The Manor of Death

CHAPTER THREE

The early-April evening was waning by the time the coroner made his way along High Street and up Castle Hill to Rougemont, the fortress built by William the Bastard following the Saxon revolt two years after the battle at Hastings. It was in the angle of the old Roman walls, at the highest point of the ridge on which the city was built, and the ruddy colour of the local sandstone gave it its name. Two sets of defences arced around the castle: a wide ditch and rampart enclosing the outer ward, where soldiers and their families lived, then an inner castellated wall high on a bank, guarded by a dry moat and a tall gatehouse. It was on the upper floor of this that the coroner had his chamber, the most inhospitable room in Rougemont, grudgingly allotted by his brother-in-law when he was sheriff.

This evening, as dusk was drawing in, de Wolfe did not bother to toil up the narrow winding staircase, as both his clerk and his officer would not be there until morning. Instead, he called in at the guardroom inside the arched entrance and spoke to Gabriel, the gnarled sergeant of the men-at-arms who formed the garrison at Rougemont. They were old friends, having shared a battle years before in Ireland, when old King Henry was trying to curb the ambitions of his unruly barons who were carving out their own empire there. Always ready to gossip, Gabriel produced a jug of cider and some mugs. Pushing two young soldiers off a bench, the only furniture in the bleak cell, he waved John to a seat and they spent half an hour discussing old campaigns, the state of the nation and the price of wool, until the sergeant remembered that he had a message for the coroner.

'A fellow came in at around noon from Kenton, sent by the reeve there. It seems their miller has got himself killed in his own pond and they want a coroner to attend.'

Deaths in water mills were common, both from drowning in the millstreams and from being caught up in the ponderous machinery that ground the grain. Children and millers were by far the most frequent victims, and John had dealt with a dozen such accidents since he had become coroner in 1194. He swallowed his cider and stood up. 'It will have to keep until tomorrow. I'll take a ride down there unless my rump prevents me from sitting on a horse.'

It occurred to him that Kenton, a small village a few miles south of Exeter on the west side of the river, was over halfway to Dawlish on the coast. With a little mental gymnastics in respect of his conscience, he decided that it might be useful to speak to one of his own shipmasters there to see if he had any knowledge of the situation in Axmouth and the vessels that sailed from there. The fact that Hilda also lived in Dawlish could be viewed as irrelevant, though it would be churlish of him to visit the port without calling upon her! He went out into the passage of the gatehouse, where a bored sentinel stood under the raised portcullis just above the drawbridge over the ditch.

'Do you know if the sheriff is still here?' he asked the youth. The young man-at-arms stood to attention, greatly in awe of this menacing knight, whose reputation amongst the soldiery bordered on the fabulous. A Crusader and actually part of the Lionheart's escort when he was captured in Austria, de Wolfe was known in the army as 'Black John', both from his appearance and from his temper when displeased.

'He went out about a hour past, Crowner,' answered the guard respectfully. 'I think he went to his house in North Street.'

The sheriff, Henry de Furnellis, had a manor near Crediton but also kept a dwelling in the city, shunning the dreary quarters provided for him in the castle keep, a two-storeyed building on the further side of the inner ward.

De Wolfe had intended to tell de Furnellis about the murder in Axmouth, as nominally the sheriff was responsible for all law and order issues in the county. However, Henry was unenthusiastic about his duties, as he was only a stopgap sheriff, appointed quickly after the sudden removal of de Revelle. He was content to leave the pursuit of crime to the coroner, while he devoted himself to the administration of Devon's finances.

Dusk was falling and John decided to go back home and get Mary to minister to the sore on his bottom. By then, Matilda would be in bed in her solar at the back of the house, and he would be free to give Brutus his cherished walk, undoubtedly in the direction of Idle Lane and the Bush Inn.

Later that evening, as John de Wolfe was sitting in the alehouse with an arm around his Welsh mistress, a ragged man was trudging along the highway in the extreme east of the county. Dusk had long faded into night, but an almost full moon lit his way along the deserted track between the villages of Kilmington and Wilmington. He held a long staff in one hand, the other easing the nagging pressure of one of the shoulder straps that supported a shapeless backpack.

The pedlar, who rejoiced in the name of Setricus Segar, was tired, weary and hungry. He had not a single penny in his pouch, for he had sold nothing in Widworthy that day, the goodwives being unimpressed by his crumpled selection of ribbons or his slightly rusted sewing needles.

Once a moderately successful chapman, going around the countryside selling a whole range of household goods, he had gradually degenerated into little more than a beggar, thanks to his drinking habits. It was true that he had reason for this decline, as his wife and child had died of smallpox five years before and soon afterwards his dwelling in Chard had burnt down, leaving him destitute.

Nowadays he usually stole to keep him in a little food and more ale, as well as to buy the meagre stock of haberdashery which was his excuse for wandering the roads between towns and villages. Tonight he expected to sleep under a bush, which was his bedroom more often than not — but if tomorrow he could get as far as Exeter, he could cadge a meal and a mattress in one of the priories.

Though the day had been mild, the clear moonlit sky made the night cold, and he shivered under the threadbare cloak that he wore over his torn fustian tunic. He had rags tied around his feet to secure the detached soles of his worn shoes and a dirty pointed cap sat on his even dirtier hair, the tassel flopping on his shoulder as he tramped wearily along. Though he was not yet forty, he looked a score of years older, his lined face sallow and haggard under a week's worth of stubble.

The countryside was infested with outlaws and cutthroats, but one advantage of being so obviously destitute was that he was unlikely to be robbed. However, when he heard a distant noise behind him, his sense of self-preservation made him stop and cup a hand to his ear. Somewhere a wagon was moving and it was not long before he could hear the squeaking of wheels and the snorting of oxen as they toiled up the long slope of this stretch of the Honiton road. When he glimpsed the canvas hood in the moonlight, Setricus melted into the undergrowth at the side of the rutted track, where rank weeds gave way to bushes before the tall trees of the forest began.

He crouched behind the new leaves of an elder thicket and waited. Soon the two grunting draught animals came in sight, dragging the covered wagon with its pair of solid, creaking wheels. Two men sat on the driving-board, one idly flicking the oxen with a long switch, though they took not the slightest notice of him. As they came level with the pedlar, he made a sudden decision, got up and hurried out into the road.

'Hey, brothers, can I sit on your tailboard? My poor feet are worn down to my ankles!' he whined.

Startled by this apparition, the man on his side roared with alarm and raised a knobbed cudgel that he had lying alongside him.

'Clear off, whoever you are! Come closer and I'll brain you!' he yelled.

Setricus Segar continued to trot alongside the cart but kept out of range of the club that the driver's mate was waving at him.

'I'm but a poor chapman, travelling to Honiton,' he pleaded. 'All I want is a lift on the back of your wagon.'

'He said, bugger off!' shouted the driver, joining the fray. 'If you're some scout for a bunch of outlaws, tell 'em we've got another two armed men inside.'

'Do I look like a trail robber, with this damned pack on my back?' persisted the pedlar. 'Any Christian man would give me aid. It costs you nothing to be charitable. '

For answer, the man with the cudgel hopped down from his seat behind the shafts and began raining blows on Segar, who screamed and sheltered his head with his arms, then blundered back into the brambles and scrub at the side of the track. The guard followed him for a few paces, cursing and blaspheming as he gave him a valedictory few whacks on the shoulders. Then he gave up the chase and ran back to catch up with the wagon, clambering back on to the driving-board.

Setricus cowered in the long grass and nettles until the creaking vehicle had passed out of sight. Then he stood up and stumbled back into the roadway, shaking a fist after his assailants.

'You miserable bastards, may you rot in hell!' he shouted, but not loud enough to provoke the man to return with his club. He began walking again, his shoulders and neck aching from the blows they had suffered. The next village could not be far off now. Wilmington was the last hamlet before the small town of Honiton, not that he would be able to stop at either at this time of night, with not a single coin to buy a pallet in an alehouse loft. As he walked he began to wonder why a covered wagon with an armed guard would be travelling at dead of night along the highway. He wished he knew what was in the back of the cart, for as well as being as curious as a cat, there was always the chance of being able to steal something worthwhile.

Setricus toiled on, stumbling now and then in some deeper rut than usual, though the pale moonlight revealed the road fairly well. If it had been cloudy or if the moon had not risen, it would be impossible to walk at night and he would have had to curl up under a tree unless he could find a barn that was not guarded by dogs.

The road ran from Axminster to Honiton, where it joined the high road from Exeter eastwards to Ilminster, Salisbury and eventually London. Setricus had never been further than Yeovil on that road and now had no ambition other than to get near Honiton tonight, find some niche to sleep in until the morning and make an early start on an empty stomach towards Exeter. He optimistically hoped to make some sales in the city, if he could sneak in through the gates past the porters and then avoid the constables seeking unlicensed hawkers.

As he plodded over a rise, he could see the roofs and church tower of Wilmington in its hollow below. One faint flickering light was visible — he presumed from either a candle or a horn lantern — but otherwise the place looked dead, as was normal in the countryside, where folk went to bed with the dusk and rose with the dawn. When he got down to the hamlet, he was intrigued to see that the light was coming from the open door of the alehouse and that several figures were moving in front of it, their shapes silhouetted against the flames from a log fire in the middle of the room. Even more interesting was the presence of the covered wagon just outside the tavern.

After the blows he had suffered, he approached cautiously, keeping out of the moonlight in the shadow of a hedge on the other side of the road. The rags on his feet muffled any sound, and he sidled along until he was opposite the cart. He stopped and watched what was happening outside the inn. The two men who had been on the footboard were carrying small kegs into the low thatched building whose whitewashed walls stood out starkly in the harsh moonlight. At the door, a fat man was watching them, presumably the landlord. The pedlar waited as about half a dozen of the firkins were taken inside. Then about the same number of flat bales were transferred from the back of the wagon, before he saw the driver pulling down the canvas cover and lashing it to cleats on the tailboard. At the alehouse door, the man who had beaten him was in close conversation with the innkeeper, and though

Setricus could make out none of their muttering he distinctly heard the clinking of coins.

The two men climbed back on to the cart and the inn door was quietly closed as the oxen jerked into life and the vehicle rumbled away out of the village. The pedlar followed it at a safe distance and for a quarter of an hour he trailed behind, wondering what manner of delivery needed to be made after dark in the depths of the countryside. He guessed that their boast that there were more armed men in the back was a bluff, as there had been no sign of them when they stopped at the tavern.

Assuming that they were going to Honiton, he stepped out quite boldly a couple of hundred paces behind, there being no chance that his soft footfalls could be heard over the rumble and squeak of the solid cartwheels. Suddenly, however, the wagon began to make a sharp turn off the highway, and Setricus scurried into the shadow of the bushes in case they looked back the way they had come. He saw that they had pulled into a space alongside a small toft, a solitary dwelling of cob-plastered wattle, with a thatched roof that even in the pale moonlight looked ragged and grass-grown. A rickety fence marked off a neglected plot of land, but there was no sign of man or beast.

The driver and his aggressive companion got down and untied the two oxen from the shafts, releasing them from the yokes across their shoulders. With a smack on their rumps, they drove the animals through a gate into the compound around the cottage, then vanished around the back. There were some noises within for a few minutes, but no light appeared through the roughly shuttered window-opening and soon all was quiet.

Setricus waited for many more minutes, then surmised that the men had taken to their beds. By the look of the place, these would probably be merely bags of hay or a pile of bracken on the floor — though he would dearly have liked the same comfort himself.

Setricus was gripped by a fervent desire to know what was left in the back of the wagon, especially if he could steal some of it. He shrugged off his pack into the hedge and quietly sidled up to the back of the cart. Undoing one of the thongs that secured the flap at the rear, he raised himself on tiptoe and peered over the tailboard. In the poor light, all he could see were some more kegs and bales, all of which were too large for him to carry away. There seemed to be some smaller objects on the floor between them and, determined to purloin something for his trouble, he undid the rest of the lashings and pulled out one of the wooden pegs that held the tailboard in place. He had expected the other end to be fixed in a similar fashion, so that he could ease the planks downwards when he removed the second pin — but this happened to be missing, and without warning the heavy tailboard dropped with a crash!

Frozen with terror, Setricus stood immobile for a moment before he could get his legs in motion — but he was too late. Seconds after, there was a roar from behind the house and the two men appeared just as the pedlar started to run for the roadway, all too visible in the bright moonlight.

'It's that bloody spy we met on the road!' roared the cart driver. 'He'll not get away to tell tales this time!'

Soon after dawn next morning, John de Wolfe was again on the road with his officer. He had broken his fast on his usual gruel with honey, then bread, cheese and watered ale in Mary's kitchen-shed in the back yard, where she cooked and slept with Brutus for company. Matilda was still snoring when he left her on the large mattress on the floor of the solar, an extra room built out on stilts at the back of the house. It was reached by a wooden stairway, under which her French maid Lucille lived in what was little more than a large box. Mary had again dressed his boil and padded it inside his breeches with a wad of linen, so that he was able to sit in the saddle without too much discomfort. John had been afraid that he would have to visit Richard Lustcote, the most experienced apothecary in Exeter, to have it lanced, but it seemed to have stayed brawny, without any sign of pus accumulating under the skin.

He rode down to the West Gate, where he had arranged to meet Gwyn, having left a message at Rougemont the previous evening. Thomas was performing his duties at the cathedral, where he had a stipend to say prayers and Masses each day for a rich merchant who had left money for a priest to intercede in perpetuity to ease the passage of his soul from purgatory to heaven. If needed urgently by the coroner, the little clerk could hand over this task to someone else, but today John felt that he could do without Thomas, who was such a poor horseman that he was a liability when they were in a hurry or needed to travel a long distance.

With the Cornishman alongside on his big brown mare, they waded the river alongside the flimsy footbridge, as it was low tide. The new stone bridge was still only half-finished after many years, the builders having run out of money again, but unless it was high tide or the Exe was in spate from heavy rain on Exmoor, the crossing could be made with only the horses' bellies getting wet. On the other side they trotted through several villages, then turned off the main highway that led to Buckfast Abbey and distant Plymouth. This side road went down towards the coast, and a few miles further on was their first destination, the hamlet of Kenton, which lay between the flat lands bordering the estuary and the Haldon Hills behind. De Wolfe knew it well, as it was on the road from Exeter to his home manor, Stoke-in-Teignhead, ten miles further on towards Torbay. His mother, sister and elder brother still lived there, and if there was time he resolved to visit them later that day.

The mill in Kenton was a stone structure with a roof of wooden shingles, built alongside a stream that had been channelled into a narrow leat to increase the speed of the flow. After emerging from below the wheel, the water spread into a large pool, and it was here that the body of the miller had been found the previous day.

When the coroner and his officer arrived and dismounted outside the upper entrance to the mill, they were met by a small deputation consisting of the manor-reeve and the bailiff, for the place had no local lord, being part of the royal demesne, owned by the Crown. The parish priest, incumbent of All Saints', was also there, as well as several members of the dead man's family, but it was the bailiff, Adam Lida, who did all the talking. He was an earnest fellow of about thirty, with close-cropped blond hair and a mournful expression on his narrow face.

'The body is lying in the mill here, Crowner,' he explained, leading the way through the low doorway into the grinding room. Here, the two large stones were still and silent, the water having been diverted from the wheel by sluices. Amongst the spilt corn and bags of flour lay the corpse of a fat man, partly covered by a couple of sacks.

'We couldn't leave him floating in the pool until you came, sir,' said Adam. 'But I thought it best to keep the cadaver as close by as possible.'

De Wolfe grunted, but the bailiff could not tell if this was disapproval for moving the body from the scene of death or a commendation for not taking it very far. 'When was he last seen alive?' demanded John.

'The previous night, sir. It would seem that he was pretty far gone in his cups. The reeve here saw him leave the alehouse at the end of the evening and he was staggering then.'

De Wolfe nodded impatiently. 'Let's have a look at him, then.'

It sounded a familiar story, a drunk weaving his way home and falling into deep water while his wits were befuddled. The reeve confirmed the story and Adam Lida added that Alfred Miller was a heavy drinker, worse since the death of his wife several years earlier.

Gwyn and the coroner went into their well-worn routine, squatting on each side of the corpse, as the Cornishman pulled off the sacks. Outside the door, the family and a dozen villagers crowded together to peer inside as the law officers began their examination.

'He's been in water a good few hours,' grunted Gwyn as he lifted a stiff arm and peered at the hand. The skin of the fingertips was wrinkled and soft from saturation with water.

Alfred Miller had a belly the size of a woman about to go into childbirth, and John pulled up the short tunic to prod it with a forefinger. 'Must be an ale-belly, for it's not the swelling of corruption. Anyway, he's not been long enough in the water to start rotting.' He looked carefully at the eyes and felt the scalp for injuries, but found nothing suspicious under the shock of blond hair that suggested his Saxon ancestry.

'When we pulled him out yesterday morning, he had froth coming out of his nose and mouth, like the head on a brew-vat,' said the reeve helpfully.

De Wolfe glanced at Gwyn and his henchman nodded. Then Gwyn placed one of his massive hands on the middle of the dead man's chest and pressed hard. There was a gurgling hiss as the miller gave his last breath and a plume of pinkish froth issued from his nostrils and some watery fluid leaked out between his clenched teeth.

The coroner nodded in satisfaction. 'Drowned right enough! Let's make sure he's got no injuries. No reason why a wounded man can't drown as well.'

Gwyn pulled off the man's belt and then struggled to pull up his tunic to the armpits. Then they pulled down his hose, two separate legs of brown wool held up to his waistband by laces. There were no cuts or bruises anywhere. Satisfied, John motioned to Gwyn to replace the clothing.

Standing up, he turned to Adam Lida. 'There seems to be no problem here, bailiff. I will hold a short inquest straight away and get it over with.'

The proceedings took a very few minutes. The man who had found the body was called, then the reeve to say that he had seen Alfred Miller drunk on the night he had died. No one else had anything to add, so de Wolfe caused the jury to parade past the corpse and view the 'washerwoman's skin' on the hands.

When they lined up again, the coroner addressed them in tones that brooked no dissent. 'You know better than I that this poor fellow was too fond of his ale and that when last seen he was in a drunken state. There are no injuries upon the body, and he has clearly drowned.' He glared around the stoical faces. 'I doubt that you will be able to come to anything but the conclusion that Alfred Miller fell into his own millpond. It seems unlikely that he went into the stream above the wheel, as he has no scratches or bruises from being dragged under the paddles, common though that is in other cases.'

John jabbed a finger at the reeve, who stood in the middle of the jury, and abruptly appointed him foreman. 'Decide a verdict amongst yourselves now.' He almost added, 'And be quick about it!', but it was not necessary, as after a hurried muttering and nodding of heads the reeve announced that they were satisfied that it was an accidental drowning.

The family came to claim the body for burial, the priest delivered his scrap of parchment with the few names written upon it, and within minutes John and Gwyn were astride their horses and trotting southwards out of the village.

Four miles beyond Kenton, they came into Dawlish, where the coast rose from the flat estuary of the Exe into the undulating cliffs that stretched down to the River Teign and onwards to Torbay. Dawlish was a large village that depended mainly on fishing, but a few small merchant vessels were based there, beaching in the mouth of Dawlish Water, a stream that issued from the hills behind. Three of these cogs had belonged to Hilda's husband, Thorgils the Boatman, but he had been savagely murdered with all his crew a few months earlier. Hilda was the daughter of the manor-reeve of Holcombe, a couple of miles further down the coast — and Holcombe was the other manor owned by the de Wolfe family, in addition to Stoke-in-Teignhead. Though Hilda was more than half a decade younger than John's forty-one years, they had known each other since their youth — and by her teens they had been lovers, which had continued intermittently until he went off to the French wars and then the Crusade. Given the social gulf between the son of a manor-lord and the daughter of his Saxon reeve, Hilda had no prospect of becoming his wife, so she had married Thorgils, a widower more than twenty years older. Thorgils had become rich and had built himself a fine new stone house in the village. Though it was hardly a love match, he was amiable and kind to her, and when he died she was genuinely grieved. Until the last year or so, John had sometimes visited Hilda when her husband was away at sea, but his increasing devotion to Nesta had brought that to an end.

Ostensibly, John was coming to Dawlish today to question the masters of these cogs to see if they had any knowledge of the ships sailing out of Axmouth — but he knew only too well that his main motive was to call upon Hilda. John told himself that his interest was solely to enquire after her health and happiness following her bereavement — but a little devil sitting upon his shoulder kept reminding him of her blonde beauty and passionate nature. He wondered whether it was possible to be in love with two women at the same time. His conscience was robust enough to assure him that even if tempted he was stout enough to resist but that small devilish voice whispered that such temptation would be very welcome.

Gwyn plodded alongside his master, well aware of the reason for de Wolfe's thoughtful silence. They had been through this routine before, usually when travelling to and from John's home further down the coast. They would look into the little river as they passed through Dawlish to see if Thorgils' cog was there — and if not, Gwyn would tactfully adjourn to an alehouse for an hour or so while John went off on some unspecified errand, which both of them well knew meant a visit to Thorgils' fine house. Now, of course, Hilda was a widow and such subterfuge was not needed, but in fact, since the shipman's death, John had called upon her only twice and had not seduced her for a year or more, much as he was tempted. He had been faithful to Nesta all that time, a record for fidelity where John de Wolfe was concerned.

When they reached the village, the tide was full in, preventing them from fording the stream that emptied into the sea across the beach. They had to ride up the right bank until it was shallow enough for them to cross, but this gave them an opportunity to see that several merchant vessels were bobbing at their moonngs.

'That's one of Thorgils' cogs,' said Gwyn, forgetting for a moment that it was now partly his master's. 'I remember the look of her from when they came down to Salcombe to salvage the ship he died on.'

They trotted back down the other side of the stream and reined in alongside the vessel, which John remembered was called the St Radegund. Several men were working on the rigging of the single square sail, and two others were hammering at deck planks around the gaping hold in the centre.

'Is your shipmaster aboard?' yelled Gwyn.

Several of the men looked up, and one recognised the forbidding figure of the coroner astride his old destrier. He rapidly hissed to his companions that their employer was visiting, then walked to the bulwark and called across the narrow strip of water, which was beginning to run out on the ebb tide.

'Sir John, good day to you! Roger Watts has gone to say farewell to Mistress Hilda, as we sail for Exeter tonight to load your wool for Calais.'

De Wolfe felt a pleasant glow of ownership as he heard this and waved a hand at the shipman, calling a few words of encouragement. Sailing the Channel was always a hazardous occupation, with not only winds, fog and tide to contend with but the ever-present threat of pirates and privateers, who came from as far away as the North African coast and even Turkey.

'Gwyn, I must talk to Roger Watts to see if he has any knowledge about Axmouth. Get yourself to a tavern and find something to eat and drink. I've no doubt you can manage that!' His attempt at unfamiliar jocularity was born of pleasure at having a legitimate excuse to visit Hilda at her house, sufficient to assuage his conscience in regard to Nesta.

Gwyn grinned at this transparent subterfuge and ambled away towards the Anchor alehouse a few yards away. Dawlish was little more than one main street along the track that led from Kenton to Teignmouth, with a few houses on a short lane that went at right angles to the stream, behind the high street. Here, Thorgils had built his mansion, a substantial stone dwelling of two storeys, easily the largest building in the village. It had two pillars in front joined by a shallow arch over a front door and the roof was of stone tiles, rather than thatch or wooden shingles. There was even a chimney, the whole house being a copy of one in the main street of Dol, in Brittany.

John strode boldly up to the door and rapped loudly upon it, so different from the rather furtive visits he used to make when Hilda was a wife rather than a widow. It was opened by her frail little maid Alice, who was always in awe of this great dark man who came to call upon her mistress.

'I believe one of our shipmasters is here, Alice,' he boomed.

The girl, who could have been no more than twelve, bobbed her knee. 'Yes, sir. Master Watts has called and is upstairs.' The maid invited him in, leading him along a passage and up an open staircase to Hilda's solar, one of two rooms on the upper floor — a luxury indeed, even in the grander houses of Exeter.

The master of the St Radegund was sitting on a bench in the window, whose shutters were flung wide to give a view of the sea over the roofs of the low buildings in the main street. Roger Watts was a short, burly man of forty, with a red weather-beaten face. He rose as soon as his employer came in and touched a finger to his forehead in salute. 'A welcome surprise, Sir John!' he exclaimed. 'I was just about to leave to see how my repairs are coming along,' he added tactfully, glancing at Hilda.

The widow sat in a leather-backed chair facing the window, but she also rose as de Wolfe came in. Dressed in a pale blue kirtle of fine wool, she was tall and slim, a blonde beauty looking much younger than her thirty-five years. In the house, she wore no head veil and her waist-length hair was braided into two honey-coloured plaits that hung down over her bosom, the ends encased in silver tubes. A silken rope was wound twice around her waist, with tassels dangling from the long free ends. She glided across the room, her hands held out in welcome. John took them briefly and looked longingly into her blue eyes, but in deference to the presence of the sea-captain he did not hold her close and kiss her, as he would have done if they were alone — though on previous visits since she lost Thorgils, the little maid had crouched determinedly in a corner to act as chaperone.

'John, I am so happy to see you! Sit yourself down, please. Alice, get wine and pastries for us all.'

Roger Watts edged towards the doorway and prepared to say his farewells, but John stopped him with an upraised hand.

'Though I am always delighted to see Mistress Hilda, it is you that I really came to see, Roger.' He managed to give a covert wink to Hilda as he said this, before parking his tender backside on the padded bench and motioning Watts to be seated again.

There was a short interlude of pleasantries about each other's health, in which John avoided mentioning his present embarrassing disability. Then the maid returned with cups, a wine flask and a platter of thin pasties filled with chopped meat. As they ate and sipped the red wine, John explained his mission.

'I have had to deal with an unusual murder in Axmouth. The victim was a young shipman, strangled and buried outside the village. We have no idea who is responsible, but the whole affair is mysterious and the Keeper of the Peace over there thinks that there is some evil business afoot.'

He explained that the lad had been a crew member of The Tiger, but the cog had sailed away and until she came back he had no means of pursuing the investigation. 'You are one of the most experienced shipmasters along this coast, Roger. Is there anything you can tell me about Axmouth or this vessel that might help me?'

Watts drank some of his wine, frowning in concentration. 'Axmouth! A strange place, that!' he said ruminatively. 'I rarely moor in that river, as Exeter, Topsham and Dartmouth are my main ports of call. But sometimes I do pick up cargo there.'

De Wolfe fixed him with a steely glare. 'Why a strange place?'

'It's run by the bailiff and his lapdog, Elias the reeve. That Edward Northcote is an arrogant dictator, running everything in the name of the priory that owns the manor, but I think he has a major stake in it himself.'

This was in complete accord with what John had observed.

'Is there anything illegal going on there, d'you know?' he asked bluntly.

Roger Watts shrugged. 'I'd wager my own anchor that more goods get smuggled in than those on which the king's Customs are paid,' he said. 'There's a fellow there supposed to keep tally, John Capie by name, but he can't cope with the volume of ships that come in and out — and, anyway, every tally-man I've ever known was wide open to bribes.'

Hilda had kept silent all the while, feeling that she had no call to interrupt men's business even if she was a ship owner herself. But now she spoke up.

'It's common knowledge that everyone tries to avoid these harsh taxes if they can. I realise that you are a loyal officer of the king, John, but you must know that people increasingly resent these crushing dues, just to finance wars which they feel are none of their business.'

De Wolfe felt uncomfortable at this turn in the conversation. His own appointment as coroner was mainly to raise money for the Lionheart's treasury, in order to pay for the huge ransom that Henry of Germany demanded for his release over two years earlier. The fines, amercements, surrendered bail money, the seized property of hanged felons and fees for cases that he swept into the royal courts were all grist to the Exchequer's mill in Winchester. King Richard was now engaged in an apparently endless war against Philip of France and was squeezing all he could from England to pay for it. The Church had been bled dry, their silver plate and chalices taken and some of their huge wool output from the larger monasteries confiscated. Along with tin, wool was the staple product of the country and every bale exported was supposed to be taxed for the benefit of the Crown.

Another reason for John's discomfort was the knowledge that undoubtedly some of his own wool sent across to the Continent evaded the Customs duty by various means. No doubt Roger Watts was well aware of this and so was Hugh de Relaga. John steadfastly did not want to know what went on and depended on Hugh not to tell him! He tried to steer the conversation into another channel.

'What about this vessel The Tiger?' he asked. 'I gather her master is Martin Rof. Tell me about him and the ship's owner.'

Under this interrogation, Roger Watts was beginning to wish that he had not chosen this morning to call upon Mistress Hilda, but the coroner's expression told him that he could not prevaricate.

'Martin Rof is a rough diamond, sure enough!' he began, nervously studying his wine cup. 'A good seaman, but a hard master to his crew. Like most of us, he sails from all the ports along this coast, but mainly Axmouth, where he lives. His cog The Tiger is well known on both sides of the Channel.'

This told de Wolfe nothing he wanted to know. 'But what about the man himself? Is he honest and to be trusted?'

Roger Watts gave a hollow laugh. 'Who can tell that, Sir John? I hope I am honest, though I admit I do not shed tears if the tally-man happens to forget a few casks or bales now and then. Martin Rof has a reputation for being even more forgetful about paying his Customs dues, but few would hold that against him.'

Aware of his own vulnerability in that regard, John did not pursue the issue. 'Is anything else known about him? This lad who was slain was a member of his crew, though admittedly the killing occurred after the cog berthed in Axmouth.'

Roger shrugged. 'Knowing nothing of the matter, I can't venture to say. But why would he be involved in the death of one of his own men? I admit I've sometimes wanted to slay some useless sod in my crew, but I've never actually done it!'

He tried to inject some levity into the talk, but it fell flat with de Wolfe.

'The Keeper mentioned piracy along these coasts,' growled the coroner. 'What do you know of that?'

Again Roger Watts looked uncomfortable, not that he had any fear of being branded a pirate himself, but seafarers — like tinners — stuck together and were reluctant to tell tales to law officers.

'There is no doubt that attacks and pillaging and killing go on out at sea,' he admitted, squirming a little on his bench. 'But these are almost all down to bastards from either Brittany or the French coast, some of whom claim to be at war with England.'

Hilda, who had been listening attentively, broke in again. 'I recall Thorgils saying that vessels from the far south — Spain and even the Middle Sea — used to come ravaging into the Channel and as far as the Severn Sea. He told me how he had once outsailed an oared galley that must have come from the Barbary Coast.'

John nodded. 'I remember that story of his,' he said gently. 'He was always one for a good tale. You must miss his company, Hilda.'

She inclined her head but smiled sadly. 'He was a good and kind man. He did not deserve the fate that took him from me. Like all wives of shipmen, I always expected to hear of his loss from storm and shipwreck, but not murder!'

'That was piracy, by foreign devils,' agreed de Wolfe. 'But I have heard of some home-grown pirates in these waters. Is that so, Roger?'

The shipmaster decided he could stall no longer. 'It is, unfortunately. The men from Lyme have the worst reputation, but Dorset was always a barbarous place. Though most of us are concerned only with the safe delivery of our cargoes, some vessels prey on others, may God rot their souls on Judgment Day!'

'Is it known who indulge themselves in this murderous business?' demanded the coroner.

Roger Watts shook his head. 'Who is to know what goes on once out of sight of land?' he said warily. 'It is legal and indeed to be commended if an English ship attacks a Frenchie, given that there is a state of war between us most of the time. Those bastards are quick enough to pillage our vessels.'

'Yet there are widows and fatherless children in this port for whom English shipmen are said to be responsible!' cut in Hilda, her lovely face set with concern. She was well known for her generosity to the families of men lost at sea.

'We certainly hear tales that suggest that is true,' answered Watts. 'But how can it be proven? A pirate must kill every crewman on the stricken ship if he is to avoid retribution. And the vessel must be scuttled after the cargo is seized, to remove all traces of the crime.'

De Wolfe scowled at this apparent impasse. 'Do the rumours of piracy involve Axmouth?' he snapped. 'And does this Martin Rof's name ever crop up in discussion of the problem?'

Roger shrugged hopelessly. This was a conversation in which he would rather not take part. 'I've heard nothing, Crowner — but any man who bandies about the name of a supposed pirate is asking for a sudden death!'

John fixed him with his brooding eyes. 'And a sudden death is exactly what I am concerned about in Axmouth!' he growled.

After the master of the St Radegund had thankfully made his escape from the coroner's interrogation, John was left alone with Hilda. The little maid Alice had hung about the doorway but was sent packing by her mistress, who felt she needed no chaperone now, especially with a man with whom she had lain intermittently since they were youngsters rolling in the hayloft in Holcombe.

As soon as Alice had gone downstairs, he took Hilda into his arms and kissed her languorously, somehow being able to assure himself that this was merely brotherly affection. Eventually, she managed to draw breath and pushed him away gently, sitting down again on her chair and pointing him to the bench.

'And how is Nesta?' she asked pointedly, though with a smile that told him she was teasing. Mentally throwing the little devil of temptation from his shoulder, John said she was very well, though in fact he had seen little of his Welsh mistress these past few weeks, as a succession of deaths and court cases had kept him out of Exeter more than usual.

Evading the subject, though Hilda and Nesta had met a number of times and enjoyed each other's company, he made solicitous enquiries about Hilda's health and happiness.

Though he had cuckolded Thorgils for years, he had been very discreet about it and came to Hilda only when the older man was away on his voyages. He wondered now what the blonde beauty would do, as she was still comparatively young and, having inherited her husband's house, treasure chest and his three ships, was a rich enough widow to attract many suitors. Though her origins were humble enough, as the daughter of a manor-reeve, her marriage to a well-known and affluent ship owner now lifted her many rungs up the social ladder.

'I have no plans, John. I am content for now to live in this fine house. I attend the church diligently and spend much time with the families of those shipmen who died with Thorgils in the Mary and Child Jesus.'

The ship had been repaired after being wrecked and now formed part of the trio of vessels that Hilda had brought to John and Hugh de Relaga's partnership. De Wolfe was curiously relieved to hear that she was in no hurry to find a new husband, even though he had no thoughts of taking up with her again. At least, he firmly suppressed such thoughts, even though the nearness of such an attractive woman gnawed away at his self-control. They talked away pleasantly for some time, finishing the wine and pastries, until John reluctantly felt that he should drag Gwyn from the alehouse and make their way down to see his mother at Stoke-in-Teignhead. With a final hug and a long kiss, he broke away and, with a promise to see her again soon, left in a slight daze of amorous longing. As he loped back to the tavern, he had a rare moment of introspection, wondering how such a hard bastard as himself, veteran of years of campaigning, could become so soft and sentimental over women — or, to be more exact, two particular women.