Crowner’s Quest

Chapter Seven In which Crowner John goes into the forest

They delivered their prisoner to Rougemont by late afternoon, giving him into the charge of Stigand, the obese and repulsive gaoler who reigned in the undercroft of the keep. Protesting violently, and promising retribution from on high, Giles Fulford was thrust into a filthy cell that lay off the passage that ran from an iron gate in the basement of the building.

This undercroft was partly below ground, reached by a short flight of steps from the inner bailey. It was divided in half by a dank, fungoid stone wall, the outer cavern being an open space, used for storage and as a torture chamber. There, ordeals, mutilations and the peine et forte dure were carried out. The rusted, barred gate was set in the centre of the wall, beyond which lay a dozen small cells and one larger cage.

De Wolfe gave no explanation to Stigand as to the reason why Fulford was to enjoy the sheriff’s hospitality, and the gaoler showed no interest as he pushed a dirty jug of water, half a loaf and a leather bucket for sanitation into the cell with the new prisoner. When Giles demanded the attentions of an apothecary for the wound on his arm, Stigand took a casual look at it, shrugged and walked away.

De Wolfe had already discovered that Richard de Revelle was out of the city until next day, so his intention to discuss the arrest of Fulford and the escape of de Braose was frustrated. Tired from a day in the saddle and the exertions of a fight, John was ready for a good meal, some ale and bed. He walked back across the inner ward of the castle with Gwyn, advising his old henchman to do the same, especially as he had a wide graze and cut on his forehead and was suffering a headache from the blow he had taken.

‘Where will you get a bed tonight?’ he asked, as the gates were shut and the Cornishman could not get back to St Sidwell’s.

‘Gabriel will find me a place in the barracks. I often sleep there if I can’t get home,’ Gwyn answered. ‘I’ll go down to the Bush to eat. I don’t fancy the Saracen after today’s performance.’

De Wolfe had the same desire for the tavern in Idle Lane, mainly to consolidate the healing of the tiff with Nesta, but he felt obliged to go home first, to see how the land lay as regards his wife’s mood. But he and Gwyn were delayed again as they passed the wooden staircase to the keep entrance. A servant came to the rail on the landing above and called down, ‘Sir John, the constable asked me to look out for you. He has an urgent message for you.’

Though the sheriff was the King’s representative in the county, the castle had been Crown property since it was built by the Conqueror and its constable was appointed by the King. This was meant to avoid it being used as a base for revolt by the barons, who owned most of the other castles. De Wolfe and his henchman climbed the steps in search of Ralph Morin, and went into the main hall, where people were eating, drinking and making a general hubbub after the day’s work.

As soon as he saw them, Morin got up from one of the tables and came across. He was a big man, almost the size of Gwyn, and his massive face was crowned with crinkled grey hair. He had a bushy grey beard with a fork in it that gave him the look of one of the Viking ancestors of his Norman race. He was an old friend of de Wolfe and they shared a dislike of Richard de Revelle, although Morin had to keep that well hidden as the sheriff was his immediate superior.

The constable invited them to sit with him and have a jar of ale as they talked. ‘I saw you bringing in a man lashed to his saddle just now,’ he began. ‘Have you lodged him with that filthy old pig down below?’

De Wolfe told the story of the day’s ambush in Dunsford and its connection with the death of Canon de Hane. Morin made a sucking noise through his teeth. ‘De Revelle will have problems with that. He’s quite thick with some of de Braose’s friends out in the county.’

The coroner stared hard at him. ‘Is something going on that I don’t know about, Ralph?’ he asked.

The constable refused to elaborate, saying he had heard only rumours, and he changed the subject by passing on his own news. ‘While you were out jousting in the countryside today, a messenger rode in from Henri de Nonant’s place at Totnes. It seems we have another high-class death, for during a hunting party there yesterday Sir William Fitzhamon fell from his horse and was killed.’

The coroner stared at him again. ‘Just what in hell’s name is going on, Ralph? Only three days ago I was sought out by Fitzhamon, who complained about a violent dispute over land with Henry de la Pomeroy – and now he’s dead!’

The constable shrugged his great shoulders. ‘Hunting is a dangerous pastime, John. Men often fall from their horses and break either their legs or their necks.’

The coroner scowled in disbelief. ‘Mother of God, these coincidences are becoming more than I care to accept!’ He drained his mug and stood up. ‘I suppose I have to ride down there in the morning to settle this new death – my backside is raw from the saddle with all these corpses about Devon.’

Morin rose to see him off. ‘At least there’s no reason to think that your favourite culprits Fulford and de Braose are involved in this one.’

‘Don’t be too sure of that, Ralph. I’ve heard – and you’ve just hinted at it – that Jocelin de Braose is a creature of some of those barons down in deepest Devon. I’m keeping an open mind on this.’

‘Well, that’ll be more than Richard de Revelle will be doing,’ murmured the constable, as he walked de Wolfe to the door.

With that cryptic comment in his ear, the coroner went thoughtfully back to Martin’s Lane.

Riding out in the early morning from the West Gate seemed to be developing into a routine, thought de Wolfe, as he and Gwyn trotted out once again in the grey dawn light of New Year’s Day. This time, there was no messenger with them, as he had turned tail the previous afternoon and started back for Totnes, probably buying a pennyworth of food and lodging at some village on the way.

As they jogged westward along the tracks, John pondered on the differences between women. Last night, Matilda had kept up her unrelenting sullenness, glowering at him whenever he had tried to make conversation to heal the breach between them. Even her habitual fascination with tales of the county aristocracy, which was usually grist to the mills of her snobbery, seemed to have evaporated: his news of the death of William Fitzhamon and the extraordinary behaviour of Jocelin de Braose, who had tried to kill her husband that day, failed to stir her from her sulks. By contrast, when he had given up the effort and gone to the Bush Inn, he had found Nesta her normally affectionate self, quite recovered from her passing fit of jealousy. In fact, she was even able to tease him about his infidelities, poking fun at his sexual stamina and hoping, for her sake, that his rutting abilities would not be overtaxed.

He smiled ruefully to himself as Bran’s great legs ate up the miles to Totnes. He was stuck with Matilda, he had to accept that, but he was damned if he was going to spend the rest of his life worrying about it and enduring decades of domestic torture when women like Nesta and Hilda were able to offer him such amiable company and delightful passion.

Gwyn trotted alongside him in companionable silence, aware after twenty years with de Wolfe that this unfathomable man often needed to be left well alone, when he wished to churn something over in his mind. What it was, he didn’t know, nor did he much care: he was content to do what his master asked of him, even follow him into the jaws of hell. Gwyn’s domestic life was simple: he had a pleasant wife, who fed him, bedded him and had given him two boisterous children, never caring where he had been, whether it was to Dartmoor or Damascus.

This time, though, it was to Totnes Castle, twenty miles from Exeter, which took them three hours’ riding. They were met in the bailey below the great stockade by Henri de Nonant, who gave Gwyn into the care of his steward and brought de Wolfe into the hall, a substantial wooden building at the foot of the high mound. The lord of Totnes conducted him to the fireside, where he was fed and wined after the cold rigours of the journey.

‘We have the unfortunate lord’s body in the bedchamber next door,’ he said. ‘His son is here, waiting to claim it and take it back to Dartington for burial, but I know that your new crowner’s rules insist on some formalities before that can be done.’

His tone reminded de Wolfe of Richard de Revelle’s dismissive attitude towards coroners. ‘What happened to him?’ he asked tersely.

‘He didn’t return with the others from the hunt, so his reeve went looking for him and found him dead on the ground in the forest. His horse and hounds were wandering nearby.’

‘Any injuries on him?’

‘An obvious wound on the head, and I am told his neck seems broken. The ground is as hard as flint from the frost, as you know yourself.’

‘Anything else?’

‘When a number of the hunters went out there to retrieve the body, some noticed blood on an overhanging branch within a few yards of where he had fallen. It seems that he must have misjudged the height and struck his head on a bough. Naturally he was not wearing a helmet for hunting, only a cap.’

De Wolfe grunted, a favourite form of response he had picked up from Gwyn. Experienced riders had a sixth sense for overhanging trees and an old hunter like Fitzhamon would be unlikely to have been so careless – but the coroner had to admit that it could have happened that way.

After his refreshment, de Wolfe beckoned to Gwyn and they followed de Nonant into a small chamber off the hall. A still figure lay on a palliasse on the floor, covered by a linen sheet. A youth stood brooding by its side, his head bowed until they came in. ‘This is Robert, Fitzhamon’s only son,’ explained de Nonant. ‘We all feel for him in his loss.’

De Wolfe murmured something about having met the lad recently and expressed his own sympathy, none the less genuine for its brevity. Fitzhamon’s heir nodded grimly to the coroner, but said nothing.

John advanced to the bed and Gwyn pulled back the sheet to chest level. The dead man looked much the same as he had in life, apart from his eyes which were closed as if in natural sleep. A white cloth was draped over his forehead and when de Wolfe pulled it away, they could see dried blood matting the white hair at the crown of the head. The coroner and his officer crouched down one on each side of the bed and de Wolfe parted the hair with his fingers. ‘A deep tear in his scalp, running back to front, with bruised edges,’ he commented aloud, motioning to Gwyn to lift the corpse from the bed.

Robert Fitzhamon turned away to look through the window-slit, as his father came up into an almost lifelike sitting position. But as de Wolfe took his hands away from the corpse’s head, it rolled sideways in a most unlifelike fashion, lolling at an unnatural angle. Gwyn gave one of his grunts and the coroner placed his hands alongside the ears, to waggle the head on the neck.

‘Broken, as you suggested,’ he said, looking up at de Nonant.

The baron assumed a knowledgeable expression. ‘Being hurled from a large horse after a blow against a tree is enough to snap a neck.’

De Wolfe pulled down the sheet and examined the rest of the body, arms, legs and trunk, dragging up the undershirt to see the chest and belly. ‘Not another mark on him,’ he muttered. As he was doing this, Gwyn supported the corpse with one hand and prodded about in the head wound with the fingers of the other. ‘Let him down. We can cover him again and leave him in peace,’ commanded the coroner, rising to his feet. He turned to the boy. ‘You wish to take him home for burial, I presume. I will have to hold a short inquest for the sake of formality but I can do that within the hour.’ He turned to de Nonant. ‘What happened to the First Finders? We need them, and anyone else who has any knowledge of this affair.’

De Nonant looked dubious. ‘His reeve, who accompanied him on the hunt, is still here, and one of the two men who went with him to find Fitzhamon. The other returned to his village with his own master, I cannot recall who. The only others were our hunting party who went out afterwards, but they could know nothing of the accident. Of those, only myself and Bernard Cheever are still in the castle.’

De Wolfe sighed, thinking that the King’s Justices who made up the rules for the holding of inquests had little idea of the difficulties of trying to carry out their orders. In a static village, where none of the inhabitants ever went anywhere, it was easy to assemble everyone who might know about a death, but where barons and knights were concerned, with all their equally mobile companions and servants, it was impossible to stick to the letter of the law.

‘Well, get everyone who might have even the most remote knowledge of this death together in the bailey as soon as you can. We will have to move the corpse out there. Then you, Robert, can arrange for a litter to take it to your home.’

The younger Fitzhamon came to life. ‘Is it necessary to parade my father’s body outside in the bailey, Crowner? Can he not rest here in peace and dignity until I can make arrangements for travel?’

De Wolfe shook his head, but spoke gently. ‘I’m sorry, the jury must be able to inspect the body and see the wounds before we can reach a verdict. It will be very brief.’ He turned again to de Nonant. ‘I need to see where this happened. Can someone take us to the spot?’

The best person to do so was Ansgot, the dead man’s reeve, and within minutes he was riding once again along the route he had taken two days before, followed now by de Wolfe, Robert Fitzhamon and Gwyn. They crossed the river and came to the place where the body had been found. He pointed to a place behind dead ferns where the frosted grass had been trampled by many feet. ‘He was there, Crowner, lying crumpled on the ground, face down, chin tucked hard against his chest.’

De Wolfe examined the spot, but found nothing of any significance.

‘What about this tree?’ he snapped. Ansgot walked a few paces back the way they had come and pointed up to an old oak, twisted and gnarled, its bare branches contorted into a variety of shapes. ‘This one here. It has blood upon it where a piece of bark is missing.’

Gwyn walked his mare up to the tree and, the tallest man there, measured his head against its height. ‘True, it comes to my face. Fitzhamon was shorter than me, so he could have struck it with his crown.’

Robert looked away in distress. To be where his father had met his death so recently was harrowing to the boy, who had loved and respected his father, even though he had been a stern and undemonstrative parent.

De Wolfe moved to Gwyn’s side and looked up at the offending branch. ‘There’s a smear of blood upon it – and a sliver of bark is missing at that point,’ he conceded.

Gwyn was silent and de Wolfe looked sharply at him. Even though the Cornishman had not said a word, after years in his company the coroner could sense that he was not satisfied. ‘Well, what’s the problem?’ he muttered.

Gwyn raised his bushy eyebrows and looked pointedly towards Robert. ‘I want to look at the body again,’ he murmured, through his moustache. ‘Look at the direction this branch grows – across the track, not in line with it.’

De Wolfe took the hint and they rode back to the castle, the subdued boy following in the rear.

In the bailey, Fitzhamon’s corpse had been brought down, still covered with the white cloth, and placed on two boards on trestles from the hall. A dozen people were assembled for the inquest, and young Fitzhamon, de Nonant, Bernard Cheever and Ansgot joined the circle around the bier. Before they began, Gwyn went with the coroner to the body. They lifted the sheet and spent a few moments in muttered conversation. Those nearest saw Gwyn again put a finger and thumb into the wound and show some tiny object to de Wolfe. They also looked long and hard at both sides of the head, turning it this way and that on the floppy neck. Then the officer stood back and called for silence for the King’s coroner, who took over the proceedings.

‘All here know the deceased for Sir William Fitzhamon but, for formality’s sake, I will have this confirmed by his son and heir. Robert Fitzhamon, is this the body of your father?’

Robert assented in a low voice and de Wolfe continued, ‘Equally, we can dispense with presentment of Englishry, as Fitzhamon’s Norman blood is known far and wide.’

At this point Henry de Nonant interrupted, in a tone of bored impatience, ‘Is there any need for this charade, Crowner? We are all aware that presentment was intended to discourage the assassination of our Norman forebears by treacherous natives. It is surely outdated now, but it can never have made sense in hunting accidents among Norman companions anyway.’

De Wolfe glared at him, the corners of his mouth downturned in his mournful face. ‘Your sense of history may be correct in that strife between Saxon and Norman has all but vanished – but assassination is still with us. And I have good reason to believe that this is what has happened to William Fitzhamon.’

He tried to explain it to Richard de Revelle that evening, but with little success, as there is no one as deaf as those who do not wish to listen. ‘It is a murder, carefully designed to look like an accident.’

The sheriff, leaning back in his chair behind the document-strewn table, was derisive. ‘John, you see deception and conspiracy behind everything! I still question whether the death of that canon was anything other than suicide, in spite of your protestations. Now you come with this fanciful tale of murder, when it is patently obvious that the damned fellow fell from his horse!’

In an effort to keep his temper, the coroner marched around the chamber in Rougemont’s keep. ‘For the last time, will you just listen? First, someone deliberately put a knife across the fetlock of the reeve’s horse so that Fitzhamon was left alone on the hunt. Then he was found dead, with a head wound and a broken neck.’

‘What do you expect on a man who rides his head into a tree and gets tossed off on to the frosty earth?’ snapped de Revelle.

‘Great God! I’ve told you already, he didn’t ride into that tree. The wound went from back to front, but the branch and its conveniently bloody part ran across the track, so the wound was at right angles to where it should have been!’

De Revelle made a noise redolent with scorn at the coroner’s deductions, but John ploughed on. ‘Furthermore, the tree was an oak and my officer picked a piece of beech bark out of Fitzhamon’s head wound. Does beech bark grow on an oak tree?’

The sheriff made another dismissive noise. ‘A trivial matter. Who ever heard of evidence from a scrap of wood? There was blood on the tree, wasn’t there?’

‘No doubt from someone who dipped his finger in Fitzhamon’s blood and smeared it on the place where he pulled off a sliver of bark – oak bark!’

‘Fantasy, John, sheer fantasy! I think it was a mistake, my recommending you for this coroner’s appointment, you have too vivid an imagination for sober legal purposes.’

De Wolfe became more incensed than ever. ‘Recommended me? I was given this job by the Chief Justiciar – and with King Richard’s agreement! I needed no help from you, Sheriff. Do you need reminding that for certain reasons you were held out of office yourself for many months? You are still on probation now, as far as loyal subjects are concerned.’

De Revelle became incandescent with rage and leaped to his feet. ‘You may not talk to a sheriff in that way, damn you! You meddle in things that are beyond your understanding. Fitzhamon died in a hunting accident, understand? Leave it at that.’

‘He was struck on the head with a beech bough, brother-in-law. How do you explain that?’

‘His neck was broken, too. How do you explain that?’

De Wolfe leaned on the table and glared into his brother-in-law’s face. ‘By someone taking his head in their hands when he was unconscious from the blow and wrenching his neck till it snapped!’

‘Pah! More fantasy?’ yelled de Revelle.

‘No, marks on each side of his head! When we returned from the forest, enough time had elapsed for the bruising to come out on the side of his neck, behind the ears and on the temples where strong fingers had dug into the skin. Do you get fingermarks, identical on each side, from hitting a tree, eh?’

Though he had no rational explanation, de Revelle engaged in a repetitious tirade against the coroner’s sanity, which left de Wolfe unmoved. ‘So what are you going to do about this murder?’ he demanded.

‘Do? I’m going to do nothing. There is no murder, you great fool.’

Seeing that it was useless to continue arguing, de Wolfe contented himself with an oblique threat. ‘Well, his son Robert Fitzhamon now knows his father was killed – and, child though he may still be, he has a fair idea why it happened. When he discovers a possible suspect, he will Appeal him and then you will have to do something. If you don’t, I’ll go with young Fitzhamon to the King’s justices and Hubert Walter. If necessary, we’ll follow the King to France and petition him. There may be aspects of this matter that will bring him back post-haste to England.’

The sheriff glared at de Wolfe, but there was a shadow of concern, almost of fear, in his eyes. ‘You meddle in things that are outside your competence,’ he hissed, his voice tremulous with anger. ‘Have a care, John.’

‘It’s you who should watch where you place your feet, Richard – and your loyalties,’ he replied, taking a blind shot at obscure intrigues of which he could only guess. To further wrongfoot the sheriff, he suddenly changed the subject. ‘To go from one violent death to another, what are you going to do about yesterday’s episode? Unfortunately the prime suspect ran away, but I brought you back one villain, who lies in your gaol below.’

De Revelle’s temper subsided, to be replaced by a triumphant smirk. ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t, John.’

The coroner glowered at him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean? I delivered Fulford myself into Stigand’s hands.’

‘And I released him today – myself! You had no right or cause to arrest him. You attacked him without warning, killed his servant and chased off his master, who was unarmed.’

This time, it was the coroner’s turn to explode. ‘Unarmed! Only because I was treading on his bloody sword! And what possessed you to free Fulford? Either he or de Braose killed the canon – or they did it between them.’

From that moment on, there could be no intelligible exchange between coroner and sheriff. They stood almost nose to nose across the table, yelling recriminations at each other. The man-at-arms guarding the sheriff’s chamber stuck his head round the door, thinking murder might be being done, but when he saw the clamorous tableau, he went back hastily to his post, thinking discretion the better part of valour.

After a few moments of futile shouting, de Wolfe decided that he was wasting his time and, without another word, stalked out of the room, with de Revelle still shouting insults at his back.

The coroner’s next port of call was his own house, and by the time he had walked briskly through the cold streets from Rougemont to Martin’s Lane, his anger at the sheriff’s intransigence had faded, to be replaced by a thoughtful consideration of what in God’s name was going on in Devon this New Year. It was becoming obvious that political intrigue was afoot, from the oblique threats of various people, but it was difficult to know who was friend and who was foe.

When he had talked privately to Robert Fitzhamon after the inquest, the boy seemed hardly surprised that his father had been killed deliberately. He explained to de Wolfe the intentions that the elder William had expressed to Henry de la Pomeroy to seek out the Chief Justiciar if the encroachment on his lands was not halted. ‘I don’t know exactly what had been going on, but in the past few months I gathered that some of the barons and landholding knights had invited my father to join them in some dubious enterprise. He had refused, and as he spoke of this in the same breath as of his loyalty to King Richard, I suspect that some new rebellion was being mooted, which he declined to support.’

As he pushed open his street door, de Wolfe thought this a possible explanation for the murder, though it seemed somewhat extreme. Brutus heard him arrive and came up the passage from the yard, wagging his tail, followed by Mary with an equally welcoming smile. She helped the coroner pull off his riding boots, then hung his baldric and sword on the hook in the vestibule. Jerking a thumb towards the hall, she made a wry face. ‘You’ll have little joy there tonight, Master Crowner,’ she whispered, ‘so I’ll get you something substantial to eat. At least it will help you to pass the time this evening.’ With that she vanished back to her kitchen and, with a sigh of resignation, John pushed open the inner door to the hall.

Matilda was in front of the fire as usual, sewing by the light of two tallow lamps on a bracket alongside her chair. She was as uncommunicative as usual, offering nothing but a curt word or two in response to his efforts at conversation.

Soon Mary brought in a large earthenware pot of mutton stew with root vegetables, and a loaf of hot bread. Silently, Matilda came to the table, and as they ate and drank, de Wolfe made another effort at conversation, telling her again of the murderous death of William Fitzhamon. Finally this struck a spark of interest in her as, almost reluctantly, she gave him a recitation of Fitzhamon’s family connections, who his wife was, how many children he had and more from her compendious store of knowledge of the noble members of Devon society, to which she had an envious yearning to belong.

De Wolfe briefly had hopes of her coming out of her black mood, but he made a fatal mistake when she asked him whether anyone had been arrested for the crime. ‘No, and your brother won’t accept that it was a murder. He claims it was a simple hunting accident.’

From there it was all downhill: Matilda worshipped her brother and felt he could do no wrong. She still would not accept that he had been a sympathiser of Prince John in his rebellion, which had ended so ignominiously the year before – even though he had been prevented from taking up the sheriffdom for months after being first appointed, which spoke for itself. ‘If Richard says it was an accident, why should you deny it?’ she snapped, her power of speech returning in full.

‘Because I was there, and examined the body, and he was not,’ de Wolfe retorted, stung into more unwise comments by the unfairness of her reasoning. ‘And he has released that Fulford man I arrested yesterday, without any explanation.’

‘The sheriff knows more about what goes on in this county than you,’ Matilda declared crossly. She got up and walked back to her chair by the hearth, pointedly turning her back on him and refusing to answer him when he tried to placate her again.

De Wolfe endured a few minutes more of her sulks, standing by the fire to warm his back, but as she refused even to look up at him when he spoke, he marched to the door, put on his walking shoes and cloak and slammed out of the house. He had intended going out in any event and made his way not to the Bush but to the Archdeacon’s house in the close.

These were the slack hours before the night-time round of services and John de Alencon was reading a small leatherbound book in his bare room. Dressed in a grey cassock, his thin face looked grave in the light of three candles burning on his table. ‘The Bishop is back and takes a very serious view of the behaviour of both Roger de Limesi and his vicar. He has committed Eric Langton to appear before a Consistory Court next week and is deciding whether to take any action against my brother canon.’

De Wolfe put in a word for the junior priest, as best he could. ‘He did all that was asked of him in this matter of entrapping Giles Fulford – which also flushed out Jocelin de Braose. But that fool of a sheriff has let Fulford go free and he is at large somewhere in the city, no doubt sheltered by his friends.’

He then related to de Alencon the events of the past day and the death of Fitzhamon. ‘There is treason abroad, John, I smell it. Have you heard any rumours that might confirm this?’

The Archdeacon pondered a moment. ‘Rumour is the right word, old friend. Nothing tangible, just whispers and hints now and then – but they have been rife ever since the last attempt failed.’

The coroner shifted uneasily on the stool he had drawn up to the table. ‘Is there anything we should do about this – or anything we can do, with no proof at all?’

The Archdeacon shook his head slowly. ‘Watch and listen, that is the best course at the moment. You need to be careful, John, your allegiance to the King is well known and may not be to everyone’s taste.’

‘You are just as loyal, so what about you?’ objected de Wolfe.

‘I have the protection of the Church, but you are out in the harder world.’

‘The Church was of little help to Thomas Becket against the secular power,’ said John wryly.

De Alencon smiled sadly. ‘That was a long time ago and things have changed. But we should reckon up who is likely to be for us and who against.’

‘Your own bishop was sympathetic to the rebels last time. How is he placed now, I wonder?’

The Archdeacon shrugged. ‘I think he will wait to see which way the wind blows strongest. In the last treason, Hugh of Nonant, Bishop of Coventry, was the moving force behind Prince John, but I doubt if our Bishop Henry will wish to follow his example.’ He sighed and closed his book carefully. ‘I find it strange that he leaned that way before, being brother to William the Marshal, who is nothing if not the King’s man.’

‘What about the barons and knights hereabouts? Which way will they lean? I know my dear brother-in-law would join them if he dared, even though his fingers were burned last time.’

‘Certainly Ferrars and de Courcy would be loyal. Henry de la Pomeroy is very suspect, especially as his father came to his death from following the Prince. Gerald de Claville and Bernard Cheevers are also doubtful characters in that respect. Fitzhamon was a king’s man – and look what’s happened to him.’

They sat in silence for a moment, each deep in thought.

‘Do you really think that Prince John would try again so soon?’ asked the priest. ‘It was a special opportunity for him last year, when no one expected that Coeur de Lion would ever get out of Germany alive.’

‘The King doesn’t help his own cause by staying out of England like this,’ admitted de Wolfe. ‘He’s left Hubert Walter in a difficult position. Though he is well liked, he’s forced to employ extortionate measures to fund Richard’s campaigns against Philip of France, especially as the country has not yet recovered from paying off the ransom.’

John de Alencon agreed. ‘And he insisted on reinstating that damned Walter Longchamp as Chancellor, a man everyone hates – though, thank God, he stays out of England with the King. All these things foster discontent. Our good Richard is too soft-hearted, except on the battlefield. Look how he forgave his brother for all the harm he did. Other kings would have had his head or his eyes for much lesser treason.’

They fell silent again. ‘And none of this helps us solve our local problems,’ sighed the Archdeacon. ‘Who killed poor Robert de Hane and William Fitzhamon? Maybe they have no connection whatsoever.’

‘And we still have no clue as to the whereabouts of this treasure, if it still exists,’ said de Wolfe glumly. ‘Thomas de Peyne has found no sign of that second parchment in the archives.’

‘I care little for treasure – the Church in Exeter hardly lacks for money, though it becomes increasing difficult to resist the King’s calls for donations.’

The coroner stood up, ready to leave. ‘With the sheriff unwilling to apply the law, for reasons of his own, I have a good mind to apply my own brand of justice,’ he said, and with this cryptic remark he left the Archdeacon to his reading. Once again, he did not make for Nesta’s tavern but went further down the close to the canon’s house, where Thomas had his meagre lodging. Going down the side lane to the yard, he ordered a surprised servant, cooking in the light of an open fire in the kitchen, to find his clerk and send him out.

A moment later, a dishevelled Thomas appeared, looking as if he had just risen from his mattress. ‘Throw a cloak about you and go up to Rougemont to find Gwyn. He will probably be drinking with Gabriel in the soldiers’ quarters. Then bring him down to the Bush, where I will be waiting.’ He turned on his heel but, as an afterthought, he called over his shoulder, ‘And tell him to buckle on his sword!’

It was an hour to midnight when the coroner’s team arrived outside the Saracen Inn on Stepcote Hill. It was round the corner from the Bush, on a steep slope leading down towards the city’s west wall. A thatched roof came down to head height on the outer walls, pierced by shuttered windows and a low door from which came the grumble of voices and the occasional shout and peal of laughter.

The trio stood to confer under the crude painting of a Moorish head, the inn sign of the Saracen.

‘He doesn’t know you by sight, Thomas, so go in and look around,’ commanded de Wolfe. He was wearing a wide-brimmed black pilgrim’s hat and had his dark cloak pulled up high over his shoulders, but his height and his hunched posture made this token disguise of little value in a city where he was so well known. Gwyn gave the clerk a shove through the half-opened door. ‘Go ahead, and act the hero for once!’

De Peyne vanished, and the other two walked round the corner of the building to be out of the way, but within a minute Thomas was back again. ‘He’s there, laughing and drinking, though he’s got one arm in a cloth tied up to his neck. That black-haired woman is with him.’

De Wolfe was satisfied that his guess had turned out to be right. Giles Fulford was banking on the reluctance of the sheriff to hold him prisoner, and risked appearing in public, until the city gates opened next morning. ‘You know what to say, Thomas,’ he said. ‘We discussed it in the Bush just now.’ Again the timid clerk, torn between fear and glory, slid into the tavern and pushed his way to the middle of the big smoky room where de Braose’s squire, one arm in a cloth sling, was holding forth to a group of men clustered around Rosamunde of Rye. Thomas’s tongue ran furtively around his lips as his eyes fell on her, and he imagined what it might be like to bed her. He had about as much chance of that as becoming the Pope, though, when his poor body was compared with hers. Boldly dressed in blue silk, with her glossy black hair rippling down her back, she stood with Fulford’s sound arm firmly wrapped around her shoulders, another man alongside her doing his best to press himself against her.

Thomas tore his eyes reluctantly from her to get on with his business. Sidling up to the squire, he nudged him, and when Fulford looked down in annoyance, he said, ‘A man outside asked me to give you a message, if you are Giles Fulford.’

Fulford was more interested in cupping Rosamunde’s left breast, and snapped, ‘What man? What message?’

Thomas, almost enjoying his acting role now, shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He looked like a priest, but muffled up. He gave me a ha’penny to tell you he doesn’t want to show himself in here but that you might be interested in a lost parchment.’

Giles pulled away from the woman. ‘If it’s Langton, I’ll kill him, the treacherous bastard, leading me into a trap like that,’ he snarled. ‘Where is he?’

‘Around the corner of the inn, on the right,’ offered Thomas and, as Fulford stalked to the door, he melted away to the back of the room where another exit was frequently used by patrons who wished to relieve themselves in the yard.

He ran round the back of the inn and, from a safe distance, was just in time to see a scuffle in the half-darkness, lit only by the intermittent light of the moon and a glow from the cracks in the shutters. Hesitantly, he came nearer and saw that Gwyn had Fulford pinned against the wall, with the edge of his sword across his throat.

The coroner had the wrist of the man’s uninjured arm in the iron grip of one hand while the other brandished a dagger that he had plucked from the squire’s belt. ‘Come on, my lad, you won’t escape from us as easily as you did from the sheriff,’ grated the coroner. With that, Gwyn spun Fulford round, put his head in an arm-lock and lifted him off the floor as easily as if he had been a sack of turnips.

Fulford was unable to speak or shout as the coroner’s officer half carried, half dragged him up the hill. He began to kick the Cornishman’s legs, but de Wolfe produced a short hempen rope from under his cloak, which he had borrowed from Edwin at the Bush. He quickly lashed this round the prisoner’s shins and tied a knot, then used the free end to carry the bottom half of Fulford clear of the ground.

They hurried him up the hill and turned right into Idle Lane. Beyond the Bush was a patch of wasteland, with winter-dead weeds and, at its edge, a trough, a long stone bath hollowed out for watering horses. Diagonally opposite was a livery stable: now shut for the night, a pitch flare still guttered on its wall, throwing a dim, flickering light over the area. Gwyn dumped his burden flat on the ground and stood over Fulford with the point of his sword resting on the man’s throat. With one arm bound in a hessian sling and his legs tied together, the squire was as helpless as a trussed chicken.

‘Yell as much as you like,’ invited de Wolfe. ‘The folk in the Bush have been told to take no notice.’

‘You’re mad!’ croaked the squire, his blond hair tousled and his tunic crumpled from the struggle. ‘The sheriff will have you hanged – and if he doesn’t, there are a dozen others who will do it for him.’

The coroner stared down at him calmly in the faint light. ‘You are of little account, Fulford. A squire, a mere hand-servant to a minor knight. Who cares about you? The sheriff only wants to get you off his hands, he’s not concerned whether you live or die as long as you don’t do it on his premises.’

‘What do you want from me?’

A half-moon slid out from behind the clouds and its pale light fell on the scene. Thomas shivered, reminded of a miracle play depicting the angels of doom hovering over a sinner.

‘Who killed Canon de Hane? Who killed William Fitzhamon? Who is employing your master Jocelin de Braose? That will do for a start.’

A stream of foul language and abuse was the response so Gwyn kicked Giles in the ribs to end the flow. ‘I thought this was about a search for treasure,’ gasped the squire.

‘The death of an inoffensive old priest is about treasure,’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘Now, talk or face the consequences.’

Again there was a tirade of denial, mixed with blasphemies and threats of vengeance. De Wolfe stepped to the horse-trough and looked down at the layer of ice on the water. ‘Thomas, get a stone from the waste and crack this up.’

In a moment, black water was glistening in the trough, with angular pieces of ice floating on top.

Without further orders, Gwyn dropped his sword and bent over Fulford. With one ham-sized hand grasping a knot of clothing at his throat and the other gripping the rope around his legs, he lifted the victim up and dumped him into the filthy water. His face was still above the surface and yells and oaths rent the night air, but his tormentors were unmoved.

‘Did you kill the canon?’ snarled the coroner. The foul language continued and, at a nod from his master, Gwyn pushed Fulford’s head under the water and held it there as the man thrashed about, bubbles bursting from above his face. Then he hauled him above the water and waited for the coughing and spluttering to subside.

‘Who killed Robert de Hane and Fitzhamon?’ asked de Wolfe relentlessly. He was no sadist, but the image of the old canon revolving slowly at the end of a cord in his own privy hardened his heart, as did the recent memory of the boy Fitzhamon standing over his father’s body.

It took two more dunkings before Fulford broke, by which time he had inhaled enough water and shreds of sodden hay fallen from horses’ mouths to render him semi-conscious.

He was freezing and shivering and Gwyn was afraid that he might die before his determination cracked, but he was young and strong enough to survive. When he had recovered sufficiently to speak through chattering teeth, de Wolfe waved Thomas close to act as a third witness; later he must write it down from memory on his parchment rolls.

The gasped confessions were short and fragmented. When Fulford was quiet, de Wolfe stood back. ‘He’s no use to us now. Take him back to the Saracen and toss him through the door. Let his friends there warm him up, I’ll not have the Bush fouled by such as he.’