Crowner Royal

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The next few days passed without incident until the palace began to murmur with anticipation at the return of the court from Gloucester. A herald rode in with the news that they were at Oxford and would probably arrive in Westminster in three days’ time. This meant a great deal of work for those who would have to deal with the sudden influx of several hundred hungry souls, horses and oxen. The Keeper was seen to be striding around with an even more woebegone face than usual, harrying his staff into greater preparedness.

For the Coroner of the Verge, there was little to do. The only event that concerned him was a fire in Thieving Lane, where sparks had set the thatch of a house alight. Neighbours and lay brothers from the abbey managed to limit the damage by rushing for ladders and pulling clumps of smoking straw down into the street, but John still had to attend the scene and get Thomas to write a short report for the abbot and the justices, as fires in towns were a serious hazard which could destroy acres of closely packed buildings.

Two days before the queen and her entourage were due to return, John had an invitation from Bernard de Montfort to join him and some others in a hunting trip to one of the abbey manors. Unusually for a knight, John was not addicted to hunting, perhaps because he had spent so many years in campaigns and battles, where the hunting was usually of two-legged beasts. Most of his fellow Normans saw hunting the boar, the stag and the wolf as both a sport and a means of keeping them in practice for war, by honing their skills with horse, bow and lance.

However, he had little else to divert him and he agreed to go with them to the forests around Green-ford, one of Abbot Postard’s manors, about twelve miles to the west. He took Gwyn with him as his esquire, as the Cornishman was still adamant that he was not going to let him out of his sight until his would-be assassin was dealt with. They left Westminster in the afternoon and rode out with Bernard de Montfort, Guy de Bretteville, Peter le Paumer and half a dozen others, including the prior and the precentor of the abbey, both keen hunters and Gerald, the chaplain of the palace chapel.

John had borrowed a couple of ‘coursers’ from the Marshalsea, as Odin and Gwyn’s heavy mare would be of little use for rapid sprints in woodland. The stay in the manor house at Greenford was pleasant enough, with a good meal and plenty of ale, cider and wine to lubricate the conversation. Early next morning, they rode out from the stockade around the house into the surrounding farmland, then into the park. This was a few hundred acres of forest that had been surrounded by a deer-proof fence to keep in the game and discourage those who might risk the inevitable death penalty for poaching. At intervals around this fence, there were deer traps, a deep ditch on the inner side to prevent the animals from escaping, but a grassy ramp on the outside to allow any wild beasts to enter. Attracted by hinds in season, males would jump in, but were unable to get out again and so increased the manor’s stock.

The hunting party, about a dozen in number, assembled on their horses and waited whilst the huntmaster and his assistants marshalled their hounds. The different types of dog had different functions — the scent-pursuing lymer, the running-dog for stamina and the greyhound for the speed needed once the quarry was sighted. The hunters carried a variety of weapons, some with short bows, others with crossbows. A few preferred the short lance and most carried clubs hanging from their saddle-bows. A platoon of servants ran beside them when they began to move, some holding hounds on the leash, others beating the trees and yelling to drive the quarry out of hiding. Several green-clad hunt-masters and their assistants were mounted and kept in touch by blasts on their horns.

Soon the party broke up into smaller groups, most with a hound or two out ahead, being controlled by a handler running behind. John cantered down a path between the trees and then turned to follow the sudden urgent sound of horns, somewhere away to his right. Gwyn came close behind, with Bernard de Montfort, dressed in a very un-clerical brown tunic and breeches, his silent manservant Raoul close behind on foot. The path narrowed and then petered out so that they had to go forward between the trees and saplings at a walk, their horses brushing aside leafy branches and bushes.

‘This is getting us nowhere, de Wolfe!’ called the archdeacon from behind. ‘Best to go back and work our way around on the main track.’

John, brought up against what seemed to be an impenetrable thicket of ash and hazel, had to agree and pulled his courser’s head around to face back down the path of crushed vegetation that they had just made. As he did so, there was a distinct and chillingly familiar twanging sound from beyond the bushes and John de Wolfe jerked in his saddle as a crossbow bolt hit him in the chest.

‘I’m all right, Gwyn! You get the bastard!’ roared John, who rather to his surprise was still alive and apparently uninjured.

He looked down at the tear in his grey riding cloak, which now overlaid a smarting bruise over his ribs, but nothing else.

Gwyn, ignoring his master’s command, hastily came back and slid from his saddle, with de Montfort close behind. John looked down and saw a bolt on the ground nearby, with some odd red fragments scattered around it. The Cornishman insisted on feeling around de Wolfe’s chest to see if there was any wound or bleeding. Both he and de Montfort took some convincing that he was not seriously hurt, but again he yelled at his officer to pursue whoever had loosed off the crossbow at him. With a roar of rage, the Cornishman set off on foot, crashing through the bushes towards where the bolt must have come from.

‘My man has already gone after him, he’s quick on his feet,’ bellowed the archdeacon. ‘But you, Sir John, what about you? How could you survive that bolt?’

The coroner, still in the saddle, had been investigating his chest, pulling aside his cloak over the painful bruise that was now smarting like fury. He gave a shout of surprised astonishment.

‘Hubert Walter saved my life! By God’s guts, that’s incredible!’

He opened his short cloak and showed Bernard de Montfort a torn parchment in a ripped inside pocket. Pulling it out, a shower of brittle red fragments fell from where a length of pink tape carried the sparse remnants of a thick wax seal.

‘But a crossbow bolt would go through that easily!’ protested the priest, unable to believe his eyes.

‘It must have been a glancing blow and it skidded off sideways! Thanks be to the Virgin and all her saints!’ he added fervently. ‘Now let’s get after your servant and my officer; we need to catch this murdering swine and find out who he is.’

Shocked by his miraculous escape, but too hardened to admit it, he kicked his horse into action and heedless of branches and brambles tearing at him, charged off down the path to the main track, with de Montfort struggling to keep up with him. He turned left in the direction that Gwyn and Raoul must have taken, pounding along, shouting for his officer to say where he was. Suddenly, the trees thinned and they found themselves almost at the edge of the forest, with the park fence ahead of them.

‘There he is, at the deer-leap!’ shouted Bernard and true enough three figures were seen in the pit beneath the sheer wall of the trap. John slid from his horse, wincing at the pain in his chest and stumbled down the steep slope which formed part of the one-way system for the deer.

Gwyn and Raoul were bending over a still shape that lay at the foot of the ten-foot drop from the outer side of the leap.

‘The sod is dead, blast it!’ yelled Gwyn, incensed beyond measure. ‘I wanted the joy of twisting his head off myself, but he’s beaten me to it!’

‘Damn that!’ stormed de Wolfe. ‘I wanted him alive so that I could discover who’s behind this.’

‘How did this happen, Raoul?’ demanded the archdeacon of his servant.

The powerfully built Raoul looked sullen at this condemnation of his efforts. ‘He was dead by the time I got here, sire!’ he growled. ‘He was well ahead of me when I heard him crashing through the bushes. Then he streaked down here and started to climb the leap, as the fence is too high elsewhere. He almost got to the top, then fell back and must have broken his neck.’

The angry coroner looked at the low man-made cliff that fronted the grassy ramp on the other side. It was made of earth and rocks, partly colonised by clumps of coarse grass and weeds.

The dead man lay crumpled on the ground at its foot, his head bent at an unnatural angle. A few large stones lay tumbled nearby as if they had fallen out of the cliff face when he attempted to climb up.

‘Turn him over, Gwyn, let’s have a look at the bastard,’ commanded de Wolfe. He did so and the sightless face of a rough-looking man in a brown smock and serge trousers stared up at the sky. He had a tight wide belt carrying a long dagger and wore wooden-soled shoes on his feet.

‘Anyone recognise the bastard?’ asked Gwyn. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

None of the others admitted to knowing him and by this time one of the Greenford hound-masters had joined them, as his dogs had run to this unusual gathering as they passed by on the main track. He was told of the failed crossbow attack and after some strenuous blasts on his horn, others of the hunting party came to join them. The prior was one of them and he was aghast at yet another attempt on the life of the palace coroner.

‘You must have made some persistent enemies, Sir John,’ was his comment, as he studied the features of the dead man. The face of the corpse was dirty and coarse-skinned, with heavy brows and a lantern jaw. He had no beard or moustache, but a raised dark brown mole, the size of a thumbnail and covered in coarse hairs, sat on his right cheek amongst the cow-pox scars.

‘I seem to recall this fellow’s face and that hairy tumour on his cheek. I have seen him about Westminster, though I have no idea who he is.’

More hunters gravitated to the leap and soon almost all the party was there, commiserating with John and making sure that he did not need the services of an apothecary. They all clustered around the corpse and one of the lay brothers that came with the abbey precentor also recognised the man.

‘He is a ruffian I have seen about the town,’ he said confidently. ‘I remember that disfiguring mole and once saw him staggering drunk out of the Crown alehouse in Tothill Street and starting a fight with another man.’

John, remarkably composed for one who had escaped death by a miracle, thought it very significant that the failed assassin was from Westminster, a dozen miles from home. It confirmed that whoever had employed him — for he was obviously a hired killer — must also be from there. Though he had no recollection of the man who had attacked him in the crypt of St Stephen’s Chapel, he felt it likely that this was the same man.

This was rapidly confirmed when another of the hunting party came forward to view the cadaver.

‘That is the man I saw running out of the passage outside the chapel!’ declared Gerard, the chaplain who had tried to come to John’s aid at that time.

In spite of the drama, the hunters had come to hunt and even such a startling episode as this did not put them off. De Wolfe and Gwyn decided that they had had enough excitement for one day and after the rest had regrouped to go back into the forest for their entertainment, they trotted back to the manor house, leaving some of the manor servants to carry the corpse back to the stables. As Greenford was just outside John’s jurisdiction, he was not bothered about any legal formalities. If the bailiff wished to report the matter to the sheriffs who acted as coroners, it was up to him and John for once had no enthusiasm for seeing that the law was followed to the letter.

Gwyn fussed over his master like a hen with a single chick, but all John wanted before they made their way back home was to sit down in the hall with a quart or two of ale and something to eat. This was readily provided on the orders of the house steward, who had heard of the incident in the forest and was eager to do all he could for the king’s coroner. As they sat eating and drinking at a table in the hall, Gwyn wondered aloud what was provoking these murderous attacks on his master.

‘Is it because of the treasure or this tale about spies that Byard spun us?’ he said. ‘For someone is trying to shut your mouth for ever!’

De Wolfe put down his mug and gave a wry grin. ‘I may have been asking for it, in a way. Several times now, I’ve deliberately boasted about being on the verge of making an arrest for both the crimes. I hoped that it might provoke either culprit into taking flight or giving away something that would show their guilt.’

Gwyn smoothed down the ends of his drooping moustaches.

‘Instead of that, they tried to strangle you and then shoot your giblets out of your chest!’ he exclaimed. ‘But we don’t know which crime it was for.’

‘No, but both attacks were by the same man, so it was for the same crime. It would be too much of a coincidence if the same lout was hired by two different parties.’

None of this told them which party it was and eventually they rode home being none the wiser — and now John would have to go the Justiciar’s office when Hubert returned, to get a new seal placed on his most useful warrant.

‘Maybe you should ask for one made of iron,’ suggested Gwyn, facetiously. ‘Next time, perhaps sealing wax won’t be as effective!’

The royal procession returned with somewhat less pomp and glamour than when they had left several weeks earlier. The banners still waved and the trumpets still blew, but in the late afternoon of a hot day, everyone was tired, dusty and limp, apart from Eleanor of Aquitaine and William Marshal, who still rode stiffly upright in their saddles. They came in from Windsor and after the major figures had been escorted into the royal apartments and the chambers above and around the Lesser Hall, all the others rapidly dispersed. Grooms and ostlers ran to take care of the horses and the ox-wagons came to a halt in Old Palace Yard behind the stores’ entrances. Ranulf and William Aubrey had plenty to occupy themselves in sorting out the confusion of animals and carts, and John did not see them until the evening, as he kept well out of the way in his chamber facing the river. He wanted to keep out of sight of Hawise for the time being, though he realised he would have to face her sooner or later. Thankfully, she and her husband would soon be leaving with the queen, as Eleanor would be departing for one of the channel ports within a few days.

He was not all that keen on meeting Hubert Walter either, given what little progress had been made over recovering the treasure, though at least he could confidently report now that Simon Basset was almost certainly the man who had stolen it from the Tower.

A new decision was fermenting in de Wolfe’s mind, stemming from his abject failure to solve either the theft of the king’s gold or the murder of Basil, which seemed linked to some espionage activity. He was considering asking the Justiciar to release him from this appointment as Coroner of the Verge, given that he was patently unfitted for the task. He would have to leave with his tail between his legs, but at least he could go back to Devon and live out his life in quiet obscurity. Gwyn would no doubt revel in becoming landlord of the Bush Inn and Thomas would be happy to go back to his duties in Exeter Cathedral.

It would mean a serious loss of face for him as a knight, especially as the king himself had insisted on the appointment. Creeping back to Exeter to lick the wounds of failure would be a bitter pill to swallow, but life in Westminster seemed too artificial to be borne. The advantages of life in Devon would be some compensation — except that he already anticipated the gleeful crowing of his hated brother-in-law, Richard de Revelle, when he heard of John’s fall from grace.

But while de Wolfe was gloomily rehearsing the plans for his own professional suicide, things were happening nearby that were likely to alter the whole scenario.

In spite of his earlier reluctance to face Hawise d’Ayncourt, John’s Crusader spirit rose sufficiently for him to damn the power that women held over him and to declare himself master of his own soul. At about the seventh hour by the abbey bell, he went to the Lesser Hall and took his usual place on a bench with his acquaintances. Bernard de Montfort was there, as ready as ever to shovel good food into himself, as well as Guy de Bretteville and the physician from Berri. John was pleased to see William Aubrey and Ranulf of Abingdon back safely and in apparent good health. They greeted each other warmly, though John thought that Ranulf was somewhat reluctant to meet his eye as he sat down next to him on the bench.

Opposite were Renaud de Seigneur and the ever-lovely Hawise. De Wolfe was girding himself to be polite but distant if she began using her cow’s eyes on him and making her usual suggestive and flirtatious remarks. Thus he was surprised when she responded to his civil greeting with a frosty nod and then proceeded to ignore him. John was rather piqued as well as surprised, for though he had decided to be firm in his avoidance of any further dallying with her, it was galling to know that his attraction for her suddenly seemed to have evaporated.

He also came to realise that her husband was not his usual cheerful self, as Renaud sat silently picking at his food, darting glances now and then at the row of men sitting opposite. Archdeacon Bernard seemed oblivious of any such tension and chattered away, telling the company of the coroner’s miraculous escape from a murderous crossbow assassin and invoking the divine protection of God and King Richard in placing the stout warrant seal between the crossbow bolt and John’s vitals.

Hawise affected to take no notice and though Ranulf and William showed concern, John thought that the marshal from Abingdon had only half his mind on the escapade. It soon became obvious what was going on as John began to intercept covert glances between Hawise and Ranulf and though they spoke not a single word to each other he knew with certainty that they had already become lovers.

He felt relief, tempered by a little jealousy, that the younger and undoubtedly handsome under-marshal had now taken the problem off his hands. Ranulf had no wife, as he had once told him that she had died, so Ranulf had no impediment to taking Hawise either as a mistress or a wife, if the complication of having Renaud de Seigneur as husband could be overcome.

Anyway, he thought, it was no business of his and he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his mind, no longer having to avoid the woman or make stern refusals of her future favours.

As soon as Renaud had finished his meal — not that he had eaten much — he rose abruptly and almost dragged his wife away, murmuring a bare goodnight. Accompanied by her maid, Hawise followed reluctantly, giving Ranulf a soulful glance and a covert flutter of her fingers as she trailed after Renaud towards the doors.

While de Montfort prattled on to Guy de Bretteville on his other side, John prodded Ranulf gently in the ribs with his elbow and leaned over to speak to him in a low voice.

‘Well done, sir knight! I see how the land lies between you and the fair Hawise,’ he murmured. ‘But watch your step, the husband looked none too pleased, I doubt he’s ignorant of what’s going on.’

Ranulf gave a sheepish grin, but John sensed that he was both excited and agitated beneath his efforts to keep a calm exterior. De Wolfe hoped that Hawise had restrained herself from boasting to the under-marshal about Marlborough. She wouldn’t disillusion the younger man by flaunting her promiscuity, he thought.

He let the subject lie and they talked of other things, including the return journey through Oxford and the fortitude of the old queen and William Marshal on such a long and gruelling ride.

John had hoped for a walk along the riverbank with Ranulf, to catch up on the events of the return from Gloucester and to tell him more details of his own recent brush with death. But the younger knight seemed abstracted and excused himself straight after the supper, taking Aubrey away in a rather abrupt fashion. John wondered if Hawise had in fact told him of her previous passionate episode with him and this had made Ranulf embarrassed. John shrugged it off, he had more pressing matters to think of, mainly how he was to tell Hubert Walter that the investigation had stalled and that he wanted to resign as coroner.

For some exercise to settle the meal in his stomach, he walked into the abbey precinct and across Broad Sanctuary to come out in Thieving Lane. He loped back towards the main gate of the palace and the Deacon tavern. This route took him past the Crown alehouse, a low-class drinking den of which the man who had assaulted John had been a patron. On impulse, he turned into the inn and pushed his way past the drinkers standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder in the low-ceilinged taproom.

The place reeked of sweat, spilt ale and urine — both human and animal. The floor rushes looked as if they had not been changed since before the Conquest and several cats and dogs scratched through the litter for mice, rats and scraps of fallen food. Compared with this hovel, the Deacon was as much a palace as the one across the road.

De Wolfe pushed to the back of the room, where several casks were propped up on wedges and racks. A landlord almost as big as Gwyn stood truculently in front of the kegs, his hands on his hips. He had a large cudgel propped against a barrel, ready to deal with the frequent fights that broke out. The man wore a stained leather apron over his bare chest, his lower half encased in serge breeches. He glared at de Wolfe, who was obviously not one of his usual class of customers.

Thinking it politic to act like one, he asked for a quart of ale and gave a quarter-segment of a penny in exchange. Rather cautiously, he took a sip and to his surprise found it of better quality than that on offer in any of the other Westminster taverns. He complimented the landlord on the taste and received a grunt in reply, but persisted in his quest. This was no place to flash his royal warrant, especially without its impressive seal.

‘I met a man recently who recommended your brew,’ he lied. ‘A big fellow, with a curious brown mole on his cheek.’

The publican stared at him suspiciously.

‘Then you’ll not meet him again, for I hear he’s dead. Fell down and broke his neck.’

Obviously the instant news network of Westminster was not confined to the upper echelons of the palace and abbey.

‘Indeed, that’s a pity,’ said John insincerely. ‘What was his name?’

‘Jordan the ratcatcher, that’s who he was.’ The dead man had obviously not plied his trade in this alehouse, by the state of the place, but that was no concern of John’s.

‘And you are the coroner, sir — so why are you asking these questions?’ growled the landlord suspiciously. It was hardly surprising that he had been recognised, as de Wolfe was a striking figure, stalking around in black or grey, well known to most as the king’s new coroner. Deprived of anonymity, he thought he might as well be frank.

‘This Jordan tried to kill me, probably more than once,’ he growled. ‘Is it known that he took on such tasks, as well as killing vermin?’

The landlord, summing up the coroner’s demeanour and the size of the sword he carried, forbore to say that he thought that royal officials were just another class of vermin.

‘Jordan was a violent man, sir. Many a time I’ve had to deal with his brawling in here.’ He looked down at the heavy club propped against a barrel. ‘But I wouldn’t know about any other troubles he might have got into.’

‘You never saw him in the company of clergymen, I suppose.’

John was thinking of the possibility that Canon Simon might have had some nefarious dealings with the man, though as he was already dead at the time of the two attacks on John, he could not have been involved in those. But perhaps the silencing of the ironmaster might have been ordered by him or his partner, the mysterious man in the city tavern.

The innkeeper gave a derisive laugh. ‘Jordan? I doubt he’s been to Mass or confession since he was a lad. And the clergy, for all their sins and corruption, never come into the Crown, it’s way too rough for them.’

John looked around the room at the suspicious stares that the patrons were directing at him. He knew he would never get any information from them, even if some knew of Jordan’s exploits. He decided to send Gwyn to see if he could pick up any useful information, as alehouses were his forte, just as abbey dorters and refectories were happy hunting-grounds for Thomas de Peyne.

Sinking the rest of his quart, which he admitted he enjoyed very much, John went out into the far fresher air of the street and walked home to his bed, frustrated again by a failure to make any progress.

Next day, de Wolfe awoke with a sense of foreboding, for this might well be the day he would be called to account before Hubert Walter. If no summons came that morning, he would have to take the bull by the horns and seek an audience, confessing that he had failed and that he wished to resign and slink home to Devon.

But fate had other ideas for that day. Soon after the eighth hour, Thomas arrived in the coroner’s chamber from attending Prime in the abbey. They had just begun their second breakfast of bread, cheese and cider provided as usual by the ever-ravenous Gwyn, even though he and his master had had Osanna’s gruel and boiled eggs soon after dawn.

An imperious rap on the door heralded an unusual visitor, in the shape of Martin Stanford, the Deputy Marshal, who had never before sought out the coroner.

The three residents rose to their feet, for Stanford was a knight of greater seniority than even de Wolfe. He was one of the deputies to William Marshal himself, though to be fair, he never gave himself any great airs. A stocky man in his late fifties, he had a short neck and a red face, his brown hair cropped to a mat on top of his head in the old Norman style. He looked agitated and began speaking without any preamble.

‘De Wolfe, you supped in the Lesser Hall last evening, I understand? Were two of my under-marshals there with you?’

John waved an invitation for Martin to be seated, where Thomas had hastily vacated the bench, but the marshal ignored this and waited impatiently for an answer to his strange question.

‘Yes, they usually eat there. Ranulf of Abingdon and William Aubrey kept me company, as they often do. Why do you ask?’

‘Because they’ve both damned well disappeared!’ snapped Stanford. ‘Of all times, when I need every man in the Marshalsea to start preparing for Queen Eleanor’s departure to Portsmouth tomorrow.’

‘They said nothing to me about going away when I spoke to them last night,’ replied John. ‘Is there no sign of them in their quarters?’

Stanford strode to the open window and slapped the sill angrily with his riding gloves. ‘There’s nothing left there — they’ve taken their personal belongings and vanished! It seems that they left before dawn, for only a stable boy saw them both saddle up and ride away. Are you sure they said nothing about leaving?’

John shook his head. ‘Not a word! I must say that Ranulf seemed somewhat distant, compared to his usual talkative self, but there was no mention of leaving Westminster.’

Martin Stanford’s rather small eyes stared suspiciously at the coroner. ‘What d’you mean, he was somewhat distant?’ he demanded.

De Wolfe felt trapped, as he had no wish to start gossip that might prove unfounded. ‘There might have been a reason, but it was a very personal one and as I’m only guessing, it would not be fair for me to repeat it.’

Stanford glowered at him. ‘Damn it all, de Wolfe, this is a serious matter! If you know or even suspect something, I need to know. They were two of my most senior assistants.’

John wavered until he decided that he had better divulge his suspicions about Ranulf and Hawise, but he was saved from this awkward position by yet another interruption. This time there was no knock on the door, it was flung back with a crash to admit Renaud de Seigneur, followed by a worried-looking Keeper of the Palace and an even more distraught Guest Master.

‘Sir John, do you know where my wife has gone to?’ he demanded in his shrill voice. For a moment, de Wolfe feared that he was going to denounce John as an adulterer and accuse him of adultery with his wife, but thankfully he had a different target for his anger.

‘You were in the supper hall last evening — did that bloody man Ranulf say anything to you about her?’ he almost shrieked.

Before John could again deny being told anything by the under-marshal, Nathaniel de Levelondes laid a restraining hand on the Lord of Freteval’s shoulder and tried to placate him.

‘De Seigneur, I’m sure there must be some innocent explanation. Let us begin a search of the palace, for perhaps your lady has had some temporary loss of her mind and is wandering the passages and rooms.’

Renaud twisted away and red-faced, began to shout again. ‘Loss of mind be damned! She has gone off with that devil of a horseman! Left her maid and almost all her clothes behind, just taken her jewels!’ he yelled.

Stanford turned to stare at the coroner. ‘Is that what is behind this, de Wolfe? Is that what you were going to tell me?’

John shrugged. ‘I know nothing definite, believe me. It’s just that at the table last night, I thought I detected — well, a situation between the Lady Hawise and Ranulf.’

‘By God’s bones, you certainly did!’ snapped Renaud. ‘I saw what was developing during the week it took to come back from Gloucester. I regret to say that my young wife has a weakness for handsome men.’ He did not look at de Wolfe when he said this and John was unsure whether to be relieved or insulted.

‘Then last night, she said she wanted to petition for an annulment, ridiculous though that may sound. She has had many a flutter with other men, but has never gone as far as that before.’

It was now clear to the other men in the room what had happened before dawn broke that morning.

De Levelondes summed up the situation. ‘So we must assume that the Lady Hawise has eloped with Ranulf of Abingdon. This must surely be some passing infatuation, Lord Renaud. She will come to her senses very quickly.’

Stanford soon picked upon a flaw in his optimism. ‘For a knight in the king’s service to suddenly abandon his career is a major disaster for him, so if he has fled with a lady, then he must be very confident of her fidelity to him.’

He stopped and slapped his head. ‘And why in the name of God has William Aubrey gone with them? She cannot be infatuated with them both!’

This pronouncement suddenly ignited a train of thought in de Wolfe’s mind. Ranulf and William Aubrey, fleeing and abandoning their careers? What would they live on now? Was it possible? He began to think the unthinkable.

‘We need to hurry to the stables and speak to anyone else who knows these two men,’ he said decisively and without waiting for anyone’s reaction, he motioned to Gwyn and headed for the door.

Within the hour, an urgent meeting had been convened in the Justiciar’s chambers. Hubert Walter presided, sitting grave-faced at his table, with William Marshal on his right hand. Nathaniel de Levelondes, the Keeper of the Palace, Martin Stanford, the Deputy Marshal, William fitz Hamon, one of the Barons of the Exchequer, John de Wolfe and Renaud de Seigneur were sitting or standing around the table. At the back of the room, between two palace guards and looking very apprehensive, were Hawise’s maid, a stable-boy and two of the esquires from the Marshalsea.

The pressing nature of this most high-level congress was not because an under-marshal had run off with a young woman, even though she was the wife of a minor noble from Blois. It was because of what John de Wolfe had postulated back in his chamber — the coincidence that the two under-marshals who had escorted the treasure chest back from Winchester, were the same ones who had cut and run, without any apparent funds.

All that was so far known about the emergency had already been given to Hubert Walter by the Deputy Marshal and by the coroner and now the Justiciar wanted to harden up the available evidence.

‘What do we know about this Ranulf that might be relevant?’ he demanded. Martin Stanford beckoned to the two esquires, who reluctantly came nearer.

‘These men knew him best, as they shared accommodation,’ he began. ‘For my part, I know that Ranulf of Abingdon was a most competent and reliable man when it came to his duties.’

‘Your tone suggests that there was another side to his character,’ snapped Hubert.

‘He was a young and energetic fellow,’ said Stanford. ‘He was fond of women, as many of us were at his age. But he was also keen to the point of obsession on gambling, both at dice, cards and in the wider sense, as well as chancing his luck at tournaments, where he was a skilful fighter.’

He prodded one of the squires, a young man of about twenty, who looked frightened to death in this august company.

‘Elias, you knew him best, for you sometimes acted as his squire in the tournaments and melees. What can you tell us?’

‘He was certainly devoted to jousting, sir, mainly because of the prize money and the forfeits of horse and armour of those he defeated.’

‘Has he said anything of suddenly leaving the king’s employ?’

Elias shook his blond head. ‘No, but he often boasted that one day he would take himself abroad and make his fortune going around the tournaments in Germany and Flanders. He said that the restrictions in England made it hardly worth the trouble of entering for the jousts.’

John knew it was true that, though King Richard had relaxed the rules, his father Henry had been against knights killing themselves for money, so many went across the Channel for their sport.

‘What about this lady?’ demanded William Marshal. He almost said ‘this bloody woman’, but realised that her husband was present. ‘Did he say anything about her?’

Elias reddened. ‘I was not with him on the progress to Gloucester and back, my lord. But since he has been back, he spoke of little else other than a new paramour, though he would not name her.’

‘But you must have known who it was!’ barked the Keeper.

‘Indeed, it was obvious that it was the Lady Hawise,’ admitted the squire.

‘And you say you had no idea that he was going to vanish so precipitately like this?’ growled Hubert.

‘None at all, Your Grace! He has seemed excited these past few days, but I put that down to his latest romance. He has had quite a few of those; I knew the signs.’

Renaud de Seigneur made a gargling noise at this exposure of the nature of his wife’s lover, but the Justiciar overrode him.

‘Have you any idea of where he might have gone? And what of the other man, this Aubrey?’

‘He gave no indication at all, sire! I cannot understand it, but Gilbert here knew William Aubrey better than I.’

The other young man, a muscular red-headed fellow, was pulled forward by the Deputy Marshal.

‘Do you know anything that throws light on this unfortunate affair?’ he rasped.

‘William said nothing to me, though like Ranulf, he seemed very excited these past days. He, too, was a keen gambler and I know that both of them were deeply in debt during the past few months.’

‘How so?’ demanded de Wolfe, venturing a question for the first time, as money seemed at the root of this debacle.

‘He and Ranulf had been several times to the Jews for loans. They had lost heavily at a tournament in Wilton last winter and they had visited several moneylenders, paying off debts owed to one with borrowings from another — a recipe for disaster in the long run.’

‘Maybe they have run away to escape repaying these debts,’ suggested William fitz Hamon, a judge from the King’s Bench.

Gilbert turned up his hands. ‘Perhaps, my lord. For some time, they were very anxious about their debts, but, recently, they no longer spoke of them and I got the impression that somehow they had come by substantial funds once again. I assumed one or the other had made a big winning at dice or cards, as they have not been jousting for some time.’

William Marshal spoke again. ‘Have you any idea where they might have gone?’

‘As Elias has said, Ranulf was always talking about going to Flanders and Germany to make their fortunes in the big tournaments that are held there. I have no other suggestion, my lord.’

The questioning and discussion went on for a time, with no concrete conclusions being made. By then, the Lord of Freteval was almost jumping up and down with impatience, demanding that something be done to ‘rescue’ his wife, though most of those present felt that Hawise failed to look upon it as an abduction.

Hubert Walter eventually stood up to terminate the meeting.

‘All that we can do is pursue these men, both for the sake of the lady and her husband — and because there are possibly other issues at stake.’

‘And where are we to seek them, Your Grace?’ asked the Deputy Marshal. ‘It sounds as if they might make for the Continent, but at which port? Dover is the nearest for Flanders, but there are a dozen havens from Portsmouth round to the Thames or even up to Essex and Suffolk that would do as well.’

Another discussion began and it was decided that the Deputy Marshal would send out a number of small search parties to the most likely ports on the Kent and Sussex coasts, each with a knight or squire and a couple of men-at-arms. As the fugitives already had a number of hours’ start and their destination was unknown, it seemed a forlorn hope, but it was all that could be done.

As the meeting dispersed, John went to speak to the Justiciar and William Marshal.

‘I have a bad feeling about this, sirs!’ he began. ‘Those two would not suddenly abandon their positions here and streak for foreign parts if they were not well provided with money or the means to obtain it. From being deeply in debt to the moneyers, suddenly they seem to have ample funds to throw away their careers and seek a new life abroad.’

The Justiciar nodded. ‘I know very well what you are suggesting, John. Have these two benefited in some way from the theft of the gold from the Tower? I thought you had pinned the blame on Canon Simon?’

‘He was certainly involved, but he was murdered and that suggests that he had at least one accomplice who may have wanted to silence him.’

‘Then how was it done, de Wolfe?’ demanded William Marshal. ‘By Job’s pustules, I fail to see how they could have got hold of the keys to the chest in the Tower.’

John was beginning to have his own ideas about that, but this was not the time to go into it. Instead, he asked permission to join the hunt for the two men.

‘Each search party needs to know what they look like and I certainly do,’ he said. ‘I would like to take my officer and begin nearer home, in case they are seeking a ship along the Thames.’

Hubert nodded his agreement, exasperated that all this trouble had arisen on the day before the queen was leaving, when the Marshalsea would be at its busiest.

‘If you do find the bastards, drag them to the Tower straight away. There are ample means in the dungeons there to get the truth out of them!’

Another hour saw de Wolfe and Gwyn cantering past Charing on a pair of fast rounseys from the stables, on their way into the city. John had decided to leave Thomas behind, as he was an impediment to swift travel and he thought speed may be of the essence if the fugitives were intent on leaving by ship. However, Gwyn pointed out that the tide was almost at the ebb, so no vessel would be leaving for another six hours.

‘Are we going to search all along the wharves?’ called the Cornishman as they clipped along the Strand towards the Temple. ‘There are many of them, both in the Fleet river, the city and beyond it past St Katherine’s, where ships also berth.’

‘We need only vessels bound for a Channel crossing or directly across to the mouth of the Rhine,’ shouted John. ‘No need to concern ourselves with those who are going up the east coast or around to the west.’

As they passed through Ludgate, the magnitude of their task came home to the coroner. They needed some help in deciding where along the seething banks of the river to make their search.

There was no evidence that Ranulf, William and the woman were even in the city, for they may have crossed the bridge and be on their way to Dover or Ramsgate by now. As they reached the end of Cheapside, John was uncertain whether to continue or turn down Watling Street to the bridge. Then he decided to seek some help, if it was forthcoming.

‘Let’s go to see that damned sheriff again,’ he declared and turned up towards the Guildhall. He had no impressive warrant to show this time, but the clerk recognised him and moments later he was again in Godard of Antioch’s chamber.

‘The Justiciar needs some information of a different nature this time,’ he began. ‘About vessels along your wharves.’

The sheriff scowled and held up a hand. ‘God’s teeth, you are a persistent fellow, de Wolfe. You’ve not had the result of your last request yet.’

John stared at him. ‘You mean that you’ve discovered something about the man who was with that murdered canon?’

Godard nodded with smug satisfaction. ‘My men traced the tavern where he ate.’

‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ snapped John. ‘It was vitally important.’

‘It must have slipped my mind,’ said Godard casually. ‘But I’m telling you now. One of my men asked around the streets and it seems that this fat priest that died in Bartholomew’s was well known in an eating house in St Martin’s Lane, leading up to Aldersgate. He probably went there every time before he vented his lust in the Stinking Lane brothel.’

‘Did they say there was another man eating with him?’ demanded John urgently. ‘And whether they knew him, too?’

The sheriff held up a hand to stem the flow of questions. ‘For hell’s sake, what do you expect from us, coroner? The tavern keeper only recalls this canon because he was a regular customer. He can’t be expected to do more than that!’

De Wolfe calmed down and after he had obtained the name of the inn, he thanked Godard and left, almost at a run.

‘I know the eating house where Basset ate,’ he yelled at Gwyn, as he swung himself into the saddle. ‘It’s worth seeing if Ranulf was the second man.’

St Martin’s Lane, sounding so similar to John’s address in Exeter, was only a few yards away and within minutes they saw the Falcon, a large and respectable-looking tavern fronting directly on to the busy thoroughfare that led up to Aldersgate. It had two storeys, with shuttered windows on either side of the large central door. There was a side lane which led around to a yard containing stables and various outbuildings. As they could not leave their horses in the road, John led the way around to the back, where a snivelling barefoot boy took their steeds and hitched them to a rail.

‘There’s a door to the taproom there, sirs, to save you going round to the street again,’ said the lad, as John gave him a half-penny.

‘Let’s see if the landlord recalls who might have dined with our lecherous priest,’ said John, pushing open the back door that the urchin had pointed out. Through a short passage, half-filled with casks and crates, was an arch into the main room, crowded with drinkers even at mid-morning. They either stood in groups or sat on benches around the walls. There was a cacophony of chatter, some drunken singing and in a corner the twanging of someone playing a lute. There were several harlots with painted lips and cheeks plying their trade, dressed in striped gowns and wearing bright-red wigs, the uniform of London whores. A pair of hounds were wrestling playfully on the rushes, watched at a distance by several wary cats.

Drink was being served from barrels behind a table, from which a potboy and a wench were selling pint jugs of ale. De Wolfe pushed his way to them through the uncaring throng.

‘Where’s your master, the landlord?’

‘Still at Smithfield, buying meat,’ said the girl. ‘But the missus is in the eating hall, through there.’ She flipped a hand towards another arch which led into the other half of the ground floor.

John, with Gwyn close behind, went through into a room with one long table and several small ones, where people were beginning to settle on benches for their early pre-noon dinner. A large woman in a long linen apron was carrying in baskets of bread and John moved to intercept her with his questions, when he received a hard nudge in the back from Gwyn.

‘Just look who’s over there, Crowner!’ he hissed, jerking his head. John followed his gesture and saw that, at a table in the far corner, were two men and a woman — the very ones they were seeking.