Crowner’s Quest

Chapter Eight In which Crowner John threatens the sheriff

It was well after midnight by the time de Wolfe and Gwyn walked back up the steep slope of the drawbridge of Rougemont. The clouds had cleared to allow the week-old moon to shine unfettered and the high, rounded archway of the gatehouse gleamed against the dark masonry. A shivering soldier lurked in the doorway of the guardroom, wishing himself under his bed-rugs in the arms of his wife.

‘You go off to your palliasse, Gwyn. There’s no need for us both to lose more sleep,’ growled the coroner. He made off across the inner bailey towards the keep, while his officer trudged to one of the bastion towers in the wall where a dozen men-at-arms slept in the lowest chamber.

Another sleepy guard jerked himself awake at the entrance to the keep, wondering what had brought the coroner to disturb the Sheriff at this time of night.

A dozen servants and assorted lodgers were sleeping in the hall, wrapped in their blankets around the smouldering fire, though one man was still eating and drinking at a table with a tiny tallow dip for light.

De Wolfe ignored him and walked heavily into the sheriff’s chamber, where de Revelle’s steward was snoring on a mattress in the corner. The sheriff’s bedroom was through an inner door, but de Wolfe made no effort to wake the servant or to tap on the panels. He pushed it open and walked in, indifferent to what he might find. Unlike the previous occasion when he had found Richard in this same bed with a whore, his brother-in-law was alone.

John unceremoniously kicked the corner of the low bed. The snores changed into a strangled grunt and the sheriff sat up, wild-eyed and confused. ‘Who’s there? Steward?’ he called.

‘Not your steward, it’s the King’s coroner.’ He deliberately emphasised the word ‘king’. Richard struggled up to a full sitting position, his nightshirt falling off one shoulder. ‘What the hell do you want, John, in the middle of the night? Have you at last gone really mad?’

A candle-stump was still burning on a side table. De Wolfe went across to it and lit another from its flame, to give a little more light. ‘I’ve just had a conversation with your friend Giles Fulford. He has told me a few interesting things, in front of two witnesses, one of whom is now committing it all to writing.’

The sheriff’s eyes were two shining beads in the candlelight. ‘Fulford? Are you still obsessed with that fellow? I thought he would have gone back to his master by now.’

‘Not until the gates open, Richard. You should have thought of that when you let him go. Anyway, he kindly informed me that he was present when Jocelin de Braose strangled Canon Robert de Hane. He helped string the poor man up to his privy roof.’

De Revelle had recovered enough of his wits to start to bluster. ‘And you woke me just to tell me this nonsense? Why should he confess this to you?’

‘Because Gwyn of Polruan put him to the peine et forte dure in a horse trough in Idle Lane. It’s a well-known method of arriving at the truth – one often employed by you, as I recollect.’

The sheriff was back to full consciousness. ‘Torture! Are you expecting me to accept anything obtained under such duress?’

‘It was good enough for you a few weeks ago when you pressed that silversmith to confess to rape. What’s wrong with it now, that you want to reject it?’

De Revelle struggled out of the low bed and stood up, pulling a blanket around his shoulders. ‘You’ve totally lost your senses, John! I hereby relieve you of the writ of coroner. Go home and take some physic for your fevered brain.’

De Wolfe sat calmly in a folding chair in the middle of the room, one with a curved leather seat and back. ‘Don’t be so stupid, Richard. My writ from the burgesses was confirmed by the Chief Justiciar and the Chancellor. You have no say in the matter. Good God, man, we were appointed partly to keep you sheriffs in check, so you have no authority over us whatsoever.’ He held up a restraining hand in the gloom, as de Revelle was about to launch into another tirade of abuse. ‘Fulford also told me that de Braose was at Totnes on the day when Fitzhamon was killed. I suspect he had a hand in that too, but it was what he said about you that really interested me.’

De Revelle’s mouth, which had been open to rail and rant, shut abruptly. Then he spoke almost quietly. ‘What did he say about me? I know nothing about the death of that old priest in the Close.’

For some reason, de Wolfe believed this, but he had other matters to pursue. ‘He said that you were a frequent visitor to Totnes Castle and to Berry Pomeroy, that you and the lords of that area were getting very thick indeed. Just as you are thick with our Precentor and even the Bishop.’

De Revelle glared at his sister’s husband. ‘What does that mean? I am sheriff of this county. I am obliged to visit every part of it, and am well known to all its barons, lords and knights.’

‘All those who favour Prince John, it seems. I hear no reports of your visiting the Ferrars, the de Courcys, the Courtneys, the Raleghs, the Inghams … all the King’s men.’

‘That is ridiculous. What are you trying to accuse me of?’

De Wolfe pointed a long finger at his brother-in-law. ‘There is rebellion in the air, Richard. I know it, you know it, and many others know it. That is treason against the King and many will hang for it, if it’s not stopped. Do you wish to be one of them, Richard?’

The sheriff threw his blanket around him imperiously, as if he was a Roman emperor. ‘You are a fool, John, and a dangerous fool. You have no proof of any such treason. Your imagination runs away with you. Did your precious Fulford tell you revolt was afoot?’

‘He told us that de Braose was collecting and training men-at-arms from both England and France. Some came in quietly by sea through the Channel ports – I know that Dawlish was one.’

‘Any baron is entitled to a fighting force of his own. I asked you, did this Fulford say that rebellion was imminent?’

‘Not in so many words, but he gave me enough intelligence to start me on my way to get confirmation – a job you should be doing, if you are so loyal to the monarch you represent in this part of England.’

‘Don’t lecture me on loyalty,’ flared the sheriff. ‘It would be better if the King came home, paid some attention to his kingdom and stopped bleeding it dry. He sells privileges, honours and charters like apples in the marketplace – he said he would sell London itself if he could get a good enough price.’

De Wolfe felt his anger rise. ‘A fine attitude towards the master whose lieutenant you are over thousands of his subjects. You make Fulford’s words more credible every time you open your mouth.’

De Revelle stepped forward angrily towards the coroner, but John leaped from his chair and towered over the other man. ‘You let Fulford go free and now he has confessed to having been involved in the killing of that prebendary – and, I suspect, the death of William Fitzhamon. He was caught red-handed trying to steal treasure, too, which by law belongs to the royal Treasury – and yet you, the keeper of the King’s peace in this county, refuse even to arrest him.’

Woken by the shouting, the old steward put his head fearfully round the door, but his master screamed at him to get out. Then he yelled at de Wolfe, ‘You have no proof at all of this man’s guilt. You torture some false confession from him when all he has done is dig a hole in a wood in some poxy village. Is that such a heinous crime, eh?’

He kicked the chair in which de Wolfe had been sitting, tipping it over with a crash. ‘I’ll not put the man in my gaol! If he doesn’t die of your assault upon him, he can ride out of the city in the morning where he’ll be safe from your lunatic actions.’

De Wolfe moved towards the door. ‘Very well. I felt I should give you a last chance, Richard. As soon as I have collected a little more evidence, I will go to Winchester or London to tell what I know to the Royal Justices and to Hubert Walter. Fitzhamon intended to do that and I owe it to his memory – and to his young son – to finish what evil men prevented him from completing.’

As he pulled open the door, the Nero-like figure of the sheriff spat a last warning at him: ‘Have a care, John! For my sister’s sake – and Christ knows she has suffered enough from you – I must warn you that you are on a path that could lead to the gallows.’

The coroner glared at his brother-in-law from the doorway. ‘Then maybe we will hang side by side on the same gibbet, Richard,’ he said, slamming the door behind him as he left.

That next morning, the second short day of 1195, saw several urgent conferences in the county of Devon, mostly conducted in low tones with many a cautious look over the shoulder.

Well before dawn, shadowy figures could be seen entering the Bishop’s palace behind the cathedral, and a keen observer might have recognised both Canon Thomas de Boterellis and Richard de Revelle going in to see Bishop Henry Marshal, who had recently returned from Gloucester. Soon after first light, the first two could have been seen galloping away along the road westward out of Exeter, with a pair of men-at-arms as escort.

Shortly before this, the coroner had been meeting the Archdeacon in the square chamber at the base of the north tower of the cathedral. In the opposite chamber of the south tower, used as the Lady Chapel, a group of priests and choristers was celebrating the early Lady Mass, but the bell had not yet begun to ring for prime, the first main service of the day, so John de Alencon had time to confer with de Wolfe and Hugh de Relaga, who had accompanied the Coroner to the cathedral. Hugh was a corpulent, cheerful fellow, addicted to colourful, showy clothing. An astute and successful wool merchant, he had been elected by his fellow burgesses as one of the two city Portreeves, the leaders of the civic administration. Unlike the other Portreeve, Henry Rifford, Hugh was an ardent King’s man, and with de Wolfe, the Archdeacon and John of Exeter, the cathedral Treasurer, formed a firm core of support for the Lionheart amid those whose loyalty was suspect. They stood in a tight group in the deserted chamber, the pale dawn light creeping through the tower windows and adding to the glow cast by the candles on the two small altars of St Paul and the Holy Cross behind them. The coroner explained briefly what had gone on during the previous night. ‘We made Giles Fulford tell us what happened to poor Robert de Hane. Although Fulford was the man that de Limesi and his vicar dealt with, it was his master Jocelin de Braose who was behind him. I lost him at our ambush at Dunsford, which made me suspect that he was the leading spirit in this search for Saewulf’s treasure.’

De Relaga was slightly bewildered: he had not been privy to the whole story and de Wolfe had to give him a quick summary. ‘That’s the background,’ he ended. ‘But last night I could see that we would lose our only hope of knowing what happened as the thrice-damned sheriff had let Fulford free to leave the city this morning. So Gwyn persuaded him to tell the truth.’

‘And that was what exactly?’ asked the Archdeacon.

‘When de Braose and Fulford dug up that Saxon brooch, it made them believe even more in the existence of the main treasure. When de Limesi failed to find any other parchment that would lead them to it, they decided to force its whereabouts from Robert de Hane. They beat him, then tried strangling him slowly into submission – but he suddenly died on them, poor old man. To avoid unnecessary problems, they hung him up to look like a suicide.’

While the coroner talked, de Relaga pulled his red cloak more closely about him in the chill air of the damp tower. He had been called from his bed too early to array himself in his usual finery, but his outfit was still in bright contrast to the sombre clothing of the coroner and the priest. ‘But what has this to do with Richard de Revelle’s refusal to arrest this Fulford?’ he asked.

‘Because de Braose and his squire Fulford are leaders of the mercenary gang that’s being hired by the would-be rebels out there in the countryside, I suppose he feels obliged to protect them.’

De Relaga groaned at the possibility. ‘I thought we had seen the last of this treachery last winter, when the King crushed the remnants of John’s vermin. Now you think it’s boiling up again?’

‘There’s no other explanation for the sheriff’s behaviour. He as good as told me so last night. I admit that the Lionheart is his own worst enemy, leaving the country so soon and trusting that the Justiciar can keep the lid on the discontent that these hard taxes undoubtedly foster.’

The Archdeacon snorted. ‘These nobles who are turning traitor are just using that as an excuse. They want more power and they see a better chance of getting it through the Count of Mortaigne, if they can seize the throne for him.’

The Portreeve was rapidly catching up with the situation. ‘But surely Hubert Walter is well aware of what’s going on? He has spies all over the country.’

‘England is a big place, and he can’t be everywhere at once,’ replied the coroner gruffly. ‘I suspect he anticipates attempts at revolt, but it would help him a great deal if he was given actual names and places.’

Hugh shook his head sadly. ‘I can hardly believe that people we know well would defect again so soon. And although de Revelle was sympathetic to the Prince last time, he never actually fought for him. That’s why he was allowed eventually to take up his sheriff’s appointment, especially with people like Henry Rifford and the Bishop to support him.’

‘The same goes for Henry Marshal and Thomas de Boterellis,’ commented de Alencon. ‘We all know that they sailed fairly near the wind, but never actually paraded their sympathies on the streets. Not like the Bishop of Coventry, who was the revolt’s true leader.’

‘Hugh de Nonant!’ grated de Wolfe. ‘A kinsman of the lord of Totnes, Henri de Nonant – who I suspect is also up to his neck in this. It was during his hunting party that William Fitzhamon was murdered. I’m beginning to think that the whole affair was organised as a cover for his killing. Which brings us back to de Braose and Fulford.’

‘Do you think de Nonant is the prime mover of this treason in Devon?’ asked John de Alencon.

The coroner looked at him mournfully. ‘Who can tell? Henry de la Pomeroy is the biggest landowner, but my guts tell me that they are all in this together.’

‘We have no proof of anything against any of them yet,’ pointed out the Archdeacon. ‘You claim, I’m sure correctly, that both our canon and Fitzhamon were murdered, but you have only a confession made under duress about de Hane, which is nothing to do with any rebellion.’

‘You’ve got de Revelle’s strange partiality towards Fulford, presumably because he is a tool of the rebels,’ objected de Relaga.

‘We could certainly do with better evidence,’ conceded de Wolfe. ‘But I am quite ready to ride to Winchester to talk to Hubert Walter.’

‘Give it a few days to see if more hard fact comes to light,’ advised the Portreeve. ‘In the meantime, don’t walk down too many dark alleys, John. Keep that ginger giant of yours close at hand with his fists and his sword!’

The weather had turned fine, but was bitterly cold as John de Wolfe left the cathedral and walked across the Close towards his house. The piles of earth dug out for new graves had frozen into rock-like heaps that blocked some of the paths and, with the rubbish, old timber and the hawkers’ stalls that were scattered around the cathedral precinct, it was something of an obstacle race to navigate into Martin’s Lane. Though Mary had given him some mulled ale and bread before he left to rouse Hugh de Relaga, de Wolfe couldn’t resist going into his house for a better breakfast. He found Matilda huddled at the table, a heavy cloak thrown around her nightgown and her dishevelled hair wrapped in a cloth like a turban – Lucille had not yet wreaked her witchcraft upon it. She was eating coarse porridge from a wooden bowl, and a large loaf, butter and cheese lay on the boards in front of her.

She muttered a grudging greeting and carried on eating. Whatever turmoil and alarms came along, nothing spoiled her appetite, which accounted for the thickness of her features, the loose skin under her eyes and the solidity of her frame and limbs.

De Wolfe had had no chance in the early hours to tell her of the events of the night and something told him to keep quiet about his suspicions of her brother’s loyalty. Mary came in with his hot porridge, fresh milk and more steaming ale, the only hot drink available on a freezing day like this – mulled wine could hardly be served at breakfast. ‘Thomas came in while you were out, Sir John,’ she reported, careful to be formal and respectful to him in the presence of the mistress. ‘He had a message, but I told him you would almost certainly be going up to the castle when you had eaten, so he went away.’

‘Do you know what he wanted?’

Mary opened her hands to him in a gesture of doubt. ‘He said something about royal fish, whatever they are.’

‘The evil little pervert is out of his mind,’ muttered Matilda, breaking her silence at the chance to malign the clerk. John held his tongue, but he knew what Thomas had meant, even if he was surprised that the matter had arisen. As soon as he had eaten, he left the house and walked up through the streets to Rougemont. It was Sunday, but there seemed to be no lessening of the market activities, with stalls along High Street selling meat, fish, bread, dairy products and vegetables, all tailored to the season of the year. Much less was available in midwinter compared to later on, but anything that could be cooked or preserved was raucously advertised by the yells of the stall-holders and the keepers of the small shops under the covered ways formed by overhanging upper storeys. Between the fixed stalls and the shops, hawkers stood hopefully with trays and boxes of goods, or with live fowl and ducks struggling under their arms, everything offered for sale to a potential buyer, after the inevitable haggling over a price.

Black John strode past them all as if they did not exist, deep in thought about the ominous political situation, the prospect of a revival of Prince John’s abortive rebellion. Although a coroner had no official stake in such matters, de Wolfe’s intense loyalty to the King overrode any confinement of his actions to dead bodies, treasure and sanctuary-seekers. Last March, he had been at the sieges at Tickhill in Yorkshire and at Nottingham, the last castles to hold out for the Prince. He and Gwyn had volunteered, itching for action, to help regain these for Coeur de Lion. The King himself had hurried to Nottingham within days of landing at Sandwich in Kent, after his imprisonment. De Wolfe remembered his sovereign setting up a gallows outside the castle walls and hanging a few captives, which rapidly persuaded the garrison to surrender. As he strode up to Rougemont, he wondered whether the same tactics might be needed soon outside the castles at Totnes and Berry Pomeroy.

At the top of the stairs in the gatehouse, he pushed aside the sacking door and went in to the usual scene of Thomas writing at the trestle table and Gwyn perched on the window-ledge, eating and drinking. The little clerk, his thin nose red with cold, held up a parchment. ‘I recorded all that Fulford said last night, Crowner. It’s written here, as you ordered. I’ve even got that savage over there to make his mark on it where I’ve written his name. You can sign it here, if you want to take it to the Justiciar.’ He offered his quill to de Wolfe, who, with some pride, carefully inscribed his name at the bottom of the document, the only words he was able to write.

He threw down the pen with studied carelessness. ‘What’s this about fish, Thomas?’ he demanded.

‘A sturgeon, Crowner, a big one! Stuck in a pool on the ebb tide near St James’s Priory, where there are salmon traps. The prior sent a message with one of the fish-sellers early this morning.’

De Wolfe was intrigued: this was the first time he had been called upon to carry out one of the oddest tasks of a coroner. As well as looking into treasure trove and fires, he had to investigate catches of the so-called ‘royal fish’, which were sturgeons and whales. If they were found within the realm of England, these became the property of the Crown. Both were prized and valuable, the sturgeon for its flesh and roe and the whale mainly for the oil it provided for lamps, as well as its flesh, if it was fresh enough.

Gwyn looked up from his loaf and cheese. ‘Very strange to have a sturgeon come up-river in winter. They usually arrive from the ocean to spawn in the spring.’ The Cornishman came from Polruan, where his father had been a fisherman, and he considered himself an authority on anything that had sails, rudder or fins.

‘Maybe this fish is an ignoramus like you, who can’t tell January from March,’ suggested Thomas, always quick to insult his partner. De Wolfe held up a hand to quell the inevitable squabble. ‘That’s enough! Let’s get down there and see this beast. The rest of the day may be busier.’

As they went out, he muttered to his henchman, ‘Gwyn, keep your eyes open and your hand on your sword. After our encounter with Fulford last night, there are people who would gladly see us dead.’