Crowner Royal

CHAPTER FIVE

The new twist that arrived the next day came via the same timid page that had summoned de Wolfe the previous week. His head appeared around the door after Gwyn had yelled in answer to his gentle knock.

‘Sir John, I have a message from the Justiciar’s office,’ he began. Taking a deep breath, the lad then rattled off a long sentence that he had obviously learned parrot fashion.

‘Archbishop Walter sends his felicitations to the Coroner of the Verge and commands his attendance at noon in the Great Hall to meet various parties in regard to jurid — jurisdiction.’

He stumbled over the last unfamiliar word, then subsided into embarrassed silence, looking from one to the other of the three men in the chamber.

‘Thank you, lad,’ said John kindly, remembering his own days as a ten-year-old page in the service of a knight from Dartmouth. ‘Do you know who else might be attending this meeting?’

‘Another page has been sent across to the abbot, sir. And I know that yesterday heralds went up to the city in connection with the same matter, according to the Justiciar’s chief clerk.’

The boy left, thankful for such an amiable reception and John pondered over the significance of the news.

‘Hubert is either going to cave in to those arrogant louts from the city — or he’s going to hold out for precedence for us,’ he said pensively.

‘The archbishop probably has to tread carefully at the moment,’ observed Thomas, who had the best grasp of current politics. ‘He is in bad odour with many of his churchmen and also with the civic authorities in London. The city is still angry with him for setting fire to one of their churches — and in knocking down so many houses to build this new wall around the Tower.’

‘But that’s at the direct command of the king!’ bellowed Gwyn, who was as staunch a royalist as his master.

‘Doesn’t stop Hubert being unpopular,’ said de Wolfe. ‘Bloody-minded independence is virtually a way of life with the citizens of London. We’re likely to have a lively meeting today, mark my words! You had both better come along, you’re part of the coroner’s team which is at the heart of this dispute.’

When they entered the main entrance of the Great Hall early that afternoon, they found that the meeting was to be held at the far end, on the central dais facing down the colonnade of pillars that supported the massive roof. The court of the King’s Bench sat there frequently, but today it had been commandeered by Hubert Walter, who was head of the justice system — and almost everything else.

Three large chairs for the judges were placed at the back of the platform and benches were arranged at right angles in the space marked off by the bar of the court, a wooden pole which kept the public at bay. As de Wolfe and his companions arrived, so did most of the other participants, coming in from the interior of the palace through a rear door. Four palace guards preceded Hubert Walter, whose lean body was today dressed in a crimson tunic with a large golden cross hanging from a chain around his neck. His head was covered with a white linen helmet, laced under the chin and he wore gloves of thin leather.

Behind him came half-a-dozen worthies and John recognised Godard of Antioch, the sheriff with whom he’d had dealings the previous week. Another taller man with a pointed brown beard wore a massive gold chain over a robe that had fur trimming, even in this warm weather. John assumed that this was Henry fitz Ailwyn, the first Mayor of the city of London. There were several other men who were unknown to him, as well as a couple of priests, one being Hubert’s personal chaplain and confessor.

Two clerks, complete with parchments and pens, sat at either side to record the proceedings. After some muted conversation and shuffling about, everyone sat themselves down, Hubert in the centre, the mayor on his right. The other chair was empty, but as the rest of the delegates arranged themselves on the benches, a new trio came marching up the main aisle and entered under the bar, lifted for them by the sergeant of the guard. These were William Postard, Abbot of Westminster, with his prior and another priest. The abbot took the vacant chair and John de Wolfe, at a sign from Hubert, perched himself on the end of one of the benches, near the door into the palace.

Gwyn and Thomas melted into the small crowd that was now gravitating to the bar and to the sides where the court was partitioned off between the first two pillars. John noticed that amongst the spectators were Renaud and his eye-catching wife, as well as Archdeacon Bernard and Ranulf of Abingdon.

The sergeant opened the proceedings by rapping the end of his pike on the platform and everyone stood while the chaplain gabbled a prayer in Latin. He made the sign of the cross in the air and everyone subsided again, as the Justiciar began speaking without any preamble.

‘The issues are clear and we need not detain ourselves overlong with them,’ he barked, marking his authority from the outset. ‘Almost two years ago, for a variety of reasons which need not concern us now, King Richard, on the advice of his Royal Council, appointed three knights in every county to keep the pleas of the crown. The system was promulgated at the Eyre held in Rochester in September of that year and has functioned well ever since.’

There was a scornful laugh from Henry fitz Ailwyn. ‘Functioned well enough for you to screw yet more money from the population!’

Hubert Walter looked with distaste at the man on his right.

‘It was a natural progression of the law reforms begun by King Henry,’ he said sharply. ‘The royal courts are gradually replacing the confusion we inherited from Saxon times and the coroner is a vital means of servicing them.’

‘The ecclesiastical courts are by no means in confusion, archbishop!’ objected William Postard from his other side. The abbot was a small man, who spoke and moved quickly and rather jerkily, reminding de Wolfe of a squirrel.

‘I was referring to the hotchpotch of secular courts, Lord Abbot,’ answered Walter in a conciliatory tone. ‘The manor courts, the hundred courts, the county courts, the forest courts — and we still have such primitive methods such as the ordeal, trial by battle and other pagan rites that have no place in a Christian realm!’

The abbot nodded, mollified by the archbishop’s exclusion of the canon law, still a sensitive subject since the murder of Thomas Becket a quarter of a century ago. ‘But what is the purpose of this meeting today?’ he asked.

‘A matter of jurisdiction — or division of labour, if you prefer,’ replied Hubert Walter. ‘I have to admit that the way in which the coronial system was set up, was somewhat sketchy.’

‘Damned right!’ muttered de Wolfe, but kept his voice inaudible, as the Justiciar continued.

‘Only one sentence, the twentieth Article of Eyre in Rochester, described the duties required by King Richard, which were to keep the pleas of the Crown. Unfortunately, these are open to various interpretations and we need to refine their meaning, especially in terms of jurisdiction.’

The mayor scowled up at the prelate. ‘Say what you mean, Justiciar. We’ve not got all day to sit here and bandy words!’

With an effort, Hubert contained his annoyance with the man’s rudeness. He looked on fitz Ailwyn as a rough tradesman, one who had made too much money too quickly and risen above his station in life, certainly from the point of view of diplomacy and social graces, in spite of being the leader of Europe’s richest city.

‘When the king accepted his Council’s recommendation to set up coroners, he was gracious enough to also accept your protestations from London, wishing to be exempted from the provisions of Article Twenty.’ He deliberately emphasised the royal element in the process.

‘We have our own way of going about things,’ growled the mayor. ‘For centuries, the city has been self-sufficient, we need no petty rules imposed upon us from outside.’

‘I trust you are not calling the king’s command a petty rule, Sir William?’ said Hubert in an icy tone. This was an effective brake on the mayor’s outspokenness — however much the city railed against outside interference, an outright rejection of royal writ could be construed as treason. Godard of Antioch sensed the rashness of the mayor’s manner and tried to tone it down.

‘Our sheriffs had always undertaken the keeping of the peace in the city,’ he observed. ‘We saw no need to have a system designed for the peasantry of the shires imposed upon us.’

Next to him, a swarthy man in a green tunic under a yellow surcoat joined the argument. ‘And as the city has always looked after the county of Middlesex, we desire to continue to do so.’ This was obviously Robert fitz Durand, the second city sheriff.

Abbot Postard jumped to his feet. ‘Except for the Liberty of Westminster, sir!’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘The writ of the county of Middlesex does not run here, though we are embedded within its boundaries. My enclave bows its head to no one except the king — not even Canterbury!’

De Wolfe knew of the special situation of Edward the Confessor’s great church and the extensive lands that it owned, which bore allegiance only to the Holy Father in Rome.

Hubert Walter held up his hands in a gesture of conciliation.

‘Of course all of this is true, there is no dispute about it. But a recent case, one of murder no less, has shown that confusion and acrimony may arise when jurisdictions overlap. This has been accentuated by the king’s direct command that a coroner be appointed to deal with cases that arise within the verge of the court, wherever it may be.’

He went on to expound on the problems that could arise when an itinerant court moved through different jurisdictions. ‘This produces no clash of interest when well away from London, as I have made it clear to all county sheriffs that the Coroner of the Verge has total control of incidents within the twelve mile range.’

He looked to each side to see if either the mayor or the abbot were about to raise objections, but they seemed indifferent to the problems of the rural countryside.

‘The main problem lies here along the Thames,’ he continued. ‘Because all of London and most of Middlesex lie within the Verge when the court is here at Westminster, then theoretically, all deaths, fires, rapes and the rest of coroner’s business could be considered to be within the purview of Sir John de Wolfe here.’

He waved a hand at the coroner, who sat stolidly staring at his feet.

‘Then that’s patently damned ridiculous!’ rasped fitz Ailwyn. ‘There are thirty thousand souls in the city and a few thousand more in the surrounding county.’

Hubert raised a placatory hand. ‘I know, I know. We need to come to a compromise, to avoid the unpleasantness that I hear occurred last week. What seems obvious and eminently sensible, is to differentiate between types of victim and events, be they murders, accidents, rapes or serious assaults.’

‘What exactly do you mean, Justiciar?’ asked Godard suspiciously.

‘If the victim is connected with the court or the Palace of Westminster, be they a courtier or a cook, then they fall within the coroner’s ambit, irrespective of where the body lies. In the case of Westminster itself, then of course if the victim is closely connected with the abbey, be he priest or lay worker, then the Lord Abbot may deal with it, if he so wishes.’

Surprisingly, William Postard now seemed less keen to burden himself with extra duties.

‘I would have no desire to waste the time of my proctors upon some drunken stabbing in a local alehouse! As long as I retain the right to decide if I need to be involved, your coroner is welcome to pursue his duties within my manor of Ide.’ This was the name of the extensive lands that included and surrounded the town of Westminster.

The archbishop nodded sagely. This was at least one difficulty avoided, so he turned to the mayor — a more belligerent problem.

‘Have you or your sheriffs any objection to my proposal, which is to concede jurisdiction to you except where the victim is clearly connected with the royal palace?’

Henry fitz Ailwyn glowered around at the faces before him, unwilling to concede anything, but feeling isolated by the common sense of the proposal and the ready acceptance already offered by the abbot. Red-faced, he leaned forward towards his two sheriffs, who sat on the bench nearby and began a muttered debate with them.

After a couple of moments, the mayor turned back to Hubert Walter. ‘It depends on what is meant by being connected with the palace,’ he blustered. ‘Some wherryman who happened to have come from your pier, then falls into the river, is hardly a candidate for your Coroner of the Verge.’

This obviously puerile niggle caused a few covert smiles around the dais and someone down in the small crowd of onlookers gave a cackle of derision, but the insensitive fitz Ailwyn ploughed on. ‘Like the abbot, we would demand the right to decide in each case, not give some blanket approval that could be flouted whenever it suited Westminster.’

The argument carried on for several more minutes, but it was apparent that by continuing to object to what were very reasonable proposals, the mayor began to look foolish. Godard and Robert fitz Durand were obviously discomfited by their leader’s obdurateness and after more muttering, a grudging agreement was reached.

‘But only if we retain the power to decide, Justiciar!’ snapped the mayor as a parting shot, before the group broke up. The city delegates departed with ill grace, hurrying down the colonnade to find their attendants and horses, but William Postard accepted the archbishop’s invitation to join him for refreshments in his chambers. As John stood with everyone else when the Justiciar and abbot rose to leave through the rear door, Hubert Walter gave John’s arm a nudge. ‘That should have fixed the bastards,’ he whispered as he passed.

The short meeting had cut into the dinner hour and de Wolfe and Gwyn were keen to get back to the Long Ditch for their main meal of the day.

‘Let’s hope Osanna’s not got bloody eels or salmon again,’ growled Gwyn as they turned off Thieving Lane to reach their house. But as they neared it, they saw the fat housekeeper standing in the doorway, in a state of some agitation.

‘You’ve come at last, sirs!’ she gabbled. ‘There are three visitors awaiting you inside!’

John looked at his officer in surprise. ‘Visitors? Who the hell knows we are here?’ For a moment, he wondered if Hawise d’Ayncourt had decided to force her favours upon him, but the time of day and the fact that there were three callers made that unlikely. He pushed past Osanna and peered around the gloom of the main room, dark after the sunshine outside. A man was standing in front of him and he suddenly recognised Roger Watts, the master of one of his own merchant ships. Before he could speak, Watts stood aside and there behind him was a tall, shapely woman, smiling and holding out her hands.

‘Hilda! By God’s bones, it’s you!’ He lurched forward and indifferent to spectators, threw his long arms about her and hugged her to his chest. Then he seized her by the shoulders and leaned back, so that he could get a good look at her. ‘Hilda, you are a sight for my weary eyes and my lonely soul! But how came you here?’

The tall blonde took his hands in hers and beamed back at him, radiant in her happiness at seeing this dour, dark man again.

‘I came with Roger on the St Radegund,’ she said gaily. ‘Far better than wearying myself on a horse for a week!’

The St Radegund was one of the vessels that belonged to the wool-exporting partnership of Hilda, John and Hugh de Relaga, one of Exeter’s portreeves.

Roger Watts, a stocky, weather-beaten mariner, stepped forward and touched a finger to his forehead. ‘Mistress Hilda persuaded me to bring her, Sir John. I took a full cargo of your wool from Topsham to Bruges, then came back to London with finished cloth from the Flanders weavers. We must sail for Exeter the day after tomorrow, I’m afraid, for your partner has another load ready there bound for the Rhine.’

‘So we have a whole day tomorrow, John, for you to show me the sights!’ murmured Hilda, squeezing his hands with hers.

‘And two whole nights,’ thought John rapturously. Her English was heavy with the accent of South Devon, music to his ears.

Gwyn loomed behind him and as soon as Hilda released John, the Cornishman seized her in a bear hug. For almost twenty years, he had watched her grow from a lanky girl into the beautiful woman she was now and he loved her himself in his avuncular way. ‘It’s like a breath of fresh air to have you here in this miserable place!’ he boomed.

John was now aware of a smaller figure lurking behind Hilda. This was Alice, her little maid, a girl of about thirteen, one of the sailor’s orphans that Hilda cared for in Dawlish. She came forward now to bob her knee, shy in the presence of this forbidding man. She knew her mistress was enamoured of him and blushed when he took her hand and bade her welcome.

‘How was your journey, did you have fair weather?’ John asked them, suddenly at a loss for better words.

‘It was fine, far better than suffering the high roads for days on end!’ said Hilda gaily. ‘I voyaged so much in good weather and foul with Thorgils, that the sea holds no terrors for me — nor for Alice here, who is a true sailor’s daughter.’

They were still all standing in the centre of the room, with Aedwulf peering from the back door at this lovely, elegant woman. His wife Osanna, who had been taking in this drama, suddenly bustled forward.

‘Sir John, what are we thinking of! Your guests have travelled over the seas and need rest and sustenance. Sit you down and I’ll get your dinner, there’s enough to go round for all!’

She hurried towards the back door and yelled at her hen-pecked husband to get ale and wine for the company. The fact that Hilda by her looks and speech was obviously of Saxon blood like themselves, made them particularly hospitable.

John and Gwyn dragged stools and a bench to the table, which they all crowded around — Alice went to crouch in a corner, but the benevolent Gwyn sat her on a milking stool at the table.

As Aedwulf bustled in with ale, cider and a flask of wine, the coroner and his officer were eager to hear news of their home city, and plied both the shipmaster and Hilda with questions, to which she had a few answers.

‘When I knew I was coming to visit you, I made it my business to go to Exeter,’ she said, as John placed a cup of wine before her. ‘I called at the Bush and all is well, Gwyn! Your wife is busy but contented and she told me that business is excellent; she has had to take on an extra skivvy in the kitchen. The boys are well and helping her with the running of the inn. They send their love to you and hope to see you before long.’

Gwyn beamed at the news and vowed that he would visit them soon, even if he had to walk all the way to Devon!

‘I have precious little news for you, I fear, John,’ said Hilda more soberly. ‘I called at your house in Martin’s Lane and spoke to your maid Mary. She is well enough, but unhappy at the long silence, and concerned about your keeping on the empty house. She worries that eventually she will lose her job and her home. She told me to tell you that Brutus is well, though pining for you.’

To John’s surprise a lump came in his throat as he heard of his old hound and his faithful housekeeper. Again he regretted the king’s desire to exile him in this alien place, but there was little he could do about it for now.

‘And have you heard anything of my wife?’ he asked.

Hilda shook her head sadly, a lock of blonde hair escaping from under her white linen headcloth. ‘I knew you would want news, John, so I went up to Polsloe Priory to see what I could learn. I managed to speak to that old nun, Dame Madge, who seems to look upon you with favour, but there was little she could tell me.’

‘You did not get to meet Matilda herself?’ he asked rather ingenuously. Hilda’s finely arched brows lifted in mild surprise.

‘It would have been folly even to try!’ she said. ‘Your wife’s attitude to me for many years past has not been the most cordial.’ She paused to sip from her pewter cup of wine.

‘No, Dame Madge told me that Matilda still refuses to talk either about you or her brother Richard and spends all her time either in prayer or helping in the infirmary.’

‘Has she decided to take her vows and make her stay permanent?’

Hilda gave a delicate shrug. ‘I asked the nun that and she said your wife had still not made up her mind.’

‘Damn the woman,’ murmured John. ‘She is deliberately dangling me on a string. I cannot decide what to do about our house, in case she decides to return there at some time.’

Osanna now bustled in with wooden bowls, platters and bread, while Aedwulf shuffled behind her with a large dish of mutton stew. The housekeeper, usually indifferent and sometimes surly, seemed energised by the presence of these guests and ladled out the surprisingly good stew with exhortations to eat heartily. After the mutton, there was boiled bacon, beans and carrots and the visitors did ample justice to the food, especially after having suffered shipboard rations for over week. Thanks to Gwyn’s encouragement and teasing, Alice overcame her shyness, eating and drinking weak ale with every sign of enjoyment.

There was bread, cheese and nuts to finish and conversation flowed easily. John discussed the affairs of their wool and cloth shipping business with Roger Watts and said that he would get Thomas to write a letter about it for the shipmaster to take back to their active partner, Hugh de Relaga.

‘I must get back to the ship, which is berthed just below London Bridge,’ said Roger when they had eaten their fill. ‘There is work to be done concerning the cargoes and we must catch the noon tide the day after tomorrow. I will come for Hilda and her maid during the morning.’

He had hired a couple of rounseys for the short journey from the city, Alice sitting behind him, and now he took himself to the backyard to collect his horse, leaving the other for Hilda’s use. Gwyn smiled to himself at Roger’s assumption that Hilda would be staying with de Wolfe and then went on to wonder what he himself should do about it. With only two rooms in their cottage, he decided to make himself scarce for a couple of nights.

‘I’ll bed down with the palace guards, Crowner,’ he said quietly. ‘With young Alice here as well, you’ll need some privacy.’

He resisted accompanying this offer with a wink, but John knew that his officer was very happy that Hilda was here to lighten the glum mood that had settled on the coroner. Though the Cornishman had been very fond of Nesta, John’s previous mistress, he had realised that that the liaison was doomed in the long term. Now he trusted that his master’s childhood sweetheart Hilda might be able to fill the void in de Wolfe’s life — only his miserable wife stood in his way. Hilda was the daughter of the Saxon manor reeve in Holcombe, the second of the de Wolfe family’s manors near Teignmouth. Though at forty-one, John was some seven years older, they had grown up together and become lovers by their teens. It would have been impossible for them to marry in those days, as Hilda was merely the daughter of a villein and John the second son of the lord of the manor, but she was now a wealthy widow, there would be no barrier to their marriage — apart from the fact that he already had a wife, albeit one skulking away in a nunnery.

As soon as Roger Watts had left, Gwyn slid away to leave the lovers in peace. Their first task was to arrange the accommodation and it was tacitly assumed by all that John and Hilda would sleep together in the upper room. Although young Alice was there as lady’s maid, her role as chaperone was conveniently ignored and Osanna, rapidly summing up the situation, brought in a hay-filled pallet for the girl and set it in the corner of the main room. With the warm weather, there was no hardship in sleeping in a chamber with a dead firepit.

‘I’ll show you Westminster, Hilda — now the hub of government, even if the king is never here!’ offered John gallantly. They set off arm in arm, with Alice trailing behind, her eyes on stalks as she looked at the grand buildings around them. De Wolfe took them into the great abbey and they stared in wonder at the many altars and side chapels and the tomb of Edward the Confessor — as a Saxon, Hilda was visibly moved by the remnants of this last monarch of her race.

As they were leaving the abbey, John caught sight of Thomas coming from the cloisters and with a great yell attracted his attention. The clerk was surprised and delighted to see someone from Devon and Hilda hugged him to her, much to his delighted embarrassment. Though he had adored Nesta, he knew Hilda from several escapades and was fond of her calm and generous nature. He joined them in their sightseeing and after looking into St Margaret’s Church, the next port of call was the Great Hall of William Rufus. The lady and her maid marvelled at the dimensions of the place, gazing in wonder at the largest roof in Europe. They stood listening for a while to a session of the King’s Bench, who had reclaimed the space at the end of the hall, then John took them up to the coroner’s chamber to show Hilda their spartan place of exile from Devon.

‘It’s a miserable damned room, but the view is good,’ he said, throwing open the shutters and displaying the wide panorama of the Thames. He took them to the Lesser Hall, now quiet between meals and then to the outside of the King’s Chambers, which really impressed Alice, who thought of the king as only a short step down from God himself.

Their tour ended with a walk along the riverbank and back into the little town of Westminster, where Thomas left them with the excuse that he had duties in the abbey scriptorium. They wandered back to Long Ditch, where the percipient Osanna took Alice away to her kitchen in the yard, to feed her warm pastries and tell her tales of her native Essex.

Alone in his living room, John took Hilda into his arms and kissed her passionately. He had known her lips and her body for more than a score of years, but she still excited him so much that he felt dizzy when he clasped her tightly to him.

As his hands roved over her back, her buttocks and her breasts, she responded avidly and though it was barely late afternoon, they stumbled together to the ladder. A moment later, they had collapsed on to the thick feather mattress that lay on the floor of his sleeping chamber. All the pent-up frustrations of the past couple of months were released in an explosion of passion that repeated itself over and over until delicious exhaustion overtook them both. Then, satiated, they slept in each other’s arms, just as they had done in a Devon hayloft, long, long ago.

If de Wolfe had been pining for more work these past weeks, the next day he fervently hoped for the opposite — that there would be no slaying, fires, ravishment or other forms of mayhem to interrupt his time with Hilda. Most of the day was spent sightseeing and both Gwyn and Thomas came with them. The Cornishman had Alice clinging behind him on his mare, as he had become virtually a father figure to the little maid. Thomas was his usual erudite self, surprising even John with his detailed knowledge of London’s sights and history. They jogged slowly up the Royal Way to Charing and then along the Strand, the clerk pointing out the great houses of bishops, magnates and barons.

‘That’s the new preceptory of the Knights Templar built for the English master,’ he explained, pointing to the grand church and buildings at the top of the slope leading down to the river’s edge. Inside the city, they marvelled at the great cathedral of St Paul, Thomas explaining that the original church had been established almost six hundred years earlier, when the rest of London was an abandoned Roman ruin, shunned by the Saxons for centuries until the great King Alfred revitalised it.

The main thoroughfare of Cheapside and the markets at Poultry were like a magnet to Hilda and Alice, who spent over an hour wandering the stalls and booths, de Wolfe walking behind them as an escort, with that bemused look that men assume when forced to parade past endless rolls of linen and silk, or displays of brooches and necklets.

In Southwark, on the other side of the bridge, they stopped for food at a large tavern in the high street, opposite the large church of St Saviour’s.

‘That palace behind it belongs to the Bishop of Winchester,’ said Thomas, with an almost proprietorial air. ‘Southwark is not part of the city and actually belongs to the bishop.’ He omitted to tell her that even the noted Southwark brothels belonged to the bishop, who derived a useful income from them.

They stared at the Conqueror’s Tower and King Richard’s new fortifications around it, then after riding to Smithfield, just outside the city wall, to see the great church of St Bartholomew and its famous hospital, they made their way back to Westminster.

That evening, John decided to take Hilda to the Lesser Hall for supper, partly to show her some of the lifestyle of the palace, but also to meet a few of the people he had been describing to her. He also had a sneaking desire to show her off to them, especially Hawise d’Ayncourt. Though women were not usually present in the hall, he perversely decided that if the raven-haired beauty from Blois could be there, why not his English blonde?

No one was going to challenge the king’s coroner’s right to bring a guest and he was sure that Hilda would more than hold her own with any of the others in the circle that supped there.

When he told her, she delved into the large cloth bundle that she had brought from the ship and arrayed herself in a simple, but elegant, gown of pale-blue silk, under a light surcoat of white linen that matched her cover-chief and wimple. The meal had already begun when they arrived at the palace and their appearance caused a minor sensation at the table where their group habitually sat. With an awestruck Alice trailing behind as a chaperone, the men stumbled to their feet as John handed Hilda on to the end of a bench, then sat alongside her, with Alice opposite, next to Hawise’s maid.

John mischievously introduced Hilda as his ‘business partner from Devon’ just arrived on one of their own vessels, which raised a few disbelieving eyebrows, especially from Mistress d’Ayncourt.

‘Can I also join this business, if the partners are all like this exquisite lady?’ asked Ranulf gallantly, earning himself a poisonous glance from Hawise.

William Aubrey, Renaud de Seigneur and even the celibate Bernard de Montfort became benign and attentive as they beamed at the delectable woman from the far west. They snapped their fingers at the serving boys to bring more food and wine and though it was John’s prerogative to place the choicest morsels on her trencher, Renaud insisted on filling her wine cup from the special flask of Anjou wine that he habitually brought to the table.

When conversation began to flow, the others were intrigued by her strong Devonshire dialect.

Waspishly, though she had spoken English since infancy, Hawise addressed her in French, assuming she was some country bumpkin and she was chagrined to receive a polite reply in the same language. Though coming from a farm on the de Wolfe manor, Hilda had often travelled across the Channel with her seafaring husband and was proficient in both Norman-French and Flemish.

‘Have you known our respected coroner for long, madam?’ enquired Hawise haughtily, expecting to learn that the blonde was a recent acquisition of his.

‘Only about three-and-thirty years,’ replied Hilda calmly. ‘We grew up together, you see.’

John noticed a grin spread over Renaud’s face — he seemed to relish someone giving his wife as good as she gave.

William Aubrey, who seemed enthralled by the good-looking newcomer, monopolized the conversation for several minutes and Hilda, sensing that John wanted her to appear in the best light possible, adroitly avoided revealing that she was the daughter of a farm reeve and managed to let it be known that she was a widow, who had a stone-built house flanked by pillars in the Breton style.

Hawise made a last effort to gain the upper hand. ‘Surely you cannot relish living out your life in a rural backwater like Devon,’ she said sweetly. ‘Now that you have been to the great city of London, would you not like to stay here? No doubt you could find a rich husband here to support you.’

Hilda gave her a condescending smile in return. ‘I think not, as I have returned only yesterday from Antwerp, which in some ways I feel is as interesting. And as for a rich husband, I have no need of one — but would settle for a man I could love and respect.’

Glowering, Hawise retired from the debate and concentrated on her food and drink, ignoring the smirks of the archdeacon and her damned husband. As soon as she had finished eating, she hauled her maid and husband away from the table and with a last grimace at John, flounced away.

Eventually, de Wolfe prised Hilda away from the attentions of the other men on the table and they strolled back to Long Ditch in the evening sun, with Alice pattering along happily behind.

When she was safely tucked up on her bag of hay in the downstairs chamber, John and Hilda spent another night of lovemaking and slumber, tinged with sadness at the realisation that it would be the last for some time. Naked under a linen sheet in the warm summer night, they talked of many things, but never about the possibility of being wedded. In the early hours, when the blonde’s regular breathing against his shoulder told him she was sound asleep, John pondered long and hard about what could be done. He was here in London, but that was not an insoluble problem. He could give up being a coroner and return home to Exeter, as, financially, it would make no difference. Coroners were obliged to remain unpaid, on pain of dismissal — and he had more than an adequate income from the wool business, as well as a share of the profits of his family’s two manors at Stoke-in-Teignhead and Holcombe which his elder brother managed so efficiently. The other option would be for Hilda to come to live with him in Westminster, but he knew this would be difficult, as she was devoted to her home village, and though she might well manage the short transition to Exeter if circumstances allowed, she would never emigrate to London.

Dawn was creeping through the shutters before he fell asleep again, though a bare hour remained before they had to rise. Even this was delayed for a while by frantic valedictory passion, but soon it was time for a breakfast of oat gruel, eggs fried in butter and barley bread, before Roger Watts arrived to take Hilda back to the ship.

John, Gwyn and Thomas decided to squeeze the last drops of Hilda’s company by riding back with them to the city to where the St Radegund was berthed just downstream from the bridge.

The forty-five-foot cog was riding high on the tide when they reached it and soon Hilda and Alice, with their belongings tied in a bundle, were climbing the plank to the deck. John saw them settled in the small cabin on the afterdeck, little more than a tiny hutch with a couple of mattresses inside.

‘There’s a north-easterly breeze,’ declared the shipmaster. ‘So once we get around Kent, we should make good time to the Exe — maybe back there in four days.’

John crawled into the deckhouse to stow Hilda’s bundle and took the opportunity to embrace her and kiss her lips in semi-privacy.

‘I’ll be back in Devon before long, by hook or by crook,’ he promised. ‘If we can get away during this progress of the court to Gloucester, I’ll see you soon, my love. Otherwise, I’ll just ride back to Devon and to hell with them.’

As soon as the tide began to ebb, the mooring ropes were cast off and the single square sail was hoisted. With Roger Watts leaning on the steering oar, the little cog drifted out into the river and began tacking downstream. John, with his officer and clerk, stood on the wharf and watched their link with Devon gradually shrink in size as it went towards the distant sea. The woman and the girl fluttered kerchiefs for a time and John waved back, but soon he turned abruptly on his heel and strode to where they had left their horses.

‘Let’s go, this place stinks of fish,’ he growled, for the quay where the vessel had been moored was near Billingsgate. In pensive silence, he rode back through the city streets, ignoring the press of people and the raucous cries of stallholders and hawkers. In spite of the crowds, London suddenly seemed empty without Hilda of Dawlish.