a few stools had been set up inside one end of the market hall, the only gesture to formality. Gradually, people began filling the space, mostly men, but some with a woman clinging to their arm, wondering what further burdens would be added to their lot before the end of the day.

Soon a large cart trundled down towards the crossroads, drawn by a pair of ponderous oxen, and Gwyn pointed at it with the remnants of his pie. A mangy, emaciated bitch had slunk up to him and, being an inveterate dog-lover, he was sharing the last crusts with her.

‘Here come some of the worst customers,’ he observed.

About half a score tattered and dirty men were crowded into the cart, and when they were prodded out by the ruffianly driver and his mate, John saw that they were roped together by their manacled wrists. They were led into the market and made to sit in a row across the floor.

‘I heard the foresters have got a gaol over at North Bovey – they say it’s as bad as the tinners’ prison at Lydford.’ As Gwyn had been incarcerated in Lydford not long before, he said this with some feeling.

A group of riders now appeared in the distance, and John soon recognised the foresters and their pages, as well as the new verderer.

A couple of clerks jogged behind on their ponies, and the whole entourage dismounted alongside the market. The two pages led the horses off to graze in a field up the road, while the others went into the hall.

‘Are we going to beard them in their den straight away, Crowner?’ growled Gwyn, already spoiling for a fight.

‘Leave it a while. Let’s see what they do in this damned court.’

There were many people milling about the crossroads now, some of them traders, pedlars and beggars taking advantage of the influx of people for the Woodmote. Some were pushing into the market itself, either to be involved in the proceedings or merely to be entertained, so in spite of their size, de Wolfe and Gwyn were able to lean half concealed behind one of the stout pillars at the back of the hall. The much smaller Thomas slipped unobtrusively into the throng.

The verderer had taken the only chair and the clerks were squatting on the stools, their writing materials on the trestle. People were jostling about the rest of the floor behind the prisoners until William Lupus banged on the table with the hilt of his dagger and yelled for order.

John watched with interest as the proceedings got under way. The two foresters and their so-called pages strutted about with arrogant efficiency, hauling the offenders up before the new verderer with deliberate brutality, as they called their names and recited their offences. The prisoners from the cart were dealt with first, the long rope being untied from their wrists so that, still manacled, they could be dragged and kicked to stand before the judgement table.