The Awful Secret (34 page)

The sheriff could find no reason to object to this, and Ralph Morin called across to the soldier who knew the area well to ask his advice about a suitable place.

‘Sir, there is a rocky valley further along from here, a mile or so short of Lynton. After dusk, it is unlikely that anyone would come there to discover us, if we camped on the western end of the defile.’

They continued until they reached the edge of the sea, where steep wooded slopes and bare cliffs dropped into the line of surf below. The track wound along the sides of several bays, then climbed up to moorland again and soon entered a trough-like valley, where the grass and bracken were dotted with jagged rocks, which appeared on the skyline like broken teeth. The man-at-arms with local knowledge saluted Ralph and said, ‘Lynton village is at the other end of this coombe, sir. If you wish to stay concealed, I would go no further – and light no fires.’

The constable sent three men back half a mile with the horses so that they could be tethered without fear of their neighing being heard in the nearby village. The rest spent an uncomfortable night wrapped in their cloaks and horse blankets, eating cold food, mainly hunks of meat and dry bread supplied by de Grenville before they left Bideford. At least no rain fell on them, but a mournful breeze whistled up the valley all night.

De Wolfe woke a few times – his body had become used to a bed after his years of tough campaigning and even the pile of dead ferns on which he lay failed to ease the ache in his limbs from the hard ground. The moon sped in and out of scudding clouds and lit up the eerie landscape, the fang-like rocks silhouetted against the sky. For those of a more imaginative turn of mind than John de Wolfe, such as his clerk Thomas, it was a place to conjure up illusions of evil spirits and the unquiet souls of the dead, but no such visions kept de Wolfe awake. He thought only of the soreness of his hips against the turf, and hoped that Thomas had managed to bring the difficult Bernardus along without too many problems.

Grey dawn came at last and everyone stretched, cursed and crawled to their feet to seek the small stream where they could drink and splash water in their eyes to awaken themselves. They ate the remainder of their provisions and the horses were brought back for all to remount and prepare for whatever the day might bring.

‘Abbot, there is no need for you to put yourself at risk any longer,’ said Richard de Revelle, with false solicitude. He was as anxious as the rest to see the last of the strange priest and his taciturn servants. ‘Once we get to the village you could carry on along the well-marked track towards Taunton.’

Cosimo smiled his enigmatic smile. ‘Thank you, Sheriff, but I will wait for my fellow-travellers, the Templars. It will be more reassuring to ride in their company.’

The six men from the Order had already announced steadfastly that they would ride with the law-men into Lynmouth, both from curiosity and a desire to help in keeping the king’s peace. However, de Wolfe still felt that both parties were determined to keep him in view until the bitter end, to make sure that he had not deceived them over the renegade Templar. Again, he decided that he would have to be cautious about meeting Thomas later in the day.

Once they were mounted, Ralph Morin suggested that they make all speed down to the port, to avoid giving any warning that might allow evidence of piracy to be hidden, so they set off at a brisk canter, the rested horses eager and frisky. As they thudded through the small village of Lynton, the villagers gaped open-mouthed at the sight of these troops, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere so early in the morning.

Lynton was perched above a deep glen, which dropped sharply down from Exmoor, the little river Lyn rushing through it. At the end of the village, past the small wooden church that de Wolfe intended to use as his rendezvous with Thomas, the track turned sharply down to the left into the glen and followed the stream as it tumbled towards the sea a quarter of a mile away. The cavalcade slowed as it navigated the steep slope and John found he had to avoid deep ruts if Odin was to keep his footing.

Gwyn, alongside him, pointed down with a finger. ‘Plenty of wheels pass up and down here! Can that all be for fish?’

Within a couple of minutes, they had reached the bottom of the glen, where the track flattened out on to a widening area above the beach, high wooded headlands rising on each side. Before it seeped through the pebbles, the river formed a large pool, filled at every high tide. A few small boats and curraghs lay on its banks, but beyond, on the wide, stony beach, a couple of bigger vessels were awash on the rising tide.

On either side of the track, between the river and the left-hand hill, stood a few small shacks and cottages, mostly of cog or wattle and daub. At the further end, almost on the beach, was a longer building, roofed with flat stones, which appeared to be an alehouse. A few surprised men came out of the buildings at the sound of hoof-beats, and after one look at the mailed soldiers, two turned tail and ran towards the sea. A few women and small children peered from doorways, fearful to come out at the sight of these menacing strangers.

The troop halted outside the tavern and the sheriff sent Gabriel and two men to run after the fleeing villagers.

De Wolfe trotted his horse up to de Revelle and the constable. ‘I think the beach holds the key to this,’ he said, sliding off his horse. ‘We can’t ride on pebbles, so let’s take to our feet.’

Cosimo and his two men stayed well back on their steeds, whilst the rest hurriedly tied their reins to some bushes that lined the bank of the stream. Then, running as fast as their mailed hauberks would allow, they followed Gabriel to the beach, where the muddy earth of the village street merged into the pebbles.

Around the left-hand corner of the valley, the beach widened until it reached a rocky headland further along, and on this extension of the strand, two long, narrow vessels were lying side by side, pulled up high and dry. Each had a series of thole pins for oars fixed in the bulwarks and a short, stubby mast.

‘Galleys, just as that captive said!’ howled Gwyn, as he stumbled over the oval grey stones that formed the beach.

Ahead, more than a score of men streamed out of a long, ramshackle wooden shed built well above the high-water mark at the base of the wooded slope. At the sight of the helmeted soldiers coming towards them, most ran back inside, but a few others sped away towards the steep, tree-covered cliff behind.

‘Into that building, at once!’ yelled the sheriff, who seemed to have gained courage since his escapade on Lundy two days before. Holding up his sword in both hands, he trotted towards it, with the constable and the six Templars in a line on each side of him.

Sure that they were able to look after themselves without further help, de Wolfe diverted, Gwyn close behind him, to look quickly into the two galleys that lay on the beach. The first was empty, having no decking to provide any cover, but when they looked into the second vessel, he saw two men crouching below the gunwales. As soon as they saw that they were discovered, they leapt up with a yell, one brandishing a rusty spear, the other a long dagger.

De Wolfe still had his sword in its sheath and jumped back to gain time to slide it out, but Gwyn, with a chain-mace in his hand, swung it at the spearman and knocked the weapon out of the fellow’s hands as he jabbed with it. The man leapt out of the galley on the other side and ran for the cliff, followed by his accomplice, who did not wait to try his dagger on the coroner.

‘Let them go, Gwyn. We’re missing the party over there.’

They turned and ran towards the wooden building, from which almost a score of men had emerged, all now armed, to face the Templars and the sheriff’s soldiers. There was much yelling and screaming, but within five minutes it was all over. The local bandits were not only outnumbered but had no armour. Three were felled in the first few seconds, the Templar knights and their sergeants standing shoulder to shoulder forming an efficient killing team. Morin and the sheriff wounded two more, who collapsed bleeding on the stones, then chased three more away. The locals, mostly dressed in short seamen’s tunics and worsted breeches, fought valiantly: they knew they were in it to the death, either at the end of a sword or a rope. But their cause was hopeless and, after being gradually forced back and almost encircled by the soldiers, they suddenly broke rank and began to run away, dropping their weapons on the stones.

With no armour or swords to slow them, a couple made it through the closing ring of attackers and joined their comrades at the base of the cliff, where some had already vanished into the trees. The rest were seized by Gabriel’s men and thrown roughly to the pebbles, sword points at their throats or ribs.

The coroner and his officer, distracted by the scuffle at the galleys, arrived too late for any fighting, which the sheriff was quick to notice. ‘Maybe old age is slowing you up, John! Or are you losing your stomach for fighting, these days?’

The remark was too puerile to merit an answer and de Wolfe ignored him, addressing himself to Ralph Morin. ‘Half these rogues have got away across the beach. We should try to catch at least some of them, surely.’

Morin called to Gabriel and some men were sent lumbering across to the cliff to seize some of the fugitives. The soldier who knew the locality panted across to the constable. ‘Sir, they can get back to the village at Lynton up that bank. Shouldn’t we ride up there and catch them at the top?’

‘I’ll do that with a few of your men, Ralph,’ offered the coroner. With Gwyn, he began to trot back to the horses, Sergeant Gabriel and five men-at-arms behind them. But when they reached the alehouse and looked up what passed for the village street, he saw that they had further problems. One of the abbot’s men was hanging off his horse, one foot caught in a stirrup, his body on the ground. An arrow was sticking out of his neck and a large pool of blood was soaking into the soil.

‘Where the hell is Cosimo?’ shouted de Wolfe, staring around. The priest’s horse was still tied to a bush, but the saddle was empty and there was no sign of his other acolyte.

‘In there, Crowner!’ shouted Gabriel, pointing at the low doorway of the alehouse.

Figures were moving inside the dark interior and De Wolfe raced for the entrance, sword in hand and Gwyn at his back. He skidded to a halt on the threshold, looking at the tableau in the bare room. In the further corner, Abbot Cosimo was crouched against the whitewashed wall, kneeling on the earthen floor, whilst immediately in front of him, blood streaming from his left hand, was the second of his bodyguards. He held a sword and was waving it slowly between two ruffians who were crouched in front of him, one with a dagger, the other with an axe.

Only as de Wolfe darkened the doorway, did the two attackers realise his presence. The one with the axe began to turn, but the coroner gave a two-handed swing of his heavy sword, level with the floor, which took half the breeches off the man together with a considerable part of his right buttock. He screamed and dropped to the floor, his blood mingling with that which was running down inside the guard’s sleeve and dripping off his fingers.

The other man turned and jumped with his dagger at Gwyn, who had come in alongside his master. Almost casually, the red-haired giant spitted him with his sword through the centre of his chest, with such force that the point came out under the man’s right shoulder-blade. The guard turned and, with his sound hand, lifted the abbot gently to his feet, without a word to anyone.

‘Thank you, Sir John, that was most timely,’ shrilled Cosimo. ‘With only one arm, I fear that even this man of mine may not have able to protect me much longer.’

‘What happened, Abbot?’

‘We were waiting with the horses when, without warning, an arrow felled one of my men from his horse. The other was struck in the arm, though he plucked it out. When these two appeared, he ran me in here for shelter. But these two swine cornered us – perhaps they thought they could use me as a hostage to bargain for their own safety.’

‘Now that you are safe, I have to go up to the village above – some other villains are escaping,’ explained de Wolfe. ‘The sergeant here will do his best for the wound in your servant’s arm.’

He took with him Gwyn and the soldiers, they found their horses and galloped back up the glen, slowing to a brisk walk on the steepest gradient towards the top. Once on the flat, they stared at the score of crofts that was Lynton, scattered around an open area through which the track passed. There was no sign of anyone, for no doubt the inhabitants were hiding fearfully in their houses.

‘Those cliffs must come up behind the village – in those woods towards the sea,’ said Gwyn. They wheeled round to the right and passed between two huts and their tofts – the gardens and strips of land that made up the personal estate of each occupant. There were no fields on this side of the village, as it was too near the cliffs. Scrub and trees lay behind the dwellings, and spreading out, the riders pressed on as far as they could, until the undergrowth and the steep drop forced them to a halt.

‘There’s one – and another!’ yelled Gwyn, spurring his mare sideways to cut off a man who was crouching in the bushes.

Within minutes, they saw half a dozen figures creeping out of the trees. One was cut down by a soldier, and another was seized by the other men-at-arms, who leaped from their horses and grabbed the fugitive, who was exhausted after his frantic climb up from the beach far below.

Gwyn and de Wolfe pursued another pair, but they vanished between the crofts.

‘We’ve missed a few, damn it,’ snarled de Wolfe. ‘There were more than seven who made a run for that cliff.’

Leaving two of the soldiers to deal with the captives and the corpse, the coroner and his officer rode back into Lynton’s village street, but there was no sign of anyone. They cantered to the far end, almost to the start of the valley of rocks, but the track was deserted.

‘They must be hiding in the houses – maybe their own, for many of those shipmen must live up here. There are too few dwellings down in Lynmouth.’ John was annoyed that they had not been able to account for all the miscreants – it seemed as if most of the men in the two villages were involved in crime, from the way that they had fought or run before even knowing why the sheriff’s expedition had come.