The Noble Outlaw

CHAPTER NINE

Matilda was right about the weather and it was another two days before he could set out for Hempston Arundell with Gwyn. The sky cleared, and though the weather remained very cold, a weak sun dispersed most of the snow, leaving only patches here and there in the shadows.

Thomas was left behind, much to his relief, as he was a reluctant horseman who would only slow them down as they rode along the frozen ruts of the country tracks.

Also, he was anxious to take part in the cathedral's remaining Maletide festivities.

With unusual solicitude for his wife's welfare while he was away, John made sure that Mary and Lucille would attend to her every need, though he knew there would be a constant stream of well-wishers coming to the house from amongst her friends at St Olave's.

With the Cornishman close alongside, as Gwyn still seemed determined not to let him out of sight for fear of some ambush, de Wolfe rode out of the city early in the morning and crossed the ford beyond the West Gate to reach the southern road to the west of the county.

The track was in better condition than John had expected and the weather had improved, so they made good time. They stopped at a tavern in Kingsteignton to feed and water their horses and themselves, then carried on in the direction of Totnes until, about noon, they reached Berry Pomeroy. The castle there was a forbidding pile, built on the edge of a cliff amongst dense woodland, almost within arrow-shot of Hempston Arundell. Rebuilt in stone after the original timber stockade became out-dated, the castle had sufficient clearance around it for defence, though this had never been needed. Its main strength was the precipice that fell from its walls down to the gorge beneath, The twin towers of the gatehouse were guarded by a sentinel who grudgingly allowed them into the bailey, where John growled at a servant to take him to his lord.

They were shown into a hall built against the curtain wall of the inner ward. Here Gwyn soon managed to find some more food and drink, while, a steward conducted John to a chamber on an upper floor, where Henry de la Pomeroy received him with more than a little suspicion. The thick-set, stocky knight had not yet heard from Richard de Revelle about the attacker in Exeter, and when de Wolfe tersely related that the assailant had threatened the pair of them, Henry thawed somewhat and sent for wine, inviting the coroner to sit with him before the hearth of the draughty room, where wind moaned through two slit windows high up in the bleak walls.

'This man connected his killings with Hempston ArundeU,' said John bluntly. 'It sounded like an act of revenge, with more to follow, which is why I have come here today. I intend to go over to Hempston after leaving here.'

'What did de Revelle have to say about this?' asked Henry. Unlike John's brother-in-law, the burly manor lord seemed unperturbed by the possibility of a direct threat to himself.

'He was mainly concerned for his own safety, but had no suggestions as to who might be the perpetrator. Whoever he is, when I get my hands on him, I'll strangle the bastard for what he did to my wife.'

Henry's head nodded on his thick neck. He was still wary of this dark man, who exactly a year earlier had been instrumental in defeating his efforts to revive a rebellion on behalf of Prince John. Both he and de Revelle had wriggled out of serious trouble over that, but he knew they were both marked men in the eyes of the king's loyalists, and that the Chief Justiciar had appointed de Wolfe partly to keep an eye on them.

'If he tries any tricks here, he'll get short shrift,' promised Henry. 'I've had a new gallows erected in the village and I'd be happy to let him try it out.'

'Have you any notion of who this might be?' demanded de Wolfe. 'The obvious choice is one of the outlaw gang that left Hempston when you took it from its lawful owner.' He had no compunction about being direct and possibly offensive towards Henry, as he knew that he, like Richard, still had ambitions to further himself within Prince John's camp.

De la Pomeroy glowered at this, but managed to turn the other cheek. 'It could be Nicholas himself,' he answered, his face reddening. 'He and his gang have stolen from our bartons, poached endlessly from my deer park, and generally made damned nuisances of themselves. This might just be a new departure for him in his attempts to discomfit me.'

The coroner shook his head. 'I can't believe a knight and a Crusader would attack a lone woman in a churchyard, especially one he knew was the wife of a fellow Crusader.'

'But he knew she was a sister to de Revelle, or he wouldn't have left that message with her,' objected Henry stubbornly.

'It's far more likely that it was one of his men, one of those who was ejected by you and Richard from Hempston. Have you no suggestion as to which of them it might be?'

Pomeroy made a rude noise. 'How the hell do I know who ran off with the bloody man? I don't know the names of villagers in the next manor. I only recall that the old steward was called Hereward or some such.' De Wolfe found the manners and company of the lord not much to his liking and, swallowing the rest of his wine, he stood up and made to leave.

'I really wanted to discover how we could track these outlaws down. Have you any idea where they might be?' Henry lumbered to his feet and stood with his fists aggressively planted on his hips. 'We chased them off a few times when they came raiding down to Berry or Hempston, but they are like quicksilver on a tray. God knows where on the moor they live, no doubt they have several hideouts.' He marched to the door and opened it, ready to hand John over to the servant waiting outside. 'You'll never find them, especially in this weather. I don't know how they survive out in that wilderness.'

John turned as he went to the head of the stairs. 'I'm off to Hempston now, to see if anyone there has better memories than you. There may be questions at the next Eyre about how the place came into your possession!' With this veiled threat, he stumped down to collect Gwyn and soon they were back in the saddle. After enquiring of the surly guard at the gate, they went back along the track and turned off on a narrow lane through dense trees until they reached the Gatcombe brook, which they followed down to the little River Hems which flowed through a shallow valley that contained the hamlet. Hempston was built on the opposite bank, a cluster of cottages on a rise of ground with a wooden church fight against the small manor house. A bank, ditch and stockade surrounded both buildings, which were obviously old and in need of repair.

'Not much of a place,' grunted Gwyn as they walked their horses up the hill from the small wooden bridge over the Hems, which was little more than a large stream.

'Good fertile soil, by the look of it. Plenty of water and shelter from the winds in this valley,' countered John, who liked the look of the village.

A few villeins were digging out turnips in the strip fields on each side of the track, looking as if they were muffled up in every garment they possessed against the bitter weather. They cast wary eyes over the two strangers and watched uneasily as they entered the open gates in the fence around the manor house. Here again there were signs of neglect: the compound was unkempt, with weeds growing in the paths, loose shingles on the roof, and tattered thatch on the various outbuildings.

Two men were shoeing a mare at one side, and they also looked suspiciously at the visitors.

'Don't seem a very happy place, this,' grunted Gwyn. 'Reminds me of Sampford Peverel, where we had all that trouble a few months back.'

As they dismounted, one of the men, a short fellow of about twenty with a crop of pustules under his chin, came across. 'And who might you be?' he asked rudely.

John towered over him and glared down into his face.

'I might be the Pope, but in fact I'm the king's coroner for this county. Where's your master, whoever he is?'

Suddenly servile, the septic young man tugged at his dirty forelock. 'Begging your pardon, sir. The bailiff is beside the house there.' He pointed to the open door, where a couple of chickens were exploring across the threshold. John and his officer thrust the reins of their steeds into his hands and walked across to the front of the manor house, a rectangular block made of heavy timbers and surrounded by another ditch, over which a few planks led to the door.

Inside, there was one large hall and several small rooms partitioned off at the back. A central firepit was ringed with whitewashed stones, inside which a glowing heap of logs cast some warmth on those sitting nearby.

A few trestle tables, some benches and stools completed the furniture. Half a dozen men were sitting there, an old woman and a young girl waiting on them with jugs of ale and bowls of potage brought in through a back entrance from the cook-shed behind.

'Which one of you is in charge?' snapped de Wolfe.

A heavily built man of about forty, with an acne-scarred face, rose from a bench. 'That's me, sir. Ogerus Coffin, the bailiff.' His tone was cautiously respectful, as he recognised John for a Norman knight by his manner and by the quality of the sword hilt that was visible under his open mantle.

Several of the men rose from the table and stood aside as the bailiff waved the visitors to a seat and then sat down himself.

'What can I do for you, sir?' asked Ogerus. 'You'll have some meat and drink, no doubt?'

As another man gestured to the old woman to bring more ale, mugs and food, John brusquely introduced himself and his officer.

'We have several murders and an assault in or near Exeter, which may have been committed by someone connected with this manor. I am seeking out any information, especially about the outlaws who left here with the former manor lord, Sir Nicholas de Arundell.' Ogerus Coffin gave a guttural laugh, but several of the other men looked uneasy at this news.

'Nick o' the Moor and his gang of ruffians? That's ancient history, that is. Must be better part of three years since he ran off.'

The crone poured ale for John and Gwyn, and a platter of cold pork and thick slabs of coarse bread was bumped on the table before them.

'Have they been around here lately?'

The bailiff's small eyes roved around, surveilling his companions. 'Haven't seen much of them lately, have we, lads? Last time must have been three months back, when they came by night and stole half a dozen chickens and a couple of suckling pigs.'

'How do you know it was them?' asked Gwyn.

'They scratched a sign on the door of the tithe barn, like they did a couple of times before.'

'What sort of sign?' demanded John.

One of the older men pointed up at the wall above the door, where a crude shield had been painted on the timbers. Though faded and deliberately defaced, six white swallows on a black ground were still visible.

'They left that Arundell device on the barn door, cut with the point of a dagger. That one up there has been here since his father, old Roger, built the house.'

'The place is looking pretty shabby now,' observed Gwyn. 'Does no one care for it any longer?'

Ogerus shrugged. 'It's only the land that interests Sir Henry and Sir Richard. They share the income, but don't need the house. I live here most of the time, though I'm really bailiff of Berry Pomeroy. My lord has put me here as caretaker, to supervise the working of the fields.'

John decided they were wandering off the subject.

'Do you know of any among them who might descend to murdering?'

One of the others, the one who had pointed out the shield, broke in ahead of the bailiff, apparently anxious to defend the former lord.

'They get up to some thieving, that's for sure, but they have to live and only steal food or money. They've never killed anyone nor even grievously harmed a soul.'

Ogerus scowled at the man. 'I know where your sympathies lie, Alfred Gooch! You should have gone off and joined them. Didn't they kill that man from Berry when the first squabble started?'

'That was an accident,' mumbled Alfred, sitting down and shutting his mouth.

'And you can think of no one who might have a particular grudge against Sir Henry or Sir Richard?' persisted de Wolfe.

There were a few muffled sniggers. 'I can't say as to that, Crowner,' grunted the bailiff. 'It's not my place to relate tittle-tattle. But no doubt Arundell and all his tribe up on the moor would gladly see them both dead.'

John seized on part of what the man had said. 'Up on the moor. Where up on the moor might they be?' Again there were snorts and chuckles of derision from the others.

'Like bloody will-o'-the-wisps, they are,' said another fellow, who had a hunting horn at his belt. 'They got half a dozen places they can hide, and can flit from one to the other at the drop of a hat. Not that they're alone up there, there's plenty of outlaws besides them. Dartmoor is big enough to hide a couple of armies.'

Having no help on that score, de Wolfe turned to another aspect of his investigation. 'What exactly happened when Sir Nicholas was turned out of this place? I've heard different tales from different people.'

Alfred spoke up again, braving the bailiff's obvious displeasure. 'It was a bloody scandal, sir! First they threw out his wife with some yarn about him being dead in foreign parts, then when he shows up at that very door there, hale and hearty, he gets set upon and sent packing.'

Ogerus Coffin glared at him again. 'Watch your mouth, Alfred Gooch. That's not how it was at all.'

'I was there, for Christ's sake,' retorted Alfred, defiantly.

'And so was I — and got two broken ribs for my trouble,' shouted the bailiff. 'De Arundell set upon us, calling on some of the men who were here before we took over to join him. They killed Walter Frome and were only defeated when we sent to the castle for help.' There were some subdued grumbles of disagreement from a couple of the men, but they seemed afraid to defy their bailiff openly.

John decided he would only get a censored version of the truth from Ogerus Coffin and turned the discussion into questions about the geography of the manor and how men would get there from Dartmoor. It seemed that the obvious way would be to come down the Dart Valley, into which the little Hems stream joined only a mile away. The valley ran inland to reach Buckfast and, beyond it, Ponsworthy and Widecombe which were at the southern edge of the high moor.

'I reckon wherever they are, they keep mostly to the eastern part of the moor,' said another fellow. 'I doubt they dwell over towards Lydford or Tavistock way, for there are other big gangs of outlaws in that direction who wouldn't take kindly to too much competition.' Even this opinion was of little use in tracking down Nick o' the Moor, as the areas involved were still enormous, a rugged terrain of heathland, bogs, stony ground and tors, all subject to dense cloud, gales, horizontal rain and deep snow, according to the season.

When they had eaten and drunk the plain fare, de Wolfe decided that there was nothing more to be gained by staying. A final demand to the men to search their minds for anyone who might have a particular reason to want Pomeroy and de Revelle dead was met by shrugs and surly looks, without any helpful suggestions. Gwyn would have liked to take Alfred Gooch aside and have some quiet words with him, but the bailiff and the others gave him no chance to steer Alfred away from their company, and a few minutes later they turned their horses' heads towards Exeter, which they hoped to reach before dark.

As her husband was trotting his stallion homewards that afternoon, Matilda had another visitor, after several of her St Olave's friends had come and gone. Joan de Whiteford arrived bearing a gift of 'wardonys in syrup', a sweet concoction of preserved pears flavoured with cinnamon, ginger and saffron, prepared by her cousin's cook-maid.

'It is said to be very nutritious, Lady Matilda. It will help build you up after your awful ordeal,' she said virtuously. Matilda, whose solid body seemed in little need of rebuilding, thanked her effusively and glowed in the warmth of the friendship of this comely, cultured and altogether delightful young woman. John's wife, who seemed already restored to her normal health and spirits after the attack, sent Lucille scurrying out to the cookshed for some of Mary's sweet pastries and invited Joan to be seated in the other cowled chair before the good fire that was crackling in the wide hearth.

They spent a few minutes in polite conversation about Matilda's rapid recovery, the icy weather and the Holy Innocents' festivities in the cathedral the previous day.

The pastries arrived, but Joan declined the offer of wine, as befitted a sober, abstemious widow. Matilda had tried on several occasions to winkle out more detail about Joan's previous life, such as where exactly in Somerset she had lived and how her late husband had died, but she had seemed somewhat evasive, which increased Matilda's curiosity all the more. She tried again now, with little more success, and eventually decided that grief was causing the younger woman to suppress her memories of her former life.

Though the rest of the hall was as cold as a church crypt, the blazing fire overheated their fronts, and the wooden wraparound seats with the arched cowls above kept off much of the pervasive chill. The radiance of the logs, which had driven Brutus back a few feet, encouraged the two ladies to open their pelisses, the lined overgarments they wore on top of their kirtles. Joan had arrived with a heavy hooded mantle as an outer garment, which Mary had draped across the table, and Matilda noticed that it and Joan's pelisse, though of excellent quality, were worn from much laundering and had some patching and darning here and there. It was clear that she was in straightened circumstances compared to her previous life as the lady of a manor, and the older woman's heart went out to her new friend. She even toyed with the idea of subterfuges to improve Joan's wardrobe without appearing to be offering charity.

The warmth of their companionship was evident, the talk moving on to their mutual acquaintances in the congregations of St Olave's and the cathedral: Joan's cousin, Gillian le Bret, seemed to have already introduced her to a considerable number of people in the city.

Their amiable talk went on for almost an hour until disaster struck. On her previous visits, Matilda had not told Joan all the details of her frightening experience, but now that the event was fading a little, she felt able to relate what had actually happened.

'The devil who assaulted me so cruelly said that he had killed three times already and that my brother Richard and another would also pay the price for Hempston!' Matilda said this in a tone of high drama, not noticing the sudden effect the single word had on her friend.

Joan went white and she almost gaped at Matilda.

'Hempston? Did you say Hempston? Surely that cannot be true,' she uttered in an intense whisper.

'It was indeed — some manor down near Totnes, so my husband says,' continued Matilda, blithely unaware of the fuse she was lighting. 'It seems that a rogue knight was expelled from there several years ago and now heads a band of moorland outlaws. Now he is embarking on a murderous crusade against those he claims wronged him. He attacked me so that I might convey his threats to his intended victims!'

Joan stood up so suddenly that the chair grated against the flagstones with a squeal that startled Brutus from his dozing. She stood and stared down at Matilda as if the lady of the house had suddenly grown horns and forked tail.

'That is impossible, mistress! Why are you making such a monstrous accusation?'

Matilda gaped up at her for a moment, then her mouth snapped shut like a steel trap. This was her house, and she was not going to be spoken to in that fashion.

'Watch your tongue, young lady. That is hardly a courteous thing to say!' She was torn between astonishment and annoyance.

'What you allege cannot be true!' blurted out Joan, shaking with emotion. Then she seemed to crumple and flopped back into the chair to bury her face in her hands. 'I have not been entirely frank with you, Lady Matilda,' she sobbed through her fingers. 'I am not who I say I am!'

By now the lady of the house was bewildered. She stared at the woman weeping in her hall, wondering for a moment who was going mad, the visitor or herself.

'Explain yourself, for heaven's sake!' she demanded.

Joan raised her face, tears streaming down her cheeks.

'You have been so kind to me, and I repay you thus, Matilda,' she gulped. 'My name really is Joan and I am the wife of a Crusader and a knight — but his name is not de Whiteford, it is Sir Nicholas de Arundell, of Hempston Arundell.'

Matilda rose slowly from her chair, her face suffused with anger. 'You are the wife of the devil who attacked me? How dare you come to this house, woman?'

'He did not attack you, madam,' screamed Joan. 'He would never do such a thing, he is an honourable man and was many miles away that night.'

'Get out of my house, damn you!' thundered the coroner's wife. 'If it was not your man in person, then it was some villain sent by him to carry out his vile deeds.'

She advanced on the hapless woman, who left her chair and backed away towards the door, her hands held out in supplication.

'I swear Nicholas is innocent, we were deprived of our manor and our life together by unscrupulous men, your brother being one of them.'

This was hardly the right thing to say in the circumstances and caused Matilda, her rage clouding her common sense, to become even more incensed. She bore down on the near-hysterical Joan, who turned tail and scurried to the door, sobbing as she fumbled with the latch. A moment later, there was a thud as the heavy street door swung shut behind her.

Matilda was left standing in the middle of the flagged floor, her anger subsiding as quickly as it had arisen.

She looked around and saw that Joan's cloak was still thrown across the table, the younger woman having run out into the icy weather with only her pelisse to shelter her. Matilda picked up the cloak and sadly put her cheek to it, already deeply regretting the irremediable loss of such a special friend. She was still not able to get her mind around the extraordinary claim that Joan had made, but instinctively she knew it to be true. Unusually for her, she vehemently wished that John was here now, so that he could explain what all this meant and reassure her that her friend had merely had a temporary fit of aberration, though she knew that this was wishful thinking.

Her dazed mind was suddenly interrupted by Mary appearing at the inner door.

'Is everything all right, mistress?' she asked concernedly, looking around the empty hall. 'I thought I heard shouting. Has your guest gone?' Matilda, who was usually brusque with the cook-maid, slowly shook her head and replied quietly, 'There's nothing amiss, girl. And, yes, the lady has gone.' When Mary had left, Matilda sank back into her chair, still clutching the mantle, and stared into the fire. 'Oh God, what's happening?' she murmured to the Almighty.

* * *

De Wolfe and his officer reached Exeter just as the gates were closing at dusk, and Gwyn went straight up to Rougemont to eat, drink and play dice with the men-at-arms for the rest of the evening. John made his way back to Martin's Lane and, after seeing Odin settled in the stables opposite his house, went home in mellow anticipation of at last getting warm before a good fire, with a jug of mulled wine and the pleasure of Mary's cooking.

What met him in his hall dashed his hopes, as he found his wife slumped in her chair, a linen kerchief pressed to her face. Her wimple was hanging awry and strands of her mousy hair were poking from beneath it.

'Matilda? Are you unwell? Shall I call Richard Lustcote for you?'

When she looked mournfully up at him, he saw that her eyes were reddened and tears welled from the lids.

'I am not ill, John. Just sick at heart.'

He crouched at the side of her chair as she haltingly told him everything that had happened. 'Her name was false, John, she deceived me!'

Privately, he thought it was only natural that the woman would not advertise the fact that she was the wife of a hunted outlaw, but he patted Matilda awkwardly on the shoulder. 'Never mind that, she no doubt wanted to spare you embarrassment,' he said instead. 'But this is a most extraordinary revelation. So she's not a de Whiteford from Somerset, but wife to Nick o' the Moor.'

Matilda sniffed back her tears and wiped her face with the linen cloth. 'She loudly denied that he had anything to do with my ordeal, John. She claimed that they had both been wronged by my brother. How can such a wicked, deceitful woman say such things, when she seemed at first to be such a nice, devout woman?'

De Wolfe groped for a stool and pulled it up to squat near his wife's chair. 'I have spoken to a number of people, including the sheriff — and today I have been down myself to Hempston and Berry Pomeroy. There may well be some truth in what she says, Matilda,' he added gently.

She glared at him with a return of her old antagonism. 'You too, John? You never miss a chance to defame Richard, do you?'

He held his temper in check with an effort. 'Come, Matilda, you cannot deceive yourself that your brother is a pillar of righteousness, after all the dangerous escapades that he has become embroiled in. What I say comes not from my mouth or my imagination — it is a fact that the Arundell manor was, shall we say, acquired by Richard and Henry de la Pomeroy in dubious circumstances. I am still not clear about the details; there are conflicting accounts, depending on who one speaks to.'

Matilda was not mollified by this. 'So who half killed me and spat the poison in my ear that it was revenge for Hempston, answer me that? Who could it have been but this Arundell knave or some hired assassin of his?'

Her husband had no answer for this and shook his head in frustration. 'I must get to the bottom of this, and quickly, before anyone else is killed. Where does this lady live? I must speak to her urgently.'

'Speak to her? Surely you mean seize her, arrest her, throw her into the cells at the castle. She is the wife of a condemned outlaw.'

John hauled himself from the stool and backed away to the other monk's seat, where Joan had sat that fateful afternoon.

'I cannot arrest her, Matilda, even if I saw some merit in doing so. It is not against the law to be married to a criminal, unless she gives him aid and succour. And as he is far away on Dartmoor, that hardly seems possible.'

'She lodges in Raden Lane with her cousin, Gillian le Bret — though after her vile deception, even that is open to question!'

John sensed that Matilda was torn between hating Joan de Arundell and trying to save her affection for her.

Her words seemed aimed at bolstering her outrage, but there was an undercurrent pleading for her to be proved wrong. John tried to placate her as much as possible.

'I truly cannot see a knight and a fellow Crusader stooping to attack a defenceless woman in the cathedral precincts at Christ Mass,' he said confidently. 'It would be against all the instincts of honour and chivalry.

Though I don't for a moment deny your recollection of that foul assault, it could have been another man, as when he was ejected from his manor, many other men went with him and have suffered ever since.'

The logic of this struck home, and Matilda began to grasp at the faint hope that her rift with Lady Joan was not irrevocable.

'Then you had better set about finding out, husband,' she said with a hint of her habitual grimness. 'Now being unmasked, she may leave the city and hide herself away somewhere.'

The same thought had occurred to John. 'She can go nowhere until the gates open at dawn. I'll confront her tonight — though after a day in the saddle, I'll first need some of Mary's victuals to fill my empty belly, even if it's only umble pie.'

An hour later, the coroner and his wife were standing outside the gate to the burgage plot in Raden Lane.

Matilda had insisted on accompanying him, saying that she was the one most concerned in this matter and that she was determined to see it resolved. Though often a surly, selfish person, she was lacking in neither intelligence nor fortitude, and nothing John could say would deter her from coming with him.

It was dark and cold, but the wind had dropped, reducing the chill considerably. Both wrapped in their mantles, they waited for someone to answer the loud rapping that John had made on the gate with the handle of his dagger. Eventually, footsteps were heard on the other side and the quavering voice of the elderly servant, Maurice, called out to ask who was there. No one readily opened their doors to unexpected callers in the dark of a winter's evening, but the authoritarian voice of the king's coroner persuaded Maurice to pull the bolts and lift the bar to allow them inside.

He led them into the main room where, lit by the fire and a number of tallow dips, they found Gillian le Bret standing protectively in front of Joan de Arundell, who like Matilda earlier had obviously been weeping.

'With what intent have you come, Sir John?' demanded Gillian stiffly. 'My Cousin has done no wrong. The mild deception about her name was to protect her from the gossips who abound in this city.'

'The lady need have no fear of me, Mistress le Bret. But those same gossips will no doubt have informed you that my wife here was grievously assaulted a few nights ago, and I have certain information that links that with the manor of Hempston. That is why I am here, to urgently seek information.'

Matilda stood stock still behind him, her eyes on Joan at the far side of the room. She said nothing, and John was unsure whether her attitude was hostile or forgiving.

For her part, the younger woman displayed only apprehension, as if she expected to be clapped into irons at any moment. Gillian seemed to have taken on the role of interlocutor in this matter.

'My cousin knows nothing of this, but we can swear, by any means you desire, that her husband had no part in any attack upon the good lady.'

'How would you know that, lady, if her husband is many miles away and has no contact with his wife?' asked John in a reasonable tone.

Joan spoke up, more firmly and resolutely than the coroner had expected.

'I know my husband, Sir John. He is a fine man, honourable and fair. He was a Crusader like yourself, but his absence in the service of our king has brought us nothing but ruin and despair.'

She broke down in tears, and Matilda, undergoing a rapid reversal of mood, lumbered forward to put a consoling arm around Joan's shoulders and to press her head against her own bosom.

Gillian and John looked at the pair and then at each other.

'There seems to have been a miraculous reconciliation,' murmured the elder cousin. 'We had better be seated and talk this through.'

They arranged themselves on a padded settle near the firepit and on a wooden chair and a stool, Joan now linking her arm through Matilda's. Alternately smiling and blinking back tears, Joan told how she had been callously told of the death of her husband and then been evicted from Hempston by de la Pomeroy and de Revelle, on the claim that the manor had escheated to Prince John.

John looked covertly at his wife when her brother's name was given, but apart from a tightening of her lips, she made no comment.

'I know little of what happened when Nicholas Came back to Hempston, as I was far away down at the tip of Cornwall. In fact, I knew nothing of his return from the dead for some months, until he got word to my kinsmen down there, through some carters.'

'So have you seen him since then, mistress?' asked John.

Joan looked warily at Gillian, who sighed and nodded.

'Yes, she has, just a couple of times. They met briefly at covert assignations, when he came secretly off the moor.' Her voice became more defiant. 'I doubt that is a crime, Crowner, as she gave him no aid whatsoever, for she has none to give.'

The two women said nothing about Nicholas's visit into Exeter, but John spotted an important void in their story.

'So you must be able to contact your husband, lady? Otherwise you would not have been able to set up these meetings?'

Joan flushed, as the conversation was leading into dangerous paths. 'It is difficult and complicated, sir. But he is my husband, we are still young, yet deprived of each other's rightful company, due to the greed of evil men.' Again Matilda did not react to this innuendo which included her brother. John nodded, accepting the truth of her words.

'I am concerned that as you claim that your husband cannot be personally involved in these murders and in the assault on my wife, then someone in his band of men might be. What have you to say to that?'

On safer ground, Joan considered the proposition.

'Truly, I cannot help you much, as I have no knowledge of how he lives on the moor, except that he says the hardships are barely tolerable. But certainly, men from the manor went into exile with him of their own account, not wishing to suffer serfdom to those who pillage other men's property. Some of those men may well be very aggrieved and desire to strike back at those who ruined their lives. But why would they wait almost three years?'

De Wolfe had no answer to this, but persisted with his questions. 'Is there any one man you might recall who was particularly angry at what happened at Hempston?'

Joan shook her head again. 'I knew Robert Hereward, of course. He was our steward and a kind, steady man. There was also Martin the manor reeve, but I don't recall much about all the others. I had little to do with the running of the manor, Robert Hereward saw to all that, especially after Nicholas was so gallant as to go off and take the Cross.'

She sounded bitter about this, her husband leaving for the Holy Land and leaving her to cope with his alleged death and then the sequestration of her home.

Matilda spoke for the first time Since she arrived. 'I was wrong to speak as I did this afternoon, dear Joan. I was distressed by what had happened to me and to discover that you were no widow, and that your husband was whom I assumed to be my assailant threw me into a unreasonable temper.' She patted the other woman's arm. 'I shall make confession and do penance for my impetuousness, never fear.'

De Wolfe gave one of his loud throat rumblings to halt the possible decline into sentimentality. 'What is to be done, that is the problem? I quite understand why you are firm in your defence of your husband, but you are hardly an unbiased witness.'

Gillian came back into the debate. 'There is nothing further we can tell you, Crowner. All the fault lies in those who took advantage of Nicholas's absence in Palestine to falsely take possession of his manor. That is where the answer lies, surely.'

Matilda turned to look across the room at her husband, having so rapidly moved from accuser to protector of her young friend.

'John, it occurs to me that the swine who accosted me might certainly have been from Hempston, but may have long left that place and be nothing at all to do with the men on Dartmoor.'

Gillian agreed with her. 'In fact, it seems more likely, as how else could these crimes have been committed within the city?'

She forbore to mention that Nicholas de Arundell had entered and left Exeter without any problem, and instead raised the subject of how to lift the fatal stigma of outlaw from him.

'We had already wondered if we could implore you to intercede for Nicholas with the king's council,' she said earnestly. At this, Joan stood up and passionately added her own pleas.

'Sir John, you are a man with a reputation for honesty and a sense of justice, which is more than can be said for so many in positions of authority. Is there nothing that can be done to obtain a pardon for him? Though surely pardon is the wrong word, for he did nothing wrong to deserve being outlawed for trying to defend our home against these pillagers.'

Matilda nodded vigorously, even though her own brother was implicitly being accused by Joan's words.

'John, you are well acquainted with the Chief Justiciar and even King Richard himself. Surely you can make some representations?' Even in this highly charged discussion, she could not resist dropping names to emphasise how well connected her husband was.

He cleared his throat again, cursing Matilda for pressing him too far. 'There is much to be discovered about all aspects of this. The events occurred before I was coroner, and before I can make any move I need to know exactly what went on in Hempston almost three years ago. There is no doubt that your husband and these men on the moor were properly decided exigent, as there are court records to that effect. Thus, legally, no law officer can approach them except to arrest them.'

They spoke together for some time longer, but John gained no more information. The wife was fiercely defensive of her husband, as was to be expected, but claimed that she knew virtually, nothing of his present circumstances or whereabouts on the moor. Neither could she suggest anyone from Hempston who might have homicidal tendencies.

Eventually, he prised Matilda away from her rapprochement with Joan de Arundell and they left, his wife making ardent invitations to both Joan and Gillian le Bret to visit her to discuss the matter further.

On the walk back through streets dimly lit by a hazy gibbous moon, Matilda repeated her repentance at having dealt so impetuously with Joan that afternoon and pressed John to do all he could to obtain a pardon for Joan's husband.

Almost in retaliation, John raised the matter of her brother. 'You realise that pursuing this will reflect badly upon Richard, to say nothing of that treacherous bastard Henry de la Pomeroy.' He could not see her face in the gloom, but he could imagine her lips tightening.

'Richard is my flesh and blood, John, but if this story is true, then he should be ashamed of himself. No doubt he was led astray by Pomeroy, but he should have restrained himself. My brother has always been greedy for wealth and power, but this time he has gone too far.' John wondered at her logic, which placed cheating a minor landowner out of his small manor as a worse crime than treachery and sedition in repeatedly supporting the rebellious attempts of Prince John to unseat their rightful king.

'This places me in a difficult position, Matilda,' he said gravely as they reached the corner of Martin's Lane. 'My duty as a law officer obliges me to apprehend all outlaws and either slay them or bring them to the gallows. Now I am being petitioned to seek a royal pardon for these men, yet I cannot approach them other than to arrest them.'

Matilda saw no problem in this. 'As you have no idea where they are, how can you even consider trying to arrest them? That does not affect your ability to seek some resolution of the scandal from Winchester or London.'

As they reached their door, she added grimly, 'When I next see Richard, I will speak my mind to him in no uncertain way. And I'll get the whole truth out of him about how he came to have a share of this Hempston place.'

'And I need to find out much more before I go hating off to the Chief Justiciar,' muttered her husband. 'What in hell this has to do with three murdered guild masters, I just do not know.'

* * *

By next morning it had warmed up considerably, but a depressing winter rain was falling from a grey sky, washing away the remnants of the snow. John went up to his bleak chamber in the castle gatehouse and chewed over the recent events with Gwyn and Thomas, who had just returned from his early duties in the cathedral.

'God's guts, fancy Nick's woman living here in the city as bold as brass,' observed Gwyn. 'Can't you get her hanged for that, Crowner?'

John gave a rare grin as he shook his head. 'It's no crime, she's not the outlaw. And even if it was, Matilda would skin me alive if I as much as harmed a hair of her head, she's almost adopted this Joan as a daughter.' The thought suddenly came to him that maybe that was not too far from the truth. They had had no children, and given the little time John had spent at home with his wife over the past seventeen years it was not surprising — especially as for many a year now, their marital bed had been used solely for sleeping.

'So what's to be done, master?' asked Thomas, who had listened to the updated tale with interest. 'Are you going to bring this to the notice of Hubert Walter?'

'He should have known all about it, but we've not had a General Eyre visit the county since all this happened three years ago, so the judges would not yet have wind of the fracas in Hempston, even if they were made aware of it, which I doubt they would be. It was before I was made coroner, and with the bloody Count of Mortain nominally the sheriff, followed by Richard de Revelle, I'll wager none of it would have been reported to them anyway.'

That didn't answer Thomas's question about telling the Chief Justiciar, and when he asked again, the coroner sighed.

'I don't know what to do, I'll have to talk it over with the sheriff. My wife will badger me about it from now until kingdom come, but I need to get at the absolute truth first. These outlaws may not be the wronged angels some make them out to be, they could be the usual vicious pack of scum that infest the forests and moors.'

'And what's the connection between them and these murdered burgesses?' grunted Gwyn. 'If this bastard who attacked Lady Matilda hadn't dropped the word Hempston, we'd have no reason to link Nick o' the Moor with the killings.'

His words brought de Wolfe back to what was the more urgent of his investigations. 'Have you any better idea of what that iron spike was and where it came from?' he asked his officer.

Gwyn admitted he had made no progress. 'I feel it must have been part of a railing of some sort. I'll have a wander round the streets later and see if I can spot anything similar.'

John rapped irritably on the table with his fingers.

'I've got the feeling that Joan de Arundell knows more about her husband's whereabouts than she's admitting. She let drop a word or two about him saying how rough the life was up on the moor. I'll wager she has some way of getting in touch with him — and will probably do so now, to tell him that she has been exposed and she is trying to get him a pardon.'

The others considered this possibility. 'How's she going to manage it?' asked Gwyn dubiously.

'There would have to be some arrangement already in place,' observed the astute clerk. 'A rendezvous somewhere on certain days, perhaps?'

'And a go-between — or maybe more than one. There's no way she could go up on the moor herself,' added Gwyn, talking himself into agreeing with them.

John nodded. 'Neither would the cousin risk herself. The only other person is the manservant, an oldish fellow with a deformed face — but he looks fit and active enough.'

'We can hardly watch him day in, day out,' objected Thomas. 'And we might be totally wrong about the whole idea anyway.'

Gwyn stood up and reached for his worn leather jerkin which hung from a peg driven between the stones of the wall. 'I'll have a wander round the town — you never know what gossip I may pick up. I'll keep an eye out for that spike and see if any of the gatekeepers know of this servant.'

John thought it was a long shot and that Gwyn's investigations would undoubtedly be centred on a succession of city taverns, but he had no better suggestions and left the draughty chamber for the more comfortable room of the sheriff, where over a cup of good wine, he could inform de Furnellis of the latest twist in this tortuous tale.