Fear in the Forest

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In Exeter, the Saturday evening drinkers wandered from one tavern to another, the rumour about the coroner being embellished every time it was repeated. The same was happening around the market stalls and the trinket booths along the main street, where good-wives and their sisters gossiped incessantly about everything under the summer sun.

The tale grew from Sir John being lost in the forest to his having been abducted by Barbary pirates — and from his being kidnapped by Prince John to his having been beheaded by outlaws. Whatever version was related, the basic truth undoubtedly seemed to be that something very serious had happened to Black John. He was well known to virtually every one of the few thousand citizens of Exeter, and even if many were somewhat wary of the stern-visaged law officer, they all respected his reputation for even-handed honesty, uncommon amongst officials in authority. It did not take long for the rumours to reach Idle Lane.

A somewhat inebriated butcher, who had been thrown out of the White Hart for trying to pass a clipped coin, rolled into the Bush as the cathedral bell was tolling for Compline. He slumped down at a table and waved at Edwin for some ale. Across the room he noticed three acquaintances drinking near the window opening.

‘Heard the news, boys?’ he called across, his voice slightly slurred, but still piercing. ‘Our crowner’s been killed. The whole garrison rode in full armour this afternoon, to avenge him!’

There was a sudden silence in the taproom, immediately shattered by a crash as a pair of quart jugs full of cider exploded on the floor at the back of the room. Pandemonium broke out as Nesta slumped to the floor amongst half a gallon of drink and shattered pottery. As one of her maids, Edwin and a couple of customers rushed to her aid, another drinker cuffed the butcher’s ears for his insensitivity.

Another unlikely patron also hurried to Nesta’s side, as Thomas had just entered the inn. He had been worried about the Welsh woman all afternoon, since he had brought her back from her sorrowful escapade on the river-bank. As there had been no sign of Gwyn or de Wolfe for many hours, he had moped about the coroner’s chamber, too distracted to do much writing. Eventually he had gone to his lodging and then to a service in the cathedral, missing the dramatic return of Gwyn and the hurried departure of the posse from Rougemont. Not until a few minutes earlier had he heard the rumours about the coroner that were flashing about the city, which sent him hurrying down to the inn, fearful of the effect of the news upon Nesta in her present vulnerable state.

He was too late by a minute, but joined the throng clustered solicitously around the fallen landlady. One of them happened to be Adam Russell, the apothecary, who pushed his way through to where one of the serving maids was pillowing Nesta’s head on her apron.

‘She’s fainted, but she looks terrible,’ said the girl.

The apothecary dropped to his knees alongside the Welsh woman and felt her pulse and lifted an eyelid. ‘Get her to her bed, that’s all we can do.’

Edwin looked dubious. ‘That’s up the bloody ladder, Adam! Hard to do until she comes to her senses.’

‘Put her on my pallet in the cook-house,’ suggested the maid. ‘That’s good enough until she can climb to her own bed.’

With much fussing and concern, willing hands lifted Nesta and carried her through the back door to the large hut in the yard, where the two maids lived and where they also prepared food. Thomas insisted on accompanying them, and as he was virtually accepted as a priest by the staff of the Bush, he was as welcome as the apothecary.

As they laid her on the long hay-filled sack that was the maid’s bed, and covered her with a coarse woollen blanket, Nesta began to stir and moan. Her eyelids fluttered and a moment later she was staring blankly at Thomas.

‘What’s happening?’ she began, then gave a weak cry as memory flooded back. ‘He’s dead! My John, he’s gone!’

‘Hush, girl, it’s just a rumour,’ crooned Thomas. ‘We don’t know what’s happened yet.’

Edwin chased everyone out of the hut except the apothecary, Thomas and the maid and stood guard outside the door, leaving them to comfort his mistress. Nesta tried to struggle upright, but Adam gently pushed her back on the pallet. ‘Stay quiet for a time, keep your head low until you feel stronger,’ he advised.

As Thomas held her hand and spoke softly and reassuringly in her ear, the apothecary felt the pulse in the other wrist, a worried expression stealing over his face.

‘Get her some wine with hot water in it,’ he murmured to the maid. ‘I’ll go back to my shop and get something to soothe and strengthen her — some valerian and other herbs might help.’ He rose and left, while the girl went out to the brew-house to find a flask of wine. Thomas was left with Nesta, who was gripping his hand tightly.

‘Tell me again it’s not true, Thomas,’ she whispered.

‘It’s certainly not true, good lady,’ he said with a confidence he did not really share. ‘I don’t know the truth of everything, but it seems he’s got lost in the forest. Knowing the crowner, that’s no great hazard, after all the wars he’s fought in his lifetime.’

She made no reply, but two tears appeared from under her closed eyelids and trickled down her cheeks, which were so pale as to look faintly green in the evening light from the unshuttered window.

The maid came back with a cup of hot, watered wine and managed to coax her mistress to take a few sips. Thomas sat for a long time holding her hand, gazing anxiously at her pale face. Nesta appeared to be sleeping, but when he tried to gently slide his hand from hers, her fingers gripped his to restrain them.

Eventually, Adam Russell came back with some potions in two small flasks and tried to persuade the landlady to drink the bitter fluids. As Thomas and the girl attempted to lift her up a little, Nesta groaned and her free hand slid to her belly. ‘It hurts me!’ she muttered.

With a look of concern, the maid lifted the blanket and looked underneath. Dropping it, she looked at the apothecary.

‘She’s losing blood down below. Her gown is soaking!’

Propriety prevented him from looking for himself, but he readily accepted her word. ‘Her pulse told me something was not right,’ he murmured, looking anxiously at the increasing pallor of Nesta’s face.

‘What can you do?’ demanded Thomas desperately.

Adam shook his head. ‘This is beyond my skill. I’m an apothecary, not a physician or midwife. Everyone knows she is with child. This is clearly some problem with that condition.’

There were no physicians in Exeter, all medical care apart from apothecaries’ drugs being provided by the infirmarians in the five priories in and around the city. Thomas thought rapidly, drawing on his experience with the coroner and his officer.

‘Then she must be taken to St Katherine’s in Polsloe. There Dame Madge is an expert on these matters.’

Adam readily agreed, not wanting to take any responsibility for a worsening condition. He jumped up and went back into the inn, returning a few moments later with the news that one of the local carters would willingly take her to the priory in his wagon.

As the man went off to harness up his ox, Thomas remained with Nesta, while the two maids scurried around fetching more blankets and some clothing for their mistress to take to Posloe.

‘We must take you to be cared for by the nuns, Nesta,’ said the clerk gently. He had to lean close to her as she lay pale and motionless on the mattress, but her lips moved in reply.

‘Then both John’s women will be in Polsloe,’ she murmured.

‘It’s the best place for you to recover, Nesta,’ advised Thomas. ‘You remember Dame Madge, who helped us some months ago? She will soon get you well again.’

‘Am I losing the child, Thomas?’ she whispered.

He was unable to lie to her, though he had no real knowledge.

‘I don’t know, my girl. I just don’t know. It’s in God’s hands.’

He crossed himself surreptitiously.

‘It’s God’s judgement, Thomas. As with you and the cathedral roof — he refused to let us take our own lives, but now he’s taking the babe’s instead.’

‘You don’t know that, Nesta. I know nothing of women’s ailments, but at Polsloe they may make everything well again.’

She shook her head weakly.

‘No, dear Thomas. This is God’s retribution upon me … maybe it’s just as well, for now there’ll be no child to be born in sin. And I’ll not have to tell John the truth after all.’

The tears forced their way from under her lids again as she sank her head wearily back on to the rough hessian of her maid’s bed.

Gwyn slept fitfully on the floor of the alehouse, getting up just as a trace of dawn had lightened the eastern sky. All around were the men-at-arms, snoring as they lay rolled in their riding cloaks. Ralph Morin and Gabriel had opted for a penny bed in the loft, but Gwyn had been too restless to bother with a mattress. He wandered outside and, to clear his senses, doused his head in cold water from the horse trough. Three of the soldiers were sleeping on the ground near the animals, with another acting as sentry trying to keep awake. Gwyn grunted at him, then wandered around the inn, willing the dawn to strengthen, so that he could begin the search again.

He had had a fantasy the previous evening, while walking from the lane back to the alehouse, that maybe he would walk into the taproom and find Crowner John sitting on a bench waiting for their return. Unfortunately it remained a fantasy, and he faced the day with foreboding. Ralph and the garrison men might leave later, but Gwyn was determined to stay and search these woods until he discovered what had happened to his master. They had not been together across most of the known world for almost twenty years for him to abandon him now, within a few miles of home.

To kill time until it was fully light, he wandered around the back of the small, low building, where there was a ramshackle privy alongside a stinking midden. Needing to rid himself of the last of the previous night’s ale, he loosened his belt and pulled down the front of his breeches to relieve himself into the ditch that ran behind the tavern, only a few yards from the first of the forest trees. The trunks were just visible in the growing light, and as he stood there he tried to throw his mind into the darkness to seek out John de Wolfe by sheer will-power.

Nothing happened, but from the other side of the privy came a low-throated growl. Tying up the thongs of his breeks, he wandered towards the noise, always unable to resist looking at a new dog.

The rattle of a chain drew his eyes down, and he could just see the outline of a large hound, straining at its leash, which must have been secured to the wall. He gave it some friendly words, but the animal took no notice of him. There was enough light now to see the silhouette of sharp-upstanding ears as the dog stood quivering, intent on something out in the forest.

Intrigued, Gwyn felt for the chain, risking a sudden bite from an unknown guard dog. He felt the last link, which had been dropped over an iron pin hammered into one of the frames for the wattle panels. Using the tension of the straining beast to pull it off, he urged it onwards, and without hesitation the hound scrambled down into the ditch and leapt up the other side, with Gwyn dragging along behind.

The dog panted and pulled, its ears now flattened, and made for the first line of trees. Once the were inside the wood, even the faint daybreak was extinguished. Gwyn stumbled along in the darkness, his feet catching in roots and brambles, until they reached the barer ground deeper under the trees, where leaf mould was the only hazard, apart from fallen branches.

The hound aimed off slightly to the left and, straining its powerful shoulders, took the coroner’s officer at an uncomfortably fast pace several hundred yards into the forest. Gwyn began to wonder whether the damned beast was merely after a badger or a hind, though it should have been well used to those where it lived, but a moment later his affection for dogs was given a massive boost. The tension in the chain suddenly slackened and the dog started to whine and pant.

‘Stop licking me, you bastard!’ came a wonderfully well-recognised voice from the gloom.

‘Crowner! Is that you?’ shouted Gwyn, almost overcome with joy.

‘Gwyn? What in hell are you doing here at this time of night?’

The harsh voice was weak, but grated beautifully on Gwyn’s ears.

He bent down and, pushing the clever hound aside, found the coroner stretched out, his shoulders against the bole of a tree. The light had increased marginally and Gwyn could just make out de Wolfe’s long body.

‘Are you injured, Crowner? Where in blazes have you been?’

‘I took a blade across my side, but it’s nothing, though I’ve shed some blood. It was a bad knock on my head that did for me, though I can’t remember much about it.’

Gwyn told his master to lie still, then stumbled part-way back towards the distant alehouse, yelling for help in a voice that could surely be heard in Ashburton itself. Some men came running with a couple of pitch flares and before long Ralph Morin, Gabriel and the rest of the soldiers were clustered around the fallen coroner.

The lights now showed that he had a huge blue bruise across his left temple, spreading on to his ear, which was torn at the edge. Of more concern to Gwyn was the ominous dried blood that stained his tunic over his left side, but when they looked underneath, the slash, though four inches long, had been stopped by his hip bone and would not be dangerous, as long as it did not suppurate.

‘Can you get up — or shall we make a stretcher for you?’ asked Morin.

‘Get me up and on to my horse!’ snarled John, struggling to rise. He promptly fell down again and Gwyn and the castle constable, both huge men themselves, stood either side of de Wolfe and locked an arm around his, lifting him to his feet. With the flares guttering before them, they slowly walked him back to the edge of the forest, the hound prancing about delightedly in front of them.

In the alehouse, Gwyn bound up John’s wound with a length of clean linen provided by the landlord, whose stock of bread, cheese and ale was rapidly exhausted by the posse and the rescued victim, whose appetite seemed to have easily survived his ordeal. As they ate and drank, the story came out, as far as the coroner could recollect. He remembered felling the first outlaw and being threatened by the second, but from there his memory was a blank until he recovered consciousness. Gwyn explained that the corpse of the first man was near the scene of the fight, but not that of the second, who must have staggered off until he collapsed and died where they found him.

With a terrible pain in his head and a bleeding wound in his side, de Wolfe had stumbled as best he could towards what he thought was the direction of the path. Then he must have collapsed again, for he remembered nothing but jumbled memories of weaving through the trees and repeatedly falling down in a stupor — due either to blood loss or the effects of the blow on the head. Eventually his head had partially cleared, but it was now dark and he groggily gave up until dawn, slumped at the foot of the tree where the dog had discovered him.

When all the excitement had died down, the coroner told Morin of the assignation they had witnessed between Stephen Cruch and the outlaw chief, as well as the mysterious priest that they assumed had met the horse-dealer in that very room.

‘What’s to be done about these foresters and outlaws, John?’ asked Ralph Morin, as they finished the rest of the landlord’s meagre food supply.

‘Depends on Richard de Revelle,’ growled the coroner. ‘So far, he’s done everything he can to be obstructive over this, which makes me suspect that he’s got an interest in the matter.’

‘Even if he allowed the garrison to be used for a sweep against the outlaws, I doubt if we’d have enough men. I couldn’t take all of them away from Exeter at once. We’ve got only sixty all told.’

‘And many of those are little better than raw youths,’ added Gabriel glumly. ‘These men here are some of the best, for I picked them myself.’

De Wolfe, whose tough body was rapidly recovering, swallowed the last of his ale. ‘Then I’ll have to go to Winchester and see if Hubert Walter is willing to act. It’s his bloody country, after all, for as long as the King is absent.’

‘And this horse-dealer and the priest? What about them?’ persisted the constable.

John gingerly felt his bruised head before he spoke. ‘We can’t prove that anything illegal passed between them, though the landlord here confirms that they met and spoke together here. But Stephen Cruch is guilty of consorting with outlaws, for I saw him with my own eyes.’

‘Seize the fellow and ask him a few questions in the undercroft in Rougemont,’ suggested Gwyn grimly. ‘That fat bastard Stigand will soon get some answers from him.’

‘Maybe, but I must think about it first. Perhaps soon we should take a ride to Buckfast and see what this priest has to say for himself, if it’s the same one that Thomas met.’

An hour later, John pronouced himself fit to ride and was helped up into the saddle of his borrowed horse by solicitous hands. Slowly, they made their way up the high road at a walking pace, Gwyn and Ralph riding closely on either side of the coroner, in case he was taken dizzy again. However, his iron constitution and his determination to see this crisis though kept him in the saddle for the next four hours. He had a sore scalp and a throbbing headache, as well as a burning pain in his hip wound, but he had suffered worse many times before.

When they reached the city, the constable and his men hurried back to the castle, trusting that the sheriff had not yet returned from his conjugal duties in Tiverton. Gwyn went with his master back to Martin’s Lane, insisting that he took to his bed for the rest of the day

For once, De Wolfe seemed amenable to the idea, feeling even more exhausted after the long ride, but once again fate had other ideas.

After leaving the hired mount at the stables opposite, John preceded his officer into the house and made for the stairs to his bed in the solar. But as they came into the yard from the passage, Thomas de Peyne almost hopped out of the kitchen hut, Mary close behind him.

The clerk’s face lit up when he saw his master alive and relatively intact, but Thomas’s expression told John straight away that something was wrong.

‘Thank Almighty God that you’re safe, Crowner!’ gabbled the clerk, crossing himself furiously.

‘What’s wrong, Thomas?’

The little ex-priest came close and put a skinny hand on his master’s arm, a thing he would never have done in less fraught circumstances.

‘It’s Nesta. She’s with the nuns in Polsloe.’

For a moment, de Wolfe’s bruised brain thought that, like his wife, his mistress had also taken the veil, until the memory of Dame Madge and her special art came to him. Now the words were tumbling out of Thomas, as he explained what had happened, carefully leaving out any hint of the fatherhood of the child.

‘Some fool came into the Bush blathering a rumour that you were dead — that’s what did the damage, in the fragile state that she was in,’ he concluded.

John felt as if the whole of this day was a bad dream — or a nightmare.

His head ached, he had flashing lights in his left eye and he could feel blood still oozing out through the rough bandages on his side. To be faced now with the news that his mistress had narrowly been saved from throwing herself into the river, before possibly miscarrying his child, was almost too much to be taken in. He stood in the yard, dazed by the overload of events. Gwyn, himself shaken by this news of a woman for whom he had such affection, rested a fatherly hand on John’s shoulder.

‘I’ll ride to Polsloe this minute, to see how matters stand. You must get some rest — and have that wound attended to.’

John abruptly threw off his confusion. ‘We’ll go together, Gwyn. And thank you, Thomas, for your aid to the poor woman. You’re a good man and I’ll not forget it!’ The clerk gaped at these unheard-of words of thanks from his dour master, but was warmed inside by their sincerity.

With Mary and Thomas staring anxiously after them, the two men left to reclaim their horses from across the lane, John having Odin saddled up this time. Half an hour later, they were at the door of the little priory outside the city. Someone must have seen them walking across from the gate, for by the time they reached the door in the West Range, Dame Madge herself was waiting there to greet them. Her tall, hunched frame was draped in her usual black habit, but over it she wore a white linen apron, which ominously had a few spots of blood upon it.

The nun’s gaunt face displayed the suspicion of a smile as she noticed John’s eyes stray to the apron. ‘No, that’s from another woman in childbed, Sir John. Come with me.’

She stepped outside and walked along a gravel path to the left, aiming for the kitchen and the South Range beyond. ‘This is where we have our infirmary now. Your friend is there.’ She used the word carefully, with no hint in her voice of disapproval.

‘So what happened? And how is she faring?’ queried John, almost afraid to ask, in case the answer was devastating.

‘She has lost the babe, may God bless it. I fear she is not at all well, both in body and mind. There was a great issue of blood when she miscarried, which has weakened her.’

‘But she will recover?’ demanded John, his legs feeling weak as he anticipated the answer.

The dame pursed her lips. ‘As long as no puerperal fever or white-leg sets in, she should survive. The loss of blood is the main problem. But I am concerned for her state of mind. She seems to have little will to improve herself.’ She looked askance at the coroner. ‘All she does is ask for you!’

They had reached the door into the infirmary and entered a short corridor off which were several small cells. Farther along, the corridor opened into a larger room from which came the murmur of a number of voices.

‘She’s in here — you can see her only for a brief moment,’ commanded the formidable nun, standing at the door of the first little cubicle. Stepping inside, John saw that the only furnishings were a low bed, a stool and a large crucifix on the wall. Beneath that was the heart-shaped face of Nesta, deathly pale against the red hair that flowed over the pillow.

Her eyes were closed, but when he spoke her name they opened and the most radiant smile he had ever seen in his life spread across her face, like the sun rising on a clear morning.

‘John! You are alive — or are we both in heaven?’

‘If heaven be Polsloe, then yes, we are both dead — but together!’

John bent to smooth a hand over her high forehead and gently kiss her cheek. Even the nun, aware of his wife somewhere under the same roof, could not resist a benign smile — and Gwyn was unashamedly delighted.

‘The babe has gone, John. It must have been God’s will,’ murmured Nesta. Privately, Dame Madge was not so sure. She saw too many infants failing to survive to believe that the Almighty wished to lose any more. After a few short minutes, she firmly expelled John and his henchman from the room.

‘The girl is very weak. She needs quiet and sustenance to build back the blood she lost,’ she said as John reluctantly left, with a promise to visit as often as he could. As the door closed, the nun looked down at the large stain that darkened his tunic.

‘Speaking of lost blood, what have you done to yourself, Crowner?’

Though John falsely protested the wound’s triviality, Gwyn joined her in pushing the reluctant warrior across the corridor into another small chamber, where basins of water, cloths and shelves of salves proclaimed its function. In minutes he was placed on a stool, his tunic stripped off and the top of his breeches turned down to expose the blood-soaked dressing that had been put on earlier that morning.

With much tut-tutting, the dame called down the corridor for another elderly nun and between them they uncovered his wound and cleaned it up. Then, with a needle and thread, she pulled the edges of the slash together with three neat stitches, John gritting his teeth as the bodkin pushed through his tender flesh. Covered with salve and neatly bandaged with a long strip of linen wound around his waist, he felt infinitely more comfortable.

‘In more ways than one, I owe this priory a great deal for the help I have received,’ he said gratefully to the infirmarian.

‘It is our duty to use what gifts God gave us for the good of all,’ replied Dame Madge.

‘You will find me not ungenerous after all this,’ murmured de Wolfe, but the indefatigable nun had an answer for everything.

‘You are a good man, as men go, Sir John. But your best gift to God would be to conduct your personal affairs as honourably as you do your public duties!’

With Gwyn trying to suppress a grin behind him, the chastened coroner left the treatment chamber. As he stepped into the passageway, he saw a figure at the far end and stopped dead. For a long moment he locked eyes with his wife, her square face holding an inscrutable expression. She wore a plain black robe and a white head-rail, almost identical with that of the nuns, and was carrying a tray.

John started towards her, but Dame Madge’s strong hand restrained him. A second later, Matilda swiftly turned her back on him and vanished into the larger room.

‘Does she still refuse to see me?’ he demanded, almost plaintively.

The tall nun steered him towards the outside door.

‘In the circumstances, could you think otherwise?’ she asked reasonably.

De Wolfe rode back to the city in a chastened mood. His wife still refused to acknowledge him, his mistress was desperately sick in both body and mind, and he had just lost his child. He had a sore head, a stinging wound in his side and a problem in the forest that seemed elusive and insoluble. Life was none too great today, and Gwyn, sensing his black mood, wisely kept silent during the short journey.

Passing through East Gate, they turned up Castle Hill at the top of which John glowered at the sentry as he entered Rougemont. Throwing Odin’s reins at the man, he slid from the saddle with a grimace of pain from the pull of his new stitches and loped off across the inner ward towards the keep. As he had half expected, the sheriff had not yet returned from his manor in Tiverton, and John returned to the gatehouse, where Gwyn was sitting in the guard room with a jar of ale.

‘Go home to St Sidwell’s and see your wife, she’ll have forgotten what you look like,’ John said gruffly. ‘And I thank you once more for your faithful service. I just might not have got from against that tree if you’d not persisted in looking for me!’ Like Thomas, Gwyn was unused to any thanks from de Wolfe and scratched his crotch vigorously to cover his embarrassment.

‘You look after that wound, Crowner,’ he grunted. ‘You’ll be at Polsloe often enough now, so get them to put a clean bandage on it.’

John nodded and ended their brief intimacy by stalking out to his stallion. In the absence of his brother-in-law, he decided to talk again to the Warden of the Forest, so walked Odin through the narrow streets to the house in St Pancras Lane.

There was a new, middle-aged retainer there in place of the murdered steward, and the man showed him into the gloomy hall, where Nicholas de Bosco sat by the empty fireplace, a blanket thrown over his shoulders. He seemed ten years older than on the coroner’s last visit; the attack he had suffered had suddenly aged him. John accepted a cup of wine and, sitting on a stool opposite the older man, brought him up to date with the latest events in the forest.

‘I should already have known about all these matters,’ de Bosco said sadly. ‘Here I am, the King’s warden, and none of my own officers tells me anything! They ignore me and treat me with contempt.’

‘It’s all part of the plan,’ said de Wolfe, trying to reassure him and restore some of his injured feelings. ‘But have you heard nothing of the new verderer, this Philip de Strete?’

‘Not a word! The damned fellow hasn’t been near me. Not that he needs to legally, as the Forest Eyre is not due until next year at the earliest. But as a matter of courtesy, you’d think the devil would come to pass the time of day, as the verderers from the other bailiwicks do occasionally.’

He pulled his blanket closer around him, though the day was warm.

‘And I’ve had several more demands to resign — a letter from the sheriff, damn his impudent eyes, saying that he had reports of continual unrest in the forest and holds me responsible!’

‘You said several?’ said John.

‘The other from Henry Marshal — or at least from his chaplain on his behalf. I suppose the bishop is too grand to write to me direct. Almost word for word what the sheriff claimed. It’s a damned conspiracy!’

De Wolfe felt sorry for the old warrior. He had been given this sinecure as a reward for his long and faithful service to the King — and now treacherous elements were trying to take it from him.

‘It’s just as well that we have Hubert Walter behind us. Neither a sheriff nor a bishop can prevail against his will. I’m going to see him very soon. I’ll make sure he keeps confirming you in office — if that’s what you really want.’

He added the last in case Nicholas decided that a quiet retirement was preferable to constantly looking over his shoulder for more assassins.

‘I no longer relish the damned job, but I’m not going to be frightened out of it by the Count of Mortain and his scheming curs!’ snapped the Warden, defiantly.

The coroner stayed a while to talk with him, though there was nothing useful de Bosco could tell him, as he had been ignored since the attempt on his life. When he climbed stiffly back on to Odin’s back, John almost fell off with a sudden attack of dizziness, and with a throbbing head and an aching side, he slowly let the beast take him home to Martin’s Lane.

Andrew helped him down and took him across to his house, sitting him down on the bench in the vestibule. The farrier called Mary from the back yard and the pair half dragged him up to his bed in the solar, where the maid clucked over him like a hen with a sick chick. John had intended going back to Rougement to confront Richard de Revelle when he returned, and then returning again to Polsloe, but the strong-willed Mary kept him in bed.

She undressed him to change his bandage, which was still weeping thin blood. The maid had seen him naked at close quarters many times before, though this time he was in no condition to take advantage of her — not that Mary would have objected too much, with both his wife and mistress well out of the way. She forced him to take some hot broth and a herbal remedy, which cured his headache by driving him into a deep sleep.

The next thing he knew, it was morning. Feeling stiff and haggard, he dragged himself from his bed, but found that he could deal adequately with Mary’s robust breakfast of oat gruel, salt bacon, eggs and fresh bread. His wound seemed to have dried up and the dressing was clean, so they decided to let well alone. His forehead bruise looked worse than ever, a purple stain creeping from beneath his thick hair to spread down to his eyebrow and back to his left ear, but it was less painful to the touch and his headache had dulled down.

He had missed his Saturday shave, but no way was he going to attack his stubble with a knife until his facial injuries had abated, so Black John looked blacker than ever.

‘All the better to confront the bloody sheriff!’ he growled to Mary, before he left the house. ‘Maybe I can frighten the swine into submission.’

On his slow walk to the castle, he received many congratulations and genuinely thankful greetings from passers-by, some of whom he did not even recognise. They seemed truly glad that the rumours of the previous couple of days had proved to be false, and although he acknowledged them all only with a stern jerk of his head, he felt an inner glow of satisfaction that so many people seemed to approve of him.

At Rougemont, de Wolfe went straight to the keep, without going up to his garret in the gatehouse. He marched straight into de Revelle’s chamber, intending to launch a blistering attack on his brother-in-law about the problems in the county.

Somewhat to his surprise, but soon to his gratification, he found two other men there on much the same mission. Once more, Guy Ferrars and Reginald de Courcy had come to protest to the sheriff about the situation, and this time they were in no mood to be fobbed off.

Ferrars was in full flow as John entered, leaning over Richard’s table and haranguing him at close quarters, while de Courcy sat grimly upright on a chair alongside him, nodding agreement to every point that Sir Guy was making. When they heard de Wolfe enter, all three pairs of eyes swivelled to the door and Guy Ferrars paused in his lecture to the sheriff.

‘God’s knuckles, de Wolfe, yesterday we heard that you were dead!’ bellowed Ferrars. ‘Then today that you were half dead — now you walk in on us, quite alive!’

‘That’s a powerful bruise you have on your head,’ commented de Courcy. ‘And why are you limping?’

John dropped the buttock on his uninjured side on to the corner of the table.

‘You may well ask, de Courcy! Two bastards attacked me in the forest and I suffered from both ends of a pike. Still, their bodies are rotting under the trees now.’

Guy Ferrars, his red face almost pulsating with indignation, turned back to the sheriff, who sat there bemused by what was turning into a three-pronged assault.

‘There, de Revelle! More evidence of what we were telling you! This forest situation is out of control, and if you’ll not do anything about it then we’ll go elsewhere for relief!’

Richard opened his mouth to protest again, but the choleric baron gave him no chance. ‘I’ve been telling this man of the latest outrages, de Wolfe. I’ll repeat it for your benefit, as will de Courcy here — but first, what’s been happening to you?’

John told his story with some relish, even pulling up his tunic to show them his bandage, through which a slight stain of blood had again appeared to give credence to his tale. He omitted the fact that Ralph Morin had taken men-at-arms from the castle to search for him, as he wanted to avoid giving Richard grounds for complaint. Something also made him hold back any mention of the mysterious priest, as if the sheriff was involved he might put out a warning. But he was quite happy to tell them about the horse-trader.

‘This Stephen Cruch is involved, beyond any doubt,’ he said. ‘My officer saw him with one of Robert Winter’s outlaws — and then with my own eyes I saw the same man at a rendezvous with Winter in the forest, just before some of his men attacked me. There’s little doubt he’s acting as a go-between for someone outside and the rogues who are doing the dirty work for the foresters.’

Richard de Revelle looked desperately uneasy at this revelation, but Guy Ferrars was exultant. ‘It all fits together, Crowner. I know this man Cruch, my steward has had dealings with him over horses. A sly, crafty devil — there are rumours that he was outlawed himself, years ago.’

‘That’s just gossip,’ blustered Richard. ‘We know nothing of this man.’

‘Are you defending him?’ shouted Ferrars. ‘Do you doubt that de Wolfe’s telling the truth?’ He turned to Reginald de Courcy. ‘Repeat for his benefit what you told de Revelle here.’

The other landowner was less fiery than his companion, but his voice was bitter as he related his most recent complaints.

‘The fees for agistment in four of my manors have been doubled! Right up to the start of the fence month, it was half a penny a beast per year — then my villeins come and tell me the agisters are going to claim a full penny after the glades are open again next month. When they complained, the blasted foresters threatened to give them a beating.’

‘And that mealy-mouth new verderer, Philip de Strete, confirmed it when I challenged him,’ cut in Ferrars, unwilling to be left out of the drama.

‘It’s more than the damned pigs are worth, for the sake of them grubbing at some beech mast and a few acorns!’ went on de Courcy. ‘And to add insult to injury, they’ve set up two new forges on my land, which will take half the business away from the ones I’ve had there for twenty years and more.’

He glared at the sheriff. ‘And you seem quite content to let this go on unabated. I tell you, whatever money I lose over this is going be taken from what you screw from me for the county farm. How are you going to explain to the Chancellor why you’re short, when you next take your loot to Winchester, eh?’

De Revelle, whose face under this barrage of complaints had gone as pale as the others were suffused, turned up his hands in a Gallic gesture of helplessness.

‘You are talking of the Royal Forests, sirs, the domain of the King himself! I have no power there, all this is due to the incompetence of the Warden. I have done my best to help by installing a younger, more active verderer in at least one of the bailiwicks.’

‘Yes, a bloody idiot! The Warden says he has no power to intervene, so where are we?’ rasped de Courcy in his steely voice.

‘There are three other verderers in the Devon forest — are they also to be shot in the back so that new ones can be installed?’ asked Guy Ferrars, with heavy sarcasm.

John followed all this with satisfaction, relishing the evasive cringing of his brother-in-law in the face of these two powerful men. He almost forgot his aches and pains as they continued to hammer de Revelle.

‘Tell them of your problems, Ferrars,’ said Reginald icily.’ Some that should concern him, as a coroner.’

‘Ha, yes! A dead body is involved, if only we could find it.’

Guy Ferrars dropped heavily on to the chair behind him and leaned forward towards de Wolfe, ignoring the sheriff altogether.

‘On one of my manors near Lustleigh I have a chase which abuts on to the edge of the Royal Forest — even though all the bloody land belongs to me on both sides of the boundary. There is a small valley leading from my chase into the King’s ground — and a week ago those damned foresters built a saltatorium just a few yards on their side.’

John, though not a keen huntsman, knew that a saltatorium was a ‘deer leap’, a deep ditch with one vertical wall, the opposite one being sloping. The agile beasts could easily leap down the steep face and run up the other side, but could not return. The device was used to trap wild deer to increase the stock in a private chase or park, but was illegal on private ground within two miles of a Royal Forest, for obvious reasons.

‘Now these cunning swine have reversed the rules!’ fumed Guy Ferrars. ‘They deliberately sited the leap inside their territory, so that beasts from my chase will run into their forest and not be able to return down the valley, which is one of the main deer tracks.’

Richard de Revelle listened in silence, but de Courcy egged his friend on. ‘But that’s not the half of it. Tell the crowner the rest.’

Guy Ferrars banged the desk with his fist.

‘When my bailiff took a pair of my woodwards to break down the illegal leap, a pair of foresters appeared with their ruffianly pages and threatened to thrash them all if they persisted. On my own land, was this! The two woodwards refused to fight, saying they had sworn the forest oath and had to do what the foresters told them, even though I’m the one who pays the bastards!’

From his recent research, John knew that woodwards, though employed by the landowners of chases and parks, were in a difficult position, as they had a divided loyalty to both their employers and the Royal Forest.

‘So what of this dead man you mentioned?’ he queried, puzzled as to where this was leading.

‘You may well ask, de Wolfe!’ trumpeted Guy Ferrars. ‘When my bailiff returned with the news, my temper knew no bounds. I sent my steward and three bailiffs, together with six men-at-arms from my own retinue, back to destroy the saltatorium. They had been there less than an hour when they were ambushed by a rabble hiding in the trees. Almost twice our number, they were undoubtedly part of this band of outlaws you describe, run by the man Winter. But one of my bailiffs said that he clearly saw a forester lurking among them at the rear.’

‘So what happened?’

‘There was a short, sharp fight and several of my men were wounded by arrows. We killed two of their ruffians and eventually drove them back, but one of my guard vanished. Another man said that he saw him fall during the fight, but as they were still being plagued by arrows from behind the trees, my men failed to find him or his body. Next day, I sent a party to search, but they found nothing except the two dead outlaws, which we left there.’

Still the sheriff kept silent, but John pressed Ferrars for more details.

‘So the dead man is still there somewhere? This is another murder — I should have been informed.’

‘We had no body to show you, Crowner,’ snapped the baron. ‘I have no doubt he is dead, but as yet there is no actual proof, though the fellow has certainly disappeared.’

Reginald de Courcy was becoming impatient. ‘What’s to be done about all this? De Revelle here seems remarkably loath to take any action.’

He turned to glare at the sheriff. ‘It is no secret that you have ambitions to become Warden of the Forest, though God knows why. It makes your motives in refusing to act all the more suspicious — and with your history over the past year or two, you can ill afford for that to happen.’

Richard glowered back at the rich landowner. ‘There are those who think otherwise, sir — and many are barons with considerable influence. I am a servant of the King, but no king reigns for ever!’

Guy Ferrars, a staunch supporter of the Lionheart, turned almost purple.

‘Have a care, de Revelle!’ he yelled. ‘Your neck will stretch the same as any other man’s who contemplates disloyalty!’

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ complained de Courcy testily. ‘Crowner, you have had evidence of deaths and crimes aplenty in the forest, against the King’s peace. What do you suggest?’

‘It’s not his place to suggest anything,’ yelped de Revelle. ‘I am the sheriff in this county, and I say that the forest laws look after themselves. De Wolfe has no jurisdiction there.’

‘Nonsense, de Revelle! What do you say, Crowner?’ snapped Ferrars.

John hesitated for a moment while he found the right words.

‘I need to resume several inquests, as no satisfactory evidence was offered. I have to enforce the attendance of two foresters, who refused to come to a King’s Court — and a greater force of arms is needed to rout out these outlaws who seem to be mercenaries for the forest administration.’

‘And how are we going to achieve that?’ grunted Ferrars. ‘I’ve only a few men left in my retinue, the rest have gone to fight in France. And de Courcy here has none at all.’

‘Then we must petition the Curia, through the Chief Justiciar. I’ll have to ride to find him, wherever he is, though I cannot leave for some days, owing to personal circumstances.’

‘Ha, we all know what they are!’ sneered Richard, spitefully, but the others ignored him.

‘I’ll do that towards the end of the week, but first I need to ride down to Buckfast to satisfy myself about a certain priest.’

He caught his brother-in-law’s eye and held it until Richard’s gaze dropped.

Other duties kept him occupied for the rest of the day, including riding just outside the city to the village of Clyst St Mary to see to a thief who had taken sanctuary in the church. The man refused to confess his crime, which was stealing a silver candlestick from the house of the parish priest. As the object was a personal belonging of the incumbent, rather than in the possession of the church, the offence of sacrilege could not be brought. If it had, then sanctuary would have been forfeited and the miscreant could have been dragged out of the church. The manor of Clyst St Mary belonged to the Bishop of Exeter, which explained why the priest was affluent enough to possess such a valuable object.

John failed to persuade the miserable thief, who cowered near the altar, to confess his sins and abjure the realm, which would at least have saved his neck. As it was the coroner ordered the villagers to guard the church for the next forty days, unless the culprit had a change of heart. If, at the end of that time, he still refused to confess and abjure, the coroner would order that he be deprived of food and drink until he died.

In fact, a large proportion of sanctuary-seekers were allowed to escape, as the villagers begrudged the expense and effort of feeding and guarding the criminal for almost six weeks, even at the cost of being fined by the coroner. In this case, however, the irate priest was likely to exact his revenge on the man and force his parishioners to do their legal duty.

In the early evening, de Wolfe went again to Polsloe Priory to see Nesta. She was much as before, very weak and as pale as skimmed milk.

The Welsh woman was ineffably sad and spoke very little, but lay quietly, with her hand in John’s as he sat alongside her low truckle bed in the bare cell. He talked soothingly to her and gave her news of how Edwin and the girls were faring well in running the Bush in her absence. They hardly spoke about the loss of her child; John was too timid to risk provoking a flow of tears. Instead, he sat talking of other things, like his problems in the forest and his trip to Clyst St Mary. Between these tales, he awkwardly murmured repetitively that all would well between them and that she must get well and come home to the Bush, whereupon things would be just as before. Matilda was not mentioned between them and, when he left, there was no sign of her in the infirmary corridor.

As he went to the door, Dame Madge appeared and brusquely ordered him into the treatment room to have his wound inspected and a new dressing applied.

‘It looks healthy. You are a tough man,’ she proclaimed, tugging at the linen stitches, which made him wince. ‘The edges of the wound are a little red, but there’s no pus at all.’

As she skilfully wound a new strip of linen around his waist, she told him that Nesta was still quite ill, having lost a great deal of blood after her miscarriage, though this flow had now abated. When he hesitantly asked about his wife, she shook her head sternly and said that there had been no change in ‘Sister’ Matilda’s attitude towards him.

When he returned to Exeter, he could not face the Bush without Nesta there, so went with Gwyn to the New Inn in the high street and sat there drinking until dusk, when his officer left to go home to St Sidwell’s before the curfew. John told Gwyn about the increasing impatience of the barons to have some action over the worsening situation in the forest.

‘We’ll have to go to Winchester soon, though I want to make sure that Nesta is out of any danger before I leave, as we’ll be away for at least a week.’

‘You also said you want to see about this priest that Thomas suspects,’ grunted Gwyn.

‘Yes, we must ride to Buckfast before Winchester. Will there be time after the hangings tomorrow, I wonder?’

‘There’s no one to be turned off today,’ said Gwyn. ‘We’re right out of felons this week!’

So it was that the next day saw another early start as the trio set out along the Cornwall road for the three-hour ride to Buckfast Abbey. Thomas was more cheerful than usual when on a horse, as any opportunity to visit a religious house was a treat for him, especially Buckfast, which had treated him as a genuine priest when he was last there. He was a little anxious about their reaction if they recognised him as one of the coroner’s team, but Gwyn magnanimously suggested that he could pretend to be the coroner’s chaplain!

However, when they arrived at the abbey Thomas slipped away into the church and stood praying and crossing himself in the quiet gloom, to avoid drawing attention to himself outside.

Gwyn and his master left the horses at the stables and went to the guest house as travellers to claim a meal, for which they donated a penny to the abbey funds. As they sat at the long tables in the large refectory, John looked around at the dozen other people eating there.

‘No sign of that bloody horse-dealer,’ he growled. ‘I wonder where we can lay hands on him?’

‘If Winter’s men have told him that he’s been seen with them, he’ll be keeping his head well down. Though if he’s to continue making a living, he’ll have to keep appearing at horse fairs and the like.’

As they left the hall, John questioned the lay brother in charge, who was not aware of their identity, believing them to be a passing knight and his squire.

‘I thought I might have chanced upon my old friend Stephen Cruch, the horse-dealer,’ John said. ‘He calls here from time to time, I know.’

The amiable brother, always ready for a gossip, shook his head.

‘Haven’t laid eyes on him for almost a fortnight. He comes now and then to deal with Father Edmund, but there’s no knowing when we’ll see him. Depends on what animals the abbey’s got to sell, I suppose.’

They left him to walk across the wide outer court between the abbey itself and the various buildings opposite, which comprised the large guest hall, the manorial court, the stables and the smithy, as well as the two gatehouses. The court was clean and tidy, unlike most public places in the towns and cities, and beyond it were orderly gardens and orchards, dotted with the beehives for which Buckfast was famous.

‘Do you want me to collect the little turd from his devotions?’ asked Gwyn, as they approached the door to the abbey cloisters.

‘No, let him be for now. I know he’s afraid of being recognised if he’s with us. Give him an hour of make-believe, poor sod.’

They went into the passage and reached the arched cloister, Gwyn scowling at the sight of silent Cistercians perambulating the paved arcades.

‘How they can think that keeping their gobs shut for years on end makes them holy, I just can’t see!’ he muttered under his breath.

John grinned at his officer’s determined antipathy to religion, a most unusual phenomenon and one for which he had never discovered the cause. He asked a passing lay brother, who was lugging a leather bucket of hot water, where he might find Father Edmund Treipas.

‘He’s not here, sir,’ said the old man. ‘He went off to Plymouth yesterday to arrange a shipment of the abbey’s wool to Barfleur.’

De Wolfe cursed under his breath at the prospect of a wasted journey from Exeter. ‘Well, is the abbot in residence?’

‘I’ll take you to his secretary, sir, if you’ll follow me.’

He dumped his bucket in the cloister and shuffled ahead of them to another door which led to the abbot’s house, on the south-west corner of the cloister. Inside the abbot’s lodgings, they were led up a staircase to a room where a young, rather supercilious monk sat behind a table covered with scrolls and writing materials. The Cistercian rule of silence was hardly compatible with the administration of a large organisation like Buckfast and, having enquired as to their identity, the secretary’s aloof manner moderated in the presence of the King’s coroner. He went to an adjacent door, tapped and went in. A moment later he returned and ushered them into the abbot’s parlour, a large, plainly furnished room with a glazed window that overlooked the outer court.

Abbot William was an austere man, with a shock of white hair surrounding his shaven crown. He reminded de Wolfe of his friend John de Alençon, with his narrow face and clear blue eyes. William was an eminent personage, having acted as a Papal Legate five years earlier. He graciously waved them to chairs on the other side of his plain table and John sat down, but Gwyn stood stiffly behind his master. The abbot enquired politely as to the nature of their business with him.

‘It’s a delicate matter, sir,’ began de Wolfe, rather unsure of his ground here. ‘I am investigating a series of crimes and disturbances in the Royal Forest, especially in this bailiwick. We have problems with a band of outlaws who appear to be getting support from outside for their nefarious actions.’

Abbot William looked mildly surprised.

‘The abbey is outwith the Royal Forest, though some of our more distant land and pastures lie within its bounds. What is this to do with us?’

John made one of his gargling noises to cover his indecision about suggesting that one of the senior monks was involved in treason.

‘It has been noted that a certain trader has been involved as a go-between with this band of outlaws,’ he said, in as neutral terms as possible. ‘This trader is also a frequent visitor to the abbey and seems to have close ties with one of your brethren.’

The abbot’s brows came together in a frown. ‘We have many traders coming to us. We are one of the largest landowners in the area and produce a great deal of wool, beasts, honey and other provender. It is inevitable that such dealers frequent the place.’ Of a sudden, the atmosphere in the chamber seemed to have become chilly.

‘This priest has also met with our suspect dealer well away from the abbey, such as at an alehouse near Ashburton.’

William became impatient. ‘Let us not beat about the bush, Sir John. Why not name names? You are no doubt referring to Father Edmund, as you said ‘priest’, not ‘monk’?’

John inclined his dark head. ‘Indeed, that is so. And the dealer was Stephen Cruch, a fellow of dubious reputation from the company he keeps.’

The abbot waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. ‘I know nothing of the tradesmen who deal with the abbey,’ he said sharply. ‘In fact, that is why Edmund came to us, as he had a reputation for worldly expertise and seemed capable of managing the outside affairs of the abbey.’

‘How was it that he did come to Buckfast?’

‘My friend in God, Bishop Henry, arranged it. I understand that Father Edmund was beneficial in restoring the fortunes of the See of Coventry and had in fact been a merchant in that city before he gave up the worship of Mammon for the cloth and later the cloister.’

He fixed de Wolfe with a steely eye. ‘I fail to see what gain you expected by coming to Buckfast, Crowner. I can assure you that this abbey has no interest whatsoever in fomenting trouble in the Royal Forest. What exactly is it you think has been going on?’

John decided that it would be best to be quite frank with this perceptive old man.

‘There are coincidences that need explanation. Undoubtedly forces are at work stirring up trouble in the forest, the object of which is not clear at the moment. But money is changing hands towards that end and this horse-dealer seems to be one of the channels through which it passes. Your cellarer, Edmund Treipas, is in regular contact with the man — and that good father came via Bishop Henry Marshal from his previous master, the Bishop of Coventry. It is common knowledge where their sympathies lie.’

Abbot William stared at de Wolfe for a long moment.

‘Ah, I see how your mind is working, Sir John! You suspect the common factor is the Count of Mortain, don’t you?’

His voice was level and controlled, but John sensed the anger beneath.

‘You are well known as a staunch King’s man and I applaud you for that. And I am no traitor either, though my allegiance must be to God first and to men second.’

He paused to choose his words carefully. ‘Yet you must understand that many people, especially in this abbey, have mixed feelings about who would make the best king. We can hardly feel unstinting devotion to Richard Coeur-de-Lion, who openly expresses his dislike of the Cistercians.’

William slapped his hands on the edge of his table.

‘And what of his actions two years ago, when he stripped us of every penny of our wool revenues for a whole year, to help pay for his ransom? We almost fell into financial ruin through that punitive act — our brethren ate poorly that winter, I can assure you! And before that, we had to forfeit some of our treasured silver chalices from the very altar itself, to fund his wars!’

De Wolfe always took poorly to any criticism of his monarch.

‘Buckfast was not alone in that, Abbot. The whole country had to make sacrifices at the times of the wars, the Crusade and the King’s capture.’

‘But why should we? We have a king who thinks of nothing but fighting abroad. He spends no time in England, he bleeds the country dry and yet expects unswerving allegiance! Is it any surprise that some wonder if his brother John might make a better sovereign? He certainly has promised we monastic orders some preferment when he comes to the throne, as come he must before long. It’s only a matter of time before our foolhardy Richard gets himself killed in some rash combat.’

John testily thought that anyone other than a senior cleric could be arraigned for sedition for uttering such sentiments, yet an abbot could get away with it.

‘Are you saying that you condone any activities such as I suspect your cellarer might be engaged in?’

‘Of course not!’ snapped William. ‘And I am confident that Edmund is not involved in anything illegal or unchristian. Frankly, I think your suspicions are based on nothing but rumour and supposition.’

He stood up abruptly and, picking a small handbell from his table, rang it for his secretary. The young monk appeared with such alacrity that de Wolfe suspected that he had been listening with his ear to the door.

‘The coroner is leaving now. See them to the court and ensure they have refreshment in the guest hall before they ride back to Exeter,’ he commanded. He offered them a courteous but cold farewell, and soon de Wolfe and his officer were outside, feeling somewhat chastened by the peremptory manner of the elderly monk.

‘We’ll learn nothing more here today,’ grumbled Gwyn. ‘Our only chance would be to catch this Edmund red handed, passing a purse of silver to Stephen Cruch.’

‘Little chance of that now. They’ll have been warned both by the knowledge of someone stalking their meeting in the forest — and now by us coming here.’

There was nothing for it but to collect Thomas from the church and set off for home. When they reached Rougemont, it was still only early afternoon, as their seven-hour expedition to Buckfast had begun soon after dawn and these midsummer days were long. A messenger was waiting for John, a man in the service of Guy Ferrars, who requested his presence at his son’s town house in Goldsmith Street. The baron himself lived at several of his manors, as the fancy took him, often at Tiverton, where he had an estate which dwarfed that of his neighbour, Richard de Revelle.

His son Hugh was a rather stupid young man, fond of hunting, gaming and drinking. The previous autumn, the coroner had been involved in investigating the death of Hugh’s fiancée, a tragedy that had led to murder. Since then, the son had added wenching to his list of pastimes, much to his father’s displeasure, and it was rumoured that Lord Ferrars was now actively involved in finding a wife for his son, in an attempt to bring him to heel.

John mulled over these memories as he walked behind the servant the short distance to Goldsmith Street, which was off High Street behind the Guildhall. The house belonged to a friend of Reginald de Courcy, and the Ferrars rented the two rooms on the ground floor, where Hugh lived with a squire when he was in the city. Today, his father was there in his stead, sitting in the small hall adjacent to the street door, with a flask of best Loire wine by his side.

His servant poured one for John, who sat on a bench facing the baron.

‘De Wolfe, since we last spoke I’ve been thinking about this servant of mine who vanished in that ambush. You’re right — if he’s dead, he should be found and the villain who killed him brought to justice.’

John nodded gravely. ‘I agree wholeheartedly, my lord. If he is dead, then it is my duty as a law officer to hold an inquest. But I thought you had failed to find any trace of him?’

The florid-faced baron, a large, beefy man with a permanently pugnacious expression, glowered at his wine cup.

‘So my men told me. But I have had a thought that we could return to the scene and use some hounds to track him. His wife can provide some remnant of his clothing that will have his scent, so surely a good dog could find him?’

John knew that there were three types of dog used in hunting: the big liam hound for starting the quarry from its lair, then the ‘leparii’, the lean greyhounds which hunted by sight, but mainly the ordinary hound, the ‘brachetti’, which hunted by scent. It seemed a good idea of Ferrars’, if the brachetti would accept the human smell from clothing.

‘I’m damned if I’m going to let these forest bastards get away with this,’ snarled Guy. ‘Trying to steal game from my chase is bad enough, but then to kill one of my own men is beyond reason.’

John told him of his visit earlier that day to Buckfast and the abbot’s admission that many favoured Prince John, especially those to whom he had promised favours, such as the monasteries.

‘The King is the King!’ roared Ferrars, spilling some of his wine in his passion. ‘If Richard was to die, which God forbid, then I would be equally loyal to the next monarch — though I view the prospect of John Lackland on the throne with dismay and contempt.’

Though Ferrars was an overbearing bigot and a harsh, unforgiving landlord and master to his subjects, he was totally devoted to Richard the Lionheart, having fought alongside him many times. De Wolfe could forgive him his rough nature because of his loyalty, even though he could never generate any affection for the man.

‘So what’s to be done about the matter?’ he asked, partly to cool the baron’s rising temperature, already fuelled by too much wine.

‘Can you join us tomorrow morning, Crowner, if I get a search party and some hounds? I’d give much to find this corpse, for my own satisfaction, though no doubt his family would like to see him given a Christian burial.’

They arranged to meet at one of his manors near Lustleigh the following morning, John groaning inwardly at the thought of yet another two-hour ride soon after dawn. As he was leaving, Guy Ferrars followed him to the door.

‘I’ll bring that bumpkin of a son of mine, too. He’s not the brightest of men, but he’s big and fit and can wield a sword after a fashion.’

John went from Goldsmith Street to his house, where he collapsed into his fireside chair to rest his aching limbs. Though he was well used to spending much of his time in the saddle, these past few days had put a strain on him, having to ride long distances following his head injury and the still-painful slash across his hip. The thought came to him as Mary bustled about getting him a meal that he was getting old. He was now forty-one, and though he knew of men eighty years of age, relatively few survived past fifty or sixty. True, the upper classes fared better, though being killed in battle was an ever-present hazard. The villeins and serfs had a far lower life expectancy, threatened by pestilence, starvation and accidents, many being fortunate to reach thirty.

As he sat in his gloomy hall, hung with faded tapestries to hide the timber walls, he thought about death and how it would come. He hoped it would be sudden, unexpected and bloody, rather than a slow wasting from a seizure or a long fever or some variety of pox. If it were not for Gwyn and the tavern hound, he could have died this week, slumped bemused in that forest, fading in and out of consciousness and with a bleeding wound.

He shook himself free of these morbid thoughts as Mary brought in his dinner. At the table he found that she had fried him three trout, which rested invitingly on a large trencher of barley bread, with turnips and leeks on a side platter. Wild berries, white bread and cheese followed, with a quart of best ale to wash it down.

‘I went down to the Bush for a gallon, just to cheer you up, Sir Crowner!’ she announced, in her part-mocking, part-affectionate way.

‘I thought you might have forgotten the place, now that your lady friend is no longer in residence.’

Then, becoming serious, she enquired after Nesta’s health. ‘I heard that she is still very weak, poor girl. Maybe I can walk up to Polsloe some time to see her and take her a decent morsel of food. I doubt they get anything very tasty in that place.’

John slipped an arm around her waist as she stood near him at the table.

‘Your heart is in the right place, Mary, apart from being in a very shapely chest!’ he said. ‘Soon I will have to be away for at least a week, travelling to Winchester, so it would be good if you could visit her when I’m gone.’

His meal finished, he crawled to his bed for a few hours’ rest to ease his aching side, but in the evening he borrowed a mare from the farrier and rode gently up to Polsloe. Nesta was much the same, though perhaps even more pale and wan. Her face was so white that her cheeks seemed almost green below the eyes. When she rested her hand in his as he sat at the bedside, he saw that her nail-beds were the colour of milk, without a vestige of pink. She spoke little, as if the effort of talking was too much, but seemed somehow more content, even in her exhausted state.

John attempted to make largely one-sided conversation, no mean feat for such a taciturn man. Nesta lay listening, savouring the thought that she would no longer have to screw up the courage to respond to Thomas’s plea to tell John that the child was not his. Her feelings about losing the babe were strange, and she was almost frightened by her own lack of emotion about the miscarriage. There was a natural element of deep shock and sorrow that was inevitable in any woman, but overlying this was the feeling of relief that she had escaped from an intolerable situation — one that had almost driven her to take the life of both herself and the baby she carried.

As John faltered to the end of his stock of small talk, which mainly concerned his problems in the forest and the day’s excursion to Buckfast, she lay sleepily under the influence of Dame Madge’s infusion of gentian. As he fell silent, she squeezed his hand and remembered something to tell him.

‘Dear Thomas came to visit me this afternoon, while you were snoring in your bed,’ she said softly. ‘He is a good little man — he has been kinder to me than you would ever imagine.’

‘Is he another fellow for me to be jealous of, a rival for your affections, madam?’ he said jocularly. ‘Will I have to fight him with broadswords for your favours?’

‘I can’t see little Thomas fighting anyone. He is a true man of peace — and one who has the greatest devotion and affection for you, too. He has promised to teach me to read and write when I am recovered, so that I can keep accounts in the inn.’

‘Then you can write me love letters — and I will speed up my own learning so that I can read them!’

Their tender flirting was interrupted by the forbidding figure of Dame Madge coming into the room. She looked impassively at the sight of the county coroner holding hands with an innkeeper, while his noble wife was hardly a dozen yards away under the same roof.

The angular nun advanced on the bed with some brown potion for Nesta. ‘She needs to build back the blood she lost, Sir John. There’s no more I can do for her, except keep watch against a fever and give her the best nourishment.’

John expressed his deep appreciation of the treatment she was receiving. ‘I have to go to Winchester in a few days and will be away a week or more. Can she stay here until I return? Her maids at the inn are diligent, but I would be more content if she was cared for here.’

‘She’ll not be fit to return for some time yet. Be assured that we will look after her here.’ She looked sternly at the coroner’s own battered face, where the bruises on his temple were beginning to turn yellow at the edges. ‘I want to see that wound in your loin before you leave, Crowner. It’s time the dressing was changed again.’

Even Nesta managed a smile as the coroner meekly trailed out to the treatment room after the nun, the pair looking like two skinny rooks in their black plumage.