“And it’s getting worse, from what you say.”

“Yes.” He suddenly looked up and pulled a wry smile, shrugging. “But isn’t it the same all over the country? The King’s warden knows how things are going, doesn’t he? From all I hear, it’s not just here, it’s everywhere.”

“But if people are suffering badly, you should tell the chief warden, or at least me as a bailiff. We might…”

“Suffering badly!” the farmer cried, and let the axe fall from his hand. “And what do you think has been happening here? Whole vills have emptied with the bitter weather, the last people leaving before the land eats them up, like it has their fathers, their mothers, their wives and children. Do you need us to come and tell you how places like Hound Tor have emptied? The menfolk worked on while their women sickened and their children died, just as we have to, we farmers. We have our farms to look after, but what good are they when our boy-children are gone? Why keep toiling and straining when there is no one to pass your profits to? Up at Hound Tor, there were only three left, out of eleven four years ago: all dead, all gone! Had you not heard, bailiff?”

His wide, staring eyes held a misery and near-desperation which struck like a mace at Simon’s heart. The famine had been appalling, he knew, but somehow he had never associated it with the troubles here on the moors. During the worst of the suffering he had still been living at Sandford, far to the north and east, where the farms were not so badly affected.

Seeing the understanding on the bailiff’s face, Adam bent slowly and painfully to retrieve his axe. Grunting as he straightened, he peered at it as if he no longer recognized it. When he spoke, his voice was contemplative. “I had a wife and a son – just the one, the other children all died young; they have to be hardy to survive out here. There’s no midwife, no wetnurse to help. There was always only me, and often enough I was out working when my wife gave birth. I think it was the last birth that was so hard on her, she never really recovered afterward. She looked so pale and weak for the next year and a half. Then when she had been out working one afternoon, she died in a snowstorm on her way home. And then my boy started to fade too.” He blinked suddenly, then swung the axe viciously. “I’m not alone,” he said resolutely. “There are many like me round here. Lots of us have lost our own, had to take them to Widecombe or Lydford when the snow cleared to have them buried. We’ve all suffered enough. So if we forgot to tell you before, sir, at least you know now.”

Baldwin had been silent, but now he cleared his throat and leaned forward. To offer sympathy would have been insulting, he knew, and would have been taken as patronizing. “Adam, could you tell us about the night Peter Bruther died. Where were you that day?”

The axe dropped and a branch leapt away. Picking up the twigs, the farmer tossed them onto the growing pile by the door, then sighed and walked out, crossing the yard to the house, returning with a large earthenware jug which he upended, taking a long draft. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he passed it to the knight, who smiled appreciatively. Tipping it, Baldwin found it was filled with cider so strong he could hardly swallow, and he had to control an urge to cough at the pungent fumes. It was with relief that he passed it on to Simon.

“That afternoon, I was up to the north of here, seeing to some peat up near Longaford Tor, where the ground is flat before the marsh. I often go there, it’s good fuel,” Coyt said, glancing at the bough before him. “And wood is not plentiful here. It’s too valuable to burn. Anyway, it took longer than I expected, and my old pony isn’t as fast as she used to be when she has a weight to carry, so I was late coming home. I was near the Smalhobbe place just as dusk fell. Young Henry, he was game, I’ll say that for him. He tried to get one of the men waiting, but there were two others got him first.”

“Did you try to get help?”

“Help? Up there? Where would you expect me to go? The nearest place was that miner’s, Bruther’s, about a mile or so north, and how was I to know that one miner would want to help another? It was miners attacking Henry, and what good would bringing another do? And what difference would one more make? Even if I ran all the way there, the three would have been gone by the time I got back.”

“How was his wife?”

“She was making a row – screaming and such. But the men didn’t hear her. They just kept beating her man.”

“Was anyone else out there?”

“I saw a couple of riders before, while I was cutting peat.”

“Did you see who they were?” asked Baldwin sharply.

Coyt glanced at him in faint surprise. “I think it was that miner, Smyth, and his man. They were off north of Smalhobbe’s.”

“What, heading up toward Bruther’s?” Simon demanded.

“Yes, up that way, I suppose,” Coyt said disinterestedly.

“You’re sure it was them?”

“They passed me later on the road, just as it was getting really dark. I recognized their horses. It was them.”

“I see.” Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance. If the men were coming along the road, they were coming from the direction of Wistman’s Wood. Baldwin continued, “And you kept going southeast?”

“Yes, down to the road, then over and east. There’s a path there which brings me to my door. It took some time with my poor old pony.”

“And you saw nobody else on the road? No one else passed you?”

“No. At least…” He frowned again.

“It could be important,” Baldwin prompted.

“I don’t know, but someone did overtake me, just about when I got to the road to Chagford. It was dark by then, but there was someone north of me, riding quietly. I didn’t see who.”

“How long after you saw the pair of riders would that have been, do you think?”

“Not very long. I had to cross the Cherry Brook, and the pony was slow, but not more than a few minutes.”

“He was far off?”

“I didn’t look.” The farmer’s voice had fallen to a sullen mutter, and his axe rose and fell only sluggishly as he was pressed.

“Why? Surely it was strange to hear a rider at that time of night, especially off the road?”

Face reddening, the farmer struck again at the log and made no answer.

“Coyt? I said, why didn’t you look?”

Suddenly the farmer whirled and faced him, not aggressively, but with belligerent shame. “Because I thought it could be Old Nick. That’s why!”

“Old…”

Simon quickly interjected. “The Devil, Baldwin. The Devil.” And Adam Coyt turned and walked away from them.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Baldwin threw up his hands in despair. “The Devil! In God’s name! Why do these people still insist on such ridiculous beliefs? If he’d only glanced round, he could have seen who it was. It could have been Robert, John – or neither! But because of a stupid…”

“Not so stupid, Baldwin,” said Simon shortly. “He had no idea that someone had been killed, had no idea that the rider so near could have been involved. These moorland farms are so remote, far from anyone. Have you not felt the loneliness of the moors? It is easy for a man’s mind to turn to things like this out here. And there are many stories about the Devil.”

“Simon, really! That’s no excuse. If this man had just taken a quick look, he might have…”

“I might have what?” Adam Coyt had returned unnoticed. “You don’t know these moors, you haven’t been out here. You don’t live here all year like I do, and you haven’t seen the things the moors can do to a man. You just can’t understand like we do. Take that man Bruther. Yes, the horse riding past me might have been carrying his murderer – but so what?”

“What do you mean?” Baldwin’s face was screwed into a mask of irritated confusion.

“Bruther brought it on himself. He was far out into the moors, and the moors look after themselves, that’s all I’m saying. This area is all different when you live here. You might think I’m foolish to believe in Old Nick or Crockern. It’s easy for you. You’ll leave here and go back to your own village. Me, I’ve got to stay and live here. And I can’t do that if the land won’t let me. Bruther didn’t believe either, he thought it was all superstition. I heard him once, laughing at the thought that Crockern might decide to have revenge on miners living too far out on his moor. He said he didn’t mind Crockern, he said he’d offer a fair price. It doesn’t do to make fun of the spirits on their own land.”