“Easily, old friend. That was a political promise,” said Baldwin cynically. “Since then he has been crowned King. After all, our own blessed monarch Edward is a vassal of France for Gascony, and yet he has not given homage to King Philip, has he?”
“Ah, but that’s different. King Edward’s an honorable man, and he’s gone to France to pay homage over the last few years – but how often should he be expected to go? Each time he returns, the French King dies, and he must turn around and go back to swear to the successor. No, it’s different with the madman of Scotland. He refuses to come and pay homage to his English King.”
“I am not so sure it is quite that straightforward, Simon. Still, we can but hope for peace. The last thing the country needs is more war.”
“Were the cardinals successful?”
“No. Not quite,” Baldwin said slowly, and then he chortled quietly. When he continued, it was in the unhurried manner which showed he was choosing every word with care. “In fact, they were somewhat incommoded on their way. They landed on our shores in July of last year, but did not, it would appear, arrive in Scotland until much later. Seemingly they were met by a group of brigands between York and Durham, and were robbed.”
“What happened to them?”
“Oh, they were unharmed. Their pride was more hurt than their persons! Of course, their horses and money were stolen, but they were not hampered apart from that. The additional exercise will probably have done the honorable cardinals some good.”
“I suppose that’ll put paid to any hint of peace. If those damned Scotch rebels dare to attack and rob the Pope’s cardinals on the way to meet their lord…”
“Ah, Simon!” The knight roared with laughter, making his friend stare at him uncomprehendingly.
“You mustn’t jump to conclusions! It wasn’t the Scots who attacked the cardinals, it was a band led by an Englishman.”
“No Englishman would dare!”
“Sir Gilbert Middleton did. He had resorted to outlawry. I hear he thought that if the King was unable to protect people up on the northern marches, he might as well take advantage of the fact. He was caught at the end of last year, and I expect his head is on a lance in London even now, for the embarrassment he has given the King.”
“How do you find out these things?” Simon muttered, torn between resentment at the laughter and an urge to join in.
“Simple,” the older man told him. “I speak to travellers. Most people are happy to tell their news to an interested man. And I still sometimes have… friends come and visit me.”
His words made them both quiet for a minute. It was more than ten years since the arrest in 1307 of the “Poor Fellow – Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon,” the Knights Templar, and here in England they were all but forgotten, their lands divided and sold off or in the hands of their rivals, the Knights Hospitaller. But neither Baldwin nor Simon could forget the Order, for Baldwin had been a member of the outlawed and disgraced group.
There was a view, commonly held in England and Scotland, that the Knights Templar were innocent of the crimes attributed to them, and were merely the victims of an elaborate plot hatched by the French King to seize their wealth. After the Order had been destroyed, many men who had been members were used by the English King as diplomats, and other warrior monks were welcomed in Scotland, where King Robert I wanted as many trained soldiers as he could find. There were reports that the “Beauseant,” the black and white banner of the Templars, had been seen at Bannockburn where the English forces were routed so disastrously. Thus there were a great number of men all over the country who had been comrades of Sir Baldwin of Furnshill in the past, before he had become Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, and he often entertained guests at his small Manor. Though Simon knew this, he preferred not to enquire too deeply.
“So,” Simon mused after a time, “the Pope wants to see peace as well, does he? That could be helpful. Maybe he can persuade the Bruce to stop his raiding.”
“Do not place too much store on his ability to bring an end to the wars, my friend.” Baldwin smiled wryly. “The Pope has already excommunicated the Bruce, after all. And if you had been crowned King of the Scots, I doubt you would be pleased to receive a letter from the Pope addressed to ‘You, who call yourself King of Scotland!’ If Pope John wants peace, he will need to try harder than that!”
They were still chuckling at this as they rode down a shallow slope from which the sweep of the moors could be seen. For Baldwin, unused to the area, it was an awesome sight. Bright grass gleamed in the sun, some thin and cropped by cattle, some long and spindly like reeds, both sliced apart in places by silvery trails of glistening water trickling to blue pools. Their path was a dark slash meandering between softly molded hillocks surmounted with moorstones, a landscape which would have been bleak in winter, Baldwin felt, but which now seemed full of promise with the high singing of larks in the dear sky and the constant tinkling music of the water.
For several miles the knight and his friend saw no other person. The route was well – trodden, the grass flattened and in places worn away, but there was no sign of habitation. The ground became, if possible, even more profusely covered with the gray boulders. Their path took them into a low valley, and soon they were trailing around the fringes of a little wood on the steep hillside, where the trees grew among the litter of stones and boulders.
“God above! Simon, what’s happened here?”
The trees were unlike any the knight had seen before; it was as if each of the plants had been shrivelled. All were stunted, misshapen caricatures of the great boughs he knew from his own lands. None was more than twenty feet tall, and most were much shorter.
“I’m glad it’s a surprise to you,” Simon smirked. “You’re always so pleased to amaze me with your tales of foreign countries, it’s pleasant to repay the debt, if only in part.”
“But what has happened to these trees? Why are they so… deformed is the only word I can think of. These are oaks, aren’t they?”
“I think so, yes,” said Simon, his voice thoughtful as he glanced at the trees near the track. “But they only grow so high out here, in Wistman’s Wood.”
“What about other parts of the moors?”
“I’ve heard there are some other places where the trees are similar, but I haven’t been to them yet. All the other trees I’ve seen are normal.”
“They are certainly very curious. All the branches point in the same direction – had you noticed that?”
“It’s as if they’re pointing to something, isn’t it? There are rumors I’ve heard…”
“Yes?”
“Well, you remember the stories, don’t you? About the Devil and his pack of wish-hounds baying after lost souls? This is where those stories come from, Baldwin, out here on the moors. They say that the wish-hounds are heard here when the winds blow hard.”
Baldwin gave him a sour stare. “I suppose you think the hounds come here to piss on the trees? Diabolical hounds peeing on the branches kill them off, and that makes the oaks die on one side? Really, Simon, I…”
“No, of course not,” said Simon, hastily holding up a hand to stem the knight’s ironic flow. “But I know I wouldn’t want to stay here after dark.”
“No, I can see why,” said Baldwin reflectively, gazing at the trees. The atmosphere was oppressive, he thought, and it was easy to understand how people could imagine the worst of such a place, especially if the wind howled among the boughs as night fell. Baldwin did not believe in old wives’ tales himself, but it was natural for anyone to be affected by the menacing power of a place like this.
“The people here think there’s some kind of strangeness about it,” Simon continued. “Maybe that’s where the name comes from. Round here, ‘wisht’ means uncanny, or weird. Certainly these trees look it.”
“Yes, they do. But I think these trees grow this way for some mundane reason. Wish-hounds!” His voice betrayed his amusement, and the bailiff shot him a suspicious glance.
Another mile southward, after they had breasted another hill, Baldwin at last understood why Simon had brought him this way. He reined in his horse and stared.
“This is what I wanted you to see, Baldwin. Welcome to the tin mines of Dartmoor!” Simon announced as they came to a halt.
Baldwin found himself staring at a wide encampment on a plain surrounded by low hills, the whole unmarked by wall or fence. Dotted here and there stood small, gray turf and stone cottages. One, larger than the others and
