Fear in the Forest

CHAPTER NINE

The next day began a new week, and it started relatively quietly for the King’s coroner. After he had woken at dawn in an empty bed, Mary brought his solitary breakfast to the gloomy hall. Boiled oatmeal with honey and salt bacon and eggs fortified him enough to go and find Thomas in the nearby Close, where he had a free mattress in the servants’ quarters of a canon’s residence.

Together they walked to the dismal dungeon beneath the keep of Rougemont, which acted as the prison for those awaiting trial either at the Sheriff’s Court or the infrequent King’s Courts. This morning John had to take confessions and depositions from several ‘approvers’, robbers who were attempting to avoid a hanging by incriminating their accomplices. To achieve that, they would later have to fight these others in legal combat to the death, any vanquished survivors being hanged.

After he had finished, he came out of the rusted gate leading to the cells to find Osric, one of the city’s two constables, waiting to lead him down to deal with a rape in the mean lanes of Bretayne. By the time they arrived, the culprit had been beaten almost to death by the girl’s outraged relatives and neighbours. It only remained for the coroner to take statements from those who were capable of giving a coherent story and to examine the girl to confirm the ‘issue of blood’ that was necessary to establish a charge of ravishment. Then Osric arranged for the battered perpetrator to be carried to the fetid town gaol in one of the towers of the South Gate. Here, if he failed to die of his injuries, he would probably succumb to the overcrowding and insanitary conditions long before he could be brought to trial.

Following these diversions, John retreated to his chamber in the gatehouse of Rougemont, to take his usual morning ale, bread and cheese with his assistants. He wanted to know from Thomas how he had found Nesta when he had spoken to her the previous day.

‘She was in low spirits, master,’ Thomas said guardedly. ‘She needs constant reassurance and comfort, else I fear she will slip into a decline.’

Still a priest at heart, Thomas felt that what she had revealed to him about the true father of the child, as well as her thoughts of self-destruction, was as sacrosanct as the confessional, and it was not his place to tell the coroner. However, he wanted to ensure that de Wolfe was aware of her present vulnerable state, as Thomas knew that his master was not the most perceptive of souls when it came to personal relationships.

John rumbled and nodded and huffed his agreement, promising to go down to the Bush as frequently as possible to bring comfort and cheer to his mistress, but Thomas was not convinced that he was aware of the seriousness of the situation. Later in the day, John walked down to Idle Lane to spend the evening with Nesta — with the expectation of extending his stay overnight. He sat at his favourite table behind a wattled hurdle next to the fireplace and had a hearty meal of spit-roasted duck, onions, turnip and beans, served on a thick trencher of two-day-old bread, with extra crusts to dam in the gravy on the scrubbed boards of the table.

Nesta came to sit with him as he ate, bobbing up and down to attend to the various crises that frequently occurred between the potman, her two maids and the customers. Each time she came back to de Wolfe, she screwed up her courage to tell him the dread news about the true paternity of her baby, but each time her tongue cleaved to her palate and she was unable to get the words out. To John she appeared quiet and distant all evening, as he had no inkling of her inability to bring down the heavens upon him with her terrible confession.

After finishing his food, he sat with a quart of her best ale and tried his utmost to be loving and cheerful to his mistress, but had little response.

Time and again, he reassured her to the point of monotony that he was delighted at her being with child and that he would be the most devoted father. She smiled wanly and nodded and rested her head against his shoulder, but she lacked conviction, and even the insensitive John felt uneasy at her lack of encouraging response to his blandishments. Her strongest reaction was when he talked about Matilda and the impasse at Polsloe.

‘It doesn’t seem right, John, a wife hiding away from her husband like that. And it’s all my fault.’ Once again, her eyes became moist.

‘She’ll not stay there long, cariad,’ he said, lapsing into the common Celtic speech that they habitually used together.

‘I’m not sure of that, John. This is a different situation to any we’ve suffered from her in the past. She always had this leaning to religion. Look how much time she spends in St Olave’s or the cathedral.’

He squeezed her shoulder.

‘Yes, but have you seen her eat and drink? She’s in the same league as Gwyn when it comes to victuals. And she spends a fortune at the cloth dealers and the seamstress. I can’t see her giving all that up for a black habit and the dismal refectory at St Katherine’s.’

Nesta refused to be convinced. ‘You must go back and talk to her, John. Over and over again, if needs be. It’s all my fault!’

She became damp eyed again, burying her face in his sleeve. Though he knew all the patrons of the Bush were well aware of the situation, he was glad that they were shielded by the hurdle from their curious gaze.

As the evening light faded, he thought of his empty house and his barren bed.

‘Shall I sleep with you tonight, Nesta?’

She shook her head. ‘Best not to, John. Now that I am gravid, we should not endanger the babe.’ This was a secret lie, given that she had done everything so far to rid herself of it. But John would have none of her excuse.

‘I said sleep and I mean sleep, my love, if that’s what you desire. I’ve seen enough rapine in Bretayne today, anyway. I just want to hold you close and comfort you, rather than stew alone in that empty house.’

Nesta melted immediately. He sounded like a young boy asking for sweetmeats.

‘Very well, John — but only slumber, understand?’

Later, as they curled in each other’s arms in the big French bed, she lay awake while he snored, still having been unable to say the devastating words that she had promised Thomas that she would utter.

Tuesday was a hanging day, when John had to go out of the city to the gallows tree along Magdalene Street, to record the executions and tally up the possessions of the felons, which were forfeit to the Crown.

But before this regular chore, de Wolfe decided to cross the inner ward and have a few strong words with his brother-in-law over recent events. He found him in his chamber, surrounded as usual by rolls of parchment and two agitated clerks.

Richard de Revelle preferred to administer his county from behind a table, rather than by riding around the broad expanses of the countryside for which he was responsible to his king. In this, he was the complete opposite of the coroner, who wanted always to be out and about, meeting people and getting on top of any problem in the most direct fashion. Their meeting followed the usual pattern of mutual dislike and antagonism, fuelled by Richard’s jealousy of his brother-in-law’s stronger personality and his resentment of the hold John had over him because of his past personal and political misbehaviour. The inevitable quarrel was started off provocatively by the sheriff.

‘So now you’ve driven my poor sister to seek refuge in Polsloe!’ he brayed, waving a rolled parchment at him. ‘You’ve betrayed her many times before, but fathering a bastard on a tavern-keeper is the last straw.’

De Wolfe glared at him, but kept himself under control for his riposte.

‘I hope your family is well, Richard,’ he said sarcastically. ‘And I mean all of them, including your son in Okehampton and the other one in Crediton.’

The sheriff’s face flushed above his neatly trimmed beard, as his clerks gaped at the confrontation. They all knew that de Revelle’s legitimate children lived in Tiverton and Revelstoke.

‘That’s none of your business, John.’

‘Neither is it your business to go creeping behind my back with gossip,’ retorted de Wolfe, resting his large fists upon the table to glare straight into Richard’s face.

‘It most certainly is my business!’ retorted the sheriff. ‘Matilda is my only sister. You have wronged her often enough with your fornicating and adultery, which the whole county knows about. It was my brotherly duty to let her know about your begetting a bastard upon a Welsh alehouse whore!’

Enraged, John drew back his arm to knock his brother-in-law clean off his chair, but he managed to restrain himself and stepped back to be out of temptation.

‘Then perhaps I should fulfil my duty by telling your Lady Eleanor about the harlots you entertain in there,’ he snapped, pointing to the adjoining chamber, which was the sheriff’s bedroom. ‘And report to her the fact that not many weeks ago I rescued you from a burning brothel in Waterbeer Street.’

The two clerks were now standing slack jawed at these revelations, until, with a squeal of dismay, their red-faced master sent them hurrying out of the room. John came back to lean on the table and the sheriff flinched back, but relaxed a little when he found that his brother-in-law’s attack was to be verbal rather than physical.

‘So just keep your long nose out of my personal affairs, Richard! Matilda has gone off in a fit of pique, but no doubt she’ll soon be back, when she gets tired of a hard bed and miserable food in Polsloe.’

He slammed a hand on the edge of the table.

‘But enough of this! There are other matters between us — this scandal in the Royal Forest.’

Relieved at any change of subject, but uneasy at the current topic, de Revelle pulled at his beard.

‘Are you still interfering in that?’

‘It’s long past the time when someone should — and you show mighty little interest in keeping the King’s peace in your own county!’ retorted John.

The sheriff sighed, rapidly reverting to his favourite pose as a long-suffering adult humouring a naughty child. ‘How often must I tell you that the forest has its own laws — the King’s laws — which are outwith the common law, John,’ he said patronisingly. ‘They go back to Saxon times, though they’ve been improved by us Normans. Let well alone, man.’

‘You’re not only a knave, you’re a fool, Richard!’ bellowed de Wolfe. ‘How can I get it through your thick head that the forest laws have jurisdiction only over the venison and the vert, not other crimes. The Manor Courts, the Hundred Courts, your own Shire Court and the Commissioners and Justices of the King’s Courts must deal with everything else. You just don’t want to listen, do you? It suits some hidden purpose of your own to keep up this charade.’

The sheriff rolled his eyes to the ceiling and pretended to be a martyr.

‘What’s brought all this on again?’ he asked testily.

‘You know damn well what’s happening,’ retorted the coroner. ‘If your spies are able to report my family affairs to you, they can also tell you that matters are going from bad to worse in the forest, especially in the eastern bailiwick.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Richard, with feigned boredom.

‘There is a group of outlaws under this damned Robert Winter who are being paid by some outside party to help the foresters foment trouble. I know now where one of their camps is situated — and I know through whom and by what route their payment and instructions enter the forest.’

This was something of an exaggeration, but de Wolfe wanted to provoke the sheriff. This he did, for De Revelle sat up and took more notice.

‘How do you know that? Who pays them and by what means?’

Given the possibility of de Revelle’s own involvement, John was not prepared to divulge this and possibly ruin his chances of entrapping the couriers, so he hedged the question.

‘Never mind that now. What are you going to do about it? You’re the King’s representative in Devon, yet you’re allowing anarchy to reign in his own forests. There’s a small army of rogues out there, wolf’s heads every one, doing the dirty work for corrupt forest officials — yet here you sit on your backside in Exeter, not raising a finger to exterminate them.’

The wily sheriff seized on one of John’s words as an excuse.

‘What would you have me do, John? You say there is an army of these ruffians, spread out over a hundred square miles of forest. I have no similar army to do battle with them, even if they could be found in that wilderness. All I have is a small garrison, intended to defend Rougemont and the city — though God knows if they could do even that, as most are young yokels who have never seen a fight. All they can do is march up and down the bailey, waving pikes about.’

Although this last was partly true, to the exasperation of Ralph Morin and Sergeant Gabriel, John was well aware that it was an excuse to do nothing. As he moved towards the door, he threw a last shaft at de Revelle.

‘I tell you, the barons are becoming increasingly angry about their estates losing revenue and their tenants being harassed. Unless you want men like Guy Ferrars and de Courcy chasing you again, you should take some action. They have powerful voices in the Curia, so your shrievalty might be in jeopardy if you fall foul of them.’

As he went out, he called over his shoulder.

‘And keep your nose out of my personal business in future!’

Slamming the door, he glared at the two smirking clerks who had been exiled from the chamber, and stalked off.

The next morning, John went back to Martin’s Lane, where Mary insisted on him having his overdue weekly wash and shave in a bucket of warm water in the back yard. He hacked at his black stubble with a knife kept specially honed for the purpose, rasping it over his skin, through a weak lather of soap made from sheep tallow boiled with powdered beech ash. She took his shirt, hose and tunic for the wash and made him delve in his chest in the deserted solar for clean clothes. Mary was busy at being indispensable, in case the mistress did decide to stay away for ever.

‘Any news from Polsloe, Sir Coroner?’ she asked, trying to conceal her anxiety.

He shook his head. ‘She won’t talk to me, though I’ll try again later today. Perhaps she’d speak to someone else?’

Mary shrugged. ‘It’s no good me going up there. She can’t stand the sight of me.’ She glared in mock anger at her employer. ‘And that’s your fault! She suspected us from the start. You’re a devil, John de Wolfe, you need to keep your breeches laced up more firmly!’

De Wolfe grinned and planted an affectionate kiss on the woman’s cheek.

‘What about Lucille?’ suggested Mary. ‘Would she talk to her? I wonder.’

‘There’s no hurry, good girl. It would be nice to have some peace for a few days or weeks. Matilda will be home soon enough, without forcing the pace, though I’d better go to Polsloe later on, to show willing.’

This was what he did, a few hours later. After five pathetic felons had been turned off the carts below the long beam of the gallows tree, all for thefts to the value of more than twelve pence, John turned Odin’s great head towards Polsloe. When he arrived at the priory, he was received politely by Dame Margaret, but once again told firmly that his wife did not wish to speak to him — either then or evermore. He remonstrated, albeit rather mildly, but the prioress was adamant. There was nothing more to be said, and after wishing her a good day and receiving God’s blessing in return, he left and made for his horse, tethered inside the outer gate.

As he walked across the peaceful compound, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he found the figure of a tall, gaunt nun following him. It was Dame Madge, the expert in midwifery and women’s ailments, who was the hospitaller in charge of the small infirmary at St Katherine’s. John had the greatest respect for both her expertise and her strong but ever helpful character. She had been of great assistance to him in several cases involving ravishment and miscarriage.

They greeted each other civilly — any observer might have been reminded of two large rooks in a field, both being tall, bony, slightly hunched and dressed in black.

‘I have met your wife here, Sir John. I am sorry for the discord that has arisen between you.’

‘And I, Sister!’ he admitted ruefully. ‘I fear all the fault is on my side.’

‘It was ever thus in the world, Crowner. Men are at the root of most evils — but God made them that way, so who are we to dispute it?’

‘Matilda stoutly refuses to see me or speak to me. I have no idea how this will resolve itself.’

Dame Madge tut-tutted under her breath. ‘You have wounded her deeply, sir. She is a devout woman and may well decide she has found peace here. But I will talk to her again and see if she will at least speak to you, even if it is only to recriminate with you for the last time.’

She raised her hand and made the sign of the Cross.

‘May God be with you, Sir John.’

Turning, she glided away across the compound like a ship under sail.

Later that afternoon, the parish priest of Manaton was ambling along on his pony back towards the village, on the track that came from Bovey Tracey. He had been to visit the sick wife of an agister, a minor forest officer who regulated the pasture in the forest, collecting the dues from those who sent their pigs to feed on acorns and beech nuts and their sheep and cattle to the lush grass of the large clearings. His wife was in the last stages of phthisis, emaciated and coughing blood, though she was barely twenty-five years of age. The priest knew that the next time he visited it would be to administer the last rites if he arrived in time — or to shrive her corpse if he did not. The husband, a good man who loved his wife, sat with her day and night — it was as well that he had little work for the coming month, as for two weeks each side of Midsummer Day, called the ‘fence month’, agistment was forbidden by forest law, as it was the time for the hinds to give birth and no disturbances were allowed.

Father Amicus was reflecting on the mysteries of birth and death, wondering what the young wife would find on the other side, when the last breaths of her diseased lungs finally ceased. His pony lumbered slowly along, needing no directions to take it to the sweet summer grass in the vicar’s meadow behind the churchyard. Suddenly, the beast stopped dead and tossed its head with a worried neigh, agitated by something at the side of the road. Woken from his sleepy reverie, the father looked down and saw a very real manifestation of the death he had been contemplating. In the long grass and flowery weeds at the side of the dusty track, face up, lay a man, one whom the priest recognised at first glance. He saw that it was Edward, a villein who lived in a mean hut at the extreme eastern end of the straggling village — in fact, little more than a few hundred paces away.

Clambering from his pony, Father Amicus hurried across to the verge, but he could have taken his time, as the man was undoubtedly dead. He wore a short tunic of worn brown wool, darned in several places and ominously stained with blood in both armpits. His legs were bare and crude home-made sandals covered his calloused feet. Cropped yellow hair marked him as a Saxon, and the priest knew him as an unfree man of about thirty-five who worked in the fields five days a week for the manor-lord. His lips were turned back in a rictus of agony, revealing a few blackened teeth, and his open blue eyes were already clouding over with the veil of death.

Murmuring some words in Latin as a makeshift requiem, Father Amicus pulled at a stiff arm to look under the body. A dead coney, as stiff as the man himself, hung by a string from his belt, but, far more ominous, the bent shaft of an arrow was embedded in his back, blood soaking all the surrounding area of clothing.

Gently letting the body sink back to the ground, the priest looked behind it and saw a track of flattened vegetation running back into the trees, only a few yards away. It looked as if the victim had staggered or crawled out of the forest to the road’s edge, before finally collapsing.

Father Amicus wiped his bloody hand on the long grass and stood up, staring down at the corpse, undecided as to what he should do next.

He could hoist it on to the saddle of his pony and take it back to the village, but after his recent experiences with the coroner he knew that it should be left where it was. In addition, his experiences with the foresters strongly suggested that John de Wolfe should be involved from the start, if justice was to be done.

But how could he leave Edward’s body lying at the edge of the forest, prey to stray dogs, rats and even the few wolves that were still hereabouts? It was not seemly, with the man’s cot only just along the track. As he stood there worrying, it seemed as if Providence was for once on his side, for coming towards him from the direction of Manaton was a flock of sheep, being driven by a man with a dog — and behind them was a figure on a horse. The shepherd was Joel, one of his parishioners, moving part of the manor flock to a new pasture half a mile down the road. As they came nearer, he saw with relief that the rider was Matthew Juvenis, the manor bailiff. A moment later, bleating sheep were swirling around him, but after one look at the cadaver Joel sent the dog on ahead, the intelligent animal being quite capable of driving the flock to its destination without human help.

Dismounting, the bailiff hurried to join the shepherd and the priest, who told them in a short sentence what he had found. Matthew also pulled the corpse on to its side and they looked at the missile lodged in the back. The head was deep in the flesh, but the shaft was still complete. The green wood had snapped when the victim fell on it, but not parted completely, and bedraggled feathers still formed the flight.

‘Poor fellow. His wife will be greatly anguished,’ commiserated the shepherd. ‘They have four children to feed.’

‘He was well known for poaching,’ said the bailiff. ‘But he didn’t deserve this, just for a rabbit.’ He pointed to the smaller corpse.

‘Who could have done this?’ asked the priest, sadly.

‘Either those bloody outlaws — or the foresters,’ declared Joel.

Matthew Juvenis shook his head. ‘I doubt it’s Winter’s gang — or even any stray wolf’s head. This was one of the poorest men in the village, with hardly a penny to his name. He had to take a few coney and the odd partridge to keep his family from starving. What robber is going to waste an arrow on him?’

The shepherd agreed. ‘Now I come to look at it, that’s too good an arrow for an outlaw. That’s a real fletcher’s shaft — the sort a forester would have!’

The bailiff let the corpse drop back to the now bloody ground.

‘What are we coming to, Father?’ he asked bitterly. ‘We’ve all lived here the whole of our lives, yet never known a time like this. Is there no end to it?’

No one had an answer for him, and with a sigh Matthew turned to more practical matters. ‘We must tell the crowner about this. He’s the only one we can trust to do right by poor Edward,’ he said, echoing the priest’s thoughts. ‘I was riding to Lustleigh, but now I must go straight on to Exeter and fetch John de Wolfe.’

‘He’ll not be able to get back here until morning,’ said Father Amicus, looking up at the position of the afternoon sun. ‘What are we to do with the corpse until then?’

Joel took the initiative. ‘I’ll check that damned dog has put the sheep in the right place, then I’ll get back to the village and have men bring four hurdles down here. We can set them around the body to keep off any beasts during the night.’

The bailiff mounted up and prepared to spur his mare towards the city, some fifteen miles away. ‘Get word to my Lord Henry what’s happened — and tell my wife I’ll not be home tonight.’

As he left at a trot, the priest and the shepherd also parted.

‘I’ll have to call at his croft and give the sad tidings to his wife,’ said Father Amicus. ‘A task I’m not relishing, telling the poor woman she’s destitute.’

Despondently, he clambered on to his pony and set off up the road.

The now familiar pattern of a coroner’s investigation was repeated yet again. The bailiff of Manaton arrived at Rougement after almost a three-hour ride and sought out Gwyn, whom he remembered from the recent inquest on the tanner — who could forget Gwyn?

In turn, the coroner’s officer arranged for Matthew to sleep in the garrison’s quarters overnight, then went to find de Wolfe.

It was not hard to guess where he was that evening, and soon the Cornishman was sharing his table at the Bush, his big nose buried in a quart pot. Though John was supposed to be keeping his mistress company in a lover’s tête-à-tête, he was secretly glad to be interrupted by his henchman. Try as he would, he seemed unable to shake off Nesta’s apathy, which was just as bad as it had been the previous evening. She had given up weeping, but sat with eyes downcast, answering when spoken to, but otherwise in the lowest of spirits. Her face was pale and drawn and the tendrils of hair that escaped from her cap seemed limp and lustreless, compared with their usual red glory. She frequently had to visit the privy in the yard, John putting it down to the effects of her pregnancy. It was in a sense, as the substances Bearded Lucy had given her were still upsetting her bowels, without any other effect.

For her part, Nesta’s desperate resolution to pluck up courage to tell him of Alan’s fathering had evaporated, and she knew now that, in spite of her promise to Thomas, she would be quite unable to get the words out. The realisation of her cowardice added to her general despair, plunging her into the depths of a depression from which she could see no escape. Even the running of the inn, which she prided herself was the best in the city, no longer seemed important, and she let Edwin and the girls carry on without her usual constant chivvying.

She was also relieved to see Gwyn appear, trusting him to lighten the atmosphere, as his nature was even less sensitive than John’s. It was only the timid, gentle Thomas who sensed people’s inmost feelings and responded to them in a like manner.

Now Gwyn was telling his master about the summons to Manaton.

‘Another corpse at the roadside with an arrow in his back!’ he boomed in western Welsh, the language of his youth. ‘But at least it’s some wretched serf this time, not a verderer.’

De Wolfe shook his head in baffled astonishment. ‘This situation is getting out of hand. There’ll be another fight over jurisdiction, I can see it coming. Forest law against the common law — and, damn it, they’re both the King’s law, that’s the rub!’

‘So are we off at dawn, Crowner?’

‘Yes, back in the saddle at first light. At least I’ve not got my wife to nag at me for being away most of the time.’

To their mutual but unspoken relief, John told Nesta that he would sleep in Martin’s Lane that night, to be able to get Odin from the farrier’s before dawn and be on their way as soon as the city gates opened.

By the eighth hour next morning, they were trotting up the slope above the deep wooded ravine which hid the Becky waterfalls. They had made good time from Exeter, in spite of Thomas’s usual slower progress. De Wolfe had recently offered to buy him a woman’s palfrey, a larger mount than the pony he had, but the clerk resisted the exhortation to give up his side saddle and ride like a man.

Gwyn was the first to see the spot they were seeking. Ahead, on a straight part of the track, a group of people were waiting for them alongside a box-like erection of wattle panels. As they approached, they recognised Robert Barat, the village reeve, and Father Amicus. Hovering behind were a couple of villagers, including the shepherd, who had had the foresight to bring a handcart to take the body away.

‘Nothing personal, Crowner, but we’re seeing too much of you lately,’ said the priest, motioning to the reeve to pull down the hurdles.

De Wolfe and the bailiff stood contemplating the corpse, around which flies and bluebottles were already congregating, while Father Amicus enlarged on the story already related to John by the bailiff.

‘I found him just as he is, yesterday afternoon. He’s not been moved, except to lift him to see where that blood was coming from.’

The coroner and his officer knelt on the grass and began to examine it as the priest went on with his tale.

‘I went to his cot up the road and broke the sad news to his wife. They are a poor couple, finding it hard to make ends meet. And she’ll find it harder still, though the village will rally round as best it can.’

As John felt the rock-hard stiffness in the arms and legs, Father Amicus continued.

‘We all knew he took a coney or a bird from the forest now and then — and he’s not the only one in the vill who does that. Until recently the foresters turned a blind eye, as long as deer or boar were not the targets. His wife said that latterly the coneys had been playing havoc with his young vegetables behind the cottage — they depend on them for much of their food. So yesterday, he went out at dawn to see to the traps he had laid the previous night.’

‘Where were they laid?’ asked Gwyn.

‘There’s a small warren in a clearing a few hundred paces into the forest behind their dwelling, riddled with burrows. These rabbits are becoming a pest. A pity our Norman grandfathers ever brought them into the country!’ The priest’s annoyance suggested that his own garden plot had suffered as well.

Gwyn hauled the cadaver over on to its face and the two men sat back on their haunches to look at the broken arrow mutely protruding from the back, as the priest continued his tale.

‘But he never came back — he should have gone to his work in the strip-fields soon after daylight, but they saw no sign of him. The wife sent the son out to search for him, but he found nothing, except that his traps around the warren had been pulled out and thrown aside.’

That was the whole story, and there was silence as the onlookers watched the coroner working out the arrowhead, just as he done with the verderer before. Owing to the long shaft, the tunic could not be taken off over it, so John pulled the arrow out first and laid it on the grass near by.

‘Different from the verderer’s,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘Better made than that one.’

‘That’s what I said yesterday,’ chipped in the shepherd. ‘It’s the sort the foresters buy from the fletcher in Moretonhampstead,’ he added with deliberate emphasis.

The coroner and his henchman went through their usual routine of raising the dead man’s tunic, examining the wound and the rest of the body. Then de Wolfe stood up and motioned to the shepherd and another villager that they could load the corpse on to the cart and trundle it off to the village.

‘We’d better have a look in the forest, now we’re here’, grunted de Wolfe. He led the way along the trampled grass and weeds into the tree line, followed by Gwyn and Matthew Juvenis.

‘A few spots of blood here and there, nothing else.’

After a few yards the trail almost petered out, as the grass finished under the shade of the tree canopy. Some broken wild garlic and scuffed leaves could be seen for a short distance, then there was nothing that could be distinguished from the tracks of deer, badgers and foxes.

‘Where’s this warren they spoke of?’ demanded John.

Matthew led them away to the left for a while, swishing through the dead leaves in the silence of the deep woods, broken only by birdsong high above and the sough of the wind in the tree tops. They came out in a clearing around a huge fallen beech, which was rotting and half covered in moss. Around the exposed root was a patch of soft earth covered in grass and riddled with rabbit holes.

‘Here’s one of his snares,’ said Gwyn, picking something from a bramble bush, where it had snagged on a brier. A sliding noose of thin wire was attached to the top end of a stout wooden peg. The snare would have been hammered into the ground alongside a run leading from a burrow, the loop arranged so that the head of a running beast would be trapped, strangling the animal.

‘They’ve been pulled out — there’s another one over there,’ said the bailiff.

‘Not much doubt who did that — and to be fair, it’s their job,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘But putting an arrow into a poor coney-trapper’s back is hardly justified.’

‘But what about this?’ called Gwyn, who had wandered across to the fallen tree. He bent and held something up. The others hurried across to him as he straightened up and held out a short, curved bow.

De Wolfe took it from him and studied it closely. ‘Home made — you couldn’t do much damage with this. Not even strung — and where are the arrows?’

‘Was he hoping to drop a buck or a doe with this?’ asked Gwyn.

‘He had been poaching for years, so he knew what he was up to,’ observed Matthew Juvenis.

‘Much more likely he used it for partridge or pheasant,’ said John.

Gwyn suddenly crashed away, vaulting over the old tree trunk.

‘Here are some arrows! Short ones, all snapped in half.’

He came back with some rather crude arrows in his hand, all three broken in mid-shaft. There was nothing else to be found, and they made their way back to the road, where Father Amicus was waiting with the horses. They walked towards the village, leading their mounts by the bridles. When they reached the village green, John gave his orders for the inquest.

‘Two hours after noon, Gwyn. Get as many men as you can from the village. We have no chance of collecting them from farther afield in time. But everything points to those bloody foresters being involved, so do your best to get them here.’

Gwyn looked dubious. ‘Where shall I look for them?’

‘You’ve four hours yet. Send a few men to the next villages to seek them.’ He turned to the bailiff. ‘Have Lupus and Crespin been seen here recently?’

Matthew turned questioningly to the villagers who had gravitated around them since they got back to the green.

‘They rode through yesterday,’ offered one man. ‘Didn’t stop here, just carried on towards Bovey.’

De Wolfe grunted. ‘So they were in the vicinity when he died. We need to get their side of the story.’

‘If they deign to come, the bastards!’ complained Gwyn.

Gwyn’s pessimism was justified, for when the hour came for the open-air inquest on Manaton’s village green there was no sign of any of the forest officers. Two villagers, who had joined the bailiff and reeve in riding to nearby villages, returned to say there was no sign of them, but the reeve reported that he had come across both William Lupus and Michael Crespin in an alehouse in Lustleigh. Not only had they refused in the strongest possible language to attend the inquest, but they had threatened the reeve with immediate violence if he didn’t clear off that instant. The aggressive page Henry Smok had grabbed the reeve by the neck of his tunic and dragged him out of the tavern, throwing him to the ground outside.

‘Tell that damned crowner that he has no right to interfere in the affairs of the forest!’ Lupus had yelled as a parting shot from inside the taproom. The reeve was still seething with anger when he reported this to de Wolfe, and the coroner added a few more black marks to the reckoning that he intended to have with the foresters.

Without the most obvious witnesses, the inquest was a waste of time.

John went through the usual formalities quickly, mindful of the distress of the family. The wife, a sickly-looking woman, bare footed and wearing a patched kirtle, stood with her arms around two small, thin girls, a boy of about fourteen standing protectively at her side. They were Saxons, and the Presentment of Englishry, which at least avoided any question of a murdrum fine, was made by two villagers who said they were cousins of the dead man.

The jury consisted of almost all the male inhabitants of Manaton, who filed past the handcart and were shown the wound and the broken arrow. Father Amicus was the First Finder, and John accepted that his calling the bailiff, reeve and shepherd was enough to constitute raising the hue and cry. Though technically the coroner could have amerced the village for not sticking rigidly to the legal requirements of knocking up the four nearest dwellings, his anger at the forest officers outweighed any thought of adding to the burden of the villagers.

He called the villagers, bailiff and reeve to state for the record, which Thomas was busily writing on his roll, that William Lupus and Michael Crespin had been summoned but had not appeared.

‘I therefore attach them in the sum of five marks each to appear before the next County Court to answer for their failure.’

He was not sure whether he had the power to do this, especially as the sheriff, who ran the County Court, would do all he could to frustrate him. Theoretically, if they failed four times to answer a summons to the County Court, they could be declared outlaw, but with de Revelle’s present attitude, this seemed impossible. The coroner could attach them to appear before the King’s Justices at the next General Eyre, but as the last one had been held in Exeter only recently, it was unlikely to return for several years. The Commissioners of Gaol Delivery were due in a few months to try those languishing in prison awaiting trial, but he was not sure whether non-appearance at an inquest was enough to imprison the foresters, unless he brought in a verdict of murder against them. And even if he did, who was going to arrest them? Given the strange situation in the forest, the usual officers of law enforcement, such as the manor bailiffs and the Hundred sergeants, would be likely to be either unwilling or incapable of arresting officials who seemed to have the backing of the sheriff, the new verderer and even a gang of outlaws.

Still, John was damned if he was going to let them get away with either murder or flouting the King’s coroner, so he rounded off the short inquest with his directions to the circle of jurors.

‘My inquest is to determine who, where, when and by what means this body came to his death. His identity is well known to you all and his Englishry confirmed. You have seen the wound, a cowardly shot in the back, so the means of death is clear and the day it was inflicted, namely yesterday, equally certain. The foresters William Lupus and Michael Crespin were known to have passed through here then. The arrow is of a type used by them and the deceased was admittedly a well-known poacher.’

He paused to glare around the assembly from beneath his beetling black brows.

‘Take all together and it is obvious that we needed to hear from these forest officers. But they have not deigned to attend and have ill used your reeve, who was sent to summon them. In their absence, I cannot hear any explanation from them and the evidence is so scanty that no verdict can be reached today. I therefore must adjourn this inquest to another time determined by circumstances.’

He nodded dismissal at the throng and then walked across to offer his awkward, but none the less sincere, sympathy to the widow. The parish priest was now at her side and John turned to him.

‘I trust there are some means of giving support to this unfortunate woman, Father,’ he growled. ‘She seems to have had little before and now has less.’

Father Amicus nodded. ‘We will do our best, Crowner. Her husband was a villein of our manor-lord. I am sure he will feel some responsibility for her sustenance. Maybe he can employ her in the kitchen at the manor house.’

This reminded de Wolfe of Henry le Denneis’ absence.

‘I presume your lord knew of this matter? Was he told?’

The bailiff nodded. ‘I went to give him a full report this morning. He was unable to attend the inquest as he had a flux of the bowels.’

That sounded too convenient to be true, thought the coroner. He guessed that the lord of Manaton was afraid of offending either the forest regime or the King’s coroner and had decided to keep clear of them both. As the handcart was pushed into the churchyard opposite for a night in front of the altar before burial, John had a final word with the bailiff.

‘I need to confront these two foresters as soon as I can. Are they still likely to be found in Lustleigh?’

‘I doubt it, Crowner. Robert Barat says they were merely eating and drinking there, so God knows where they are by now. But I know where they must be tomorrow, for there’s a Woodmote to be held, and they must appear before the verderer to present their cases.’

This was another name for the lower court of the forest, officially called the Attachment Court, held every forty days, which gave it yet another title.

‘And where will that be held?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘In this bailiwick, always in Moretonhampstead, in the market hall. You’ll undoubtedly find Lupus and Crespin there.’

John looked at Gwyn and Thomas de Peyne, who had just gathered up his parchments and writing materials and stuffed them into his sagging shoulder pouch. ‘Right, you two, we’re having another night away from home. It’s not worth riding back to Exeter and returning in the morning, so we’ll take ourselves to Moreton and find a bellyful of food and a penny bed.’

Moretonhampstead, known locally as Moorton, was a large village part-way between Ashburton and Chagford, two of the stannary towns of Devon where crude tin was assayed. Moorton, though there was much tin-streaming near by to the west, was primarily an agricultural centre and boasted a covered marketplace at its central crossroads.

Though only an open structure of wooden posts supporting a steep thatched roof, it was a prestigious symbol to the inhabitants and brought in many traders, itinerant chapmen and their customers to spend their pennies in the alehouses, tannery and forges. Tuesday was their big market day, when in addition to the crowded stalls and floor displays in the market hall there were sheep, pigs and cattle for sale and barter in two open spaces a few yards up the road.

However, even on other days the market was still in use, with regular booths for butchers and pastry-cooks. Country men and women sat on the earthen floor, offering a chicken, a duck or a kid — or vegetables from their tofts. But every forty days the traders knew that there was no space for them in the market hall, as the woodmote required it for its proceedings. This was where all offences against the forest law were first prosecuted, though only transgressions against the ‘vert’, the greenery of the forest, could be judged, and then only if the worth of the offence did not exceed four pence. All other matters, especially those against the ‘venison’, the beasts of the forest, could only be recorded and sent on for trial to the Forest Eyre, the great Assize of the Forest that met no more often than every three years. Those unfortunate enough to be imprisoned to await trial, rather than be bailed by attachments, often died in the squalid gaols, like the miscreants imprisoned in the city.

An hour after the early dawn, the coroner’s trio rolled off their straw pallets in the loft of one of the three inns. They had eaten well enough the previous evening and John and Gwyn had drunk and yarned in the taproom until late, while Thomas had wandered to the church to pray, meditate and indulge in his favourite pastime of misleading the parish priest into believing that he was still in Holy Orders. By dusk, they had rolled themselves in their cloaks in lieu of blankets and slept soundly, in spite of the ever-present fleas — though both John and his clerk had a few minutes unease over Nesta, before slumber overcame them.

That morning in the inn they ate bread and cheese and drank sour cider, a pale shadow of the food on offer at The Bush. Gwyn felt obliged to supplement this meagre breakfast with a mutton pie from a stall, as, although the market was closed, the wooden houses on the corners of the crossroads opposite had shops at ground level, their goods displayed on the lowered shutters. Booths, stalls and pedlars’ trays offered plenty of sustenance, so even on a Woodmote day no one with a few coins need go hungry.

The three sat on a big log placed outside the alehouse as a seat and watched the participants gather for the court. A chair, a trestle table and a few stools had been set up inside one end of the market hall, the only gesture to formality. Gradually, people began filling the space, mostly men, but some with a woman clinging to their arm, wondering what further burdens would be added to their lot before the end of the day.

Soon a large cart trundled down towards the crossroads, drawn by a pair of ponderous oxen, and Gwyn pointed at it with the remnants of his pie. A mangy, emaciated bitch had slunk up to him and, being an inveterate dog-lover, he was sharing the last crusts with her.

‘Here come some of the worst customers,’ he observed.

About half a score tattered and dirty men were crowded into the cart, and when they were prodded out by the ruffianly driver and his mate, John saw that they were roped together by their manacled wrists. They were led into the market and made to sit in a row across the floor.

‘I heard the foresters have got a gaol over at North Bovey — they say it’s as bad as the tinners’ prison at Lydford.’ As Gwyn had been incarcerated in Lydford not long before, he said this with some feeling.

A group of riders now appeared in the distance, and John soon recognised the foresters and their pages, as well as the new verderer.

A couple of clerks jogged behind on their ponies, and the whole entourage dismounted alongside the market. The two pages led the horses off to graze in a field up the road, while the others went into the hall.

‘Are we going to beard them in their den straight away, Crowner?’ growled Gwyn, already spoiling for a fight.

‘Leave it a while. Let’s see what they do in this damned court.’

There were many people milling about the crossroads now, some of them traders, pedlars and beggars taking advantage of the influx of people for the Woodmote. Some were pushing into the market itself, either to be involved in the proceedings or merely to be entertained, so in spite of their size, de Wolfe and Gwyn were able to lean half concealed behind one of the stout pillars at the back of the hall. The much smaller Thomas slipped unobtrusively into the throng.

The verderer had taken the only chair and the clerks were squatting on the stools, their writing materials on the trestle. People were jostling about the rest of the floor behind the prisoners until William Lupus banged on the table with the hilt of his dagger and yelled for order.

John watched with interest as the proceedings got under way. The two foresters and their so-called pages strutted about with arrogant efficiency, hauling the offenders up before the new verderer with deliberate brutality, as they called their names and recited their offences. The prisoners from the cart were dealt with first, the long rope being untied from their wrists so that, still manacled, they could be dragged and kicked to stand before the judgement table.

Most of these were the more serious offenders against the venison, to be remanded to the distant Forest Eyre. The majority of their sins seemed quite minor to de Wolfe, mainly poaching of coneys, squirrels and various birds. One had shot a fox that had harried his chickens and another was alleged to have killed a boar, though the body of the beast was never found and the man hotly denied the charge. Only one fellow was charged with hunting down a roe deer, as the skin and bones were found buried behind his cottage. All he had to look forward to was either mutilation, castration, blinding or hanging, so the more sensitive Thomas covertly crossed himself and prayed that he would perish in jail.

Two men were accused of failing to ‘law’ their dogs, which meant cutting off three claws from each forepaw to prevent them running after game. The only way to avoid this was to pay a heavy exemption fee, called ‘hound-geld’.

‘Bloody barbarians, all of them,’ snarled the dog-loving Gwyn under his breath, as Michael Crespin, a thickset middle-aged man with cropped blond hair and watery blue eyes, intoned the requirements for this mutilation, even down to the size of the block of wood, the two-inch chisel and the mallet. One of the accused pleaded that his dog was small enough to be exempt from lawing, and an argument developed between the foresters, the verderer and the man as to the criteria for exemption.

‘If a hound can crawl through a stirrup, it need not be lawed!’ claimed the man, indignant at being locked in a filthy gaol for three weeks on such an accusation.

Crespin gave the man a gratuitous blow on the shoulder. ‘You’re a liar, man. That bitch could not be passed through the five and three-quarter inches of a Malvern chase strap, which is the legal measure.’

‘Did you actually try the dog against that measure?’ asked Philip de Strete.

‘I had no need, sir. I could tell from experience that it would not pass.’

Gwyn again rumbled his resentment as this distortion of justice, but de Wolfe laid a restraining hand on his arm. The accused man was trying another stratagem.

‘If you will not believe that, then let me pay the hound-geld now. That dog is too small to hunt anything bigger than a rat, but I am willing to pay, rather than perish in that foul prison!’

The mention of money sent the foresters to the table to murmur with the verderer and, after some nodding of heads, de Strete scowled at the prisoner and gave him an option. ‘Five marks hound-geld or take your chance at the Eyre.’

The man winced and looked desperately into the crowd, where his wife, brothers and father were listening anxiously. After some worried consultation, they nodded and, without further ado, Crespin pushed the man towards the driver of the ox-cart, for him to release the irons on his wrists. Five marks was a fortune to a peasant, who would have to borrow hundreds of pennies from his relatives and probably go hungry for many months to come.

The coroner and his officer waited while the rest of the venison cases were dealt with by the arrogant forest officers, who took every chance to commute crimes for cash. One man was accused of ‘stable-stand’, being seen on a horse carrying a bow. Another was committed for a ‘bloody-hand’ offence, being found with bloodstaining on his breeches, though he loudly proclaimed that he had merely been killing one of his own geese, but had no witness to prove it. A similar situation involved a free man who was accused of both ‘back-bear’ and ‘dog-draw’, being seen carrying the carcass of a fox while walking in the forest with his dog. He insisted that he had found the fox dead with injuries inflicted from a wolf’s fangs and that, as his dog was properly lawed, it was quite legal. No notice was taken of his protestations, but he was allowed to be mainprised, a form of bail, on the payment of two pledges from his family, each of four marks.

As soon as these cases were finished, the Woodmote moved on to the larger number of offences against the vert. These were dealt with rapidly, and again it seemed to John that financial extortion was the main object. In many cases, guilt was declared with almost no evidence and with no chance for the accused to utter a word in his defence. The choice was usually offered of paying a fine or being committed to the Forest Eyre, even when the value of the transgression was patently over the threshold of four pence. When someone declined to pay the amercement, he was bound over with a much greater attachment fee, to ensure his appearance at the distant court, so in either event he was financially crippled either personally or after having to borrow from his family.

Though the system was no different in principle to that of the other courts, it was being applied with a ruthless and avaricious disregard for natural justice. Philip de Strete seemed only to be a figurehead in the proceedings, and appeared to accede to all the murmured advice from the two foresters.

‘This is a damned disgrace!’ rumbled Gwyn. ‘I wonder how faithfully those clerks are allowed to record all these payments. I’ll wager the biggest portion goes into the officers’ purses every forty days.’

They waited a while longer, listening to a series of cases concerning the illegal cutting of branches of more than an inch thick, of the offence of ‘purpestre’, which was the building of a hut on the owner’s land without a fee; causing ‘waste’ by cutting down bushes; and illegal ‘assart’, the removal of stumps and roots to enlarge cultivated ground. A few were fined for wrongful ‘agistment’ — letting their livestock feed in the forest either without sufficient fee or during the current ‘fence month’, fifteen days either side of the feast of St John the Baptist, when the hinds were calving. John was interested to hear all these archaic regulations, some going back to the Saxon kings. He knew of some of them and decided not to mention to Gwyn that it was Edward the Confessor who had brought in the mutilation of forest dogs — not by lawing the claws, but by ‘hombling and hoxing’, cutting the sinews of the back legs so that they could hardly walk, let alone run.

As the cases were completed and the remaining prisoners were herded back to their cart and the rest of the crowd began to thin out, de Wolfe decided it was time for him to have words with the foresters.

With Gwyn close behind, he pushed himself from his pillar and thrust his way through the spectators to reach the front of the court.

Philip de Strete gaped up at them in surprise, then rose in reluctant greeting to a more senior law officer. The two foresters and their thuggish pages made no effort to be civil, but stood to one side, scowling at the coroner and his massive henchman.

‘What brings you here today, Sir John?’ asked the new verderer, anxiously. The sheriff’s description to him of the coroner’s personality suggested that his presence would not bring him joy.

‘I have some serious questions for these officers of yours, de Strete. And I think this is one case that has not been brought to your attention during today’s proceedings.’

Lupus and Crespin glowered at the coroner, well aware of what he meant.

‘Murder was done in the forest two days ago. Has your court no interest at all in recording that?’ he boomed. ‘Do you all still deny that such a major breach of the King’s peace does not come under the common law? And if you do, why have you not dealt with it yourself, as by default it must lie within someone’s jurisdiction?’

It was a neat trap, and the inexperienced, rather stupid verderer could only gape ineffectually at the coroner. ‘What murder is this?’ he managed to croak, after a moment.

‘Edward of Manaton — shot in the back with an arrow. An arrow that strongly resembles those used by your foresters — the same foresters who were seen passing through Manaton at about the time of the murder.’

De Strete jerked his head around to stare at his men. ‘Why wasn’t I told of this?’

William Lupus ignored him and spoke directly to de Wolfe.

‘It was no murder, Crowner,’ he said contemptuously. ‘It was a justifiable killing under forest law.’ His skull-like face was impassive as he tried to stare down the coroner.

‘But I should have been informed, William!’ bleated de Strete.

Lupus turned to him slowly and spoke with naked insolence in his voice.

‘You are new to the task, Verderer. Your court deals only with offences against venison and vert. We are not concerned with deaths.’

John de Wolfe exploded at this. ‘Ha! For once your corrupt tongue speaks some truth! Any sudden death is within the purview of the coroner — so don’t ever try to contradict me again.’

The forester flushed at de Wolfe’s scathing tone.

‘Not in the forest, Crowner, when the death is within our laws.’

Gwyn took a pace forward and thrust his big, red face towards Lupus.

‘Don’t talk such bloody nonsense, man! You can’t have it both ways.’

De Wolfe beckoned Thomas out of the small crowd of people who were now gathered around, their ears almost flapping at this diverting quarrel involving the officers they hated most.

‘Take note of what is said, clerk, and write it on your rolls when we are finished,’ he snapped.

William’s oafish page, Henry Smok, stepped to the side of his master.

‘You’re finished now, Crowner! Clear off, back to your city. You’ll never understand the ways of the forest.’

The pugnacious Gwyn moved to flatten the man, but John halted him with a gesture.

‘If by that you are suggesting that the King’s writ runs in Exeter but not here, then you could be arraigned for treason. Even your thick neck would stretch nicely at the end of a rope.’

Both Smok and Philip de Strete paled at the pure menace in the coroner’s words, for it was obvious that he meant what he said. But now he reverted to the original business.

‘You admit then, William Lupus, that you killed Edward of Manaton?’

The forester’s impassive face moved to look briefly at Crespin.

‘I admit nothing. It matters not who actually put the arrow into the poacher. It’s a forester’s duty, whoever bent the bow.’

The audience was hushed as de Wolfe faced Crespin.

‘Then it was you who murdered the man?’

‘Murdered be damned!’ blustered the other forester. ‘I’ll not say who shot this poacher. But the law allows us to stop any fugitive offending against the venison by whatever force is necessary. During the hue and cry, or if the offender will not stop when escaping, we are at liberty to kill.’

Philip de Strete nodded vigorously in his officer’s defence. ‘That’s quite right, Crowner. As a new officer, I have been studying the forest laws most assiduously and what Michael Crespin says is correct.’

William Lupus brought his harsh voice back into the argument.

‘This miserable thief had set traps all around the clearing. We had known him as a poacher for years, but this time we caught him in the act, with a coney on his belt and a bow in his hand. I called on him to stop, but he ran, so an arrow was quite properly put into him.’

De Wolfe noted that they had carefully avoided naming the person who shot the fatal shaft. Crespin had regained his confidence after the support from the verderer and Lupus. ‘Yes, though I thought he was only winged. He gave a great yell and ran on into the trees. It was not worth us chasing him, so we pulled out his traps and left.’

‘Not worth your chasing him?’ snarled the coroner. ‘You had no concern that he might be wounded or dying — as indeed he was?’

Lupus shrugged. ‘Why should we care?’ he answered callously. ‘If we had caught him, we would either have cut his throat as the coup de grâce, or if we brought him out he would have hanged for carrying a bow.’

John, in spite of the endless atrocities he had seen — and even been part of — during his years of campaigning, was angry at this cold-blooded contempt for life shown in what should have been the peaceful English countryside.

‘Whether your casual killing was justified is not for you to decide,’ he snapped. ‘I have already attached you to attend the next Shire Court in Exeter to have your actions examined.’

Lupus sneered, and even the two pages grinned at this threat.

‘The Sheriff’s Court? He won’t want me there, that I can tell you now, Crowner. You’re wasting your time, for we’re not coming.’

‘Then I’m also attaching you to attend the next visit of the King’s judges as Commissioners, in a month or two. You’ll not get out of this, for if you fail to appear you’ll be declared outlaw and can go to join your friend Robert Winter and his gang.’

Even this threat failed to make any impression on the forest officers, for they continued to smirk complacently at de Wolfe. ‘And who is going to get us to the court, Crowner? We deny your powers in this. The forest laws were set in place long before your recent office was even thought of!’

‘You’ll attend or suffer the consequences!’ snarled de Wolfe, now becoming increasingly outraged by the contempt with which these men viewed the King’s Court.

‘Are you coming to take us to Exeter yourself?’ gibed Crespin. ‘Or will you send the sheriff to arrest us?’ All four men, the foresters and their pages, guffawed as if this was the best joke they’d heard that month.

‘Or maybe the Lionheart will come back from France with his army to take us!’ cackled Henry Smok, emboldened by his masters’ attitude.

De Wolfe smothered his rage as best he could and glared at the grinning faces.

‘For once in your life, Smok, you may have got near the truth,’ he snapped. ‘I doubt your sovereign lord will come in person, but after this I’ll see to it that Winchester and London attend to this problem. Not all of Richard’s army is in France, remember!’

He turned on his heel and, motioning his officer and clerk to follow him, he stormed out of the market, coldly determined to find a radical solution to the fear in the forests.

In the city that evening, John decided that it was pointless going to Polsloe again, merely to be turned away once more. He reasoned that if and when Matilda wanted to speak to him he would soon know about it. Instead he decided to go to the Bush some hours after returning from Moretonhampstead, spending the time until then with his friend Ralph Morin, the constable of Rougemont. De Wolfe wanted to sound him out about the possibility of taking some of the garrison’s men-at-arms to arrest the foresters and clean out Robert Winter’s outlaw camp.

Sympathetic though he was, Ralph could see no way in which he could help in this.

‘Without the sheriff’s agreement — which he’ll never give me — I can’t take troops out of here, except in a dire emergency. Though we’ve had no trouble for fifty years, I’m sure it’s a hanging offence leaving a royal castle undefended.’

John reluctantly agreed with his point of view, but tried a compromise.

‘Just a few men, together with Gwyn and myself, could surely take those forester bastards and their pages?’

‘I’ve no doubt we could, John — but without Richard de Revelle’s consent, think what the consequences would be! One set of king’s men arresting or even slaying another set of royal officials. No, I’m sorry, I can’t risk either my job or my neck, even for you.’

The coroner sighed. ‘You’re right, Ralph. The only way is for me to get Hubert Walter to authorise a foray against all this unrest. Even then, he’ll take some persuading, as it looks as if a couple of bishops and their Prince John allies have a finger in this pie.’

The castellan nodded. ‘Finding the Justiciar is the problem. He’s so often away from Winchester or Westminster. I heard that he was visiting the King in Normandy some weeks ago, but whether he’s back or not, I can’t tell.’

‘It’s a long ride to Winchester, if it’s for nothing,’ agreed John glumly. ‘But I’ll have to do it soon, after I’ve spoken again to some of the barons like Ferrars and de Courcy.’

He had hoped that the atmosphere might have improved down at Idle Lane, but when he arrived at the inn he found Nesta still in the same apathetic state. As always, she got her maids to provide him with a good meal and sat quietly with him as he ate, but she was downcast and had little to say for herself. He gave her a detailed account of his visit to Manaton and the Woodmote, partly in an attempt to fill in as much of the silence as possible. Then he launched into his intention to ride to the seat of England’s government, wherever he could find it, to seek out his old commander in Palestine, the Chief Justiciar.

Nesta responded with little more than monosyllables and sighs, until John pulled her to him on the bench behind the screen and tried to get at the root of the trouble. He had little success, however, as she dissolved into quiet weeping again, which both embarrassed and terrified him. Peering over the top of the hurdle, he looked to see if the patrons were eavesdropping, but the relatively few drinkers were either unaware or were studiously pretending not to notice. John wished that they were upstairs in the privacy of her room, but for her to stumble across the taproom, red eyed and sniffling, would be worse than sitting tight. He wondered whether he really wanted to ask her whether he should stay the night — and immediately felt disloyal for preferring even his empty house to the prospect of endlessly trying to break through the barrier that had sprung up between them.

For her part, Nesta knew that nothing had changed, but that some kind of nemesis was fast approaching. Try as she would, she could not bring her to tell him that he was not the father of this creature in her womb, as she had begun to think of it. She knew well enough that this big, awkward, craggy man was doing his utmost to be kind and gentle to her, but the great lie that she was living prevented her from responding.

Eventually, as the evening wore on, she did invite him to stay, managing to reason that she might as well lie passively in his arms all night as suffer alone. John took this as Fate’s rebuff to his previous reluctance to share her bed and, as the daylight faded, the sad pair climbed the ladder to her tiny chamber.