Crowner's Crusade

THIRTEEN

Sir Richard de Revelle was almost a decade older than John, a neat, slim man of average height, with a narrow, foxy face and a small pointed beard of the same light brown as his cropped hair. An elegant dresser, he sat behind his table dressed in a calf-length green tunic edged with gold embroidery around the collar and hem. He looked up from the scrolls he was studying as de Wolfe marched in, ignoring the efforts of the guard on the door to ask him his business.

‘I see you have appointed yourself Sheriff of Devon — or at least, installed yourself in his room!’ snapped John, sarcastically.

Richard looked up in annoyance at the interruption. As he saw who had entered, his face creased into a humourless smile. ‘Ah, so it’s you at last, John. I heard from Matilda that you were home.’

De Wolfe perched himself on the edge of the table, to add to the other man’s irritation. ‘Yes, after having done my best for three years for my God and my King!’

Richard sneered. ‘I trust that God appreciated it, for you didn’t serve the king very well, letting him fall into the hands of his enemies!’

John’s scowl deepened at Richard’s ability to always touch the most sensitive spot. ‘At least I did my best, rather than sitting on my arse at home, making money,’ he retorted.

‘Yet I hear that you have made a lot of money even when you were thrashing about the Levant, thanks to our good Portreeve!’ sneered Richard. Though he was no warrior, de Revelle always won in a battle of words with his brother-in-law.

‘So why are you sitting in here?’ demanded John.

‘The Count of Mortain, who is the lord of Devonshire, graciously asked me to assist him in dealing with the administration,’ said de Revelle, preening himself at the mention of his princely patron. He lifted a roll of parchment and waved it at John, emphasizing the fact that unlike his sister’s husband, he could read and write. Richard had attended the abbey school in Tavistock when young and went on to study law for a few years, as he had a driving ambition to ascend the ladder of politics. He saw attaching himself to the rising star of Prince John the best way of fulfilling his aspirations, especially now that the king was under lock and key in Germany.

But de Wolfe was not impressed by manuscripts and account rolls. ‘I need a proper sheriff, not a tax collector!’ he growled. ‘I have a murder to report to someone — the murder of a king’s officer.’

Richard’s pale eyebrows rose in mild surprise. ‘A king’s officer? What would he be doing in these parts? Prince John rules here.’

‘Not in Rougemont nor Launceston, he doesn’t! The king wisely kept them out of the hands of his untrustworthy brother,’ snapped John, though he felt frustrated at being in territory where his own royal master seemed to have given away his powers.

The man behind the table shrugged indifferently. ‘All I can suggest is that you allow the bailiff or serjeant of the Hundred where this body was found, to conduct an investigation. They have the ancient powers to assist the sheriff, so in his absence they can surely do it themselves.’

John’s dark features coloured with indignation. ‘Do you not even want to know the circumstances of this crime?’ he demanded.

Richard turned up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘It is no concern of mine, John. I am not the sheriff, as he is the representative of the king, whose writ no longer runs in these counties. Perhaps you should tell the Royal Council in Winchester of your problem?’

Angrily, John slid from the table and strode to the door. ‘That’s exactly what I intend to do, Richard. And tell them a few other home truths about what’s happening in Devon these days!’

He marched out and slammed the door behind him.

Back at the Bush, the place seemed cleaner, lighter and happier, even in the few days that he had been away. The number of patrons had increased significantly, intrigued by the new whitewash and thatch repairs. John also noticed several strange horses in the stables, belonging to travellers who were staying overnight. Nesta was delighted to see him back and proudly showed off the recent improvements. She then brought him a steaming pork knuckle on a trencher of yesterday’s bread covered in fried onions, and sat down to watch him eat it, Edwin rallying around with a quart of ale.

‘The next batch will be much better, John, now that Gwyn has brought in new barley,’ she promised. As he ate, John told her about the dead body he had found and she was concerned to hear that he was probably a royal courier. John showed her the ring with the engraved lions and also the bronze buckle he had taken from the man’s belt.

At once, she became excited. ‘I’ve seen a buckle like that before, John,’ she exclaimed. ‘What did he look like?’

‘A bit hard to tell, the state he was in!’ he replied ruefully. ‘A little shorter than average, stockily-built, good quality clothing. He had no beard or moustache and his dark brown hair was cropped in the old Norman style. Had you seen him before, then?’

She put a hand on his arm as he reached for his ale. ‘It sounds like a man who stayed here for one night about three weeks ago. We’ve not had many lodgers lately, so I recalled this one, as we had but two staying that week. I’m sure that dragon buckle was his.’

In spite of the fall from fortune that the inn had suffered since Meredydd died, it still had a reputation for the best value for a night’s lodging in Exeter and it seemed quite feasible that a king’s messenger might choose it on his long trek from London.

‘Did he say who he was or where he was going?’ he asked.

Nesta held a hand to her mouth in a typical feminine gesture as she thought for a moment. ‘Cornwall! It was to Cornwall he said he was going, for he mentioned that it was a very long journey for him. He said he was glad that they had given him a good horse this time, whoever “they” were.’

‘He made no mention of where he had come from?’

‘No, but it must have been a long way from Exeter, as he said he was now well over halfway.’

John failed to squeeze any more from Nesta’s memory, but was impressed with her recall and ready willingness to help. He was also becoming more aware of her physical charms and was pleased when she came to sit near him when he came in for a meal or a drink. The previous night, as he lay in his cubicle in the loft, he was also very aware of her proximity in her small bedchamber, only a few yards away, but he shrugged off the images that came unbidden into his mind, telling himself that this was the widow of an old comrade. Instead, he had made himself think of Hilda, but could not escape the fact that Dawlish was a dozen miles away, while Nesta was only a dozen paces.

John was jerked out of his reverie by Nesta being called away by Molly to attend to some problem in the kitchen shed and her place was almost immediately taken by Gwyn, who had come down from his cottage to check on some of the jobs that he had ordered on the fabric of the tavern.

‘It’s looking a lot better, Sir John!’ he declared proudly. ‘Needs a man out the back when it can be afforded, someone to clean up, shift the barrels and look after the hens and pigs. That sort of work is too heavy for women — and old Edwin’s foot limits him, though he tries hard enough.’

They talked for a time about the revival of the Bush, then Gwyn asked if they were really going to London and back.

‘I must talk to someone, both about Vienna and about this dead man with the royal ring,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘The man I need to see is Hubert Walter, but now that he’s been exalted to Chief Justiciar, perhaps he’ll be above my reach.’

Gwyn shook his shaggy head, his ginger hair flailing about like loose straw from a wagon. ‘He’ll see you right enough! We were close in Palestine, he even used to talk to me — though he was only a bishop then, not an archbishop.’

‘Hubert may be in Germany, I hear he’d been there with Queen Eleanor, as she is the driving spirit behind getting her son out of Emperor Henry’s clutches. But I must tell someone in authority about this dead man — they may be expecting some answer or concerned that their own message may have fallen into the wrong hands.’

‘You mean Prince John’s,’ growled Gwyn. ‘I wonder where this fellow had been in Cornwall?’

‘You know the place better than I do,’ said de Wolfe. ‘Any ideas?’

‘The only place left belonging to the king is Launceston Castle, so he may have been taking messages there.’

Again there was nothing more to go on and John said he would have to wait until they got to London or Winchester to learn more.

‘Which one are we aiming for?’ asked Gwyn, who had never set foot in either city.

‘Winchester first, as it’s on the way to London. Ralph Morin said that they are gradually moving the government to London — even the Exchequer is shifting to Westminster Palace.’

Gwyn nodded and swallowed the better part of a pint of ale. When he came up for air, he was philosophical about the forthcoming journey. ‘It’s a long ride, they reckon it takes a good week from here. But after us trekking from the bloody Adriatic, it should seem like strolling around the town.’

John had called to see Matilda earlier that day, a duty visit to tell her that he had returned from Stoke. He was surprised to learn that Hugh de Relaga had left a message with her, inviting them to a dinner at his house in Raden Lane that evening. Hugh was one of the few of John’s acquaintances of whom she approved, as the jolly little man was always attentive to her and shared her love of expensive clothes and good food. She also knew that he would probably have several of the city’s more prominent people there, as he was one of the two portreeves. She could boast there of her husband’s royal connections by telling tales of his recent adventures abroad.

‘At least I see you’ve bought new raiment,’ she said, inspecting him critically. ‘So you won’t shame me with old rags as you’ve done in the past — though they are still that miserable grey and black.’

At about the fifth hour, after the cathedral bell had rung for Vespers, he escorted her to the area near the East Gate where, in a side street, Hugh had his house. It was a fine stone building, far too large for an unmarried man who lived with his elder sister, but as one of the leaders of the city council, a Warden of one of the Guilds and a prominent merchant, he had a position to uphold and often needed to entertain people of a similar social level.

Matilda, under a snowy wimple and resplendent in her best gown of plum-coloured velvet under a summer surcoat of green silk, enjoyed herself greatly. There were half a dozen others there, most of whom she knew, as she was an avid social climber and was for ever trying to prod John in becoming more active in the town’s hierarchy — which was difficult, as he was absent most of the time.

He himself was not averse to good food, wine and some gossip, but she outshone him that evening, becoming vivacious to the point of being garrulous.

As he watched from across the long table, he thought what a different woman she could be in company, compared to the spiteful and cold nature she displayed to him. He knew it was partly his fault, as he had no affection for her at all. Their parents had forced them into marriage years ago, as Matilda’s father wanted to get his least attractive daughter married off before her scanty good looks faded even more. John’s own father also wanted to settle his younger son with a family like the de Revelles, one far richer than his own.

The evening passed well enough, with no disturbances apart from his wife’s voice becoming louder and more strident as she drank more of Hugh’s excellent Loire red wine. For his part, he was glad to be sitting next to another old friend, his namesake John de Alencon, one of the senior canons of the cathedral and the Archdeacon of Exeter. A thin, almost gaunt man, this John had wiry grey hair around his tonsure and a pair of bright blue eyes in his bony face.

John related the now oft-told story of his return from Acre and the disaster of the Lionheart’s capture.

De Alencon was also a staunch supporter of King Richard, unlike some of the other senior canons, who were keen to see Prince John on the throne of England. ‘I pray for him every night, John,’ he said sincerely. ‘I’m sure that our new Archbishop of Canterbury will do all he can to secure Richard’s release. Hubert Walter may not be a very enthusiastic churchman, but is the best negotiator we could hope to have.’

John had heard that there had been considerable resentment amongst senior clergy — especially in Canterbury itself — to the high-handed appointment of Hubert by the Lionheart from his foreign prison cell, but he made no comment and went on to tell the archdeacon about his discovery of the murdered royal agent.

‘I’ll see to it that he gets a decent burial, John, even if we don’t know who he is,’ promised de Alencon.

‘I hope to give you his name within a few weeks, as I’m off to report to Hubert Walter on Wednesday. They must surely know who they sent to Cornwall.’

De Alencon sadly shook his head. ‘I fear for this land if we have another civil war,’ he said sombrely. ‘I’m sure that the Count of Mortain is actively planning a rebellion and that a number of leading churchmen are supporting him. It’s unfortunate — or perhaps even fortunate — that we have had no bishop here since John the Chanter died two years ago. It’s rumoured that Henry Marshall, Dean of York, may be appointed before long, as he is the brother of William Marshal, your old Crusading comrade. But Henry is also a keen advocate of Prince John’s ascent to the throne.’

De Wolfe was surprised to hear his friend being so outspoken about his prospective bishop, but they had kept their voices down so that they would not be overheard, though the level of chatter was now very high.

When the party was over, John escorted his wife back to Fore Street. She was in an uncommonly jovial mood and clung to his arm, though he knew this was more from needing a strong support after too much wine, than from any sense of affection. She even expressed her regret that he could not stay in her cousin’s house, but after seeing her step unsteadily across the threshold, he hurried away down to the Bush with a light heart.