“Yes, bailiff, I’m Hubert. I work for Peter Clifford and he sent me to fetch you as soon as he heard about it…”
“What is it, then? Tell me your message.”
“Oh, sir, it’s horrible! A man came to us in the early morning – Black, the hunter – he lives over that way himself, and it seems there was a fire there last night, well into the early hours, over at Harold Brewer’s house. His place is out on the edge of Blackway, down south of Crediton. Black said that the men tried to put out the fire, but they couldn’t even get close for some time because it was too hot.”
“Well? Why should I be told?”
“Because Brewer – the man that lives there – his body was seen inside.”
Chapter Three
It was well past noon when he arrived at the small village of Blackway, some seven miles to the south and West of Crediton. There had seemed little need to hurry on the way, there were bound to be many people all around – not just the priest but all the villagers and, no doubt, quite a few others. Whenever there was a disaster, Simon was amazed by the speed demonstrated by the people who came to gawp and stare at another man’s personal misfortune, whether it was caused by an accident or by the maliciousness of a neighbour.
The signs were obvious from a long way distant. As he came up to the old Weatherby Cross, where the road from Crediton was cut by the Moretonhampstead track that led down to Exeter, it became clear he was not the first person to pass there that day. At the best of times the track was rutted and worn, being a popular route for travellers heading down to the ports on the coast. Now, in the early afternoon, it was even worse than normal.
Usually the trodden dirt, with the deep ruts caused by the wheels of the carts, was solid enough, but now, after so many months of rain, it was a morass. The mud clutched at his horse’s hoofs, sucking and belching as the animal pulled his legs free of the red-brown earth, trying to carry on. Only the passage of a large number of people could have so quickly destroyed the fragile surface. Cursing under his breath, Simon steered his horse over to the verge, where the grass promised solidity and an opportunity to continue less encumbered. In this way, stepping carefully, they made their slow and painful progress to the hamlet.
Blackway was a tiny village that lay straddling the road south as if it had fallen there, dropped like a disregarded plaything by one of the ancient race of giants that was supposed to have inhabited the area before man arrived. It was a cluster of houses lying on either side of the road, not modern longhouses like Simon’s with their timber reinforcement, but old cob, or clunch, hovels. The bailiff could remember the place distinctly – he had been there only recently while on his way to the coast to visit a merchant on his lord’s business – and he tried, as he rode, to recall the house of Harold Brewer.
The village had some seven or eight properties, one inn and a tiny church, which relied on a chaplain appointed by Peter Clifford, who was nominally the rector. As Simon turned his thoughts back to the last time he had ridden through, he could clearly bring to mind the general layout. The hunter, John Black, had the first cottage on the right, a simple house with one large room like all the others, except that it was smaller than most. Black lived as a hunter, catching and killing his own food and receiving pay for destroying the wolves and other pests in the area. He was known for his ability to track animals for miles over the barren waste of the moors, and when the de Courtenays were in the area they would often call upon his services to help them find their quarry. With this life style he had little or no need for a large house, just a place big enough for his wife and their two children.
Beyond his house was the inn, the first of the large houses. Simon did not know who lived there, but he believed that it had been owned by Brewer in the past.
Then there were the main houses of the village, with Brewer’s place out at the southernmost edge, only one house lying farther, as he recalled. All of the houses surrounded the small area of common land, the road curving sharply round it like a meandering river – possibly because it followed the stream, the Blackwater, that gurgled down on its way to Dartmoor.
At the northernmost tip of the vill, where Black’s house stood, the ground was thickly wooded. To the south the land opened to give views all the way to Dartmoor, and in the hamlet itself there was a cheerful balance between trees and open land. Most of the houses were to the west of the stream and the strips of fields lay to the east; an ancient clapper bridge led from one side to the other and also crossed the new sewer that led into the stream. It gave the vill a pleasant, rural aspect as Simon rode in from the north, although he was struck by the sight of the great trees that crowded in from the forest behind the houses. It appeared to him that they were almost threatening in the way that they towered over the human habitation.
From a half mile away Simon could see the tall pillar of smoke that hung over the surrounding landscape, and he also became aware of the smell of burning, the stench increasing as he came closer to the village.
It seemed outrageous that such a quiet and peaceful little hamlet should have been so violated by fire, but it was, as Simon knew only too well, a very common occurrence. The old houses did not have chimneys to direct smoke and sparks away from the thatch of the roofs, they relied on the height of the roof itself as protection. If they all had chimneys the number of cottage fires would reduce dramatically, because the sparks would alight on the external and damp thatch. As it was, the glittering motes that rose from the flames were carried up into the eaves, where they often lodged. Every once in a while they would make the dry interior thatch catch fire. And, when that happened, all the people inside could do was get out quickly and hope that water thrown at the roof would save the main part of the house.
Riding up through the centre of the village, Simon could see that it had been too late for this place at least. To arrive at the house he had to ride past the inn, then follow the road round to the left as it lazily swung down towards the moors. As he followed the road through the village and turned to face south, the house became visible and he paused, motionless, as he took in the sight that met his shocked gaze.
The old building was almost completely destroyed. The roof was gone; presumably it had fallen in when the flames got too hot, or so he supposed. The wall at the side was still visible, but the far end of the house, the end farthest from the road, had collapsed, and taken down a large section of the side wall with it. Even Simon, who knew little about building, could see that the damage was irreparable.
He kicked his horse into a slow amble and continued up to the house. All around lay a covering of soot, lying surprisingly thickly underfoot. In Simon’s experience even the hottest fires produced far less than this, and he found himself pensively considering the ground as he rode forward, wondering what could have produced so heavy a layer, until he heard his voice called. Looking up, he saw his old friend Peter Clifford standing with a small group, not far from what had been the main door.
Peter was standing and talking with some of the local men, one of whom Simon recognised immediately as the hunter, Black. The others he had not met before, he thought, and assumed they must be locals to the hamlet. Judging by the number of men walking all over the area, this made them fairly unique: the tiny hamlet could not have contained even half of the people gawping and staring at the wrecked building.
To Simon’s disgust, there was almost a fair-time atmosphere in the little village, as if the fire had been staged as an inaugural celebration, a cheery blaze to begin festivities. There were people of all sorts standing and staring at the destroyed house, fascinated by the sight of the remaining walls standing up like the fangs of a massive beast. He could see a family he knew from Crediton, a merchant and his wife with their young son, pointing and talking while their son giggled and played, as if this was only another place designed for him to enjoy himself and not the scene of a recent death. Snorting in disgust, Simon dismounted and strode over to the priest.
“Afternoon, Peter. What happened, then?”
The rector of Crediton church was a slim and ascetic man in his late forties. He was dressed informally in a light tunic that came down to his knees, with warm woollen leggings underneath. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence in his pale face, his skin soft and light from the hours spent indoors reading and writing. The hair that Simon remembered being a light red was a faded straw colour now and the face was worn, though not by troubles – the lines that creased it were caused not by pain and fear but by too much laughter and enjoyment of life. The lines at the sides of his eyes, deep cracks of crow’s feet, all came from joy. Now they wrinkled into furrows in his pleasure at seeing his friend again.
“Simon!” He held out his hand. “It’s good to see you. Come, you know why you were asked here, I
