continued northward, Simon leading the way. A scattering of trees rose around them. At last the sun broke free of the silvery clouds above, and they were enclosed in a verdant glow as it glimmered through the leaves.
Coming to a clapper bridge, where a massive block of stone had been laid over the stream, Simon turned right. Here there was a track leading east, and they were soon out of the trees, climbing a slight hill. At the top Simon slowed, and here Baldwin caught his first sight of Adam Coyt’s farm.
It was a well-cared-for barton, lying a scant half-mile from the road in the lee of a wooded hill which protected it from the worst of the winter storms. The long house was sturdy and strong, built of moorstone which was hidden under the white lime render. A few yards away was a byre, with three outbuildings leaning close by as if for warmth. From the roof of the house came a thin ribbon of smoke which was immediately wafted away by the gusting wind.
From the barn where he was axing branches from a series of tree trunks, preparing them for cutting into manageable planks, Adam Coyt watched them approach with slitted, suspicious eyes. Strangers out here were a rarity, and letting the axe fall from his hand, he walked out to meet them.
Hugh was relieved to fall from his horse. He knew full well that today his master wished to travel widely and see several people, and was determined to take his rest when he could. Seeing Adam walk up, he nodded. From his youth in Drewsteignton he recognized the sort of man he was. Hard as the elements, as much formed of the land around him as any of the trees in his little wood, this was one of the old Dartmoor men.
Simon dropped from his mount and smiled reassuringly. “Good morning. I…” As he spoke, two sheep dogs suddenly bolted from the barn and stood snarling before him.
Giving a whistle, Adam commanded them to be silent without even glancing in their direction, and Simon was relieved to see them obey. Both immediately sat, and one began to scratch, changing in an instant from wild animals with slavering jaws into friendly companions with wide smiling mouths. At home with dogs, Baldwin ambled over to them, let them smell his hands briefly, and began to stroke them, and soon was engulfed as they ecstatically panted and slobbered over and around him, almost knocking him from his knees in their enthusiasm.
“He likes dogs,” Simon said, more by way of apology than explanation, and Adam nodded again, this time in frank astonishment that any man could wish to coddle a working animal. To his way of thinking it was a certain sign of lunacy, the same as petting a cow or a lamb. There was no profit in behaving that way with farm animals.
After Simon’s introductions, the farmer grunted his assent to answering the bailiff’s questions and led the way to the log-pile. Foreigners were welcome, his actions showed, to pass their time any way they wished, but he still had a living to earn and work to do. Their enquiry was conducted to the steady chop of his hatchet.
Regretfully leaving the dogs, Baldwin squatted on a thick trunk while Simon stood nearby. It was Simon who began.
“Adam, you’ve lived here all your life. Have things changed much over the years?”
Without looking up, the farmer considered for a moment. “No. The moors are the moors. They change with the seasons, but that’s all.”
“Have the miners made a difference?”
“They’ve got more greedy. Before, there was only a small number. Now there’s lots, and a few own all the mines. Used to be that all tinners were like that Bruther or Smalhobbe, just one or two men with a little place. Now there’re lots all covering the same bit for the likes of Thomas Smyth.”
“I suppose at least you’re safe up here, anyway. There aren’t many come all this way to trouble you.”
The axe paused, then fell again. “If you’ve got rights of pasturage, they come close enough. They dig all over the place, and leave their holes in the ground for animals to hurt themselves in. I had a heifer break her leg last year, but I can’t get money from the miners, they claim stannary privileges. I lost my cow, but I’ll get no help from them even though it was their fault.”
“And it’s worse than it used to be?”
“Ah, yes. Time was, they used to come no closer than five miles from here. Now they’re only a mile away, and right where I lead the herd.”
“And you think they’re being greedy?”
“We have ancient rights here, bailiff, we who live in the common land of the moors. We’ve been here since time out of mind, my family and a few others, but now our lives are being made hard by some few foreigners. There are robberies done by some – there was one on the night Bruther died. They demand money not to take our land, and if they aren’t paid, they dig it and take the water so we can’t use it. But we can do nothing. Who’s going to protect us who live out here if the miners choose to attack us or steal what’s ours?”
“You say there was a robbery? Who was attacked?”
Adam Coyt jerked his head in the direction of Widecombe in the Moor. “Old Wat Meavy at Henway. He was knocked down and had his purse taken.”
“I wasn’t told,” said Simon with a frown.
“When these things happen, we can’t run to Lydford every time. Anyway, one minute he was riding into Chagford, and the next he was on his bum in the middle of the road and lighter by some pennies. There are too many miners out here to worry about just another robbery, bailiff. It happens all the time.”
“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
