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.
Hugh was fully at home. He had been raised on a small sheep farm over to the northeast, near Drewsteignton, and this was the company he felt most at ease with, farmers and their children. This room was much as he remembered the main room at his parents’ home, though it was many years since he had been there. The people were friendly, the food good, and the ale – he took a long draft and sighed gratefully as the strong- flavored liquid washed down his throat – the ale was fine.
As the men all finished their food and settled, Hugh belched and grasped his pot, a warm glow encompassing his spirit as he sat back and took notice of the others again. Baldwin, he could see, was thoughtful as he stared at the farmer, while Wat Meavy appeared caught between nervousness and suspicion, his broad square brow lined. Seeing his guests had finished, the farmer sent his wife and children out, and when they were gone, Simon leaned forward and smiled reassuringly.
“We’re here because we want to ask you about the day you were attacked, Wat Meavy.” Briefly he explained who he and Baldwin were, before resting his chin in his hand. “I know you weren’t going to report it, but we need to hear all about it. It may prove important in another affair, a murder.”
“Peter Bruther’s, you mean?”
Simon nodded. The farmer considered the bailiff for some time without speaking, but then gave a slow nod.
“What do you want to know?”
“You were going up to Chagford?” Simon prompted.
“No. I’d been there all day and was coming back. I had had a sow and some piglets to sell.”
“I see. What time of day did you leave to come home?”
Wat Meavy gave him a slow smile. “Late, bailiff. I’d been in Chagford all day, and it was thirsty work standing there in the sun. There was no need to hurry, my wife wasn’t expecting me yet, so I went to the tavern there in the town. I suppose I must have been there for some hours before I left.”
“Was it dark yet?”
“No. Not quite.” He gave a sudden frown of concentration. “But it was getting that way, I think.”
“I understand you were attacked just outside the town, is that right?”
“Yes. I’d just got past Coombe, and was beginning to head southward. There’s a place there where an oak used to stand in the wall, only it fell some years ago and old Stephen Thorn, he’s never got round to mending the wall. Its stones are still all over the ground. Just beyond, the lane curves sharp to the left, and narrows too, and then there’s another lane comes up from behind you. Well, that’s where this man came from, I reckon. At the time I thought he rode up from nowhere, that’s how it seemed. He just appeared, and he had a great sword in his hand, and shouted at me to stop. I thought it was the Devil! Well, my horse, he just stopped dead anyway, he’s not used to having men turn up like that. Before I knew what was happening, I’d taken a knock on the side of my head and the bugger’d cut the purse from my belt…” His eyes took on a faraway look. “My sow and two piglets. Thieving bastard! They were worth good money, too. I’d sold them for five shillings, and most of the money was in that purse. Five shillings!”
Baldwin cleared his throat. “So, er, what happened then? This man hit you, and you came straight home, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Oh yes, sir.” He eyed the knight with sudden wariness, as if wondering whether to continue.
Simon broke the sudden silence. “Do not have any fears. Just name him for us and nothing can harm you. We think we already know this man’s identity, but we must have you confirm it.”
“What if him and his family come here? They could burn our place to the ground, yes, and kill my wife and the children. What then?”
“They won’t come here, Wat. I’ll make sure of that.”
“I don’t know…”
“Wat, the culprit’s father has promised me already that he’ll make good your loss. Does that help? He had no idea his son was here. But I must hear who it was – you must tell me.”
“It was John Beauscyr.”
The flat answer made Simon sink back exhausted. He had thought that this man might tell him something he did not know, but here was the proof. There was only one other point which mattered. His voice was low and serious as he spoke. “Wat, do you have any idea when this attack happened? Was it dark yet, or was it still light?”
