Crowner Royal

CHAPTER TWO

Although the coroner feared that the missing corpse might be carried downriver and be lost for ever at sea, it did not in fact travel very far from Westminster.

The Thames was flowing sluggishly after several weeks of dry weather and the neap summer tides were low. By next morning, the dead man’s cassock had snagged on a partly submerged tree stump in the shallows, just past the outflow of the Holbourn or Fleet stream on the northern bank, where the city wall ended.

Though corpses were found almost daily in the great river, ones with a tonsure and clerical garb were not that common and a wherryman rowing empty towards the wharf at Baynard’s Castle was intrigued enough to recover the body. He hauled it aboard and had a quick look to see if the fingers bore any rings that could be looted. Disappointed, he fumbled in the leather scrip on the man’s belt and was equally chagrined to find only two silver pence. He had half a mind to throw the corpse back into the water, but being so near the shore, he feared that he might be seen. Reluctantly, he rowed on to the landing stage, where a handful of citizens were waiting, augmented by some loafers who had seen the sodden body sprawled in the flimsy craft. As the cadaver looked fresh and not bloated or stinking, they helped him haul the victim out on to the wharf, where it was laid on the boards.

‘It’s a clerk,’ declared an old man, hopping nearby on a crutch. ‘May even be a priest?’

At this, a portly monk in the white habit of a Cistercian, pushed his way through the small crowd that had gathered and imperiously waved aside the nearest onlookers.

‘Keep away, let me see!’ he snapped. ‘If it is one of my brothers, he must be treated with all respect.’

Bending over the sodden corpse, he looked at the plain cassock and noted the lack of any pectoral cross or beringed fingers. He decided that this was no archdeacon or even vicar, but merely someone in minor orders.

‘What’s that embroidered on his front, then?’ asked the man on crutches, whose infirmity obviously did not extend to his eyesight. The Cistercian bent lower and squinted at some unobtrusive embroidery just below the left shoulder. The dark red stitching did not show up well against the soaked black fabric, but now his short-sighted eyes made out three small lions, one above the other.

‘This must be a brother in the king’s service!’ he exclaimed, straightening up. ‘Quite probably from Westminster.’

The boatman nodded sagely. ‘That would fit, for he’s quite fresh, even in this hot weather. So he’s not come far down the river, certainly not from Windsor or Reading.’

The monk, losing interest now that the dead man was obviously not someone important in the Church hierarchy, stepped back and began moving towards the end of the landing stage, beckoning the boatman to take him across the river.

‘Get the poor fellow taken to some shelter out of the sun,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘And tell the watch to notify the palace that it might be a royal servant.’

As he lowered himself cautiously into the wherry and was rowed off across the wide river, two large men in leather jerkins and serge breeches came striding down to the upper end of the landing stage from Thames Street, which ran along the edge of the river. They carried heavy staves and wooden truncheons hung from their wide belts. Attracted by the small crowd, these were city watchmen, employed by the mayor and aldermen to keep order in the streets. This was easier said than done, as there were only a few dozen of them to control London’s thirty thousand inhabitants. Employed mainly for their brawn, rather than brains, they still managed to cope with this incident efficiently, as they frequently had to deal with ‘drowners’. Taking the brief story from the onlookers, they decided to move the cadaver to the nearest church, as he appeared to be some kind of cleric. However, as they were tipping the corpse on to a barrow commandeered for the purpose, the change in posture caused blood to start leaking through the cassock. The lame onlooker, who was avidly watching the proceedings, was again the first to spot this and he gave a shout of warning.

‘Look at that cut in his clothing!’ he yelled. ‘The man’s been stabbed!’

Everyone crowded around until the watchmen shoved them roughly aside to make sure for themselves.

‘God’s guts, this is getting too heavy for us!’ muttered the senior of the pair to his partner. ‘A king’s clerk, murdered and thrown into the river. This is a job for the sheriff’s men!’

That evening, John de Wolfe decided to eat his supper in the palace, rather than eat alone in the house in Long Ditch. As usual, Thomas was supping in the abbey refectory, where he could converse with his fellow clerics, a pleasure little short of paradise for him after his years in the ecclesiastical wilderness. Gwyn, who was as fond of alehouses as the clerk was of the Church, had gone to his favourite tavern in Thieving Lane, to play dice with new cronies he had made amongst the palace guards.

In the early evening, John left his bare chamber overlooking the river and went down through the passages to the Lesser Hall, often known as the ‘White Hall’, on the abbey side of the main palace buildings. Although spacious, it was a quarter of the size of William Rufus’s Great Hall and had a beamed ceiling, as there was another floor above it, a dormitory for palace staff. When the king was in residence, he ate there on the raised platform at one end, except when there were major feasts in the Great Hall. It was also occasionally used for meetings, including that of the King’s Council, but at other times the hall provided meals for the middle echelons of the palace inhabitants — the high and mighty, like the Justiciar, Steward, Treasurer, Barons of the Exchequer and the Lord Chamberlain, either lived outside in their own houses or ate in private dining rooms upstairs, adjacent to the royal chambers.

As John pushed through the heavy curtain over the side entrance, he met a buzz of conversation, punctuated by raucous laughter and the clatter of ale pots and dishes. Unlike the refectory in the nearby abbey, there was no respectful muting of conversation and no verses from the Gospels or the Rule of St Benedict droned continually by a monk at a lectern during the meal, though a grace was always said by one of the priests present.

A servant near the door offered him a bowl of water and a towel to wash his hands before eating. He looked around at the scene. Two rows of trestle tables ran down the length of the hall and servants were scurrying back and forth from the door to the kitchens that he had seen when he had visited the Chief Purveyor earlier that day. The benches along the tables were occupied by a few score diners and the coroner slid into a vacant place. The meal had already started and grace had been said before his arrival. He found himself between a powerfully built man in a dark-red tunic and a small priest with a completely bald head.

Almost before he had sat down, a young servant boy placed a pint of ale in a pewter tankard before him and another deftly dropped a trencher on to the scrubbed boards of the table. John grunted a greeting to those on each side and nodded to a man and woman sitting opposite. The priest ignored him, continuing to mumble Latin prayers between sucking at a chicken leg with his toothless gums, but the man on his left, a handsome fellow in his late twenties responded civilly enough.

‘You are Sir John de Wolfe, the new law officer, I believe? We heard that the king, God save him, had appointed someone to keep us in order!’

De Wolfe reached out to spear a large slice of roast pork with the eating knife he kept sheathed on his belt. He placed it on his trencher, along with a liberal covering of fried onions ladled from a pottery bowl.

‘I am indeed, though hardly new now, for I’ve been here for well over a month. And I doubt I will be keeping you in order, unless you are dead or suffer severe violence!’ As he attacked the meat with his fingers, his neighbour introduced himself.

‘I am Ranulf of Abingdon, a knight from Berkshire. For my sins, I live in the palace as an under-marshal — and have to endure the food in this place almost every day!’

John raised his ale pot to his new friend and wished him good health. ‘I know your master William the Marshal quite well,’ he added. ‘I served under him in the Holy Land and we met again not long ago when he came as a judge to settle a problem we had in Devon.’

The great William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, was a legend, both for his prowess as a warrior and his eminence in political matters under several kings.

‘He has spoken of you more than once,’ replied Ranulf. ‘I envy the good standing you have not only with the Justiciar and the Marshal, but with the king himself.’

The man opposite leaned forward, just as John was trying to get some food into his mouth. ‘You mentioned Devon, sir. I thought you had an unusual accent. I am from Blois myself, so perhaps I am more sensitive to the different dialects in England.’

They were speaking Norman-French, as did most people in the palace, above the level of servants.

‘I was born in Devon, sir, so it is to be expected,’ said John rather shortly. The speaker was a short middle-aged man, running to fat, dressed in a rather dandified blue tunic with ornate embroidery around the neck and cuffs. He had a sharp nose and small blue eyes, his face rimmed with a narrow beard which matched the cap of brown hair on top of his head.

‘Renaud de Seigneur is Lord of Freteval in the county of Blois and has been a guest here for several weeks,’ explained Ranulf, detecting some brusqueness in de Wolfe’s tone and hastening to mollify it. ‘Lady Hawise d’Ayncourt is his gracious wife.’

Ranulf smiled at the woman across the table and John looked at her for the first time. Until then, she had kept her head down and seemed intent on eating. Her face had been partly obscured by the wide linen couvre-chef, or cover-chief, that veiled her head and the silken wimple that hid her temples and throat.

At Ranulf’s words, she lifted her head to smile at de Wolfe and he realised that she was quite beautiful. Always having a keen eye for a pretty woman, the many weeks of celibacy had sharpened his appreciation even more. Her smooth oval face had long-lashed dark eyes, a small straight nose and lips that pouted slightly in a full Cupid’s bow. What little could be seen of her hair under her head-rail was a glossy black with an almost midnight-blue sheen to it. She said nothing, but there was a look in her lovely eyes that said that she found this eagle-faced man of interest to her.

‘My wife was born in England, Sir John, though her family came from Gascony,’ confided Renaud de Seigneur. ‘She has a brother in Gloucester and a sister married to a manor-lord near Hereford, so we are journeying there to visit them.’

‘I have not seen them for eight years since Renaud married me and carried me off to France!’ Hawise spoke for the first time, her husky voice matching her exotic appearance which suggested some Latin ancestry, though John detected a trace of a West Country accent similar to his own. He guessed that she was about twenty-five years of age, her husband being at least two decades older. She and her maid — a silent mousy girl who kept her eyes on her food throughout the entire meal — were the only women in the hall. Except for the families of some of the servants who lived at the back of the yards, women were not allowed in the palace, apart from the guests, who usually stayed with their husbands and tire-women in the quarters above.

Servants cleared dishes as they were emptied and brought fresh ones constantly. Herring, salt cod, eels, capon and mutton appeared, with platters of boiled beans, carrots and cabbage to bulk out the flesh. Bottler’s assistants topped up their pots with ale or cider and large jugs replenished pewter cups of red wine.

Both the food and drink were of only moderate quality — especially the somewhat sour wine — but they were adequate for daily fare. John’s subsistence was part of the perquisites of his appointment, but he supposed that those who were not on the palace staff had to pay for their keep, unless they were official invitees.

‘Are you staying in the guest chambers here?’ he asked, directing his question at Renaud, but making firm eye contact with his wife. ‘I assumed that you would eat there.’

He had not the slightest interest in their arrangements, but could not resist trying to further a dialogue with such an attractive woman.

‘We often do stay upstairs, but we sometimes find it more congenial here, hearing news and gossip and meeting interesting people,’ said Hawise. She looked from under lowered eyelids at de Wolfe and the tip of a pink tongue appeared briefly.

Her husband seemed oblivious to her mild flirting, but Ranulf looked uneasy. ‘Renaud de Seigneur and his lady are waiting for the arrival of Queen Eleanor, so that they may go with the court to Gloucester rather than risk the journey alone.’

De Wolfe cut a slice of mutton from a joint in front of him and lifted it on to his trencher. He thought of offering some to Hawise, as it was courteous for a man to supply a lady with her food, but as her husband was sitting alongside her, he thought he had best leave that duty to him, in case he was thought impertinent. Instead, he followed up Ranulf’s remark.

‘I had heard that the queen was coming. Do we know when? And will the whole court be moving with her?’ he asked.

The knight from the Marshalsea nodded, as he waved a hand to a servant to take away the remnants of his own trencher. ‘Within a couple of weeks, it is said — depending upon a fair wind from the mouth of the Seine. We have a troop of men-at-arms ready down at Portsmouth to escort her party when it arrives.’ He swallowed the rest of his wine. ‘And yes, within a few days of her arrival, I suspect that the grand dame will want to be on the move again, first down to Windsor, then Marlborough on the way to Gloucester.’

The eyes of the woman opposite locked with John’s and a frisson of desire passed unbidden through him.

‘Sir John, you are well-acquainted with the great persons of state, it seems,’ she said. ‘It seems strange that everyone still refers to her as “the queen” when the real queen is never mentioned!’

De Wolfe was reluctant to pursue this topic, but felt he must make some reply. ‘Berengaria has never set foot in England, my lady, as I’m sure you know. She was not even at King Richard’s coronation, across the yard there in the abbey.’

‘I hear Eleanor is a formidable woman,’ persisted Hawise. ‘Have you met her yourself?’

He shook his head regretfully. ‘I fear not, my lady. When I was with the king, both in Palestine and on his disastrous journey homewards, his mother was far away.’

‘Didn’t she go with her husband on the Second Crusade?’ Hawise’s eyes were wide with excitement.

‘She did indeed, madam — and legend has it that she led her own company of high-born ladies dressed as Amazons!’

Hawise gasped, a hand fluttering at her neck.

‘She is certainly a most extraordinary woman,’ observed Renaud. ‘I was in her presence once in Mortain when she visited Count John there. Though advancing in years, she is still a handsome and regal lady. I would not care to cross her!’

Nor would anyone else, de Wolfe thought. The old queen, once wife to King Louis VII of France before she married Henry II, was a powerful figure behind the Plantagenet family. Imprisoned by her husband for sixteen years for siding with their sons against him, she had later helped to save England from her youngest son’s treachery when his brother was imprisoned in Germany. The conversation continued across the table for some time, mainly about the personalities in the court and the odd position of Westminster in the dual kingdom of Normandy and England.

Primarily a soldier, John had never taken that much interest in politics, though of course he knew the general situation. It was Ranulf of Abingdon who was the best informed, having been a resident here for three years.

‘This is a strange place, de Wolfe,’ he began, pushing back on the edge of the table with his hands. ‘A royal court without a king! Since his coronation in eighty-nine, I doubt he’s spent more than a few months in England — and for most of that, he was marching around the country, rather than settled in Westminster.’

Renaud de Seigneur nodded in agreement, watched intently by his wife. John had the feeling that they were avid for details of what went on in this enclave on the bank of the Thames.

‘The Lionheart’s true court is Rouen,’ Renaud declaimed. ‘Though he was born in Oxford, he is first and foremost Duke of Aquitaine and Normandy. England is but a colony to him, a source of money and men to fight his wars.’

Blindly loyal to Richard though he was, de Wolfe could hardly deny this statement, though he was resentful to hear it fall from the lips of a Frenchman. Renaud was not even a Norman, coming as he did from the county of Blois, which had a somewhat ambiguous position between the territories of Richard and Philip of France.

‘Yet there seems to be a large complement of ministers, officers, clerks and servants here, considering the sovereign never sets foot in the place?’ observed Hawise, giving John another melting glance from her lovely eyes.

Uneasy that her husband might take offence at this obvious flirting under his very nose, John turned to Ranulf. ‘The place always seems busy, even if we have no resident royalty.’

Flattered to be looked upon as the fount of knowledge, Ranulf launched into an explanation.

‘England is now governed largely from here, even in the absence of the king,’ he explained. ‘The Curia Regis, though it mainly sits in Rouen, is also based here, in so far as decisions about England are concerned, so the major barons, bishops and other great men are constantly back and forth. This is why we maintain the guest accommodation — though the ministers of state usually have houses of their own in the neighbourhood.’

‘In my father’s day, I recall that Winchester seemed to be the most important place,’ observed Lady Hawise.

Ranulf, who seemed to have the same appreciation of a fair lady as the coroner, nodded as he gave her his most winning smile.

‘Winchester was the Saxon capital, but now almost everything has been moved up to Westminster.’ He looked rather dramatically over his shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘In fact, I am involved in organising the final part of the move now. The Exchequer is already here, but the remainder of the Treasury will be coming up next week, under heavy guard.’

The French baron and his wife looked suitably impressed and Renaud tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

‘They’ll hang you for giving away such state secrets to foreigners,’ he joked. ‘Maybe I’ll hire some Welsh mercenaries and ambush you on the way!’

The under-marshal grinned and winked at Hawise, but she seemed more interested in John, who was scowling at Ranulf’s indiscretion. ‘Stranger things have happened,’ growled de Wolfe. ‘I’d not let such talk go further.’

To get away from the subject, he turned the conversation to the stabbing that had happened that day, of which the couple opposite were unaware.

‘It doesn’t seem to be a robbery, though we’ve got no body yet,’ he concluded. ‘So I wouldn’t be too concerned about being at risk from murderous cutpurses in the palace precinct. But be careful always, Sir Renaud. Don’t let your wife go out unchaperoned.’

Hawise d’Ayncourt gave him a brilliant smile at this. ‘I’m sure with a Crusader on the premises, we can all sleep safely in our beds, Sir John!’

Renaud stood up rather abruptly and helped his wife to her feet, as he bade the two men goodnight. As he walked her away with her arm through his, he murmured, ‘You needn’t make it too obvious, lady.’

She pouted a little as they walked up the hall. ‘You never know when two court officers might be useful,’ she whispered.

The news came in mid-morning, just after Gwyn had returned from collecting their daily rations. Part of their expense allowance was in bread, candles and ale, as Thomas had his own allotment over in the abbey, in return for working in the scriptorium when not on coroner’s business. Gwyn had lumbered in, clutching four barley loaves and a bundle of candles, which he dumped on the table in front of his master.

‘I’ll go back for the ale in a moment,’ he grunted, taking a breather before he went for their daily two-gallon jar. The allowances were dispensed from a room near the entrance to the Lesser Hall. Thomas had run out of rolls to scribe and was quietly reading his precious copy of the Vulgate of St Jerome, while de Wolfe was sitting with a quart pot of yesterday’s ale, morosely contemplating the floor and wondering what was happening back in Exeter.

Gwyn slumped on a stool and began cutting a thick slice from one of the loaves with his dagger, to go with a lump of cheese that had been wrapped in a cloth on a nearby shelf. He was about to offer the same to his companions, when there was a rap on the door and the warped boards creaked open to admit the head of a young page.

‘Pardon me, sires, but I was sent by the doorward to give you a message,’ he said hesitantly. He looked about ten years old and seemed overawed by the presence of the king’s coroner.

‘The Keeper of the Palace requests that you attend upon him directly, sir. It is something relating to a dead body.’

He made to withdraw, but de Wolfe roared at him and his curly head bobbed back again.

‘You had better lead us to wherever he is, boy!’ he snapped, his scowl frightening the lad even more. ‘By Job’s pustules, I don’t want to spend the next hour wandering these damned passages!’

John had met the Keeper of the Palace, Nathaniel de Levelondes, several times, once in the company of Hubert Walter, the Chief Justiciar, when they first arrived, but he had no idea where he was installed in the rambling buildings. Leaving Gwyn and Thomas to enjoy their bread and cheese, he followed the nervous page along the same floor towards the royal chambers, a three-storey block built around a private cloister adjacent to the Lesser Hall. Between this and the back of the Great Hall, were the guest chambers, which de Wolfe calculated must be over the Steward’s domain that they had visited the previous day. The lad, who de Wolfe guessed must be the son of a baron being placed here for eventual advancement in court, led him to a narrow stair to an upper floor, where he held aside a heavy leather curtain which did service as a door.

John went inside and found an elderly clerk writing at a table and a younger man, also with a tonsure, shuffling parchments at another. The latter jumped to his feet and ushered de Wolfe through an archway into an inner room.

‘Sir, the coroner is here.’

The Keeper of the Palace was seated behind a desk, reading a parchment roll which he was unfurling with both hands. It looked as if he was one of the relatively few people not in holy orders who could read and write and John felt a pang of envy, as he had been trying to learn for almost two years, with indifferent success.

De Levelondes was an elderly man who seemed to lean forward with his head outstretched and de Wolfe noticed that his hands trembled as laid down the parchment. He had a thin, careworn face, deep grooves running down each side of his mouth. His hair was as grey as his long tunic, over which he carried a large ring of keys on a thin chain around his neck. John knew that he was not a knight or a baron, but came from an affluent Kentish family which held the post of Keeper as a hereditary gift from old King Henry. In the hierarchy of the Norman court, de Wolfe was his superior and he gave a brief nod of the head as a deferential greeting.

‘I am sorry to trouble you, Sir John, but I thought I had better deliver a message to you myself, rather than depend on perhaps the garbled efforts of yet another messenger.’

His voice was slightly tremulous as he rested his quivering hands on the edge of the table for support. This was not due to anxiety, but appeared to John to be some disorder of the nerves. De Wolfe muttered a greeting in reply and waited for enlightenment.

‘A lay brother from the chapel of Baynard’s Castle in the city came on a donkey a short while ago, sent by the priest there to tell us that a body had been recovered from the nearby foreshore. He was apparently someone in holy orders, and had the royal device displayed upon his robe.’

John’s black eyebrows rose on his forehead.

‘Someone from here? Then surely it is likely to be that of the man who was stabbed on the landing stage yesterday. You heard about that?’

The Keeper nodded. ‘Hugo de Molis informed me as soon as he had confirmed that Brother Basil had not returned. I understand that this probably falls within your remit as Coroner of the Verge?’

De Wolfe nodded. ‘It most certainly does! My officer saw it happen and we only just missed catching the bastard who was responsible.’

Nathaniel de Levelondes sank back on his stool as if unsteady on his feet. ‘The corpse is being held inside Baynard’s Castle until someone confirms it is indeed Basil of Reigate.’

John rubbed the black stubble on his face. ‘I must go there at once — but I don’t know this fellow from Adam!’

‘No doubt Hugo de Molis can send someone with you who knew him. He will also be able to direct you to the castle.’

Glad at last to have a proper case to deal with, the coroner was eager to be off and managed to find his way down to the purveyor’s chamber. Here de Molis dispatched one of the young clerks to accompany John and after gathering Gwyn and Thomas from their upstairs chamber, they collected their horses from the livery stables and set off, the clerk on a pony commandeered from another of the under-marshals who organised all transport for the palace. The coroner’s trio had ridden up from Exeter five weeks earlier and John had his old destrier Odin, while Gwyn kept to his big brown mare and Thomas rode a docile palfrey.

The clerk, a cheerful young man named Edwin, was happy to have a few hours away from his tedious duties in the stores and regaled them on the way with accounts of the places they passed during the two-mile journey. They walked their steeds across the Palace Yard between the Great Hall and the wall of the abbey to reach the gateway into King Street, commonly known as ‘The Royal Way’. The wide track led northward, crossing the Clowson Brook, with houses on either side.

‘That lane goes down to Enedenhithe, a wharf on the river,’ said Edwin, with a cheerful wave of his hand. He pointed to a short side street lined with larger stone houses, which lay on their right. ‘Many of the senior court officers live there — and some of the king’s ministers!’ he added with almost proprietorial satisfaction.

Beyond this, the houses petered out and there were meadows, those toward the riverbank being called ‘Scotland’ by the clerk for some obscure reason. At the small village of Charing, the road turned to follow the curve of the river, where the Hospital of St Mary’s Rounceval was placed on the bend.

From there up to the Preceptory of the Templars, with their new round church, the track followed the raised strand above the edge of the river, the clerk enthusing about some large houses, gardens and orchards that were scattered along both sides. By now the city was looming in front of them behind its great wall, as the road dipped down into the valley of the Fleet. The city was already overflowing beyond its walls, set out by the Romans in a great irregular half-circle. Each end abutted on the riverbank, the further one finishing at William the Bastard’s great tower that still loomed threateningly, reminding the citizens of its royal power.

John and his two henchmen had been to London before, but the sheer size of the place never ceased to impress them. The great bulk of St Paul’s stuck up brazenly, shepherded by dozens of church spires and towers across the city.

‘That’s Baynard’s Castle there!’ pointed Edwin, as they crossed the wooden bridge over the murky Fleet river to pass through Ludgate, the westernmost of the eight entrances to the city. His arm flung out towards a low fortress tucked inside the end of the city wall where it met the Thames, just beyond some busy wharves at the mouth of the Fleet.

The road was crammed with people, carts, barrows and animals coming and going through the gate. Inside, they climbed part of the slope of Ludgate Hill, then turned right to squeeze along a narrow, noisy, stinking street to the gateway of the castle. Here the two sentries recognised a knight of some substance by the size of his destrier, his sword and his forbidding appearance, together with the three men who formed his entourage. They saluted him and waved him into the large bailey that occupied much of the space within the walls. In the centre were several stone buildings forming a palace and a keep, with other half-timbered and wooden structures built against the inner walls. There were two turrets at each end of the castellated ramparts right on the river’s edge, but John’s eyes sought out a guardhouse just within the main entrance. With a nod of his head he sent Gwyn towards it and the Cornishman slid from his saddle and went to seek directions.

‘The corpse is lying next to the chapel,’ he announced when he returned. The rest of them dismounted and a pair of young grooms came running to take charge of their horses. The chapel was a small stone structure next to the keep and when they approached, they saw a group of figures standing outside a lean-to shed attached to its wall. From many similar encounters, de Wolfe knew that this was likely to be a primitive mortuary.

One of the three men outside was obviously a priest and John sent Thomas ahead to greet him, as he knew that this was often a useful tactic.

When de Wolfe reached the chapel, his clerk introduced the priest and explained that the other two men were sheriff’s constables from the city. They were heavily built and had the appearance of watchmen or soldiers, though they wore leather jerkins and breeches, rather than uniforms. John thought them surly fellows and after muttered greetings they all turned to the open end of the shed, which seemed to be mainly a repository for a handcart.

‘I have brought someone who can definitely identify the body, if it is who we think,’ said John brusquely. He motioned Edwin forward. ‘This young man is on the palace staff and knows the presumed victim.’

A still shape lay upon the cart covered with a grubby sheet of canvas. One of the sheriff’s servants pulled it off and Edwin moved forward to study the dead man’s face.

‘There’s no doubt about it, that’s Basil of Reigate,’ murmured the clerk, looking rather white about the gills.

The other sheriff’s man, rather reluctantly deferring to a knight of the realm, wanted to know more details and Edwin described how Basil was one of the palace officers responsible for the upkeep of the guest chambers.

‘I suppose you want to examine the cadaver, Crowner?’ said Gwyn, moving towards the barrow. The first sheriff’s officer, named William, quickly stepped forward and laid a hand on the massive arm of the Cornishman.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

Gwyn looked enquiringly at John as he shook off the restraining hand. For a moment, de Wolfe was afraid that his henchman was going to send the other man staggering for his temerity in grasping him. He held up a restraining hand to Gwyn and glared at William.

‘I need to examine the corpse! He was stabbed before going into the river.’

William glowered back at him. ‘You Westminster people came to identify him, that’s all! Your duty is done, for which the sheriffs will thank you.’

It was John’s turn to scowl at the man. ‘I am the coroner, fellow! I need to hold an inquest into this man’s death!’

William shook his head and stood in front of the body with his arms folded in a gesture of defiance.

‘You have no powers here, sir. The city of London is an independent commune and has no coroner. Our two sheriffs carry out that function, so there’s no need to trouble you.’

De Wolfe glowered at the men, for the other one had moved to stand alongside William in an almost threatening manner.

He knew that the city was a place apart, fiercely jealous of its independence, arrogant by virtue of its huge commercial strength, undoubtedly greater than all other English cities put together. The aldermen, burgesses, guildsmen and merchants were extremely powerful and on occasions might even defy the king himself. John was also well aware that when Hubert Walter had instituted coroners in every county two years earlier, he had to heed a refusal from the city fathers and was forced to exclude them from the edict, allowing the two sheriffs to perform those duties.

‘That may well be — for your own corpses from the city!’ he protested harshly. ‘But this is a royal servant who drifted down the river from the king’s palace of Westminster and that falls within my jurisdiction.’

The stony face of the sheriff’s man stared defiantly at de Wolfe.

‘Well, he’s not in Westminster now, is he? His corpse lies here in the city and that’s what matters.’

The coroner felt like punching the man on his fleshy nose, but managed to restrain his short temper.

‘He lies within the Verge, damn you! Twelve miles in any direction from the king’s court!

The other constable, a tall, burly man, smirked. ‘By Christ’s bones, sir, then you’ve got your work cut out!’ he exclaimed sarcastically. ‘That encompasses the whole of London and halfway into Essex, to say nothing of Middlesex and much of Surrey!’

‘Only if the deceased is connected with the court, you damn fool!’ snarled de Wolfe. In truth, he was not at all sure of the exact definition of those who should come within the jurisdiction of the Verge, but he was incensed at being sneered at by fellows who were little more than city watchmen.

William stood obstinately in front of the body. ‘I know nothing of that, sir. All I know is what the sheriff ordered and that was to keep the body privy until he comes to see it and decides what to do. No doubt it will be sent back up the river to you when he’s finished with it.’

De Wolfe, never known for his patience or easy temper, was fuming at the man’s smug complacency. But short of starting a fight with the representatives of the city’s aldermen, there was little he could do at the moment.

‘And when will that be?’ he demanded fiercely, glowering at the man with his arms akimbo, hands jammed into his waist. ‘I need to speak to this sheriff of yours straight away. And then to the Chief Justiciar, who introduced these laws on behalf of King Richard!’

The watchman was unimpressed. ‘That’s nothing to do with me, coroner. The sheriff is Godard of Antioch — at least the one that’s dealing with this. The other one is Robert fitz Durand, but he’s away hunting in Northampton.’

‘Where can I find this Godard?’ demanded John.

‘He must have heard you, sir,’ crowed the other man, raising his eyes to look across the bailey. ‘Here he is now!’

They all turned and saw a fine white horse enter the castle gate. The rider slid off and threw the reins to an ostler who dashed to meet him. Then he waddled across the open space, a fat man with a long yellow tunic reaching to his calves, slit front and back for sitting a horse. As he approached, John saw that his bulging belly was girdled by a wide belt, bearing a short riding sword. He had virtually no neck, a bulbous head rising straight from his shoulders, bristly blond hair surmounting a round, pugnacious face. John sighed and he heard Gwyn mutter.

‘Another awkward bugger, by the looks of it!’

De Wolfe decided to go on the offensive right away.

‘Sheriff, I am Sir John de Wolfe, the king’s Coroner of the Verge! We have just identified this corpse from the river as being that of the palace clerk who was murdered in Westminster yesterday.’

Godard, who took his other name from estates his father had owned in one of the Christian kingdoms of Outremer, held up his arm in salute, but looked suspiciously at de Wolfe.

‘I have heard of you, Sir John. What are you doing here?’

His tone was guarded, but not overtly hostile, as his eyes flickered from the coroner to the body on the cart and then to his pair of henchmen standing in front of it.

‘This man was stabbed yesterday within the enclave of the royal palace and then fell into the river. I need to investigate his death and bring the culprit to justice.’

Godard shrugged and virtually repeated what William had said. ‘This is a task for us, sir. We perform your function in this city.’

Bottling up his exasperation with difficulty, John made a further effort to reason with the man. ‘I grant you that this was the situation until recently,’ he grated. ‘But King Richard expressly directed the appointment of a coroner to deal with all relevant deaths within the verge of the royal court, wherever it may be. He ordered the Chief Justiciar to implement his wish and I have been appointed by him to perform that function.’

He deliberately emphasized the names to convey the importance of his office, but Godard seemed unimpressed.

‘Ha, Hubert Walter! He’s well out of favour in London these days, so I’d not be too ready to flaunt your warrant from him.’

De Wolfe sighed heavily. He knew Godard was referring to the harsh way in which a couple of months previously Hubert had quelled the popular revolt against taxation led by William fitz Osbert, known as ‘Longbeard’. The leaders of the rebellion had been cornered in the church of St Mary le Bow, which Hubert had set on fire, driving the rebels out to be dragged to an agonising death at Tyburn. Since then, his unpopularity over the increasing burden of taxes had been worsened by accusations that he had deliberately ordered the violation of sanctuary.

‘He appointed me on the orders of King Richard!’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘Are you challenging royal authority? That smacks of treason, sir!’

An expression of sullen obstinacy came over Godard’s plain face. ‘I’m challenging nothing — but the right to appoint one sheriff for London and another for Middlesex was granted by the first King Henry when he granted the city its charter. If you want to dispute that, then take the matter to the mayor, to whom I am responsible.’

‘I may do just that!’ rasped the coroner, his simmering anger now rising to boiling point. ‘But that will take time, and in this blistering heat that cadaver will start to stink, especially as it has already spent a night in this putrid river!’

The sheriff considered this for a moment, stroking his full belly with one hand as an aid to thought.

‘I’m a reasonable man, Sir John. I accept your point about the likely dissolution of the corpse in this weather,’ he said mildly. ‘Why do we not examine him together, then at least your mind will be assuaged about the cause of death?’

Somewhat reluctantly, de Wolfe grunted an agreement, but did not give in completely. ‘What about getting the fellow back to Westminster? He is in minor orders and deserves a proper funeral before he turns green!’

‘I still wish to hold my own enquiry, as is the city’s right,’ declared Godard pedantically. ‘After that, you can do what you like with him.’

De Wolfe managed to hold his tongue until after he had had the opportunity to look at the corpse. Then he intended petitioning the Chief Justiciar to kick a few backsides in the city of London, even if Hubert was out of favour with those belligerent bastards who lived in this swarming hive on the edge of the Thames.

The sheriff began walking to the cart, his two officers reluctantly moving aside to let the coroner’s team through.

Edwin once again identified the body to the sheriff, to legalise the enquiry that the Londoner was insistent upon.

‘You say he was stabbed, not drowned?’ demanded Godard, in his rather high-pitched voice. ‘I see no blood?’

‘He’s been washed in the damned river for the better part of a day,’ snapped John, his patience at breaking point. More calmly, he forced himself to explain the whole circumstances. ‘We happened to see the culprit running away, but we had no chance to catch or even recognise him,’ he added.

Almost automatically, Gwyn began to step forward to perform his usual task of removing the clothes from the body, but de Wolfe, with uncharacteristic tact, motioned him back. Instead, William stood forward and once again removed the canvas sheet.

‘There should be a wound in his chest or belly,’ said the coroner, as the sheriff bent closer to the corpse. After fiddling with the black garment that covered Basil of Reigate, Godard nodded his agreement. ‘Here, there’s a rent in the cloth, just below his breastbone.’

John peered more closely until his hooked nose almost touched the stiff wool, the sodden cloth having dried in the sun. As the sheriff pulled the material flat, he saw a tear something over an inch in length in the midline, about two hands’ breadth below the root of the neck.

William began to pull the long cassock up over Basil’s head, struggling against the stiffness of death that had set in more markedly since the body had been removed from the water.

Though this intimate examination was being held in the open air, the bailey of Baynard’s Castle was closed to all but those who had business there and there was no audience apart from a few curious men-at-arms who were kept at a distance by the gestures of William’s fellow watchman.

When the cassock was taken off, a thin undershirt of creased, damp linen was revealed and again there was a similar slit cut in the chest area. ‘Lift it up, man!’ ordered Godard and a moment later, he waved a hand at the pallid skin which so far was free from even early discoloration of corruption.

‘There’s your injury, coroner!’ He pointed a finger at the stab wound which was oozing a small amount of blood, but was careful not to touch it. De Wolfe had no such scruples and prised it apart with his two forefingers to look at the edges.

‘Blunt at one end, so it was a blade with one sharp edge and a flat back!’ he declared.

The sheriff looked at him cynically. ‘And how does that help you, sir?’ he asked. ‘There are probably ten thousand such knives within a mile of here.’

John ignored him and transferred his eagle-eyed inspection to the corpse’s face.

‘What are you looking for now?’ asked Godard. ‘The cause of his death is patently obvious!’

‘He slipped off the landing stage while he was still bleeding,’ snapped the coroner. ‘Roll him over on to his face,’ he ordered, forgetting his role as an invited observer. William looked at his master, but the sheriff just shrugged and the watchman hoisted up one shoulder of the corpse. As the dead clerk turned over, Gwyn and Thomas, knowing what to look for, bent to watch the face and were rewarded by a flow of pink frothy fluid from the nostrils and mouth.

‘Stabbed he might have been, but he went into the river alive and drowning finished him off,’ declared de Wolfe, with a note of satisfaction in his voice.

Godard of Antioch looked unimpressed. ‘Any wherry-man could have told you that!’ he said ungraciously. ‘What difference does it make? If he’d not been stabbed, he’d not have gone into the river and died, so your mysterious assailant is still a murderer.’

‘All information may be useful,’ muttered John obscurely, annoyed that the sheriff was undoubtedly correct.

They checked that there were no other injuries on the body and William replaced the canvas and wheeled the cart back into the mortuary shed, where at least it would be out of the direct rays of the sun.

‘Did he have a scrip on his belt?’ asked de Wolfe.

‘A small leather pouch with a purse inside,’ answered the sheriff’s watchman. ‘It held but two silver pennies, so I doubt that he was killed for his wealth.’

Apart from marvelling that someone had not already stolen the coins since the corpse was recovered from the river, there was nothing else John could do and he turned to the supercilious sheriff.

‘Do you still wish to continue with this matter?’ he barked. ‘I fail to see what you can learn here, when the crime was committed almost a couple of miles upriver.’

‘I can send my men to Westminster to question you people up there,’ retorted Godard stubbornly.

‘I doubt the Chief Justiciar would look kindly on that, sheriff!’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘In fact, I strongly suspect that he will wish to have words with you and your mayor over this apparent conflict of interests.’

Godard seemed unmoved by this veiled threat. ‘I will record my verdict in the usual way. After you have gone, I will assemble a jury and declare that this man Basil of Reigate was slain at Westminster on yesterday’s date, by persons unknown. That will be the end of the matter.’

‘Not for me, it won’t!’ shouted de Wolfe. ‘I will investigate it properly and discover who did this foul act upon a servant of the king. You have been wasting my time, sir — and your own!’

With a face like thunder, he stalked off across the bailey towards his horse. His three companions trailed after him, leaving the sheriff and his men to their own devices. As John reached Odin and unhitched him from a rail outside the guardroom, the priest, who had remained silent throughout all the exchanges, came hurrying after them, as de Wolfe climbed into his high saddle.

‘Sir John, what about the corpse? You said it must be returned to Westminster.’ He was a small man, with a face lined with worry.

John looked down at him from the back of his patient destrier.

‘I will speak to the Keeper and perhaps the Chief Justiciar as soon as I return. They will arrange for the poor fellow to be collected.’ He wheeled Odin around to face the gate.

‘Meanwhile, keep him out of this damned sun or they’ll have to collect him in a couple of buckets!’

That evening, the coroner decided to have his supper in his rented dwelling, rather than in the Lesser Hall. The attraction of the delectable Hawise d’Ayncourt was strong, but he had an uneasy feeling that he might get himself into trouble if he let matters progress too far. He could not quite understand why she still used her own name, when she was married to Renaud de Seigneur, but he decided that was something it was not profitable to pursue.

Osanna, their obese cook, told them that their meal would not be ready for another hour, so John and Gwyn adjourned to an alehouse on King Street, to quench their thirsts as the heat of the day began to lessen in the early evening. A slight breeze came up the river with the rising tide, bringing with it cooler air, scented with sewage and rotting fish.

The tavern, alongside the palace gate, had the somewhat irreverent name of ‘The Deacon’, perhaps to offer a weak justification or even an alibi to a number of priests and clerks who often sidled in furtively. It was an old building, built of curved crucks of trees at each pine-end and a lattice of timbers supporting panels made from hazel withies plastered with cog, all in dire need of new limewash.

There was an upper floor where rooms were let to lodgers, and above that in the loft straw mattresses were rented out at a penny a night for those who wanted cheap communal accommodation. The ground floor was a single large room where ale, cider and cheap wine were dispensed and it was here that Gwyn and his master sat to swallow a quart of a rather indifferent brew. Two stools were placed at an open window, where the shutters were thrown wide to admit the cooler air; a rough plank that acted as a sill formed a convenient shelf for their pottery mugs.

‘Thank Christ you talked Osanna out of those eels,’ said Gwyn with feeling. ‘She says now she’s got a decent bit of pork for us.’

Food and drink figured largely in the Cornishman’s life, along with gambling and a good fight. De Wolfe nodded absently, his mind on other matters. ‘I hadn’t realised how jealous this city of London was about Westminster — though I suspect it works both ways,’ he said ruminatively. ‘When I spoke to the Keeper again this afternoon, you’d have thought that those across the Fleet river were as much our enemies as the bloody French!’

‘What’s he going to do about the corpse?’ asked Gwyn, wiping ale from his drooping moustache with the back of his hand.

‘He’s done it by now, no doubt. Sent a cart and a couple of palace guards to fetch it back here. He says it can lie in St Stephen’s Chapel tonight until it’s buried in the abbey cemetery tomorrow.’

‘What about an inquest — our inquest,’ asked his officer.

‘I’ll have to go through the motions in the morning, I suppose,’ replied John without enthusiasm. ‘I’ve already examined the corpse, but the jury will have to see it as well.’

‘Who are we going to get for the jury?’

‘I trust that Thomas has some names written down. There were those people on the landing stage and the sergeant of the guard, as well as the boy Edwin. We’ll have to make do with those.’

‘We don’t have a sheriff to inform here, not like Exeter,’ grumbled Gwyn. ‘It’s all so damned different. Who do you present the inquest roll to, after Thomas has written it?’

John shrugged. ‘It seems to me that this Verge business was launched without much forethought. The abbot seems to think he runs everything in Westminster, so does the Keeper — and those sods over in the city claim that we’re subject to the county of Middlesex!’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ demanded Gwyn. ‘There’s no point in our sitting on our arses here, with very little to do and no one seeming to care whether we do anything or not. I wish I was back home, to tell the truth!’

He took another swallow and added, ‘Especially having to put up with this horse-piss, instead of my wife’s or Nesta’s good ale.’ The mention of his former mistress sent John into a pensive reverie. He missed the gentle Welshwoman more than he cared to admit, even though he acknowledged that she had done the right thing by marrying the stonemason. They could never have been more than lovers, skulking to meet when his wife’s back was turned and with no prospect ever of a marriage between a Norman knight and a Welsh tavern keeper.

There was Hilda of Dawlish, of course, who he loved as well, but now she was on the other side of England — and Matilda, though equally distant, was still his wife, more’s the pity! He was forty-one years of age and felt as lusty as ever — but unless he went whoring, he would have to put up with the frustrations of celibacy. This depressing thought brought the image of Hawise d’Ayncourt into his mind again and he briefly wished that he had forsaken Osanna’s promise of roast pork for another meal in the Lesser Hall.

He was jerked out of his musing by Gwyn, who had been staring out of the unglazed window at the street outside.

‘What’s this? Here’s our favourite dwarf coming.’

His affectionate slander was directed at Thomas de Peyne, who a moment later sidled into the tavern with a guilty look. Though many clerics were as fond of drink and women as the next man, Thomas was a shy, reserved little fellow, who looked on alehouses as a halfway stop to Hades. His skinny body, slight limp and hunched shoulder made him unattractive to women, except those who wanted to mother him. He was content with a world that revolved around his beloved Church and books of history and learning. His skill with pen, ink and parchment was exceptional and his insatiable curiosity had given him an encyclopaedic knowledge.

‘What brings you to this den of iniquity, Thomas?’ asked de Wolfe. ‘Are you pining for our brilliant company or have you something to tell us?’

Gwyn reached out and dragged another stool for the clerk to sit on. ‘Do you want a cup of wine, Thomas?’ he asked solicitously. ‘It’s lousy stuff, the ale-wife says it’s from the Loire, but I think she means just taken out of the river there!’

His friend shook his head, declining to compound his visit to a tavern by actually drinking there.

‘I just called in to tell you something I heard about the dead man we saw today,’ he said earnestly. He dropped his voice and looked covertly about the taproom, though the other patrons seemed indifferent to their conversation.

‘At supper tonight in the abbey refectory, the death of Basil of Reigate was a favourite subject for conversation, as everyone knew that his body had been brought back for burial. Then afterwards, I took a turn around the cloister, as did many others to aid their digestion and gossip some more.’

‘Mary, Mother of God, get to the bloody point, will you!’ hissed de Wolfe, who was afraid that Thomas was getting as long-winded as Gwyn when it came to telling a story.

‘Well, a novitiate that I know slightly, took me aside and said that he was very distressed, as Basil had been a close friend.’ Thomas hesitated and looked a little embarrassed. ‘In fact, I rather think that they might have been more than good friends, may God forgive them.’

The coroner was not interested in the morals of Westminster clerics. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Thomas?’ he snapped.

‘This young man knew I was the coroner’s clerk and said he wanted to do all he could to bring his friend’s killer to justice. He told me that a few days ago, Basil had confided in him that his life might be in danger because he had overheard a seditious conversation in the palace.’

Gwyn stared at him through the ginger frizz on his lumpy face.

‘What in hell is a “seditious conversation”?’ he grunted.

‘And why should it put this Basil in mortal danger?’ added de Wolfe.

The little clerk wriggled uncomfortably. ‘He was quite vague about this, Crowner,’ he said apologetically. ‘It seems Basil was not very forthcoming about the matter — and then the novitiate, Robin Byard by name, was also quite furtive when he told me.’

‘You must know more that that!’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘Or why bother to tell us at all?’

Thomas almost twitched with nervousness at his master’s impatience. ‘It seems that during his duties in the guest chambers, Basil was behind a screen in one of the rooms, checking blankets in a chest. Two people came in and were unaware of him, but started speaking of something that would get them hanged if it was made known!’

‘So what was this something?’ demanded Gwyn, before John could get out the same words.

‘That’s the problem, Basil wouldn’t tell Robin, for fear of putting him in similar jeopardy,’ gabbled Thomas. ‘Neither would he say who the people were.’

‘So why did he bother to mention it at all?’ rasped the coroner.

‘He wanted help and advice, for it seems that in his anxiety to hear what was said, he tipped over the screen and the two persons saw that he had been listening,’ explained the clerk. ‘Basil gabbled some excuse and ran away, but they obviously knew who he was — and ever since he had been expecting to be silenced — which seems to have happened, for this killing was no robbery.’

John and Gwyn looked at each other over the rims of their ale mugs. ‘Sounds a tall story, but the fact is that the fellow was stabbed!’ said Gwyn. ‘And you’ve no idea what this secret conversation was about?’

‘We’d better have a word with this fellow Byard,’ rumbled John. ‘But why did Basil tell this apprentice monk, rather than someone in authority?’

‘He was seeking advice, as he was his best friend,’ said Thomas carefully. ‘Robin Byard told him he must tell either the Guest-Master or the Purveyor — or even the Keeper of the Palace. But Basil said he was afraid he would either be disbelieved or be disciplined for eavesdropping on guests.’

‘How did a clerk in the guest house come to be so friendly with a Benedictine novitiate?’ asked John suspiciously.

‘It seems they are both of an age and come from the same village in Surrey. This Basil had decided he wanted to enter the abbey as a novice — perhaps to be with his best friend,’ Thomas added with a blush.

‘What sort of secrets might justify the risks of stabbing a man in broad daylight?’ queried Gwyn.

De Wolfe chewed this over in his mind for a moment. ‘Unless this is all a figment of the fellow’s imagination, there’s some palace intrigue behind this. I’ve heard that the place is a hotbed of corruption, embezzlement, theft, adultery, fornication and God knows what else!’

‘What about spying?’ added Thomas. ‘I know the king’s directing his war against Philip from Rouen, but it’s from here that England has to defend its coast against invasion. And the French are always trying to stir up the Scots and Welsh against us.’

‘Perhaps they were planning to steal the Crown Jewels!’ offered Gwyn facetiously.

‘They should be safe enough in the crypt of the abbey,’ replied John seriously, impervious to his officer’s humour. ‘Thomas, tell this new friend of yours that I want to talk to him tomorrow, before I hold the inquest. And Gwyn, in future I think I had better forsake Osanna’s cooking in the evenings and eat in the palace. You never know what we might pick up there.’

With a picture of a certain lady in mind, an obvious answer came to him, but he managed to convince himself that dining in the Lesser Hall was now part of his duty.