Simon shrugged. “The murders could be unrelated. It’s not something we should ignore, anyway.”

“It is too unlikely, Simon. Think about it: a man is killed; two men find the body and may have seen something; shortly afterward, these two are also murdered. It would be too much of a coincidence for them to have died for different reasons. No, they must have been linked in some way.”

“So you think it was definitely one of the Beauscyrs, then?”

“Yes.”

Hugh screwed up his face and glanced at Simon.

“What about Sir Ralph? We don’t know when Bruther was killed, like you say, so Sir Ralph could have done it.”

“No, Hugh. He was with Sir William and John on the way to the tinner’s house. They all said they were together then, and I believe them.”

“Then it must have been the other one,” announced Hugh. “I never trusted that Sir Robert. He always looked too arrogant.”

“Robert? I suppose it’s possible,” said Simon, with a faint smile at his servant’s relish. “I feel he’s not a killer, though. I’d have thought his brother was more likely.”

“John could have hared after the man who had insulted him,” Baldwin agreed. “It’s quite possible that he could have overtaken Bruther, waited for him to pass, then jumped out and strangled him.”

“If it was John,” Simon said, “I still wonder if he had enough time to murder and hang Bruther?”

“He had as long as it took to get over to the road to Chagford,” said Baldwin shortly. “Anyway, what were you telling Hugh to do before we left? You were speaking to him for some time.”

Simon gave a short laugh. “Telling him to find out whether there were many robberies here that didn’t go reported. That attack on Wat Meavy interests me. I wanted to see if Coyt was telling the truth, and that there were more than I realized.”

“And?”

“You tell him, Hugh.”

“They said that there hadn’t been many until a few weeks ago. Since then they’ve been getting worse.”

Baldwin shot the bailiff a quick look. “You think John has been robbing since he came home?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a squire turned to pillage. He’s been trained in it up north, I’d guess, and he’s carrying on as he always has.” The knight shrugged. “Possibly, but I do not quite see how that can help us.”

“Look at it this way: how long would it have taken John to get to Chagford to attack Meavy?” Simon asked. “When was this Wat Meavy attacked? Did he see who attacked him? Was it really John who did it? We don’t know yet, do we? Fine, so we think that John could have been involved in a series of raids, stealing from the people here – but that doesn’t make him a murderer, though if he was found guilty of it, he would still be punished for breaking the King’s peace. No, but he might have had time to leave the inn, go and kill Bruther, hang the body, and then ride east until he came upon someone to rob. By chance he meets Wat Meavy and robs him – it could have been anyone, so long as whoever he found was scared of the name of Beauscyr and would not accuse him of theft. All he wanted, if I’m right, was to have someone he could call upon to say he was not anywhere near Bruther in case somebody at the inn told us he was not there all night. That was why I also asked Hugh to find out where this Wat Meavy lived. And he did.”

“Is it far?”

Simon gazed to the north and east, then shrugged and smiled.

Sighing, Baldwin stretched, then nodded. “Ah, I see. Well, then. Let us go there now and find out what did happen.”

23

Henway, the small vill where Wat Meavy lived, lay some four miles from the camp. The four men followed the road, turning north over the moors when Hugh pointed, down into a steep valley where the air was cool and fresh. Small clumps of bushes and trees lay at the bottom on the banks of the little stream, all covered in thick moss, and the sound of rippling water mixed with the green light of the sun filtering through the trees gave a feeling of peace and calm.

Trailing along the line of the water, they soon came upon Wat Meavy’s house. It was a sturdy stone building, with a cluster of outbuildings forming a stockade, a low wattle fence keeping his animals in and wild creatures out. Smoke rose from the house and drifted toward them, carrying with it the delicious aroma of fresh bread.

They clattered up the small rise into the yard and dismounted slowly, easing sore muscles. From here the farm looked wealthy, with fresh white limewash on the walls, well-maintained byres and a barn. While they stood, a woman came out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron.

From a distance, she looked as though she was in her twenties, but as she approached they could see that she was older, probably nearer her late thirties. Baldwin could see some of her children peering inquisitively round the doorway at the guests. He winked, then turned to the woman, listening with half an ear as the bailiff introduced them. The woman was of medium height, strongly built, with no hunching at the shoulders so common in peasant women. Her face was wrinkled with age, and tanned from a life spent outside helping her husband, but the brown eyes were clear and sharp as she glanced at the small group. When Simon had finished she asked them to go with her, and she led the way to the house.

Here she sent children scurrying to fetch bowls and platters and benches, and insisted that they join the family in their meal when her husband arrived, which he did a short while later, clumping in from the yard with his heavy boots. Nodding at the men as if he had expected them, he walked to a bench a short distance from his fire and sat. Ale was brought and drunk, then bread, still warm from the hearth, and cheese. Watching carefully, the farmer waited until his visitors were served before beginning to eat, while his wife helped the children keep pots replenished. Baldwin had to keep smilingly shaking his head as the children tried to refill his pot, but one was insistent and each time he averted his gaze he found there was more to drink. Eventually he had recourse to the simple method of leaving the pot full, but felt guilty when he saw the reproachful glance of a young tow-haired girl, surely not more than nine years old, who stood steadfastly staring at him, jug ready, until he grinned in defeat and sipped a little. Her sudden smile was radiant, and he felt more warmed by it than by the food.

He darted little glances round the room while he ate. The house was smaller than he would have expected, and he assumed it had once been a long house. All too often these immense buildings suffered catastrophic collapse and fell in on themselves. This one appeared to have fallen at one end, while the rest of the place had been rescued. Before, the cattle and other farm animals would have been kept in one end of the house while the men and their families used the other, but since the loss of half the house it looked – and smelled – as if the animals did not come in anymore. He guessed that the area behind the new stone wall at his back gave on to a new building constructed with stones from the old one – a byre or shed where animals could be kept. The room had a wholesome smell of smoke and rushes, its atmosphere that of a great hall. Hams hung drying from rafters in the smoke from the fire, adding their own pungent odor. In the knight’s experience, most farmhouses reeked of cattle and dung, sweat and urine, but not this one.

When his gaze finally rested on Wat Meavy the knight was disconcerted to find that the man had been subjecting him to a detailed scrutiny. Faded blue eyes met his unflinchingly from a round face the color of old leather. His russet tunic was scratched and torn, but the farmer wore it with as much pride as a great lord would wear his armor. A thin stubble of graying hair lined his jaw and top lip, and lank gray hair stuck out from his head in unruly disorder above a grubby band. It looked as if it covered a wound. The farmer used his food like he used his tools, Baldwin thought. Massive hands grabbed hunks of bread and cheese and crammed them into his mouth while his eyes moved from Simon to Baldwin and back.