The Manor of Death

CHAPTER NINE

That evening in the Bush, Nesta was full of her latest visit that day to the priory to see Owain ap Gronow. As John sat with Gwyn and Thomas at his table near the firepit, she prattled on about the Welshman, especially the increasing number of acquaintances and distant relatives that they shared. She spoke in English in deference to Thomas, and the others began to appreciate the homesickness that she must be feeling. The previous year, John had taken her on a short trip back to Gwent, but it seemed that this had heightened her longing, rather than having relieved it. Nesta had first come to Exeter with her husband Meredydd, but when he died she had been left isolated in a foreign city.

'Is he recovering well?' asked Thomas solicitously.

'Very well indeed. Brother Saulf said that he can leave the day after tomorrow. I will put a mattress filled with new straw for him up in the loft.'

'A wonder you don't fill it with swans' down!' said John. He tried to make it sound jocular, but there was an undercurrent of sarcasm in the remark, which passed over Nesta's head.

'And the first night, I'll make him some good Welsh cawl to build up his strength after his injuries.'

She looked flushed with excitement this evening, but John was somewhat reassured, as she was more like a little girl with a new toy rather than a woman with a potential new lover. Cuddling up to his side on the bench and reaching over to take a sip from his ale-pot, she seemed happy and affectionate.

Soon, Thomas' changed the subject to that of Matilda, as John had confided in his friends about his latest problem. 'Is there any news of your wife, sir?'

De Wolfe shook his head. 'She's keeping me in suspense again, damn her! Every time I go back to the house, I half-expect to find her sitting there as if nothing had happened, just as she did last year.'

As usual, the kind-hearted Nesta came to her defence. 'The poor lady must be in very low spirits, bless her. That business with her brother must have been hard to take — and you don't exactly make her life any easier, John,' she added caustically.

He ignored the barbed remark, which was not the first in that vein. 'If she doesn't make up her mind one way or the other very soon, she'll find me gone. Gwyn, Thomas and I are sailing across the seas on Monday, if the weather allows.'

This was the first Nesta had heard of the voyage and, after he had explained all about it, she affected an indignation that John suspected was not all play-acting. 'Not only does the royal coroner neglect his wife but he leaves his lover to fend for herself as well! Will you be back this year, do you think?' she added sarcastically.

He grinned sheepishly. 'Within a couple of weeks, God willing. It's the king's business; I have to go.'

'Well, when you return, don't be surprised if I've run off with the baker or the butcher — or even that nice Welsh stonemason!'

Her tone was light, but John wondered why she had so readily added on the last part. It must have been lying sleeping in her mind, he thought sourly. Yet the pretty redhead prattled on about the lavish present she expected him to bring her from France, and her manner with him seemed as relaxed and skittish as always. After Gwyn had lumbered away to a game of dice with the soldiers in Rougemont and Thomas had slid away to his shared lodging in Priest Street, John stayed to enjoy a supper of boiled mutton, leeks and beans, before enjoying a different experience up in the little room in the loft.

With Matilda away, he stayed the entire night and, in spite of his earlier concerns about Nesta, found her to be even more enthusiastic than usual about their lovemaking. His own responses were similarly uninhibited and afterwards, as he lay staring up into the darkness of the roof beams, he wondered if the frustration he had experienced with Hilda had sharpened his senses, But in that case, he thought darkly, might something similar have stimulated Nesta?

Then he thought of the very public ward in St John's and the fact that the stone carver had one arm in a sling. Reassured, he rolled over to put an arm around Nesta's bare shoulders and was soon asleep.

In Axmouth two days later, it was as if history had slipped backwards two or three centuries to the dark days of the Viking raids, except that this incursion came from the land rather than the sea. The leader of the marauding band was a massive man with a forked beard and, though his round iron helmet had no horns attached, he could have been taken for some Norse chieftain, with his chain-mail hauberk, massive broadsword and a spiked mace at his saddlebow. He was in fact Ralph Morin, the constable of Exeter Castle, and he led a score of mounted men-at-arms in full campaign order. Ralph was well aware that he was unlikely to have to fight a pitched battle with the villagers of Axmouth, but he wanted to show that the authorities took this seriously — as well as a welcome chance to give these idle soldiers a work-out, as few had raised a weapon in anger for years.

As the troop came down the road towards the landward gate, their harnesses jingling, Morin turned in his saddle to look at the, pair behind him. John de Wolfe was riding alongside Gwyn and, behind them, Sergeant Gabriel kept company with Thomas de Peyne.

'Where do you want to start, John?' demanded the constable.

The coroner, who wore a helmet and sword but no armour, pointed ahead. 'Get Gabriel to take your men down to the wharves alongside the river, beyond the further gate. Make sure no one goes in or out of the storehouses, for these crafty bastards might well hide something if they're not watched like hawks.'

They entered the top of the main street of the large village, ignoring the surprised inhabitants who gaped at this sudden appearance of such a show of force. As the grizzled sergeant carried on with his troop down towards the seaward end, the coroner and the constable, with Gwyn and the clerk behind them, peeled off and dismounted outside the house of Edward Northcote. Disturbed by the noise, Northcote emerged from his door, followed by Elias Palmer and a florid faced man in a brown robe, a shaven tonsure marking him as a cleric, presumably in one of the lower orders.

'What in hell's going on?' demanded the bailiff angrily. 'Have the French landed that you need to bring half the army down here?'

Though Northcote was a big man, Ralph Morin dwarfed him, looking even more threatening in his armour. He thrust a parchment under Northcote's nose, a sheet with an impressive red seal dangling from it. Neither could read it, but the bailiff angrily passed it to the portreeve.

'What's this about, Elias?' he snapped. The skinny official rapidly scanned the words. 'It's a warrant from Henry de Furnellis, demanding in the name of the king that all stocks and wares and any documents relating to trade in Axmouth be made available for inspection by the sheriff's representatives, namely Sir John de Wolfe, coroner, and Ralph Morin, castellan.'

Edward Northcote grabbed the parchment from Elias and waved it aloft. 'Holy Mary, do you mean to say you brought half the garrison down here just to go rooting through our store-sheds?' he jeered at the top of his voice. 'Are you all mad up in Exeter, that you waste your time and disturb hard-working folk with your nonsense?'

De Wolfe stepped forward to confront the bailiff. 'The sooner we start, the sooner we can leave you to your important work,' he said sarcastically. 'Let your man Elias Palmer here show us his lists and manifests of what should be in the warehouses. We have brought my clerk here, who can read what is necessary.'

'He's not the only one here who is literate, Crowner, so don't judge all men by yourself.' This scathing remark came from the fat-faced man in the monkish robe.

'And who the hell might you be?' growled the coroner, resenting someone who made public jibes about his lack of education.

'I am Brother Absalom, the assistant cellarer of the Priory of Loders. I am charged by the prior with supervising his interests in this manor, which belongs to the priory.' He swelled up visibly with self-importance, reminding John of one of the bullfrogs that he had seen on his foreign travels. 'In fact, I consider your presence here and this note from the sheriff to be illegal,' he continued. 'This village and port belong to a French religious house and as such is outside the jurisdiction of the civil authorities!'

John moved closer and poked the clerk in the chest with a long finger. 'In relation to your cure of souls here, I agree with you, brother,' he grated. 'But if your religious house chooses to indulge in trade and reap the benefits of that, then you are subject to all the laws and practices of England.' He paused to give the lay brother another jab in-the chest.

'Furthermore, we are seeking a murderer and have good reason to suspect that illegal acts against both property and persons may have been committed or fomented here. So just keep your monastic comments to yourself and stay out of our way!'

The prior's man went even redder in the face and began protesting, but John ignored him and turned to Edward Northcote and his shadow, Elias Palmer. 'I hope you are not going to be difficult over this, or we will have to take you back to Rougemont to question you further in less salubrious surroundings,' he threatened. 'Thomas, go with the portreeve and see that he gives you the right documents relating to the current imports and exports.'

As his clerk followed the reluctant Elias back into the bailiff's dwelling, Northcote's anger seemed to have subsided to a puzzled concern. 'Crowner, I don't understand this! Why this overstated show of force? True, there may be some small irregularities in the way the goods are tallied for the king's Customs levy, but that is a minor matter, mainly due to the inefficiency of John Capie. But a troop of armed soldiers and threats of arrest — that seems excessive.'

There was a certain tinge of sincerity in his voice that puzzled John. Could this man be a villain and a possible murderer?

'There is more to it than that, bailiff. We have a ship's boy cruelly slain and his body buried, then we have one of the king's law officers murdered. The last death, and certainly the killing of a pedlar, have fingers pointing at Axmouth.'

Edward Northcote bridled at this. 'That's sheer supposition, Crowner! You have no proof whatsoever that our village is concerned in any of that — apart from the dead boy, which I firmly maintain was some drunken dispute between shipmen, notorious for their drunken violence.'

De Wolfe glowered at the indignant bailiff. 'Be that as it may, we need to check your records against what is found in your sheds.'

Northcote glared back at him, but it was the monkish fellow from Loders who broke in. 'I can see that it might be within your remit to investigate these deaths, but what possible right can a coroner have to come poking his nose into matters of commerce?'

'The right of a king's law officer to pursue whatever task is allotted to him!' snapped de Wolfe. 'A coroner can be given a commission by the king or his agents to look into anything in the realm. And I have been commanded by the sheriff — who represents the king in this county of Devon — to investigate certain serious allegations concerning the conduct of the port of Axmouth.'

As if to highlight his words, he turned back to Northcote. 'Is that vessel The Tiger in the harbour at present?'

The bailiff shook his head. 'No, she left the river a couple of days ago, bound for Ouistreham in Normandy with wool. Should be home next week, bringing fine Caen stone back to build some church.'

De Wolfe was disappointed as he wondered, though without much foundation, whether each return of The Tiger might coincide with illicit goods appearing in the quayside barns. His suspicion of that vessel was based mainly on the fact that the dead Simon had been a crew member and had been so agitated on his return from his last voyage — as well as a personal dislike of her shipmaster, Martin Rof.

Soon, Thomas came out of the house with the portreeve, who clutched a bundle of parchments under his arm. 'What do you want done with these?' he demanded querulously.

'We'll all take a walk down to the quayside and check what's in the sheds against those documents of yours,' said the coroner, already starting to lope towards the gate.

'They'll not be up to date,' called Elias from behind him. 'There are two cogs unloading there today, and John Capie won't have brought me his tallies for them yet.'

He shuffled along behind, followed by the bailiff and Absalom, Ralph Morin bringing up the rear. When they reached the spot on the river bank where two vessels were berthed, they found that Gabriel had stopped the men from unloading while the inventory of the big sheds across the road was being made.

'You are interfering with our work, Crowner,' croaked Elias Palmer. 'We still have to pay these men and now they are all sitting on their backsides while you waste our time.'

A couple of men-at-arms were stationed at the doors of each of the four warehouses, one of which was open, with a disgruntled John Capie standing with a bundle of tallies in his hand. 'This new stuff is cloth from Cologne and some dried fruit and wine from Barfleur,' he protested.

'It's what else might be in these storehouses than concerns me,' snapped de Wolfe. 'I want everything checked against those lists that the portreeve is holding so close to his chest.'

Two hours later, de Wolfe was even more disappointed, as the laborious business of identifying every item in the cavernous barns with the sheets of parchment that Elias had produced had revealed nothing that could be construed as illegal or even suspicious. It was true that many of the casks and crates had little or no markings upon them, and the bales of wool waiting to be shipped out had nothing on them but splashes of different-coloured dyes to denote the place of origin, according to a list that the portreeve held. But overall the total number of different classes of merchandise corresponded with the manifests. There were some errors, but with such a random method as Capie's knots and sticks it was to be expected that there were a few discrepancies.

By early afternoon the coroner and constable had to admit defeat, in that they had found no evidence of malpractice in Axmouth. The bailiff and the brother from Loders had stood around during the search in bored resentment, and when finally the search was called off they were full of righteous indignation.

'Now that you have wasted half our day and slowed the discharge of the cargo from those two vessels, perhaps you will go away and leave us in peace!' snorted Edward Northcote.

'The prior will hear of this, you may be assured of that!' brayed Absalom. 'I have no doubt that he will complain to the bishop about this intrusion.'

'What the devil has the bishop got to do with anything?' countered Morin. 'He's no say in the enforcement of the law in this county.'

'Then I'll complain to the Archbishop of Canterbury.'

De Wolfe leered at him, grateful for even a small victory. 'Then I'll be happy to convey your complaints to him personally, for I'm about to sail to Normandy to see him!'

Rightly suspecting that they would now receive little hospitality in Axmouth, the party saddled up and left the village, stopping instead a few miles along the homeward road for refreshment. At a roadside clearing near Colyford, the men-at-arms dismounted from their short-legged moorland horses and sprawled amongst the weeds to pass around skins of ale and cider and eat the bread and meat they had brought in their saddle-pouches. Leaving the sergeant to keep order, their leaders rode the quarter-mile into the village and used the solitary tavern to assuage their hunger and thirst.

De Wolfe ordered bread, cheese and cold mutton for the four of them, and while the ale-wife went off to prepare the food they sat hunched on a couple of benches drinking the thin brew and discussing the fiasco in Axmouth.

'You are sure those lists corresponded to what was in the barns?' grumbled the constable, less aware than John how meticulous Thomas de Peyne was in such matters. The little clerk stoutly defended himself and pointed out a gaping flaw in their attempt to unmask any evildoing.

'The manifests of Elias were well written and convincing, and I had no problem in matching the items with the goods,' he said. 'But of course we have no way of knowing how true those lists were!'

De Wolfe peered at his clerk from under his black brows. He had every respect for Thomas's perspicacity but did not follow his train of thought here. 'What d'you mean, not true?'

'Well, the lists could just as well have been written to deliberately conform with what's in the sheds at any time. That doesn't mean that the stuff came off a particular ship and was checked in by John Capie. If the bailiff and the portreeve and anyone else down there feared that they might be challenged — as indeed we did this morning — then they could fabricate those lists as often as necessary, so that everything would appear to be in order.'

Gwyn tried to follow the sharp little clerk's argument, but failed. 'What the hell d'you mean, Thomas? I don't understand.'

His small friend gave him a pitying look, but explained again. 'Look, say a pirate ship comes in with stolen goods. The stuff is unloaded into the sheds and straightway a list is made of it, falsely attributing its ownership to various merchants. As I'm sure they shift the material out very quickly, probably inside a day or two, then it would be virtually impossible to verify anyone crate or barrel to some alleged importer in Yeovil or Dorchester. And one bale of wool looks the same as another, and the few markings they have could easily be faked.'

De Wolfe nodded his understanding. 'So for all we know, some of that stuff we've been handling today might have been pillaged. And there's no way of tracing it back to its alleged owners in time. No way can we go haring around England asking merchants if they had a particular keg of Loire wine through Axmouth last month.'

As the woman brought them their food, Ralph Morin summed up their day's efforts. 'So we've been wasting our damned time, have we?'

'Not entirely, I hope,' replied the coroner, spearing a slice of cold meat with his eating knife. 'We've certainly made it clear to them that the law is breathing down their neck, but we're not going to get them hanged by looking at sheets of parchment and sniffing around their warehouses. They've got to be caught red-handed.'

Thomas watched with trepidation as the gap widened between the ship's side and the edge of the stone quay. Though he had been to sea only once before on a short journey between Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight, that had been more than sufficient to convince him that he was not cut out to be a sailor. He stood with the coroner and Gwyn on the raised part of the stern deck as the Mary and Child Jesus drifted slowly away from the wharf below Exeter's encircling wall. This rampart came across from the West Gate to the relatively new Watergate, punched through the wall in response to Exeter's burgeoning trade, which needed better access to its port. As they moved smoothly out, the city hovered above them, sloping up to Rougemont at the furthest and highest point. They passed a section of wall that climbed steeply up to the South Gate, and in minutes they were abeam of low cliffs that lined the eastern side of the Exe.

The shipmaster, Roger Watts, had waited until the morning flood tide was just at its highest before casting off, so that they could drift down on the ebb to the beginning of the estuary at Topsham and then catch some wind to help them the next few miles to the open sea. Thomas would have a couple of hours' respite on the smooth waters before he began wishing he was dead for the two- or three-day haul across the unforgiving waters between England and Normandy.

While de Wolfe was indifferent to sea voyages, having crossed many times to Ireland, France and various parts of the Mediterranean, Gwyn was in his element. Trading on his past life as a boy helping his fisherman father in Polruan, he set himself up as an authority on everything maritime and now gazed critically as two youths set the single sail to catch enough wind to give them steerage way in the narrow river. He found nothing to complain about, nor in the way that Roger Watts was handling the steering oar behind them, so he turned to John for a chat.

'Still no news of your goodwife, Crowner?' He could not stomach the woman, who treated him like dirt when she deigned to notice his existence, but he thought it politic to ask.

'Not a word!' growled de Wolfe. 'I'm letting her stew until we get back. No doubt she'll be at home by then.' Thomas, who felt greatly relieved that the cog was not yet rolling or pitching, offered some of his unfailing charity. 'No doubt the peace and quiet of Polsloe will calm her disturbed spirits after the upsetting times she has suffered lately, and I pray that she will return refreshed.'

John grunted in appreciation of his clerk's kind thoughts, but privately doubted that Thomas's prayers would improve Matilda's temper.

They stood for a while as they passed the small Priory of St James, with the poles of fish-traps protruding from the water. John remembered being called out the previous year, when a sturgeon was caught there and he had to confiscate its value for the king. The weather was holding well, and Roger Watts called to them from his steering position to forecast a rapid voyage.

'There's a fresh westerly wind which will blow us briskly up-Channel once we get out past Dawlish Warren,' he hollered. 'As long as it doesn't turn into a gale, that is!' he added, to Thomas's horror.

The mention of Dawlish once again set the wheels of John's mind in motion. The memory of that recent kiss and what might have come of it, had not Hilda exercised enough self-control for both of them, was branded into his soul and clashed with his guilt over Nesta, which in turn led paradoxically to his jealous concerns about leaving her for a couple of weeks in the company of the Welsh stonemason. As they glided down the river towards Topsham, his wandering mind was also triggered by the shipmaster's mention of Dawlish to the fact that this very ship under his feet was the scene of Thorgils' violent death and hence the cause of Hilda's widowhood. Though the vessel had been extensively refitted since then, his ready guilt sent his eyes searching the deck planking for non-existent bloodstains.

Shaking the mood off, he forced himself to watch the passing landscape, and when the busy little port of Topsham had slid by he waited for Exmouth to appear on the port side, just as they entered the open sea. On the opposite bow, he recalled the spot where he had come down to see the beached whale, and beyond it in the distance lie could just make out the village of Dawlish, where the delectable Hilda was no doubt spending her lonely life in her solar in Thorgils' fine house.

Moments later he felt the first lurch as the cog crossed the sand bar at the narrow mouth of the estuary and rose to the first wave of the western ocean as it swept along the coast into Lyme Bay. Immediately, there was a groan from Thomas and a guffaw of merriment from the unsympathetic Gwyn, who stood on the deck with feet planted apart, like a rock glued to the planks. 'Time for some food, little fellow!' he cackled. 'No doubt the ship's boy can fry you some fat pork on that fire he has in the forecastle.'

The poor clerk tottered to the side and, with one hand clutching his floppy broad-brimmed hat and the other clamped to the rail, endlessly began reciting his Hail Marys, with frequent pleas to God Almighty and all His assorted saints to deliver him from the perils of the sea.

Someone in heaven must have paid attention to the clerk's supplications, for Thomas's ordeal was shorter than he feared, due to the unfailingly favourable wind. Also, after the first of the three-day voyage, he discovered that he did not feel so bad as he expected and was even able to keep down some food and drink, though not in the quantities that the five-man crew and the two other passengers seemed to consume with such obscene gusto. The cooking was done on a small woodfire, safely walled in with stones on a large slab of slate in a cubbyhole under the rising bow, where the crew slept in turns when not on watch. The passengers had a low hutch near the stern, large enough for them to squat in or lie down on straw-filled mattresses laid on the deck-boards.

De Wolfe and his officer spent much of the time on the afterdeck with Roger Watts or whoever was manning the steering oar. John wondered many times if they might be attacked by the pirates they sought, but for three days they never glimpsed so much as a distant sail, until they were within a few miles of the coast of Normandy. He was somewhat disappointed, but also recognised that two men and a timid priest would have been of little use in supporting the small crew against a gang of determined pillagers.

Their shipmaster, with twenty years of familiarity with these waters, made landfall within a dozen miles of Honfleur, a port on the southern side of the mouth of the Seine, encircled by low hills. When they sailed into the small harbour at the entrance of a stream, he put them ashore in the curragh, a small boat shaped like an elongated coracle, made from hides stretched over a light wicker framework that was kept lashed upside down over the hatch. Promising to be back at the same spot in seven days' time, unless the weather was against him, Roger Watts left straight away to catch the wind and tide for his onward journey.

As it was now late afternoon, the coroner decided to spend the night in Honfleur and, equipped with a parchment carrying the sheriff's seal which declared the king's coroner to be on official business, claimed a night's lodging for them in the small castle which protected the port. Advice from the commander led them next morning to requisition horses to take them to Rouen, rather than attempt to be ferried up the winding loops of the Seine on a small boat, as beyond the reach of the tides, progress would be slow and subject to the vagaries of the wind and current. The journey was about forty miles and obviously could not be covered within a day, especially given Thomas's poor horsemanship. They set off on an overcast morning and plodded the well-beaten track all day until they reached the village of Bourg-Achard, slightly over halfway. An uncomfortable night was spent in the only tavern, which housed a particularly savage species of bedbug, and they were only too ready to leave at dawn for the second leg of the journey. By afternoon they had reached the Seine opposite the city of Rouen, which was on the northern bank, but as there was no bridge over the wide river they had to wait for a ferry to take them and their horses across.

A disappointment awaited them at the castle when they reached the imposing structure at the centre of the bustling city, the capital of Normandy and effectively the seat of the King of England more than London or Winchester. After negotiating his way past several clerks and secretaries by the exhibition of Henry de Furnellis's warrant, de Wolfe reached one senior enough to tell him that the Chief Justiciar was not in the city but had left two days before to be with the king at some outpost about twenty miles up the Seine, at a place called Andeli. Again they were too late to set off that day but enjoyed better hospitality than the previous night, John having a bed in the knights' quarters, while Gwyn was happy to eat, drink and play dice in the garrison barracks. Thomas, ever keen to savour the religious life of new places, went to pray at the ancient church of St-Oeun and was invited by fellow priests to eat and sleep in their dorter, though much of his night was taken up with attendance at Matins and Prime.

The horses they had borrowed at Honfleur had also rested and fed well, and by the eighth hour they were again on the road running along the north bank of the Seine. The whole area showed the intense military activity that was now almost permanent, since King Richard had sailed from Portsmouth with his army and fleet of a hundred ships almost two years earlier.

Obsessed with regaining the territory that he had lost to Philip of France, largely through the treachery and incompetence of his brother John, the Lionheart had ranged up and down the length of France, steadily pushing back Philip's borders.

There had been some reversals, such as the attack on Dieppe, where Philip himself had led three hundred of his knights to ransack the town and burn ships in the harbour, but generally Richard's unceasing efforts were succeeding. As the coroner's trio rode southwards, they passed wagons full of equipment and supplies, much of it paid for by the taxes extorted from England. Troops of soldiers marched in both directions, many of them Welsh mercenaries who were the mainstay of the army, especially the archers. Others were foreigners, including some dreaded 'Brabancons', little better than bandits — and John had heard that the king had even employed some Saracens, so impressed had he been with their wild courage in Palestine.

'Where are we going to find Hubert Walter?' asked Gwyn when they were a dozen miles out of Rouen. 'If I remember him aright from the Holy Land, he may well be huddled in some tent with the common men-at-arms.'

'They said in Rouen that this place Andeli is little more than a village, so someone there will surely direct us to the King of England.'

And so it proved to be, when they reached a picturesque hamlet at the apex of a huge bend in the river, where white chalk cliffs broke through dense trees along the north bank. Men-at-arms were camping out at various spots, sitting around cooking fires or tending to their equipment. Mounted heralds and knights rode past between the village and a high eminence to the south, where a craggy ridge of cliff stood high above the river.

'That's where he'll be,' announced John confidently, and as they climbed a track busy with military traffic his guess was soon confirmed. Along a neck of land three hundred feet. above the water below, they saw a collection of tents and pavilions bedecked with flags and banners and surrounded by the more mundane paraphernalia of an army camp. Sentries were posted at intervals along the approaches, but John's impressive appearance, aided by a display of the heavy red seal dangling from the sheriff's parchment, got them waved through each checkpoint. Several older men even recognised him as 'Black John' from the years he had spent campaigning under the Lionheart and his father, the equally fearsome King Henry. At the centre of the circle of canvas pavilions, the largest flew a red banner with three golden lions, and nearby was another with the episcopal flag of Canterbury.

'Best leave our mounts over there,' suggested Gwyn as they approached, pointing at makeshift stables of hurdles and poles, where a score of tethered horses were being fed and watered. Alongside, two farriers were shoeing other horses, and another pair of armourers were sharpening weapons on grinds tones being turned by young boys. Though a truce with the French had been in force since January, it was a fragile peace, and the activity in the camp was a reminder that the potential front line was only a few miles down the road to the Vexin and Paris.

De Wolfe sought out the camp marshal, who turned out to be a grizzled old knight from Sussex, with whom he had campaigned in Ireland years before. After a few nostalgic reminders, the marshal, who was responsible for the organisation of the camp, arranged for the care of their horses, then took them to a mess tent, where to Gwyn's delight food and ale were in abundance. When they had eaten and John and the old campaigner had indulged in a few more reminiscences, the coroner explained why they had come chasing Hubert Waiter across the Channel. 'I need to speak to him urgently, before he goes rushing off somewhere else. I don't have the time to go chasing him down to Aquitaine or Gascony!'

The marshal promised to send one of the clerks from the archbishop's ménage over to see him, and then stamped away to find a page who would guide de Wolfe to one of the larger tents where a number of knights were billeted.

'Your officer here can find a place with the sergeants,' he added, but then looked doubtfully at Thomas. 'I'm not sure what to do with a priest. Perhaps the archbishop's clerk can fix him up with the other shaven pates!'

Both John and Gwyn felt totally at home in this busy place, so redolent of the atmosphere and memories of the two decades in which they had fought their way around much of the known world. It was less attractive to the timid Thomas, though he relished the thought of being attached, albeit temporarily, to the retinue of the Primate of England, even though this particular archbishop was more of an administrator and soldier than a Vicar of God. As they waited for someone to fetch them, Gwyn stared around him with a frown. 'What in hell is our king doing here, camped on a bloody cliff miles from anywhere?'

De Wolfe looked into the distance with a practised military eye, scanning the great curve of the river as it flowed past the foot of the cliffs.

'Richard does nothing without a purpose, Gwyn. He's the best soldier the world has known since Alexander, so they say. I'll wager he's going to fortify this place to block the Seine against Philip Augustus.'

Eventually, a fat clerk came from the archbishop's tent and settled the three visitors in their various lodgings for the coming night. When John explained that he needed to see Hubert Waiter about the murder of one of his new law officers, the cleric, who was a canon from St Albans, took the matter with the seriousness that it deserved.

'His Grace is fully occupied this evening, Sir John. He has many matters of grave importance concerning the financing of the campaign to discuss with the king and several of his major barons. But I am sure he will see you in the morning.'

Thankful for the prospect of a good night's rest after their continuous journeying for almost a week, John had another good meal in the early evening. Then he spent an hour or two spinning yarns of days gone by with several older warriors in the knights' quarters, before wrapping himself in his cloak and sleeping soundly on a hessian bag of hay purloined by a page from the stables. Gwyn had a similar orgy of reminiscence with the more senior men-at-arms, several of whom he had met in previous campaigns. As for Thomas, he was delighted to curl up in a comer of the administrator's marquee and eavesdrop on the conversations of several canons and archdeacons from Normandy and Poitou.

The morning was blasted alive by trumpets soon after dawn, and there was an hour of sleepy activity as fires were revived, food cooked and animals fed by the couple of hundred occupants of the cliff top camp. The fat canon, reluctantly seconded from the main court at Rouen, appeared at about the seventh hour and summoned de Wolfe to Hubert Waiter's accommodation, a trio of connected tents and a circular canvas pavilion. He took Gwyn and Thomas with him, ignoring the disapproving expression of the canon at the sight of the big untidy Cornishman with wild red hair and drooping moustaches.

The Chief Justiciar was sitting in a folding chair behind a trestle table piled with parchments. A thin chaplain stood protectively behind him, and two clerks worked at a longer table on the far side of the tent. Hubert was a wiry man of medium height, his face lined and leathery, though he had not been on a field of battle since leaving Palestine several years earlier. Only his shaven tonsure betrayed him as a priest, as he wore a leather jerkin over a brown tunic, beneath which protruded legs encased in serge breeches, like any other fighting man. The sole token of his ecclesiastical rank was a small gold cross on a chain around his neck and the large ring of office on his finger.

When John entered, he rose with a smile of genuine pleasure and gestured to a clerk to bring the coroner a stool, which was set for him on the other side of the table. Gwyn and Thomas stood discreetly a few paces behind him, in respectful silence in the presence of this powerful man who virtually ruled England in the king's absence. It was conventional for all those who approached the Primate to kiss his ring, but in these military surroundings he made no move to offer his hand.

'Well, Black John, what brings you all this way? You only visit me when you want something!'

The tone was amiable, almost affectionate, as the two men had known and respected each other for some years, especially during the last Crusade. As John's shadow, Gwyn was also well known to Hubert, but de Wolfe went out of his way to introduce Thomas as his invaluable clerk, which made the little priest squirm with embarrassed pleasure to be noticed by the head of the English Church.

'How is that damned brother-in-law of yours behaving himself?' demanded Hubert, for the last time John had petitioned him was in relation to Richard de Revelle's latest misdemeanours and subsequent disgrace, which had been the cause of Matilda's final lapse into depression.

'He seems to have run out of escapades at the moment, as Prince John also seems to be keeping a low profile these days,' replied the coroner. 'For once, I have come to seek your advice and help on other matters — and indeed to bring you news of a disturbing breach of the law.'

For the next few minutes de Wolfe set out in his blunt fashion a catalogue of the events in east Devon, including the probability of Customs evasion and piracy, culminating in the murder of one of the Justiciar's new Keepers of the Peace.

'The man was one of your appointees, my lord, and, though a rather rash and impetuous fellow, did not deserve such a death, when he was only doing his duty on behalf of our king.'

Even with all the cares and responsibilities that were heaped upon him daily, Hubert Walter looked genuinely concerned at John's news. 'I never met de Casewold, though I recall his name amongst the lists of knights appointed to be Keepers last year,' he said grimly. 'He must be the first to be killed in the course of his duty. They were not intended to be physical enforcers of the law but rather to ensure that crimes were not ignored or tolerated, but always brought to justice.'

For a while they spoke of the significance of the death and the need to appoint a successor, as well as to increase the number of Keepers. The original plan was to install four in each county, but so far the total was far short of that target.

'And you think his killing was linked to this business in Axmouth?' The Justiciar sat with his hands planted firmly on the table, looking intently at de Wolfe.

'I do indeed, as he told me he was intent on tracking illicit goods coming out of that port,' answered John. 'Though we have so far failed to prove it, as I am sure they falsify their records, I'm convinced that they both evade the Customs duty on a large scale and also dispose of loot gained by piracy in the Channel, which is my main concern.

He recounted the disappearance of a number of merchant vessels and the conviction of local shipmen that at least some of these were being deliberately pillaged, then sunk with all their crew.

'I have heard that the king has begun to build up a navy, based on his new harbour at Portsmouth. Surely one vital task for them would be to rid the seas of these murderous swine who prey on their fellow seamen?'

Hubert nodded slowly. 'It is true that King Richard has a great interest in creating a seaborne army and has already commissioned a number of ships. They are really merchant cogs with built-up castles at bow and stern and manned by fighting men and archers. But they are meant to be a support to his army, fighting the French both at sea and in attacks on their ports.'

'But surely some could patrol the south coast to discourage these vultures who prey on our ships?' growled de Wolfe.

Hubert lifted his hands in supplication. 'Money, John, it is always money! Each month our monarch demands more and expects me to find it every time. Ships are expensive, and to build more at present is beyond our means.' He waved an arm to encompass everything around them. 'Why do you think we are camped on this bloody hill, when we could be more comfortable back in Rouen's citadel? Because the king has now decided to build the strongest fortress in Europe here, mainly to spite Philip Augustus!' He shook his head in mock despair. 'And where am I going to get the money? By squeezing the barons and bishops even harder, on both sides of the Channel — and by grinding more taxes from every family in Richard's possessions. No wonder I am the most unpopular man in England!'

De Wolfe nodded sagely, pleased that his forecast about this site was correct. 'It is certainly a perfect place to dominate the Seine and the surrounding countryside,' he said admiringly.

The Justiciar smiled wryly. 'The problem is that we do not own the land here. It is part of a manor belonging to the Archbishop of Rouen, who has taken great exception to Richard's plans. He has placed Normandy under a religious interdict over the issue and appealed to the Pope, but no doubt we can buy him off, if only we can raise the money.'

'But you are not actually fighting at the moment?' asked John.

'No. Both sides are having a respite after a treaty signed at Louviers in January, in which Richard ceded the Vexin to Philip but recovered other lands previously lost. But it can't last and that's why I'm here, God help me! The king summoned me from Winchester to demand more money and troops, as he intends to break the treaty before long and recover the Vexin. In fact, building a castle here is in direct defiance of that treaty, and I'm sure our royal master is doing it to provoke Philip back into conflict.' The Vexin was a small county north-west of Paris, over which the two kings had long been wrangling like a pair of dogs with a bone.

They talked for a while longer, but de Wolfe was getting the sense that, though Hubert Walter was sympathetic to his problems, he was already too overstretched financially to be able to do much to help him. They continued talking about ways to police the Devon ports more effectively, but there was no way in which Hubert could commit more troops to that far west province, given the desperate need for every available man to rally to the royal standard in France. Neither did there seem much hope of diverting part of the small navy to patrol the coast to discourage piracy.

He was beginning to despair at the largely wasted journey they had made when a diversion occurred, one that was of great significance to the coroner's trio — and one that was to change the life of the coroner himself. There was a trumpet blast and then a commotion outside. A moment later a tall figure marched into Hubert's pavilion, followed by a trio of barons and scurrying pages and squires. Over six feet in height with broad shoulders and perhaps a little too much weight around his chest and belly for a man of thirty-eight, Richard Coeur de Lion had a mane of reddish-gold hair, which though shaved up at the back and sides was thick and wavy. Dressed in most un-kingly garments — a white linen shirt open at the neck and a pair of thick woollen hose pushed into riding boots — he radiated a regal presence that was like a blast of hot wind gusting into the tent. Supremely confident to the point of arrogance, he exuded energy, enthusiasm and impatience in equal degrees. He marched into the centre of the space and stood with his long arms akimbo, his big fists jammed on to his broad leather belt.

'By God's guts, it's true! I had heard that Black John was here!'

A startled de Wolfe dropped to one knee and bowed his head before his king, as did Gwyn and Thomas behind him, but Richard bellowed for them to rise and then, as John clambered to his feet, grabbed him and briefly hugged him to his chest. 'And Gwyn, you old rogue, still drinking and wenching, no doubt!' He gave the beaming Cornishman an affectionate punch on the arm. Loyally, the coroner dragged the bemused little priest forward. 'And this is my clerk, Thomas de Peyne, who has done great service in your name, sire. He reads and writes like Aristotle. I would be lost without him.'

The Lionheart, who unusually for a king was highly literate himself, rested a hand on the speechless clerk's shoulder. 'You must be either an angel or a martyr, Thomas, to endure the moods of this terrible master!'

Hubert Walter came around his table and joined the group in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the deferential circle of retainers, one of whom was William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, another of John's old campaign comrades.

'Sire, de Wolfe has travelled from Devon with various tidings, seeking help about various transgressions of the law. One of the new Keepers of the Peace which you suggested we appointed in the counties has been murdered, amongst other problems.'

He briefly outlined what de Wolfe had told him, and Richard listened intently, with the concentration of a man who could hold a dozen problems in his mind at a time and deliver almost instant solutions with supreme confidence.

'He must have more help, Hubert! More men-at-arms in Exeter, more Keepers, and this piracy must be combated by my new navy.'

The Justiciar was used to Richard's snap judgements, which were often not backed up by resources. There was no point in arguing about it and pointing out that if the king was willing to dispatch soldiers and ships — and the money to pay for them — from Normandy to distant Devonshire, then his wishes could be carried out.

Hubert nodded blandly. 'I will see what can be done, sire. Meanwhile, we have much to discuss concerning the state of your Exchequer.'

His broad hint that he needed to clear the tent to get down again to the reasons for his being here was interrupted by two breathless pages hurrying in with trays of wine. One bent his knee to the king and offered a large silver chalice, then passed around to give the barons and senior clerics pewter goblets. One of these came to de Wolfe, though the lesser mortals were ignored until Richard yelled at a page to give wine to Gwyn and Thomas.

'These are our guests, who have braved the seas to visit me,' he boomed in his deep voice. 'They serve Sir John here, who did his best to save me from those bastards in Austria a few years back!'

De Wolfe' s conscience forced him to speak, his voice hoarse with rare emotion. He dropped again to one knee before his king. 'I failed you then, sire, and the memory has plagued me ever since. I ask for your forgiveness, as I should have been there to prevent you from being taken.'

Richard put a hand under the coroner's armpit and hauled him to his feet. 'For Christ's sake, John, you have nothing with which to reproach yourself! If anyone was at fault, it was me! Fool that I was, I should not have flashed my coins so freely in that bloody tavern and should have hidden those gold rings from my fingers — no wonder it was obvious that I was no ordinary traveller!'

'But I should have stayed at your side and fought for you, not left you alone, sire!'

The king gave him a playful but heavy punch on the shoulder. 'What could you have done, except shed your blood uselessly on the ground? That pox-ridden mayor burst in with a score of soldiers — even I was not going to take on that many.'

Hubert Walter was becoming restive at the thought of all the work that needed to be done, and with a heavy sigh of resignation the king abandoned his reminiscences.

'Get you gone, John de Wolfe, and rest your mind easy! You have always been a staunch and loyal support to me and you have nothing whatsoever to regret. I wish that every man in my service was as steadfast as you.'

With this tribute ringing in his ears, the coroner and everyone else bowed their heads as the Lionheart stalked out to return to his own pavilion, followed by the Justiciar, his clerks and the whole retinue of major players.

His conscience cleared for the first time in four years, John felt light-headed at the praise that Christendom's greatest monarch had just laid upon him. As they walked back to the mess tent, his feet hardly seemed to touch the ground and even the imperturbable Gwyn was grinning from ear to ear at the reflected glory that he had shared. As for Thomas, he felt drunk with elation, a sensation he had never experienced before. To actually be in the presence of Richard Coeur de Lion was awesome in itself, but for the great man to speak directly to him in such an amiable fashion was like a dream. Once again he felt a deep affection for the coroner for so pointedly bringing him and his talents to the notice of both the archbishop and the king.

In the mess tent, where some were still breaking their fast and others just quenching their thirsts, Gwyn collected a couple of jars of ale and a mug of cider for Thomas. Both beverages were there in abundance, as an army marching on its stomach needs more than just solid food.

'So what do you think of that, young Thomas?' asked his master as they squatted on the straw-strewn ground.

'I can die content, Crowner, after having met our king and the archbishop. Thank you, sir, for your kind words that brought me to their attention.'

'You were damned fortunate to catch Richard in a good mood, Thomas!' cackled Gwyn. 'He can be terrifying when he is out of sorts or in a temper!'

Inquisitive as ever, the clerk wanted to know more about the dramatic capture of the Lionheart on the way home from the Crusade. 'Is it true that you and Gwyn were part of his bodyguard?' he prompted.

'We were almost all that was left of it at the end!' grunted Gwyn, but it was de Wolfe who took up the tale, his recent euphoria making him unusually talkative.

'As Richard had fallen out with almost every monarch in Europe, it was difficult to find a safe way back to England from Palestine. Philip, Henry and Count Raymond blocked any chance of getting through France, Italy or Germany, and the ocean beyond the Pillars of Hercules was too dangerous in winter. So he decided to sail up the Adriatic and head for the lands of his brother-in-law, Henry the Lion, in north-east Germany or perhaps visit King Bela in Hungary.'

De Wolfe stopped to drink some ale, his mind far away in the winter at the end of December 1192. 'At Corfu we left the great ship that had brought us from Jaffa and took two galleys up the coast of Dalmatia and Istria, taking only a few of the knights and nobles with us. A storm drove us ashore in the wrong place, near Aquileia, but we bought horses and began riding through hostile country. Some bastard spy of Count Meinhard of Gotz spotted us and a host pursued us and captured eight of our knights, but the rest of us eluded them and we eventually reached Friesach in the Bishopric of Salzburg, where another six of our company were seized.'

He shook his head sadly at the memory. 'Now only three of us were left with the king, myself, Gwyn and a knight, William L'Etang.'

Gwyn leant forward and added more to the tale. 'But we rode like hell, hoping to get across into the safe territory of Hungary. But not knowing exactly where we were, we strayed into Austria and when cold and hunger drove us each night to seek shelter we ended up in the early evening at an inn at a village called Erdberg.'

De Wolfe waved his empty pot at a page and while waiting for a refill continued Gwyn's account.

'It was snowing and we couldn't understand a bloody word of their lingo, but it seemed the alehouse had no food for us. We needed fresh horses for next day, as ours were exhausted with the pace we kept up in the mountains, so L'Etang went out seeking food in the village, and Gwyn and I scoured the place trying to buy three decent mounts.'

Thomas was agog with the excitement of this royal drama. 'And the king was left alone in the tavern?'

John nodded as the servant brought a jug to fill his tankard. 'We heard later that he was unwise enough to offer the landlord too much money if he would find victuals for us — and probably let him see the gold in his purse. That, with the heavy gold rings that Richard wore, made the bastard suspicious, as this was the land of Leopold of Austria and the village was actually within the city limits of Vienna. The mayor turned up with a heavy guard and seized the king. We got back just in time to see him being hustled away. They took him to a castle on a crag above the Danube — Durnstein, I think it was called — where he was shut in a cell for months.'

'So what happened to you?' asked Thomas, his mouth agape with fascination at this saga.

'There was nothing we could do, so we melted away into the countryside and within a few days managed to ride the few miles east into Hungary, where we told our story and were received sympathetically. We were taken down to Zara on the Adriatic and eventually back to Corfu, where we met up with a Templar ship that took us to Malta and then back to Plymouth, when the sailing season began again in the spring.'

The story told, each man fell into a reverie, John and Gwyn thinking back to those momentous days and Thomas's fertile imagination reconstructing the adventure in his mind.

Eventually, Gwyn stirred himself to get some bread, cheese and more ale and when he returned asked what they were going to do next.

'There seems little that Hubert Walter will or can do for us,' he muttered. 'But at least we have made the position clear to him. The king has ordered him to put anything we need at our disposal, but that is an empty command if there is nothing to back it up.'

'Maybe one or two ships from Portsmouth may be told to keep an eye out for piracy,' said Thomas hopefully.

'The chances of one such vessel coming across an attack in progress along several hundred miles of coastline are about as likely as you getting married, little man!' scoffed Gwyn.

'Gwyn is right about that,' agreed de Wolfe. 'But there may be a way of reducing the odds, and I intend to put it into practice as soon as we get home.' He rose to his feet as he spoke. 'And get home we must, as soon as possible. The Mary and Child Jesus is due back in Honfleur in three days from now, God and the weather willing, which will give us time for an easy ride back there if we leave today.'

They agreed to saddle up after noontime dinner and ride back to Rouen to spend the night in the citadel. Until the food was ready, John and Gwyn went off for a walk around the rocky promontory to see where the Lionheart was intending to build his massive fortress to defy Philip Augustus. John had learnt from his old friend the marshal that the king intended to add insult to injury by calling it 'Chateau Gaillard', which roughly meant 'Saucy Castle'.

Thomas had gone off to a pavilion set up by the camp chaplains as a place of worship where Mass was celebrated twice each day, so the coroner and his officer were surprised to see him hurrying after them only a few minutes after they had parted. The clerk panted up to them as they stood in the coarse grass on a ledge high above the Seine.

'Crowner, you are wanted back in the camp at once,' he gasped. 'The Justiciar's clerk came looking for you and told me to find you. You must go to the king's pavilion at once!'

'Did he say for what reason?' demanded John, already moving towards the camp.

With Gwyn trundling along in the rear, Thomas was fairly dancing with excitement. 'He said the archbishop and the king wished to speak to you, master! Maybe they have come to some decision about our problems in Axmouth?'

But for once the clever little priest was wrong. When de Wolfe emerged from the royal tent half an hour later, his long, usually sallow face was flushed and his mind was racing to encompass the significance of what he had been told when in the royal presence.