Crowner Royal

CHAPTER FOUR

It was good to be away from the restrictive atmosphere of Westminster, riding at the head of a squadron of soldiers through the Hampshire scrubland. The storm of a few nights ago had cleared the air and though it was warm, there was a breeze with white clouds scudding through a blue sky, instead of the hazy oppression that had hung over the Thames valley.

De Wolfe trotted along contentedly on Odin’s back, the heavy destrier’s hairy feet thumping rhythmically on the packed earth of the high road between Farnham and Winchester. Alongside him rode Ranulf of Abingdon on a roan gelding and behind came Gwyn on his brown mare, Thomas valiantly keeping up on a dappled palfrey borrowed from the palace stables.

The score of men-at-arms rode two abreast in semi-battle order, with boiled-leather jerkins but no chain-mail. However, they all wore round iron helmets and carried either a sword or an axe at their saddlebows. The last four in line were archers, dark mercenaries from Wales with longbows across their backs and a quiver of arrows at their knee. Bringing up the rear were the sergeant who had been at the inquest and the other under-marshal, William Aubrey, a fresh-faced young knight from Essex, who had not long obtained his spurs. He was a stocky, muscular fellow, always amiable and cheerful.

‘We are making good time, John,’ called Ranulf. ‘At this rate we should be there well before sundown.’

‘Make the most of it, as going back will be miserable, compared to this,’ replied de Wolfe, never ready to be optimistic. They would be encumbered by a heavy wagon on the return journey, and even though they had been promised a horse-team, instead of the usual slower oxen, it would more than double the time spent on the road. They had slept last night at Guildford Castle, but going back would mean at least five nights on the journey.

Every few hours, they halted at a village to rest, feed and water their horses. At noon, the whole party ate the rations they carried in their saddlebags, replenished that morning at Guildford. One stop was allowed soon afterwards at a tavern in a small hamlet, where everyone, including the soldiers, downed a quart of ale.

Back on the track, they passed through interminable heathland, with bushes and small trees dotting the scrub of the sandy Hampshire soil. Only around manors and villages were there strip-fields and pasture, quite different from the greener, lush valleys that John was used to in Devon.

‘Good country for an ambush,’ he grunted to Ranulf, as he scanned the thickets and bushes which grew right to the edge of the narrow road. ‘Though I doubt any ragged-arsed outlaws would wish to try anything on a squadron of men-at-arms.’

‘And we’ve nothing to steal, even if they did!’ replied the marshal, cheerfully. ‘Coming back might be a different matter, though no one will know what we’ve got in our cart.’

Privately, de Wolfe doubted that, being well aware of the rapid spread of news by word of mouth, especially in towns as important as Winchester. He wagered that half the city would know what was being hauled out of the castle before they got to the other end of the high street. Still, he had little fear of them being attacked, unless Prince John had suddenly decided to make a play for the Crown and brought the barons sympathetic to his cause with their levies. Even this was highly unlikely, as John, Count of Mortain, had been lying low lately, following the crushing defeat of his rebellion two years earlier.

These thoughts occupied John’s mind as they trotted on towards the old capital of England, though his ruminations wandered once again to the women in his life — or in the case of Nesta, out of his life. Once again, he decided to get down to Exeter as soon as he could, to try to discover something of Matilda’s intentions. He suspected that she was deliberately keeping him in the dark, though he had done nothing particularly heinous lately — one of her main grievances had been removed when Nesta had gone off to Chepstow to be married.

In the early evening, as the sun was at last dipping towards the western horizon, they came over a rise and saw the city of Winchester below them, its castle and the cathedral the prominent points within the walls.

Another half-hour saw them clattering through the eastern gate and soon they had dismounted in the outer bailey of the castle, their tired horses being led away by a dozen grooms and ostlers who were harried into activity by the castle marshal. Gwyn decided to go with the sergeant and his men to find a meal, a game of dice and eventually a bed in the barracks. Thomas was eager to seek out old friends in the abbey and said that he would sleep in the dorter there, though John knew that he would be up half the night attending the offices that began with Matins at midnight.

John and the two under-marshals sought out the Constable, who was the custodian of the royal fortress. Rufus de Longby was an elderly knight, who received them courteously and arranged for accommodation on the upper floor of the keep, as well as accompanying them to eat in the main hall.

‘The officials from the Exchequer will not be here until morning,’ he explained. ‘But your chests will be as safe in the undercroft as the royal treasure has been these past few hundred years!’ His weak humour passed over John’s head.

‘The undercroft? Is that a secure place?’ growled the coroner, comparing it with the basement beneath the keep in Exeter’s Rougemont Castle, which was little more than a temporary gaol and storage area.

‘Wait until you see our undercroft,’ boasted de Longby. ‘It’s the cellar beneath one of the gatehouse towers and would take an army to breach it.’

Soon after dawn next morning, de Wolfe was able to confirm the Constable’s claim. After a breakfast of oat gruel, salt bacon and bread and cheese, they assembled in the outer bailey near the gatehouse, where the men-at-arms were already waiting. A covered four-wheel cart was standing by, with a sturdy horse waiting patiently between the shafts. Another stood in front of it, attached by traces, ready to add its strength to hauling the wagon.

Ranulf, who had carried out this task several times before, introduced John to Matthew de la Pole, the resident agent of the Exchequer, a portly manor-lord from Hampshire. De Wolfe thought him a pompous man, full of his own importance. Two cowed-looking clerks stood behind him, clutching some parchments.

‘You have the document of authorisation, I trust?’ snapped de la Pole, holding out a beringed hand to the coroner.

William Aubrey handed over the slim roll given him by the Keeper of Westminster, which had an impressive seal of red wax dangling from it. De la Pole, who was obviously as illiterate as de Wolfe, unrolled it and pretended to read the short instruction, then handed it to one of his clerks. This official read out in a nasal voice the standard words of release of two chests ‘into the care of Sir John de Wolfe, presently Coroner of the Verge’.

John began to realise that this made him totally responsible for the safety and integrity of the treasure and wondered what the penalty would be for any mishap. It would probably cost him his neck.

Matthew de la Pole seemed to relax a little and waved a hand towards the massive tower that formed the left side of the gatehouse. ‘Let’s get rid of these damned boxes, then. They are the last ones and I’ll be glad to see the back of them!’

Leaving Gwyn and Thomas with the soldiers, the coroner and the two marshals followed the baron and the Constable into the guardroom alongside the portcullis and then through a door, unlocked for them by one of the clerks. This led into the base of the tower, which had walls at least ten feet thick. The lower chamber at ground level was empty, but had a planked floor in which there was a central trapdoor.

‘Naturally, the guardroom is manned by at least four men at all times,’ explained de Longby. ‘No one can get in here without authorisation — then there are those to contend with!’ He pointed to a pair of massive padlocks, securing two iron bars hinged across the trapdoor. Matthew snapped his fingers at his other clerk, who came forward with a ring carrying two large keys, with which he opened the locks and threw back the bars with a clang.

Ranulf touched William Aubrey’s arm and motioned him forward to help the clerk raise the heavy trapdoor by means of two iron rings. With an effort, they lifted it to one side, just as the Constable gave a piercing blast on a whistle. Immediately, the sergeant-at-arms came in with four men, two carrying a wooden ladder, the other horn lanterns. Under the direction of their sergeant, the ladder was lowered into the hole and the two lantern men clambered down. John went to the edge of the trap and peered into a bare undercroft, a dank and forbidding pit, with a damp earthen floor, well below ground level.

The other soldiers had ropes, which they lowered through the opening and amid much shouting of orders, first one, then another large chest was hauled up and placed on the wooden floor. They were of similar size, about four feet long, but one was of darker oak and had three iron bands around it, as opposed to the two on the second chest. Each had two massive metal hasps with padlocks on each.

‘The darker box contains the coin, the other one is a mixture of precious objects,’ declared de la Pole. He gestured briskly at one of his clerks, who proffered another roll of parchment, with three different seals of red wax dangling from it by red tape.

‘This is an inventory made yesterday by myself and two other officials of the Exchequer, signed with our marks and our seals.’

He handed the roll to John. ‘Now it’s your problem, sir! When you deliver this roll to the Constable of the Great Tower and the Treasury officials there, they will recheck the contents of the chests with this manifest. I hope for your sake that they agree!’

He said this with a hint of malice, as if he relished the thought of there being some fatal discrepancy.

Ranulf looked puzzled. ‘I assumed that we were taking the chests to Westminster?’ he said to de la Pole. The Exchequer official shook his head. ‘Not this time, the treasure is urgently needed in Rouen, so it will go to the nearest place for shipment from the port of London. So make sure it gets there safely!’

‘What about the keys?’ said John gruffly, anxious to get away from this insolent fellow. For answer, Matthew turned again to his senior clerk and held out his hand. The subdued cleric scrabbled in the scrip on his belt and produced two more pairs of steel keys, each pair on a ring.

‘These are for the locks on both chests,’ he snapped. ‘Normally, they are separated and one is held by myself, the other by another member of the Exchequer. I presume the same will happen in London, but that’s their affair!’

As John took the large and slightly rusty keys, de la Pole offered one last barbed comment.

‘They are now your responsibility, de Wolfe! Let them out of your sight at your peril!’

With that, he sailed from the chamber, his two clerks hurrying after him like a pair of chastened hounds at their master’s heels.

As de Wolfe had forecast, their journey back was painfully slow. Though the two chests were heavy, the pair of horses had no difficulty in pulling the cart, especially as the road was free from the mud that could bog the wheels down in thick mire. But the beasts could do no better than a steady walking pace, and on the first day they covered a bare sixteen miles along the London road. This took them as far as Alton, where the soldiers commandeered a tithe barn to sleep in, while the three knights and Thomas battened upon the local manor-lord for hospitality. He was not all that pleased to see them, but with ill-grace gave them a meal and let them sleep on some straw mattresses in his hall.

Next day they set out earlier and rode until late so that they could reach Guildford again, where the castle was obliged to accommodate the official procession. The third day was a disappointment, as although Ranulf had hoped to get as far as Kingston, they did not even make it as far as Esher. One of the wheel-hubs cracked and they came to a halt in the middle of a forest. This failure was a well-known problem and they carried a spare wheel lashed to the tailboard, but it meant almost two hours’ delay. The men-at-arms had to cut down a sapling from the adjacent woods and use it to lever up the heavy cart. Then stones and fallen wood had to be collected and used to prop up the wagon, so that the errant wheel could be removed and replaced with the spare.

That part of Surrey was covered by dense forest and villages were few and far between. By late evening, everyone was tired and fractious, so when they reached a small hamlet, John and his companions decided they had travelled far enough.

‘God’s guts! Where can we sleep here?’ demanded Gwyn, looking around at the dozen mean huts that made up the settlement. There was no manor house, but it had a tiny church, a primitive structure of wattle-and-daub with a vestigial bell tower at one end of the tattered thatched roof. Inside the churchyard was a hut that presumably did service as the priest’s dwelling.

‘Go and see what your holy colleague can suggest,’ said de Wolfe to Thomas, as the weary men and wearier horses stopped on the road outside. The little clerk trotted off and soon came back with a wizened man, dressed in a short smock and cross-gartered breeches. Though he looked like a hedger or a ditcher, Thomas presented him as the parish priest, proven by his shaven scalp.

‘Father Aedan says that you are welcome to use his church to shelter in overnight.’

The bent old man, his remaining hair showing enough blond strands to mark him as a Saxon, had a surprisingly sweet smile.

‘There are no palliasses, but it is a warm night and no doubt your soldiers are used to sleeping on the floor,’ he said, exposing toothless gums behind his sunken lips. ‘For you gentlemen, maybe you would prefer the luxury of a pile of hay in the barn on the other side of the church.’

John muttered his thanks, but Ranulf, who had a smoother tongue than the bluff coroner, was more fulsome in his appreciation.

‘That is a very Christian gesture, father! We are tired and hungry, having been on the king’s business these past three days.’

‘I can do little about your hunger, sir, this is a poor and insignificant village. There is an alehouse, but I doubt the widow who runs it could provide for more than a score of men.’

In spite of the priest’s misgivings, after leaving William Aubrey to organise the guarding of the wagon and the settlement of the men-at-arms, de Wolfe and Ranulf walked a little further down the track to seek the alehouse.

‘This really is a dismal village,’ said Ranulf, looking around in the gathering dusk at the few shacks spread along the road. Most were built of cob, a mixture of lime, dung and bracken, spread on wattle panels. One or two were dry-walled stone, but none had more than one room. All were steeply thatched, the state of the straw or reeds varying from fairly new to green disintegration, some with actual grass or weeds growing on their roofs. The alehouse proved to be almost indistinguishable from the other crofts, though a little longer from end to crumbling end. The tattered bush hanging over the door was the universal sign of a tavern and the two knights bent their heads to enter.

A frightened-looking woman appeared from behind a rickety table, apprehensive at the sudden arrival of two tall men of military appearance. Again Ranulf took the lead in reassuring the ale-wife of their good intentions.

‘We are a force of soldiers on our way to London, good woman,’ he said. ‘We are staying in the churchyard for the night, but are seeking any food and drink that might be available.’

On learning of their numbers, the widow shook her head. ‘I might have enough ale in my crocks to give you a pint apiece, sir, but as for food, there is hardly enough bread in the whole village to feed twenty-five men!’

A man sitting on a bench against the wall got up and came over to them, touching his forehead in salute. ‘I killed a pig this morning, sirs, it’s hanging fresh in my croft. I’d sell it for a shilling, if you wanted to roast it.’

John looked at Ranulf. ‘Better than going hungry! Though it would take a few hours to roast on a spit.’

After some haggling, the crofter sold them the pig for ten pence, which Ranulf intended reclaiming from the Keeper as part of their expenses. ‘Best get the men organised, if they want to eat before midnight!’ advised de Wolfe.

They arranged for the ale-wife to supply all the spare drink she had, collected later by soldiers who carried the large five-gallon pottery crocks back to the churchyard. The old priest made no objection to starting a fire inside the ring of large stones which was used every time the village had an ‘ale’ for some celebration or other. The men entered into the spirit of the event, gathering fallen wood from the edge of the forest and when the gutted pig had been brought, it was turned on a makeshift spit supported on forked branches stuck into the ground.

Darkness was falling by the time the meat was cooked, making the scene look like some barbaric festival, with a circle of hungry men sitting around the fire, lit up by sizzling flares when gobs of fat dripped into the flames. As a log burnt through and fell, a shower of red sparks rose into the air, like a swarm of fireflies. When the sergeant-at-arms, who had appointed himself cook, declared the flesh ready to eat, every man, including the knights and Thomas, lined up to cut themselves slices with their eating knife or dagger. In spite of her pessimism about the amount of bread, the tavern widow had found enough coarse loaves to give every man a hunk, on which he laid his hot pork until cool enough to eat.

Together with some ale dipped from the crocks in a few pint pots and passed from mouth to mouth, the succulent meat and the comradely atmosphere satisfied everyone. By the time the hog had been reduced to a near skeleton, most of the men were ready to sleep, though four were obliged to stay awake to form the first watch to guard the treasure wagon until morning.

The rest ambled back to the little church and gratefully curled up on the earthen floor, wrapping themselves in their riding cloaks though the night was still warm.

All the horses had been watered at a stream than ran through the village and then turned out into a large meadow with a dry-stone wall around it. The cart, bereft of its draught animals, stood forlornly against the church wall, with two of the guards sitting on the driving-board and the other two crouched on the grass at the rear.

‘We may as well test the softness of the priest’s hay, I suppose,’ suggested Ranulf, leading the way towards the small barn. Its interior was almost completely dark, but a half moon and the remains of the fire gave them enough light to see that it was almost empty. At the end of spring, most of the stored roots like turnips and carrots had been used up and it was too early for much of this year’s produce to be gathered in.

‘Just enough hay to lie on, I reckon,’ said Gwyn, peering around in the streaks of fitful moonlight that penetrated the gaps between the rough planks that formed the walls. It was more a large shed than a proper barn, but was enough to hold the meagre tithes that such a small hamlet could produce for their priest. The five men shuffled around in the gloom and each found a corner or a nook amongst the remains of last year’s crops, curling up in their mantles and ignoring the rustling of mice and rats that were their fellow guests for the night. The coroner and the two knights from the Marshalsea decided to lay where they could see the precious cart through the open doors of the barn. Gwyn and Thomas preferred a spot against the back wall.

John found it warm enough to roll up his riding cloak to use as a pillow, after he had wriggled himself into a comfortable position on a thin layer of musty-smelling hay. He had pulled off his boots and laid his belt, which carried sword, dagger and pouch, on the ground alongside him. Too tired tonight to churn his personal troubles around in his mind, he fell almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.

Hours later, when the moon had declined almost to the horizon, he suddenly awoke, with the feeling that something was wrong. As an old campaigner, used to sleeping rough where danger was ever present, he was instantly fully awake. He heard Ranulf snoring nearby, but his nose and his ears told him that they were in danger. Jerking upright, he sniffed repeatedly and then got to his feet and hurried to the door, ignoring the jabs to his bare feet from debris on the floor. As he emerged into the near darkness, there was a sudden yell of ‘Fire!’ from nearby and William Aubrey stumbled around the corner of the barn, clutching his breeches around his backside, his belt hanging loose.

‘The thatch is on fire, come and see!’ He grabbed John by the arm, pulled him to the corner and pointed up. ‘I went outside for a shite and then saw flames!’ he gabbled. Almost at the same time, there were sudden cries of alarm from across the churchyard, where the four sentries were guarding the wagon.

‘Fire, fire!’ came the dreaded yells and going further out from the barn, John coughed as a wreath of smoke drifted down from above. Due to the overhang of the eaves, he could see nothing until he ran out into the coarse grass and weeds of the churchyard. Stumbling backwards and looking up, now he could see that part of the barn’s ragged thatch was alight and spreading rapidly, fanned by the slight breeze and aided by the dry state of the old straw after days without rain.

He heard shouts and running feet coming towards him, and turning saw that the soldiers from the wagon detail were racing towards the barn. A sudden thought occurred to him and he yelled at them urgently.

‘Get back to your posts, damn you! That’s more important than a poxy shed!’

The possibility that this could be some sort of diversion, to leave the treasure cart unattended crossed his mind, though it seemed highly unlikely. But the barn was undoubtedly on fire and John hobbled back to the entrance, cursing as small stones cut into his almost bare feet. As he went through the doorway, he was just about to start yelling ‘Fire!’ himself, when he dimly saw that Gwyn had risen to his feet and was starting to bellow a warning, as he pushed Thomas ahead of him to safety.

‘The bloody thatch is afire!’ hollered de Wolfe. ‘Give that other fellow a shake, Gwyn!’ he shouted, pointing at the inert shape of Ranulf, who seemed capable of sleeping through an earthquake. Scooping up his boots and his belt, John retreated to the door and hurriedly thrust his feet into his footwear and buckled on the belt. By now, the fire had reached the inside of the thatch and bits of burning straw were falling through the framework of twisted hazel withies that held it up. There was no danger to any of them, as by now Gwyn had hauled the bemused under-marshal to his feet and given him a push in the direction of the doorway, where Aubrey was tucking his shirt into his breeches and anxiously awaiting his friend.

A moment later, they were all outside and by now the men-at-arms who had been sleeping in the church had streamed out and were standing in a half-circle, staring impotently at the burning roof.

‘There’s no way we’ll save that now!’ called out the sergeant. ‘There’s no water here and by the time we get buckets to the stream, the place will be well alight.’

Now the crowd was strengthened by some villagers who had been attracted by the noise and the priest had emerged from his dwelling on the other side of the churchyard to witness the destruction of his property. Thomas hurried to console him, but he seemed unperturbed.

‘It is the will of God!’ he cried philosophically, crossing himself, content in the knowledge that the manor would have to rebuild it for him, hopefully a better one than the decrepit structure that was now burning merrily.

Ranulf, now fully awake but rubbing his eyes sleepily, decided that they themselves must have been the cause of the fire.

‘Blame the damned pig!’ he muttered. ‘Must have been a spark that flew up from our fire that landed in the thatch and smouldered until it caught hold. I’d best give them a couple of marks in compensation — I’ll get it back from the palace when we return.’

John went over to the wagon and paced around it suspiciously, under the uneasy eyes of the four sentinels. He suspected that they had all been fast asleep, as their recognition of the burning barn had been remarkably slow.

‘Have you seen or heard anything untoward?’ he demanded of them. They denied seeing anything out of the ordinary and when a now more wakeful Ranulf and Aubrey came across to join him, they checked the two chests and saw nothing wrong. Before long, the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky and it seemed pointless to try to settle back to sleep. When it was full light, the soldiers went off to the stream to drink and splash their sleepy faces with cold water. By then, it was time to round up the horses and prepare to continue the journey. De Wolfe was still anxious about the treasure chests and studied the locks more closely.

‘No one seems to have tampered with them,’ muttered Gwyn, looking over John’s shoulder at the pair of large iron padlocks on each box. They were covered with a thin patina of rust, in which no fresh scratches were visible around the keyholes to suggest any attempt had been made to pick them.

Eventually satisfied that they had not been robbed, the cavalcade moved off, leaving a village glad to see the back of them. Having had no breakfast, the troop and their officers were all pleased to reach Kingston, where they were able to eat and drink at the manor house, then set off on the last leg of the journey to London. Their slow journey kept them south of the Thames all the way to Southwark, where in the early evening their tired horses clattered over the old wooden bridge into the city. The oppressive heat had declined during the days since they had left for Hampshire and it remained pleasantly warm as they plodded the last half-mile through busy streets along the north bank to the Tower. The grim grey rectangle stood high above a confusion of construction around its base, as Hubert Walter was busy carrying out the Lionheart’s orders to encircle the keep with a retaining wall and a moat. They picked their way through mounds of stone blocks and heaps of sand and lime, where masons and labourers were still working overtime to build a twenty-foot rampart, further evidence of the royal mistrust of the citizens of London.

‘Our chests should be safe enough inside this lot!’ jested Ranulf, as they dodged under wooden derricks and tripods hauling stones to the top of the growing wall. Once close to the Tower itself, the construction chaos ceased and they drew their cart up to an arched entrance in the north face of the cliff-like tower. Here a brace of guards with spears stood each side of the big doors which led into an undercroft, partly below ground level. The entrance to the upper floors was up a nearby flight of wooden stairs, the usual defence mechanism to prevent easy access during a siege, as the steps could be thrown down in minutes.

‘Now what happens?’ grunted John, tired of sitting on his horse for so many hours. As if in answer to his question, a wicket gate in the large doors opened and several men stepped out into the evening sunshine. He recognised one as Simon Basset, a senior Treasury official, for he had once sat next to him in the Lesser Hall. The other two seemed to be Tower officers, in severe military-looking tunics with the three royal lions embroidered on their surcoats. Each had a large sword swinging from a belt and baldric. John and the two other knights-marshal dismounted and went to meet the men, apologising for the delay in their arrival and explaining the problem with the cracked wheel-hub. De Wolfe thought it pointless to mention the fire, which appeared to have no relevance to their journey.

Simon Basset was a portly cleric, still a canon of Lichfield Cathedral. He had climbed the Westminster ladder during old King Henry’s time and was now one of the senior administrators in the Treasury. Though he had met him only twice, John felt that Basset was an astute royal servant, as well as being a pleasant, amiable character, with a round face and pink cheeks.

‘What’s to be done with these damned boxes?’ asked the coroner. ‘We’ve guarded them like precious babes all the way from Winchester. I’ll be glad to see them safely housed, so that we can stop looking over our shoulders at every corner!’

Simon motioned to the two gate guards to open one leaf of the heavy, studded doors. ‘We’ll get the chests taken inside right away, Sir John. They’ll not be here more than a few days, as we are waiting for a king’s ship to take them over to Rouen.’

John guessed that the sale of the gold and silver was needed to pay the Lionheart’s troops and to finance the endless need for food and fodder for the large army.

The soldiers from their escort began sliding the large boxes from the wagon and carrying each between four men down the ramp into the undercroft. De Wolfe, together with Aubrey and Ranulf, followed the Treasury official and his two companions into the gloomy basement and across to another locked door which was lit by guttering flares stuck in rings on the wall. They went along a passage to yet another heavy door, where one of the Tower officers produced a large key. He let them into a small chamber devoid of any windows or other openings, obviously deep in the bowels of the Conqueror’s fortress. A soldier brought another flaring pitch-brand and by its light John could see that half a dozen other chests were lined against the walls.

‘All destined for Normandy!’ observed Simon Basset, as they watched the two new boxes being added to the collection.

‘I presume I leave the keys with you?’ growled de Wolfe, feeling in his pouch for the heavy bunches that he was only too happy to be rid of.

‘What about checking the contents?’ asked Ranulf. ‘The inventory was certified correct when we left Winchester, but I wouldn’t want any loss to be alleged while the chests were in our care.’

Simon smiled benignly. ‘Very commendable, sir. I was going to do that very thing now.’ He held out his hand for the four keys, which de Wolfe handed over with some relief. Now he noticed that each key had a dab of coloured paint on the ring of its stem, which corresponded with a similar blob on the face of each lock.

‘I will keep the keys for one lock on each chest,’ said the Treasury man, sliding two of them off the wire loop that held them. ‘The other two will be given straight away to the Constable of the Tower. Neither of us — nor anyone else — can open them alone.’

Contradicting his own statement — but under the eyes of half a dozen watchers — Simon Basset used the four keys to open each of the padlocks and hoisted back the heavy lids, which were held upright by leather straps. He produced a roll of parchment from inside his black robe and held it so that the flaring light from the torch fell upon the lists written in ornate black script.

‘This was sent from Winchester by a royal messenger on a swift horse after you left and arrived yesterday,’ he explained. ‘It is the manifest which was made immediately before the chests left the castle there.’

The two knights from the Tower garrison squatted at the side of the one of great boxes and checked the bags of money. They did not count the actual coins, but confirmed the number of bags and the fact that the red wax seal with the impression of the ring of the Exchequer official was intact. Then they turned to the smaller chest which held the gold, silver and jewelled objects. As the treasurer called out a description of each piece, they rooted around in the contents. Smaller items were wrapped in pieces of velvet or silk. Some lay in leather bags closed with purse-strings, but larger objects such as silver candlesticks, a heavy gold torc, a thick Celtic necklace and some massive silver belt-buckles, were loose amongst the other treasures.

The process of checking the items against Simon Basset’s list took no longer than half an hour, at the end of which he declared himself satisfied that nothing was missing and added his signature to the bottom of the inventory from Winchester.

The chamber was re-locked, as was the outer door into the undercroft and the party moved back out into the glow of sunset outside, where Gwyn and Thomas were waiting patiently. Simon offered them all refreshment, but the Westminster contingent unanimously decided to ride back home. Now unencumbered by the wagon, the troop set off westwards and passing through the city streets and out through Ludgate, arrived thankfully at the palace less than an hour later.

Thomas hurried off to the abbey refectory and Gwyn inevitably made for the nearest alehouse for food, drink and a game of dice with his cronies. This left de Wolfe to seek supper in the Lesser Hall, accompanied by Ranulf of Abingdon and William Aubrey. The meal had begun, but they found seats opposite Renaud de Seigneur and Lady Hawise. When John slid on to his bench, he found himself next to the archdeacon, Bernard de Montfort.

‘We’ve missed your company these past days,’ offered the amiable cleric. ‘We have heard that you have been on a secret mission deep into the countryside!’

John was happy to let Ranulf answer, as he was too intent on loading his trencher with a pair of grilled trout from a platter which a serving boy placed in the middle of the table.

‘Nothing secret about it, merely a routine escort task for some of the king’s valuables,’ said the under-marshal easily.

‘There will be another royal escort task soon,’ commented the Lord of Blois. ‘We hear that Queen Eleanor’s arrival becomes ever more imminent. No doubt she is awaiting a fair wind from France.’

‘Then you know more than I, sir,’ replied Ranulf. ‘But in any event, it will not involve us, other than to manage the horses and wagons to transport them. They will require far more august persons to attend upon her than a lowly servant of the Marshal.’

Renaud’s wife answered for him.

‘You are too modest, sir. I feel sure you are given assignments that would surprise us all, if you could reveal them.’

Hawise d’Ayncourt fluttered her lashes at the good-looking knight, but her eyes slid covertly towards de Wolfe, who was stolidly attacking his fish with his eating knife.

‘What do you say to that, coroner?’ asked Renaud, with false jocularity. ‘I hear you have the ear of the Justiciar — and even of the king himself!’

John sighed inwardly, he was becoming a little tired of these mild interrogations at every meal. He would not mind bedding the delectable Hawise, but tonight he did not particularly wish to talk to her or her tiresome husband.

‘The king’s ear is far away in Normandy — and the archbishop’s is only tuned to receiving my reports on dead bodies!’ he replied rather abruptly. He lifted his ale-pot and waved at a nearby servant for a refill, hoping that the others would drop the subject. However, Hawise, tonight attired in a white gown and a light surcoat of blue silk, dextrously moved on to his private life.

‘We hear that you have your own private house in the town, coroner,’ she said smoothly. ‘That must be very convenient for a handsome man living far from his home and family?’

The meaning of her remark was obvious from the roguish tone she used. De Wolfe was about to snub her with a cutting remark about his wife, but then thought that if that was how the land lay, then maybe he should leave the matter open. To tell the truth, he was feeling the ill-effects of a long period of celibacy since leaving Devon — and even before he left, the barren period since Nesta had abandoned him, had only twice been relieved by visits to Dawlish. If this undoubtedly handsome woman wanted to enjoy herself one evening, then why should he stand in her way?

The look he gave her from under his heavy brows must have conveyed something of his mood, for she smiled archly at him. For her part, she thought once again that he was an attractive man, with his tall, strong body and dark brooding features. His swept-back black hair, his high-bridged nose and his full, sensuous lips gave her a quiver of anticipation. Hawise lifted her wine cup and stared over its rim at de Wolfe, already imagining those hard-muscled arms crushing her tightly against him, so different from the flabby embraces of her boring husband.

Still, at the moment that boring husband was sitting right alongside her and with a sigh she returned to her trencher of boiled salmon and her platter of beans and carrots. The conversation continued around them, and once again the lack of any progress over the murdered Basil was one of the topics.

‘Probably slain by a disgruntled guest, in revenge for the poor food and service that we get upstairs!’ chortled the archdeacon, an insensitive remark for one whose profession was supposed to exude compassion and respect for his fellow men.

‘There should be at least one good meal on the way,’ offered the cherubic William Aubrey, from further down the table. ‘I hear that Hubert Walter is to hold a feast in the Great Hall when the old queen arrives, as a mark of respect for her.’

This set them chattering again about the continuing role that the ageing Eleanor still played in politics, even though she was now seventy-four years of age. She continued to champion her favourite son Richard and kept a rein on the excesses and follies of the younger John. This was undoubtedly the main reason for her impending visit, as the Count of Mortain continued to be much too friendly with Philip of France for most people’s liking.

Eventually the meal ended and Hawise swayed away behind her shorter husband, casting a longing look at John as she went.

‘That dame is quite taken with you, John,’ said Ranulf rather wistfully, as they went out into the twilight of the Palace Yard. ‘I’d not say no to a tumble with her myself, especially as that Renaud fellow seems not to be too bothered by her wayward eye.’

De Wolfe shrugged indifferently. ‘I don’t want to start a diplomatic incident, even if the chance presented itself,’ he countered. ‘Why the hell are they here, anyway? De Seigneur is lord of some miserable place in Blois, which is not even allied to Normandy.’

Near the main gate to the palace compound, Ranulf excused himself and hurried off up King Street. ‘He’s off to a game of chance in one of the houses up at Scotland Yard,’ confided Aubrey. ‘A great one for cards and dice, is Ranulf. But when he loses badly, he’s like a bull with a sore head for days!’

The under-marshal, who John felt was rather naive even for the youngest of knights, pleaded fatigue after the long day and went off to his quarters near the stables at the rear of the palace, leaving John to his own devices. He was tired as well, but decided to have a last drink with Gwyn before going to bed.

The sun had dropped well below the western horizon and the light was failing as he went into the Deacon alehouse, which seemed to have become their favourite tavern.

He found his henchman with a group of soldiers and palace guards, sitting in a circle of benches and stools, playing ‘quek’, an obscure game with dice and small stones, thrown on to a board upon the ground, painted with a series of squares. Money was changing hands, but he was glad to see that it seemed to be only halves and quarters of pennies. He knew that Gwyn was trying to save from his daily wage of three pence, to take money back for his wife and two small sons when they next returned to Exeter. Although John had bought the Bush inn from Nesta when she left and put in Gwyn’s wife as landlady, the profits might not be much for some time, until the trade settled down after the change.

He sat with a jug of ale while waiting for the game to end and then bought Gwyn a quart of cider when the big redhead ambled across to him. ‘Made seven pence tonight, Crowner! Must be the luck from all that treasure rubbing off on me.’

They sat peacefully for a while, drinking and watching the light fade in the open window space. ‘Thank God that it was all intact, according to the check that the treasury man made,’ said John, for Gwyn had not been in the strongroom when Simon Basset had confirmed that all was correct. ‘I was worried that that fire was some kind of diversion intended to cover up an attempt to rob the wagon.’

They discussed the events of the past few days, and as usual their conversation drifted off to nostalgic longing for Devon and all the familiar things that made this exile in London seem so miserable.

‘We must get ourselves back there as soon as possible, Gwyn. But this damned appearance of the dowager queen will interfere — we can’t get away until her visit is over.’

‘Unless we can slip away for a few days from Bristol or Gloucester?’ suggested the Cornishman.

John shrugged. ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings — every day seems to have some new twist.’