Crowner's Crusade

TWENTY-TWO

It was now early September and much had happened since the depths of winter. One warm afternoon, Nesta had moved two trestle tables and benches outside to flank the front door of the Bush. A pair of carpenters and a blacksmith sat on one, with John de Wolfe, Gwyn of Polruan and Nesta on the other. The only view was that of a bare patch opposite, where weeds covered the charred remains of the fire of some years ago, but it was pleasant to sit in the sun with a jug of ale and chat about the state of the world.

‘Any news from across the Channel?’ asked Gwyn, leaning back against the wall of the inn, with a quart pot in his hand.

‘Ralph Morin’s usual source passed through yesterday,’ replied John. ‘A courier from Winchester said that our king is making slow but steady progress against Philip’s army in Touraine and that he is planning to build a huge castle on the Seine.’

‘What about his traitorous brother?’ demanded Nesta. ‘He seems to have faded from sight since May, when the king pardoned him yet again.’

De Wolfe scowled at the memory. ‘Yes, the Lionheart said he was like a naughty child and it was those men who led him astray who should be punished. But I don’t trust him, he won’t easily give up plotting to unseat Richard.’

After the collapse of John’s rebellion in March, the main instigator, Hugh of Nonant, Bishop of Coventry, was fined heavily and went into exile in Normandy, where he died in disgrace. His brother, Robert Brito (who had refused to go to Germany as a hostage for the king) was thrown into the cells of Dover castle and was starved to death.

John himself had fled to Normandy and allied himself openly with King Philip, until he had crawled back to Liseaux to seek his brother’s forgiveness. As Walter de Ralegh had foreseen, the Curia Regis had stripped him of his English possessions, including Devon, even before the king was released from Germany into his doughty mother’s custody in February.

As the sun warmed them, they gave up talking politics in favour of things nearer home. Their sheriff, Henry de Furnellis, was liked well enough, but they were rather irked by his lack of enthusiasm for keeping the peace.

‘He’s not a well man,’ said John, in mitigation. ‘He suffered wounds in Ireland when we were there, but his main problem is this shaking fever he gets at intervals, picked up in the marshes of southern France, due to their foul air.’

‘Whatever it is, he’s not too keen on chasing trail robbers from the roads,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘We’ve had to go out with Ralph a few times on his behalf.’

‘It keeps us from growing rusty,’ countered John. ‘And it’s something to do to pass the time.’

John was becoming restless at his own inactivity. He had been back in Exeter now for a year and apart from some sporadic involvement with their wool business, had no real occupation. This was a common problem for knights who had neither a manor to administer nor a war to fight. Some of them even turned to banditry, but many more found little to occupy themselves — and of these, many were relatively poor, as an honourable rank does not fill an empty stomach. De Wolfe had even been considering entering the king’s service again, but that would mean leaving Devon and almost certainly going to France to join the royal armies. Though he had no objection to this, he was now so enamoured of Nesta that it would be a great wrench to leave her. He looked at her now, smiling at him across the table, pretty and happy in her summer kirtle and lace coif.

‘Why so solemn, John?’ she asked gaily. ‘It’s a lovely day, the ale is perfect and Molly has a fine salmon to cook for our supper!’

He gave her one of his lopsided grins. ‘Not solemn, cariad — just wondering how to spend the next thirty years? Maybe I should take up my lance and go tourneying again, now that the king has made it legal.’

Old King Henry had forbidden jousting and tournaments, concerned at the loss of life amongst his knights and the fear that it trained them to be more proficient at rebelling against him. However, one of the first acts that Richard had made after his return, was to authorize five sites in England where they could be held on payment of steep entrance fees — another ploy to raise money for his war against Philip.

Nesta sat pondering John’s reply about the next thirty years, as it reminded her of the hopelessness of their relationship. She loved him and knew that he probably returned her love — but to what end? He was the mature son of a Norman knight, married to a woman from another notable Norman family — a marriage that was irrevocable in the eyes of the Church, one that only death could dissolve. And she was but a Welsh widow, a mere alewife of no social status whatsoever. There was no future for them other than an illicit affair, with furtive love-making and a dalliance virtually confined to the inside of a tavern. John could never be seen in public with her or even acknowledge her, outside the circle of those who frequented the Bush.

She sighed and wondered whether she should have left Exeter when Meredydd was taken from her — perhaps gone home to Gwent and lived with her mother and sisters, then found a nice local man and settled down to have children. But then Nesta rebelled and mentally straightened her back. Today was today, she was going to enjoy her romance while it lasted and be damned to the consequences.

She looked across at de Wolfe, wondering what he was thinking. Not as uncomplicated and unimaginative as many people thought, he was also troubled about his liaison with Nesta, but in a different way. He both loved her and lusted after her, enjoying every moment of her company. But he felt that he was cheating her, standing in the way of her getting on with her life. Like her, he knew they could never marry and that he was blocking her chances of becoming a wife and mother. He was not concerned about his own image or reputation — after almost eight months, most of Exeter knew that she was his mistress. Many of the others of Norman blood, both knights and rich merchants, openly had lovers, even bastard children. Some of the canons and parish priests had the same illicit habits and no great notice was taken of it.

Of course, Matilda kept up a barrage of invective against him, but her vindictiveness over the ‘Welsh whore’, as she usually called Nesta, had been overshadowed by a different hatred. This was her burning rage against her husband for his part in getting her wonderful brother so ignominiously dismissed as sheriff within days of being appointed. She had endlessly made it plain that for that, she would never forgive him. With this as the background to his life, what was to happen very soon, was all the more remarkable.

Richard the Lionheart was now firmly re-established as King of England, even to the extent of holding a second coronation at Winchester in April — to which he failed to invite his wife, Berengaria, who never set foot in the country of which she was queen. After landing at Sandwich in Kent with his mother in March, he was to spend only two months in the country, leaving with his fleet and army from Portsmouth in May, never to return.

Within days of landing, he had put on his armour and hurried to Nottingham, the last of Prince John’s castles to hold out. The others had all surrendered, the castellan at St Michael’s Mount having dropped dead of fright on hearing of the king’s return!

Henry de la Pomeroy had also fled to the Mount, where to avoid the king’s retribution, he had ordered his physician to open the veins in his wrists, so that he expired! At Nottingham, Richard fought his way into the barbican, then erected a gallows in full view of the defenders and hanged several men captured earlier, which rapidly caused the remaining men to surrender.

Under the expert guidance of Archbishop Hubert Walter, all the machinery of state regained its former pattern. The royal courts continued their rounds, the king’s justices sitting at the Eyres of Assize and commissioners of lesser rank coming more frequently to clear the gaols of remand prisoners who had not either died or escaped. The day following John’s ruminations outside the Bush, he learned of the arrival of a pair of these commissioners, due to hold a Court of Gaol Delivery the following week.

John had gone up to the castle to make a social call on the constable and the sheriff, mainly to catch up on recent gossip. He sat with the constable in the chamber of Henry de Furnellis, where the sheriff was bemoaning the fact that he would prefer to be back at his manor in Somerset, supervising the coming harvest.

‘I never wanted this damned job, John,’ he grumbled. ‘My feelings of duty to the king persuaded me, but only on condition that it was temporary. My health is not good and I have petitioned the Chief Justiciar to relieve me of the task and appoint someone else.’

Ralph Morin said that they would all be sorry to see him leave, but he gave John a surreptitious wink, as they had often talked about having a younger, more active man as sheriff.

‘Perhaps these commissioners who came today may have some news for me before they hold court next week,’ said Henry, hopefully. ‘They are at the bishop’s palace at present, and I’m invited down to eat with them tonight.’

‘Who are they this time?’ asked Ralph.

‘Simon Waring, the abbot of St Albans, who’s staying with the bishop — and Sir Philip de Culleforde, a baron from Wiltshire. He’s lodging at the New Inn.’

‘How have you found the new bishop?’ asked John, who had heard that Henry Marshal, enthroned in May, had been inclined towards Prince John when Dean of York.

The old sheriff held up his palms and shrugged. ‘He’s no jolly friar, John. A serious man with a serious face and somehow, a coldness about him. A different man to his brother William, that’s for sure.’

This William was the Marshal of England, perhaps the best-known fighting man in the country, both on the tourney field and the battlefield. He had served two kings well and would serve two more during his long life. No doubt it was his influence with the king that gained his brother the bishop’s mitre.

When John left Rougemont and walked back to his house in St Martin’s Lane, he gloomily expected the usual frosty reception from his wife, who rarely spoke to him these days, except on the rare occasions when they were together in public, when she assumed a facade of normality for the benefit of her friends. But somewhat to his surprise and perhaps with a little apprehension, he found her in a more benign mood, as if she was concealing some pleasant secret. As they sat down to the usual light supper that Mary provided, he wondered what new spite Matilda was going to unleash on him.

But in the event, it was the sheriff’s supper that night with the two judges, which would bring news of a great change in the life of John de Wolfe.

The following afternoon, John was in the farrier’s opposite his home, preparing to get Bran saddled up for a canter around Bull Mead to give the old horse some exercise. Before he could leave, a young soldier appeared with a message from Ralph Morin, urgently requesting his presence at the castle within the hour ‘for a meeting on the king’s business’.

Intrigued, he loped up to Rougemont and found his friend in the sheriff’s chamber. Two other men were present and Henry de Furnellis introduced them as the commissioners who were to preside in the Shire Hall, Sir Philip de Culleforde and Abbot Simon Waring. The latter was a jovial-looking monk, with a bland round face, but a pair of steely eyes that suggested a hard core under the soft skin. De Culleforde was a tall, handsome man of about fifty, with a calm, unruffled manner. He was a member of the King’s Council and had the ear of Hubert Walter and the king himself. They all sat on benches around Henry’s table and his chief clerk appeared with glass goblets, filling them from a large flask of good wine. He then stood behind his master in case he was needed, as he was the only one of the Exeter men who could read and write. When they had all settled, the sheriff took the lead.

‘When I petitioned the Chief Justiciar about my desire to be relieved of this shrievalty, I had no idea that it would be acted on so quickly and so decisively,’ he began. ‘But these two gentlemen have brought instructions from Archbishop Walter — and hence from the king himself — which have left me both happy and also bewildered.’

De Wolfe wondered what in God’s name the sheriff was talking about, but he was soon to be enlightened, as Henry picked up three parchment rolls from the table, each having impressive seals dangling from them.

Henry handed them up to his clerk. ‘Tell them what they are, Elphin,’ he commanded.

Elphin, a dried-up stick of a man, looked briefly at their headings before explaining their content. ‘Sirs, the first is a relief for Sir Henry, expressing the thanks of the Justiciar and of the king for his faithful service and discharging him from further duties as from the eve of Michaelmas.’

He shuffled the parchments and moved to the second one. ‘This is an appointment and commission for a new sheriff, as from Michaelmas itself.’ He swallowed nervously before continuing. ‘It is drawn in the name of Sir Richard de Revelle.’

There was a moment’s silence as the words sank into the ears of Ralph Morin and John de Wolfe.

‘De Revelle! Are you jesting?’ demanded John. ‘He was ejected from that office only months ago!’

‘This cannot be true, surely!’ barked the castle constable. ‘He is the last man in England who deserves to be sheriff here!’

Henry de Furnellis looked appealing at Philip de Culleforde. ‘Can you repeat the explanation you gave to me, Sir Philip?’

The tall, grave knight nodded. ‘I fully realize your surprise and discomfort over this, but we have not finished explaining our arrangements. Firstly, there is no proof of any wrongdoing by de Revelle in relation to the revolt of a few months ago. The king has now fully pardoned his brother and is trying to put the whole sorry episode behind him.’

He paused and looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Also, William Marshal, who, after Hubert Walter himself, is probably the most powerful man in the kingdom and very close to the Lionheart, has specifically requested de Revelle’s reinstatement. This is no doubt at the behest of his brother Henry, now your bishop.’

Bitterly, John now saw the wheels-within-wheels, the power of nepotism that operated amongst the great families of the land.

But Philip de Culleforde had not yet finished his explanation. ‘In addition, I must tell you that Archbishop Walter is well aware of the suspicion and hostility that surrounds de Revelle. He told me of his previous request to you, de Wolfe, to keep an eye on the situation in Devon, though with the crushing of the rebellion, this no longer seems so necessary. However, the Justiciar feels that it might be better to have de Revelle where he can be seen, rather than covertly causing trouble.’ He paused and waved a hand at the clerk. ‘Give us the gist of the third document, if you please. This is also relevant to our concerns.’

Elphin cleared his throat and unrolled the parchment. ‘This is also a commission from the Archbishop, but adding the caveat that it is also the personal wish of King Richard that it be accepted. It offers the appointment of the King’s Coroner for the County of Devon to Sir John de Wolfe, in recognition of his faithful service and bravery during the Crusade and afterwards to the person of the king himself. And furthermore, to his dedication to keeping the peace in the County of Devin.’

For a moment there was another profound silence. Dumbfounded, John could only stumble out a few words. ‘What in God’s name is a “coroner”?’ he asked.

‘So what is a coroner?’ demanded Gwyn bluntly. He sat with Nesta at their usual table in the Bush, as they listened to John de Wolfe relating the extraordinary news from the castle. Matilda had gone to some special Mass in St Olave’s, so John had not spoken to her and instead had come to his second home in Idle Lane.

‘Coroner? I knew nothing of the name until I had a lecture from the two commissioners, especially the fat abbot, who seems more of a lawyer than a priest.’ He paused for a swallow of ale. ‘It comes from the Latin Custos placitorum coronae, which means “keeper of the pleas of the crown”.’

The Cornishman looked at him blankly. ‘I’m none the wiser for hearing that,’ he growled.

‘Neither was I, until they explained that Hubert Walter has devised yet another scheme for both raising money — and also starting to improve the keeping of the king’s peace.’

It was now Nesta’s turn to look baffled. ‘How’s it going to do that, John?’

‘It seems that it’s a “Jack-of-all-trades” appointment. This coroner has to keep records of all serious crimes, deaths, rapes, fires, wrecks, robberies, finds of treasure and God knows what else, to present to the king’s judges when they come on circuit. After an unnatural death, he has to hold an inquest, with a jury. He has to attend executions to confiscate the property of felons for the king, and all sorts of odd jobs, mainly directed at pushing as much business as he can to the royal courts, instead of the county, manor and burgess courts.’

‘What’s the point of that?’ she asked.

‘Money, that’s what it’s about! It’s all about scraping every penny into the Exchequer to pay the last of the ransom and for his campaign against the French.’

He paused for a drink, and Nesta refilled his pot from the large jug on the table.

‘And the king wants you to take up this appointment in Devon?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘It sounds as if he won’t take no for an answer,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘Though I don’t know if I want to be a glorified tax collector!’

‘You were complaining that you were tired of inactivity and wanted something to occupy you,’ said Nesta accusingly. ‘This sounds ideal, it would keep you in Exeter with some aim in life and give you the status of a king’s officer.’

He nodded slowly, as he considered his words. ‘I think there is a deeper motive behind this. The commissioners hinted that the king was incensed at the widespread corruption amongst sheriffs and needed some curb placed on their excesses. Old King Henry dismissed them all for malfeasance back in 1170, but they have crept back into their old ways. It’s hoped that these new coroners can act as a check on sheriffs — and in Devon, given this extraordinary return of bloody de Revelle, it will be all the more vital to keep a sharp eye on him.’

Gwyn grinned. ‘And knowing how you two men love each other, the Justiciar can be sure that you will watch him like a hawk!’

Nesta, pleased with any development that would prevent her lover from going off to find a war abroad, turned to practicalities. ‘So, Sir John, are you going to accept this honour from a grateful king? And when would you take office — and is there a salary?’

He put a long arm around her and pulled her to him. ‘Hussy, is all that concerns you whether or not I get paid? The answer is “no”! In fact, coroners will be forbidden to accept anything other than expenses — and they will have to prove they already have an income of at least twenty pounds a year. This is to ensure that they are so rich that they would not be tempted to embezzle the funds, as do the sheriffs.’

Gwyn’s booming laugh conveyed his cynicism. ‘Some hope! Can you imagine de Revelle passing up the chance to dip his hand into the county taxes, even though he must be worth a hundred pounds a year?’

‘And when would you begin, if you accept?’ persisted Nesta.

‘The whole scheme will be announced by the royal justices at the Kent Eyre to be held in Rochester Castle this month. Both the new sheriff and the coroners will take office at Michaelmas.’

Gwyn scratched his head to frighten away a few fleas. ‘I suppose the king gave you this new job in gratitude for what you did for him on the journey home?’ he said, with a note of pride in his voice.

John punched him on the arm. ‘He’s given you a job too, old friend! I want you to be my officer, my guard and the man who keeps me out of trouble — unless you have something better to do with your time!’

Gwyn grinned hugely and said he would give it a try to see if he liked it. ‘But how could you cover a county as big as Devon on your own? You’d spend your life on horseback!’

John nodded his agreement. ‘I asked them that, but it seems that each county is supposed to have three coroners, in different areas.’

‘Who are the others, then?’ demanded Nesta sharply, already acting as if John was being taken advantage of by the state.

‘They have a knight from up Barnstaple way who may accept. Another should be recruited for the Plymouth area, but that’s just wishful thinking at the moment. There has to be a clerk as well, as few of us can read or write.’

‘Where are you going to get a clerk?’ asked Gwyn. ‘We don’t know anyone who can read and write, apart from all the damned clergy.’

John shrugged. ‘If it comes to pass, then I’ll ask the archdeacon, he’s sure to know someone.’ He finished his ale and stood up. ‘In fact, I’ll call there now, on my way back to face my wife.’

As he kissed Nesta goodbye, he groaned at the prospect of returning home. ‘Oh God, how she’ll crow over me, now that her bloody brother is going to be sheriff again. Life won’t be worth living in Martin’s Lane!’

The archdeacon admitted to John that he had already heard rumours of de Revelle’s return to favour.

‘The bishop told me several weeks ago that his brother William had petitioned the archbishop and the Curia about it, but directed me not to speak publicly about the matter. But I had not heard about this offer to you, John. It’s an honour to have this bestowed upon you by the king himself — a well-deserved honour, too.’

John described what he knew about the nature of the coroner’s duties and the archdeacon, a very well-educated man, said that he had heard of such an officer in the past.

‘There are several mentions of such an officer in Saxon times, right back to King Alfred and Athelstan,’ the archdeacon observed. ‘It seems to have died out, but Hubert Walter seems to be reviving it to his advantage.’

‘If I do accept — and it looks as if I have little choice, given the royal command,’ said John, ‘I would need a clerk, someone who could keep all these records which have to be presented to the king’s courts. Where could I find such a person?’

De Alencon raised a hand to his lips and tapped them for a moment as he thought, then raised a finger. ‘I may have the answer, John!’ He leaned across and rang a small bell on his table to summon his steward from the next room.

After a whispered request, the man left and came back leading a small young fellow of a most unprepossessing appearance. He had a slight limp and a small hump on his back, under a threadbare black cassock. His face was pathetically thin, with a long sharp nose and a receding chin, but relieved by a pair of bright, intelligent eyes. His sparse dark hair was unkempt and showed the remains of a clerical tonsure on top, though this was growing over again.

‘This is my nephew, Thomas de Peyne, who has fallen on hard times and has walked from Winchester to throw himself upon my mercy,’ explained the archdeacon. ‘He has found himself a bed in my servant’s quarters but is in dire need of some employment. I can vouch for his literacy, as he taught at the cathedral school in Winchester, where he was in holy orders.’

John noticed the past tense in the last few words and was about to enquire further, when the sad-faced clerk spoke up.

‘To save my uncle’s embarrassment, sir, I will declare straight away that I was dismissed from the school and indeed, banned from any ecclesiastical post. It was because of an allegation that I made improper advances towards one of the female pupils. It was a false and malicious claim, but that is of no consequence now. I am cast out into the world and will either perish, as I almost did this past year — or find some occupation to give me food and shelter.’

There was something about Thomas’s tone that rang true in John’s ears. Perhaps it was the utter fatalism with which he stated his situation or the detachment from caring much what happened to him.

‘It is premature for me to decide on employing a clerk at this stage,’ John said to both of them. ‘But if I accept this post, and it is confirmed, then I will certainly take you on for a trial period, which starts at Michaelmas.’

To John’s great discomfort, Thomas de Peyne’s eyes suddenly filled with tears and he dropped to his knees in front of him.

‘Sir, your kindness is only matched by that of the archdeacon.’ With a sob, he rose and hurried from the room, leaving his uncle to promise to tell John the whole sad story of Thomas de Peyne at some other time.

Finding no other excuse to delay confronting Matilda, John slowly walked the few hundred paces from Canon’s Row to his house, where he found his wife sitting alone at the table, drinking hare stew from a wooden bowl with a spoon carved from a cow’s horn. Bread and cheese lay in front of her, together with a large cup of wine. She looked up at him with a sly smile of triumph, but he decided to get in his attack first.

‘Yes, I know all about it now, lady! Thanks to his friends in high places, your brother has wormed his way back into favour — though for how long, depends on how he behaves himself.’

Matilda raised her glass and drank, before replying. ‘Jealousy, jealousy, always jealousy, John!’ she sneered. ‘My brother has attained high office, while my husband remains an unemployed wastrel, useless at anything but killing, drinking and whoring!’

A warm glow of satisfaction crept over him as he saw his chance. ‘Your brother has not yet seen the king’s commissioners, then?’ he asked innocently.

Matilda looked at him suspiciously. ‘He is at the castle now, receiving the official warrant of his appointment — though the bishop told him of it several days ago.’

John dropped into his cowled chair with assumed nonchalance. ‘Then neither of you are aware that I have already received a warrant from the Archbishop of Canterbury, issued to me on the Lionheart’s specific orders, to become the King’s Coroner for the County of Devon, taking office on the same day as your dear brother!’

John had rarely seen his wife lost for a tart reply, but this was one of those delicious occasions. Making the most of it, he got up again and informed her harshly that he was taking the hound for some exercise.

‘I don’t know when I’ll be home, I have much to think about,’ he said, as he went to the door and slammed it behind him. Whistling for Brutus, he set off for the Bush again.