Fear in the Forest

CHAPTER TWO

Nicholas de Bosco lived in a quieter part of Exeter, between the North Gate and Rougemont Castle, the fortress that occupied the highest ground in the north-eastern corner of the city walls. St Pancras Lane took its name from the nearby church, one of twenty-seven in a town of four thousand inhabitants. The Warden lived in a narrow dwelling similar to that of John de Wolfe, with a stone-tiled roof and a blind front, with only one shuttered window and a door facing the street. It was but a few minutes’ walk for the coroner from Martin’s Lane, and his rapping on the front door was answered by a wizened old servant whom he took to be de Bosco’s bottler.

John was shown into the hall, a gloomy chamber hung with swords, shields, spears and other paraphernalia of past campaigns. A woman’s touch was obviously lacking as the room contained only the bare necessities for living, with no gestures to comfort. A pair of oak settles stood either side of an empty fire-pit in centre of the floor, and a long table bore a few pewter cups and a flask of wine. Yet the man who rose to greet the coroner was a minor lord, with three manors in the county. A knight since his youth, like John he had fought in several campaigns in Ireland and France and had been to the Third Crusade, though their paths had never crossed outside Devon. Nicholas de Bosco was almost two decades older than de Wolfe’s forty years and he looked every day of it. He had a thin, gaunt face and his sparse hair was white. He had no beard or moustache — nor a single tooth in his head. However, his grey eyes were bright and sharp and his grip was firm as he grasped John’s forearm in greeting. He used his left hand, for the right was crippled from an old spear wound sustained in battle in Normandy years before. Nicholas motioned the coroner to a seat opposite and beckoned to his servant to serve them wine.

‘We have met briefly several times, Sir John, in some of the burgesses’ functions in the Guildhall. I have long known of your reputation as a fighting man in the service of our King.’

As with de Wolfe’s coronership, Nicholas owed his appointment as Warden of the Royal Forests of Devon to his faithful adherence to Richard the Lionheart — and to his father King Henry before him. They exchanged a few memories of campaigns long past, but after they had drunk each other’s health in good Poitou red, John got down to business.

‘My officer told you that yesterday one of your verderers was murdered?’ he asked bluntly.

De Bosco nodded sadly. ‘I find it hard to believe. Humphrey le Bonde was a good man, solid and dependable. Why should anyone wish to kill him? I understand it was not a common robbery.’

‘It’s unlikely, though we can’t be sure. His purse was not taken, nor was there any sign of a struggle along the highway. I hoped you might be able to shed some light on the mystery.’

Nicholas shook his head in mystification. ‘I was not all that close to him, but I know of nothing that would cause anyone to wish him dead. The relationship of Warden to verderers is a loose one, though we are all officers of the Royal Forest.’

The hovering bottler refilled John’s cup as the other man explained further.

‘As you will know, each of the forests has a Warden, appointed directly by the King — or in reality by the Curia Regis or Chief Justiciar on his behalf. It’s supposed to be an appointment for life and I have been overseeing Devon since Richard put me here in ’91.’

He paused to sip his wine, staring pensively into the cold ashes of the firepit. ‘In the last year there has been some agitation to remove me. No one will come forward openly, but I have had anonymous letters telling me to resign — and even a couple of threats on my life.’

John sat up straighter — this might have some bearing on le Bonde’s killing.

‘Do you know if the same happened to the verderer?’

De Bosco shook his head. ‘Not that I know of — and I would be surprised if it were so. I’m sure this is a political matter, which would not affect a mere verderer. I don’t wish to sound patronising, but there is considerable difference between our ranks. Wardens, like coroners, have to be men of substance — at least manor lords or even a baron. Verderers are drawn from the ranks of lesser knights or even just freeholders.’

De Wolfe, who had spent much of his adult life out of England, had never before needed to understand the hierarchy of the forest officers and sought some explanation.

‘So are verderers also appointed by the Crown?’

De Bosco exhaled through his bare gums. ‘It’s complicated! There are four of them in every forest, one to each quadrant. They are recommended by a sheriff’s writ and elected by freeholders in the County Court. But at least in theory they are responsible directly to the King, not to the Warden. It’s a strange system.’

John had pricked his ears up at the mention of the sheriff. Anything that involved his brother-in-law needed to be looked at very carefully.

‘So the nomination comes from the sheriff?’

The Warden nodded. ‘No doubt Richard de Revelle already has someone in mind, if he knows yet about the death of Humphrey le Bonde.’

‘What’s the difference in the functions of these officers?’

Nicholas drained his cup and waved it at his servant to be refilled.

‘I’m just an administrator — it matters not whether I ever set foot in the forest. With my clerk, I compile the records of all income to the Treasury from forest activities and of all court cases, to send to the Justiciar each year.’

He stared rather glumly into his wine cup. ‘It’s hardly an exciting task, but our king was minded to give it to me, so I do the best job I can. I have to organise the Forest Eyre, though that court is rarely held more often than every three years. I am supposed to deal with all complaints relating to forest law and exercise discipline over all the other forest staff, though in fact the verderers cannot be dismissed except by royal command.’

‘And these verderers — what do they do?’

‘Their main function is to deal with the lower forest courts — the Attachment Courts, where most of the everyday offences are heard.’

De Wolfe rubbed his black stubble.

‘Are they the same as these ‘forty-day’ courts?’

‘That’s the common man’s name for them, though some call them ‘woodmotes’. The verderers can deal with minor offences at these courts, mainly those against the vert of the forest. Anything more serious, such as accusations of venison, has to be referred to the Forest Eyre — which means that many poor bloody miscreants spend a few years in prison, where they often die before their case is even heard.’

Though John might be vague about the administration of the forest, he knew very well that ‘vert’ referred to the trees, vegetation and indeed trade in the royal demesne. ‘Venison’ concerned the creatures of the forest, though even these were strictly categorised from roe deer down to rabbits.

‘So who does the actual supervision of the forest, if verderers are really only concerned with their local courts?’

A sour expression clouded De Bosco’s lined face. ‘The damned foresters, that’s who! Though they’re rough, common men, they rule the forests as if they own them! I’m supposed to be in charge of them, but they go their own way almost unchecked.’

‘You don’t sound over-fond of them, Warden.’

Nicholas scowled. ‘Their name is a byword for greed and corruption, Crowner! They have too much authority and they misuse it to terrorise the forest folk. They take full advantage of their power, especially when the verderer is weak and lets them get away with it.’

‘Was Humphrey le Bonde weak?’

De Bosco shook his head. ‘Not particularly. He did his best to control the worst excesses, and we sometimes spoke of finding some way to curb the misrule of the foresters. But they always had some excuse and recently claimed that they had the backing of the sheriff in some of what they did.’

Again, an alarm bell clanged inside John’s head at the mention of Richard de Revelle’s possible involvement. He declined another measure of wine and stood up ready to leave, thanking the Warden for his help.

‘I may need to call on you again, when more facts are known. But at the moment, you have no idea why anyone should want to murder a verderer?’

Nicholas de Bosco walked the coroner to his street door.

‘It’s a complete mystery to me, de Wolfe. But there are strange things stirring in the forest, and I don’t mean wild boar! Recently, some of the foresters are becoming even more strict and oppressive than usual, and the reaction from both the peasants and the barons is hardening. True, the income that I send to Winchester has increased lately, but I suspect that it is but a fraction of what is being extorted from the forest folk.’

His tired face looked even more unhappy as he finished his tale of woe. ‘I wish I knew what was going on myself — though I can’t see how this death can be connected with it.’

After he had left the Warden, de Wolfe loped along the streets towards Rougemont, trying to make sense of the death of le Bonde, who seemed an unlikely candidate for assassination, if robbery was not the motive. A large part of Devon was designated as a Royal Forest, where irrespective of the ownership of the land all hunting and many other aspects of the rural economy were reserved to the King. He had recently heard that many landowners, from cottagers to barons, were becoming increasingly aggravated by the situation and were beginning to agitate for the forest areas to be reduced and the punitive laws relaxed.

Devoted as he was to his King, John knew that Richard Coeur-de-Lion was only interested in his French wars, having spent only four months of his reign in England and seeming reluctant ever to return. The monarch was unlikely to agree to any loss of income to his exchequer, which paid for his troops to keep fighting Philip of France. The Royal Forests, which covered almost a third of England, were a lucrative source of income, and the Lionheart needed every penny, as the country was still paying off his huge ransom owed to Henry of Germany. De Wolfe still felt guilty about that, as he had been part of the King’s small bodyguard when he was captured in Austria, blaming himself for not being vigilant enough to prevent it.

His ruminations had brought him to the short hill that led up to the drawbridge over the dry moat of the castle. At the top was the tall gatehouse, on the upper floor of which the coroner had his miserable official chamber, grudgingly provided by the sheriff. Grunting at the solitary man-at-arms on sentry duty under the raised portcullis, he turned into the guardroom under the entrance arch and climbed the narrow twisting steps to the second floor.

Pushing through the sacking that hung as a draught-excluder over the open doorway, he entered his office, a dank and cobwebbed chamber under the roof, aired by two open slits that looked down over the city.

On such a long summer evening dusk was still a few hours away, and Gwyn was still here. He lived at St Sidwell’s, just outside the walls, and if he wanted to spend the night with his wife and children he would have to leave before the city gates were shut at curfew.

‘Where’s Thomas?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘Probably crossing himself and gabbling his prayers down at the cathedral,’ grunted the Cornishman. ‘I think he’s practising for when he gets restored to Holy Office.’

‘I think that’ll be a long while yet, in spite of his yearning.’

John gestured at a large jug of cider by Gwyn’s stool and his officer poured a generous helping of the turbid fluid into two pottery jars standing on the rough trestle table.

‘I thought the bishop and archdeacon had given him some hope, in recompense for him nearly getting hanged by mistake,’ said his officer.

The coroner shrugged and took a long swallow of cider.

‘There’s still plenty of bad feeling against him amongst the other clerics — but at least Thomas is more cheerful these days. We don’t want him jumping off more roofs, trying to kill himself again.’

Their clerk, defrocked several years ago in Winchester for allegedly indecently assaulting one of his girl pupils in the cathedral school, was obsessed with regaining his ordination and had become very depressed at the failure to make any progress towards reinstatement.

De Wolfe slumped onto the bench behind his table and they sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, sucking at their mugs of fermented apple juice. Gwyn had been his bodyguard and companion for many years, travelling and fighting with de Wolfe through a dozen countries as far away as Palestine. Always a taciturn pair, they saw no need for idle chatter, but eventually Gwyn asked whether Nicholas de Bosco had thrown any light on the recent murder.

‘No, but he gave me the feeling that something is brewing in the forest. I’ve no idea yet what it could be, but I’ll wager there’s some politics behind it — which usually means my dear brother-in-law is involved.’

He drained his jar and pushed himself to his feet, leaning with his hands on the table, hunched like a black vulture.

‘Talking of that devil, I’d better go across and see him. I suspect he’s already heard of the loss of one of his verderers, but I’ll have to make it official.’

Leaving the ever-famished Gwyn to attack a mutton pasty and some bread and cheese that he had bought at a street stall, de Wolfe stumped back down the stairs and turned into the inner ward of the castle. Rougemont had an outer line of defences lower down the hill, where a high earth bank and a ditch marked off a large area in the angle between the north and east city walls. In this outer ward lived many of the garrison and their families, as well as other camp followers. A profusion of huts and shacks, together with stables, forges, armourers and store sheds, turned this outer bailey into a small village. A high, castellated stone wall cut off the upper corner, creating the fortified inner ward, entered only through the gatehouse. Inside was the keep, a three-storeyed building against the far wall, where the sheriff and constable lived. The ward also contained the tiny garrison chapel of St Mary and the bleak stone barn that was the Shire Court. Around the inside of the curtain wall were more lean-to sheds and shacks, some being living quarters, others stables and storerooms. It had been more than half a century since the castle had seen any military action and the place was now hardly a fortress, but more the administrative hub of Devonshire, as well as the home of a few score soldiers and their families.

John de Wolfe strode across the ward, churned by the feet of countless horses, cart-oxen and soldiers into an almost grassless expanse of dried mud. The early evening sun was still warm and outside their huts a few wives were sewing and gossiping, as they watched urchins playing with mongrels or tossing balls of tied rags. Nodding curtly to a few acquaintances as he went, the coroner reached the wooden stairs that led up to the door of the keep, twelve feet above ground. In the unlikely event of besiegers breaking into the inner ward, the stairs could be thrown down and a portcullis dropped over the only entrance to this final refuge. This evening, the only threat to Rougemont’s inner sanctum was the grimly resolute look on the coroner’s face as he marched in, determined to discover whether the sheriff was involved in any new scheming in the Royal Forest.

On the main floor, above the undercroft that housed the fetid gaol, was the great hall of the castle, behind which were the rooms of the sheriff. The upper floor was occupied by the constable of Rougemont, as well as housing the cramped living quarters of numerous servants and clerks. De Wolfe was making straight for the door of his brother-in-law’s quarters, set at the side of the hall, when a voice hailed him from one of the trestle tables that were set out in the large, high chamber.

‘He’s not there, John. Gone to visit his wife, so he says!’

The coroner turned and saw a large, grey-bearded man wearing a mailed hauberk, sitting with Gabriel, the sergeant-at-arms. He was also in armour, his round metal helmet on the table near by. The senior man was Ralph Morin, the castle constable and a good friend of de Wolfe, who walked across and dropped on to the bench alongside them.

‘What’s all this chainmail, then? Are we expecting the French to invade us?’

Ralph grinned and waved to a passing servant to bring some ale across to them. He was living proof that the Normans were recent descendants of the Norsemen, as with his fair hair and forked beard he looked as if he had just stepped off a Viking longship.

‘Just got back from drilling some idle soldiers on Bull Mead,’ he grunted. ‘These days, most of the youngsters have never seen a sword lifted in anger — nor even a drop of blood spilt! We need a war to knock them into shape.’

‘Too damned hot for running around in a hauberk,’ added Gabriel, as a pitcher of ale and some pots were put on the table. The sergeant was a grizzled old warrior, nearing retirement age, who had seen plenty of service in the Irish and French wars. The three professional soldiers spent a few moments bemoaning the soft recruits and easy time that the military had these days, until Ralph Morin returned to the subject of the sheriff. Although de Revelle was nominally the constable’s superior, Rougemont was a royal castle, rather than the fief of a baron, so Ralph was responsible directly to the King for its security.

‘He went up to Tiverton on Sunday, supposed to return tomorrow. Perhaps his lady feels in need of some service!’

The sheriff’s wife, the frigid Lady Eleanor, refused to live with her husband in Exeter in the cold and draughty keep and spent her days either at their manor near Tiverton or at the family home at Revelstoke, near Plymouth. The arrangement seemed to suit Richard, who never lacked for illicit female company in his bedchamber, but every week or two he made short duty visits to his haughty spouse.

‘Then he can’t yet know that the forest has lost one of its verderers?’ observed de Wolfe. He related the story of the curious death of Humphrey le Bonde, and Morin’s craggy face showed his surprise.

‘I knew le Bonde well — I was at the siege of Le Mans with him. He was a good fellow, a dependable fighter. I’m sorry he’s dead.’

‘Who the hell would want to plant an arrow in the back of a verderer?’ growled Gabriel. ‘If it was a forester or even a woodward, I could understand it. Many of those bastards deserve to be slain, but a verderer just holds the forty-day courts.’

‘Could it be an aggrieved forest dweller, who was dealt with harshly at one of those courts?’ hazarded the constable.

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘Those woodmotes can only fine folk a trivial amount for offences against the vert worth less than four pence. Who’s going to commit murder in revenge for a few marks?’

Morin gulped some ale and wiped his luxuriant beard with his hand.

‘Then you’re driven back on outlaws — but if he wasn’t robbed, then why should they fire a shaft through his lights? A verderer would have no particular fight with those human wolves in the forest.’

‘There’s something more sinister going on,’ grunted John. ‘The Warden’s been threatened and someone wants to squeeze him out of his job.’

They kicked the problem back and forth until the ale was finished, then de Wolfe rose from the table. ‘If our dear sheriff isn’t here, then I’d better get back home and face his sister. She’ll be wanting her supper after a hard bout of talking to God at St Olave’s!’

He left the two soldiers looking for some food to be washed down with more ale. The sun was now low over the great twin towers of the cathedral, but the streets were still bustling with people. Many citizens were still haggling with traders at booths or at shopfronts, whose hinged shutters were dropped down to make a counter to display their goods. Porters struggled by with great woolpacks on their shoulders or heaving at laden handcarts. Drinkers staggered in and out of the many ale shops on the high street and sumpter horses and pack mules squeezed through the crowds, with their drivers dragging on the bridles, blaspheming every step of the way. The evening air was redolent with the smells of cooking, sewage and horse manure.

Oblivious to the turmoil, the coroner barged his way towards Martin’s Lane, a head taller than most of those around him. He turned into the alleyway, shadowed by contrast with the brighter expanse of the cathedral Close at the far end. With a sigh of resignation, he pushed open his front door and turned right to go straight into the hall. His big hound Brutus rose from under the table and came towards him, head down and tail wagging in welcome. A less cordial greeting came from behind the wooden cowl of one of the monk’s chairs near the hearth.

‘And where have you been gallivanting since just after dawn?’

‘Getting my arse sore in the saddle, riding around the county on the duties that you were so keen to shoulder me with last autumn,’ he replied sourly, slumping down on to the other settle opposite his wife.

‘Your speech is becoming as crude as your habits, John,’ snapped Matilda.

‘D’you want to hear what I’ve been doing or not?’

‘No doubt you’ll tell me only what you want me to know — and leave out the details of your usual drinking and wenching.’

For once, John experienced the indignation of a clear conscience as far as today was concerned, but he checked an angry response, for Matilda usually came off best in a shouting match. He sat glowering at her, bemoaning the day sixteen years ago when his father had arranged his marriage into the wealthy de Revelle family. To be fair, neither had the bride been too keen on the union and had many times since bitterly expressed her preference for the religious life over wedlock.

John looked at her now, as they squared up to each other across the hearth like a pair of bull terriers. He saw a stocky woman four years older than his forty years, with a square, pugnacious face on a short neck. Her features were regular, and when younger she had been almost handsome in a grim kind of way, but now puffy lids narrowed her blue eyes and her lips were set in a thin, hard line. Her pale hair was confined in a tight coif of cream linen, tied under her aggressive chin, and the rest of her burly body was clothed in a green kirtle which, in spite of the warm weather, was of heavy brocade. John mused that in spite of her devotion to religious observance and her professed yearning to become a nun, she was inordinately fond of fine clothes and had an appetite for food and wine that challenged Gwyn’s.

‘Well, are you going to tell me or not?’ she snapped, interrupting his sullen reverie.

Too weary to argue, he swallowed his exasperation and related the story of the dead verderer.

‘Your brother has gone to Tiverton, so I presume that he’s not yet aware of the loss of one of his appointees,’ he concluded, sensing that she was only mildly interested in his story, as the dead man was merely a minor knight and not one of the county aristocracy. Matilda was an avid follower of the notabilities of Devon and was always angling for ways to ascend the social hierarchy of the county. Being sister to the King’s sheriff and wife to the King’s coroner was a good start, but she closely followed the activities and intrigues of the barons, richer burgesses and manor-lords, pushing for invitations to feasts and receptions at every opportunity. It was largely at her instigation that her husband had accepted the coroner’s post the previous year, with Matilda nagging her reluctant brother to support John’s bid. But the violent demise of Humphrey le Bonde struck no chord with her and the only faint interest was that Richard de Revelle would be the one who would recommend his successor for election by the freeholders in his County Court.

Their desultory conversation was interrupted by Mary coming in from the kitchen-shed with their supper. The main meal was dinner in the late morning, but the pangs of night starvation were kept at bay by slices of cold pork on a thick trencher of stale bread, with side dishes of fried onions and boiled cabbage. Fresh bread and hard cheese filled up any remaining empty spaces in their stomachs, washed down with ale and cider.

They moved to the long oak table, where the steady champing of Matilda’s jaws removed the strain of devising any further talk, though her husband also acquitted himself well with the food, after a day in the saddle. By the time they had finished and the cook-maid came to take away the remains, it was growing dark in the hall. The one small window-opening, covered in varnished linen, looked out onto the narrow lane lined with high buildings, which was in shadow even when the open cathedral precinct was still well lit. Matilda abruptly pushed back her stool and announced that she was going up to the solar, where her maid Lucille could prepare her for bed.

John, following a well-used pattern, said that he would have some more ale, then take Brutus for a walk. They both knew where the hound was likely to take him, but only a tightening of her lips betrayed her feelings as she stamped off through the outer passage to reach the back yard and the stairs to her upper room.

At about the same time as the coroner of Devon was whistling for his dog, twenty miles farther west in the county, a Cistercian monk was sitting across a table from a horse trader. They were in the large guest house of Buckfast Abbey, in a small room adjacent to the refectory reserved for feeding travellers who sought lodging for the night during the journey from Exeter to Plymouth. Across the large walled courtyard with its two gatehouses was the abbey church with the cloisters and other monastic buildings alongside.

However, Stephen Cruch, the dealer in horses, was no casual visitor to the abbey, as he often spent a night there on business. The austere Cistercians were famed for their prowess in agriculture and animal husbandry. The monks and lay brothers of Buckfast not only kept large flocks of sheep for their wool and meat, but bred both sheep and horses for sale. Richard Cruch had a standing contract as an agent for moving on their horseflesh and frequently came to negotiate with the abbey on behalf of buyers from all over the West Country and beyond.

His contact was Father Edmund Treipas, who conducted most of the trade with the outside world. Though an ordained priest as well as a monk, Father Edmund was a down-to-earth businessman, which was undoubtedly why he was also the abbey’s cellarer, responsible for all the provisions needed by the large establishment. In both roles, that of sales manager and storekeeper, he was unique in the enclosed community of Grey Monks, in that he frequently journeyed abroad, visiting Plymouth, Exeter and even Southampton on the abbot’s business.

These two unlikely acquaintances now sat head to head across the table, with a flask of mead between them, for Buckfast was famous for its honey. Edmund Treipas held a short roll of parchment, on which were the details of a batch of horses to be taken away the following morning to a buyer in Plymouth, who would ship them across the Channel for resale in Brittany. The priest had been going through the list of thirty beasts, noting whether they were stallions, mares or geldings, ticking off their value on the document with a charcoal stub. Stephen Cruch, who could neither read nor write, was using a tally made of a length of twine with different-sized knots, which he fingered one by one as the priest checked off the animals.

As well as the difference in their stations in life, the two men were markedly unlike each other in appearance. Father Edmund, in his habit of pale grey wool with a black scapula apron, was tall and angular, with a Roman nose and jet-black hair cropped short below his tonsure. He was in his late thirties and had a brisk, businesslike manner, unlike the typical image of a monastic recluse.

The horse-dealer was, by contrast, small and furtive. A dozen years older, he had a leathery, wizened face, darkened by an outdoor life. His mobile features had a sly look, his eyes constantly darting about him. When he spoke, it always seemed to be from one corner of his mouth. He allegedly lived in Totnes, but was always on the move between horse fairs and markets. Some rumours had it that he was an illegally returned abjurer from Wiltshire, but other gossip said that he was an outlaw from Gloucester’s Forest of Dean who had slipped back into circulation years before.

When both were satisfied that their lists coincided, Father Treipas rolled up his parchment and slipped it into his sleeve, while Cruch tucked his tally into the pouch he carried on his belt. They raised their pewter cups of mead to seal the bargain and drained them. The priest refilled from the flask.

‘My men will rope them up from the top paddock in the morning, Father,’ said the dealer. ‘We should be in Plymouth well before evening.’

He pushed a heavy leather bag across the table, the neck tied securely with a thong. ‘That’s the price we agreed. Count it if you wish.’

Edmund Treipas shook his head briskly. ‘No need. We’ve done business too often for you to short-change the abbey.’

He pulled the bag of silver coins nearer, then looked quickly around the room, to check that no one else was within sight. Dipping into a deep pocket in his loose robe, he pulled out a smaller purse and slid it across to Stephen. The bag, clinking a little, vanished as if by magic into some recess in Cruch’s brown serge surcoat.

‘I don’t want to know any details, understand?’ said the monk. ‘Just don’t tell me. It’s none of my business how you arrange these affairs.’

He threw down the rest of his drink and stood up, nodding rather curtly at the horse dealer.

‘I’ll see you off with the beasts in the morning, straight after Prime. And you’ll be back here as arranged, in three days’ time.’

He strode out without a backward glance.

In the gathering dusk, John de Wolfe made his way across the Close, the large space around the cathedral. It was almost a city within a city, being under canon law, where the jurisdiction of neither the sheriff and burgesses nor himself could run without the consent of Bishop Henry Marshal.

Tonight no offences were being committed there, apart from Brutus’s leg-lifting desecration of every tree and occasional grave-mound in the cluttered, rubbish-strewn area. Even the irreligious John thought this place was an eyesore, so close to the magnificent church which had so recently been completed.

However, John’s mind was not on the state of ecclesiastical Exeter, but on Nesta, the landlady of the Bush Inn and his beloved mistress. For the last week or two, he had had the feeling that something was wrong. Nothing that he could put a finger on, but in the back of his mind there was a little flutter of concern. Nesta was as affectionate as ever, as talkative as usual and looked as beautiful as always — but something was amiss. He had caught the odd sideways glance when she thought he was not looking and his ear, attuned by two years of loving her, picked up a change in the timbre of her voice now and then.

Much of the time he berated himself for being an old fool, but the worm of doubt always came back to wriggle in his brain. They had had their bad patches and it was only a couple of months since they had got back together again, following her brief affair with Alan of Lyme, the rogue who had run off with her virtue, a week’s takings and her prettiest serving maid.

He could not but help wonder whether some other bastard had taken her fancy, but somehow he thought not. Before the Alan business, he had given her cause for disaffection by neglecting her during a time of particular problems in the coroner’s work, but since they had been reconciled he had gone out of his way to be more attentive. He had not seen any of his other women for a long time — one had dropped out of circulation by getting married again and even the glorious Hilda of Dawlish, the blonde he had known from his youth, was unavailable because her seafaring husband was now shore-bound after a shipwreck.

De Wolfe churned all this around in his mind as he loped through the lanes into South Gate Street and across to Priest Street and then down the hill towards Idle Lane and the tavern. His dog zigzagged before him, marking every house-corner with an inexhaustible supply of urine until they reached the inn on its open patch of ground. Its low stone walls supported a huge thatched roof, and over the low front door a bundle of twigs hung from a bracket to mark its name for the illiterate majority.

Inside, the popular alehouse was as full as usual, but at least the normal fug of spilt ale, cooked onions and sweat was free from eye-smarting smoke, as there was no fire in the big hearth on this warm summer evening. Normally, the wood smoke hung about in a haze until it found its way out beneath the eaves, for unlike John’s house, most buildings did not have the luxury of a chimney.

From habit, he found his usual seat on a bench near the empty fireplace and Brutus crept into his accustomed place on the earthen floor under the rough table. He nodded to a number of other patrons who were regulars like himself and exchanged a few words with the nearest, who all were well aware of — and applauded — his relations with the Welsh innkeeper.

Usually old Edwin, the one-eyed potman, served him as soon as he arrived, but tonight Nesta herself bustled over with a large quart pottery jar of her best brew.

‘And how is the King’s crowner tonight?’ she asked, as she deposited the ale on the boards before him. In spite of her light tone, John already thought he detected something, maybe a forced gaiety. But he was so glad to see her, to be with her, that he pushed the thought aside in the pleasure of the moment.

‘Sit down, my love, and talk to me.’ He looked up at her as she leaned against the table, as neat as ever in a gown of yellow linen, tightly laced around her slim waist, emphasising the curve of her breasts above. Her heart-shaped face had a high forehead and snub nose, the full lips made for kissing. Some curls strayed from under her white linen helmet, as russet as Gwyn’s beard.

‘I can stay only a moment,’ she exclaimed, slipping onto the bench next to him. ‘There’s a party of wool merchants here tonight and they’re clamouring for their supper, so I must chase those idle girls in the back yard.’ The kitchen was in a shed behind the inn, the usual arrangement when fire was such a hazard to other buildings. The Bush had a reputation for the best cooking in the city, as well as for being the cleanest place to get a penny bed for the night.

John slipped an arm around her, heedless of the covert grins of some men on the next table. He felt her softness relax against him and somehow he was reassured that she had not found another man. Yet when they started talking about the events of the two days since he had last seen her, John still sensed that there was something she was leaving unsaid. He was reluctant to ask her straight out whether anything was amiss, in case she told him something he wouldn’t wish to hear. They talked for a few minutes, Nesta telling him of minor problems of the tavern, which she now ran herself with the help of Edwin, two maids and a cook. Until two years earlier, the innkeeper had been her husband Meredydd, a former Welsh archer in the service of King Richard. John had known him from his campaigning days, and when Meredydd had given up fighting because of a wound, he had taken on the Bush. But within a year he was dead of a fever, and for friendship’s sake de Wolfe had loaned his widow enough money to keep the inn going. He had helped her generally to survive, as a young woman trying to run a city tavern was a prime target for the unscrupulous. His protection had turned into affection and then genuine love, but they were sometimes disillusioned, mainly because Nesta fully realised that a Norman knight, married to the sheriff’s sister, was a hopeless long-term prospect for a lowly alehouse keeper.

John told her about the murder of the verderer and she listened carefully, as she always did to his tales of mayhem in Devon. He found it useful to pour out his problems, as it helped clear them in his mind — and her own quick brain not infrequently lighted on some point that he had missed. Sometimes, even more than Mary, she could give him some useful information, as Nesta was a mine of knowledge about what went on in the city and beyond. The Bush was the most popular inn for travellers passing through Exeter and she heard much of the gossip that was bandied about between the customers. This time, though, she had little to contribute.

‘I know nothing about these verderers, John, they’re just a name to me. Everyone knows of the foresters, though. All the country dwellers hate them for their harshness and corruption, that’s common knowledge.’

‘You’ve heard no idle chatter in here, about anything going on in the forests?’ he asked hopefully, but Nesta shook her head.

‘There was some talk the other day about the outlaws becoming bolder than ever. Some of the carters and drovers from the west were complaining that they sometimes get charged an illegal toll when passing through the more lonely stretches of the high road. They were cursing the sheriff for doing nothing about it.’

‘Nothing new about that!’ John replied cynically. ‘There’s no profit for de Revelle in chasing off a few vagabonds from the highway.’

Eventually, he ran out of other news and turned to a more immediate prospect.

‘I’m in no rush to get back tonight, madam. Will you be having a quiet hour before midnight?’ His eyes strayed to the wide ladder at the back of the inn, which led up to the upper floor. Here Nesta had a small room partitioned off from the rest of the loft, where the straw pallets of the guests were laid. She gave him one of her sidelong glances, then looked away.

‘Not tonight, John. It’s … well, not convenient.’

Gently, she pulled herself away and went off to the kitchen, tapping a shoulder here and giving a greeting there as she weaved through the patrons on her way to the back door. John followed her with his eyes, puzzled and disappointed. Their lovemaking upstairs, in the big French bed that he had bought her, was one of the most satisfactory things in his life. They were both enthusiasts in that direction, which made his devotion to her all the more complete. From her tone, he presumed that the time of the month had conspired against him tonight, but her attitude still made him uneasy. As he sat there despondently, staring down into his ale jug cupped between his hands, he felt the bench creak dangerously. Looking up, he found Gwyn’s huge frame alongside him, his eyes twinkling in his rugged face.

‘I thought you had gone home to St Sidwell’s. It’s past curfew now,’ grunted de Wolfe, jerking his head at the last of the twilight visible outside the open door. One of the maids was bringing a taper round to light the tallow dips hung in sconces around the walls.

‘I was going, but I got into a game of dice with Gabriel and some of the men up at the guardroom. I won three pence from them, so I thought I’d treat myself to one of Nesta’s mutton stews and a mattress here for the night.’

‘I’m glad someone will be staying up the ladder here tonight,’ grunted John sourly. ‘But it looks as if it won’t be me!’

The Cornishman’s straggling red eyebrows rose towards his even wilder hair. ‘Problems, Crowner?’ he asked solicitously. He had a dog-like fondness for Nesta and had been delighted when she and his master had got back together recently, after their rift a few months earlier. Now the prospect of more trouble genuinely worried him.

‘I don’t know, Gwyn, something seems to be concerning her. But I’ve been behaving myself these past weeks, haven’t I? There’s no reason why she should become cool towards me?’

Gwyn was more than a squire and bodyguard, he was a friend of twenty years’ standing, and each had saved the life of the other more than once in battles, ambushes and assaults. John was not the most articulate of men, and Gwyn was the only one to whom he could speak on intimate matters.

His officer scratched his armpit fiercely, annihilating a few fleas.

‘Come to think of it, the good woman has been a bit distant lately. Nothing to speak of, but she seems a bit far away sometimes, as if she has something heavy on her mind.’

Their conversation was interrupted by the potman, who stumped up to bring Gwyn a quart of ale.

‘You’ll be wanting another of the same, Captain?’ Edwin asked the coroner. He was an old soldier who had lost one eye and part of a foot in the Irish wars. Both de Wolfe and Gwyn had been in the same campaign and Edwin deferred to them as if he were still one of their men-at-arms.

John shook his head. ‘I’d better be getting back home,’ he muttered. ‘But no doubt my man here will want to be filled up with food.’

Whistling at Brutus to creep out from under the table, where the dog-loving Gwyn had been stroking his head, de Wolfe made for the backyard of the inn, to give Nesta a goodnight squeeze and a kiss, before trudging back to Martin’s Lane and his lonely side of an unwelcoming bed.

An hour after dawn the following morning, a cart drawn by two patient oxen drew up outside the alehouse in the village of Sigford. In the back were two large barrels and as soon as the clumsy vehicle came to a stop the driver and his villainous-looking companion jumped down and removed the tailboard. They propped a couple of planks against the back of the cart and knocked out the wooden wedges that secured the first cask.

As they rolled the heavy barrel to the ground, the door to the tavern flew open and the ale-wife bustled out.

‘What do think you’re doing?’ she screeched. ‘I don’t need any ale, I brew my own!

The driver’s assistant, a rough fellow dressed in little better than rags, gave her a gap-toothed leer. ‘Yes, and it tastes like cow-piss, so I’ve heard!’

Widow Mody, broad of hip and bosom, advanced furiously on the man and raised her hand to clip his ear, but he gave a her a push that sent her staggering.

‘This is some decent stuff, Mother, whether you like it or not.’

Outraged, but now wary after the threat of violence, the woman looked around the threadbare village green for someone to help her. Outside his cottage a hundred paces away, she saw their reeve looking towards the cart and she waved wildly at him.

‘Morcar, Morcar, come here!’ she yelled, before turning back to the pair, now getting the second cask down to the ground.

‘There’s some mistake! Where’s this come from? I don’t want it.’

The carter, a milder-looking man who seemed embarrassed by the proceedings, spoke for the first time.

‘It’s nothing to do with us, woman. We’re just delivering it.’

He started rolling the barrel towards the door of the alehouse, the other fellow grinning as he began to follow him.

‘If you’ve got any questions, ask them!’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and turning, the widow saw two men on horseback coming into the village. As Morcar arrived, so the riders reined up alongside the cart. By now several other men had been attracted by the shouting and were drifting towards the green, the smith amongst them.

The village reeve scowled up at the first horseman, a thin, erect fellow with grizzled iron-grey hair. He had unusually high cheekbones, over which the skin of his face was stretched like a drum. His chin and hollow cheeks were covered with dark grey stubble, framing a humourless, thin mouth. He wore a green tunic and a short leather cape, the hood hanging down his back. A thick belt carried a short sword and a dagger, and from his saddle hung a long, evil-looking club. On the breast of his tunic was a yellow badge depicting a hunting horn, the insignia of a forester. The other rider stayed a few paces behind in deference to his master, as he was what was euphemistically called the forester’s ‘page’, though he was a rugged bruiser in his late thirties.

Morcar continued to eye the newcomer with distaste.

‘What’s all this about, William Lupus?’

The forester stared down impassively at the village reeve.

‘From today, only this ale will be sold in Sigford. It will save that good-wife from the labour of brewing her own.’

Incredulous, Widow Mody screeched back at the man in green. ‘I don’t want your bloody ale! Take it away, wherever it came from!’

‘Where did it come from, anyway?’ asked the smith, truculently.

‘From the new brew-house near Chudleigh. From now on, all the alehouses within a day’s cart journey will sell it.’

‘Who says so?’ yelled the ale-wife, her hands planted belligerently on her hips.

‘I say so, woman! On behalf of the King, whose forest this is.’

‘And is this ale a present from King Richard?’ she snapped sarcastically.

William Lupus looked down at her coldly. ‘It will cost you one shilling for a twenty-gallon cask. How much you sell it for is your business.’

For a moment, Widow Mody was speechless at the extortion.

‘That’s well over a ha’penny a gallon! I can brew it for less than half that price. No one will buy it from me. I’ll be ruined and will starve!’

There was a general murmur of horror from the bystanders, who saw their only pleasure being priced beyond their reach, but the forester shrugged indifferently.

‘If they don’t buy it, then they can go thirsty — or drink water.’

Morcar, though he already had a presentiment that the fight was lost before it had begun, felt that he must make some effort on behalf of his village.

‘This is part of the manor of Ilsington, Lupus. I must first hear what our lord William de Pagnell has to say.’

‘It matters not what he says, Reeve. He does not sell ale, so mind your own business.’

‘I will still have to send word to him and his steward and bailiff, Forester. No doubt he will need to protest this to the verderer.’

William Lupus gave a nasty smile, the thin lips parting over his yellowed teeth. ‘The verderer is dead. You all should know that only too well, as his body lay here only yesterday.’

‘There will be a new verderer appointed soon,’ persisted Morcar doggedly.

The smile cracked even wider. ‘There will indeed — and undoubtedly it will be Philip de Strete, who will have little sympathy with your useless complaints.’

There was renewed murmuring amongst the small crowd of villagers who had gathered around the cart. Philip de Strete was about as popular in mid-Devon as Philip of France.

‘No doubt our lord will appeal to the Warden, then,’ grumbled the reeve obstinately.

‘He has no say in the matter — and I doubt he’ll be there for much longer,’ snapped Lupus. When he saw that the carter and the other man had taken the casks inside, he gave a sign to his thuggish page, who slid from his horse and ambled into the alehouse. The widow took fright and hurried after him, but she was too late. There was a scream of anguish and a splashing of liquid, then the page and the ruffian from the cart reappeared with four large earthenware crocks, each of several gallons’ capacity, the dregs of mash and ale still dripping from them. William Lupus nodded at the men, and almost carelessly they tossed them into the air, letting them smash into a thousand pieces on the hard-baked ground.

With a wail and a stream of invective, the ale-wife rushed at the page, but he gave her a resounding smack across the face and a push that sent her to her knees. She began blubbering into her apron, as a woman neighbour ran to comfort her.

There was a general growl of anger from the half-dozen village men and they took a step towards the page. But there was also a rattle of steel as the forester pulled a foot of sword from its scabbard. Wisely, the men subsided into a resentful, sullen silence.

‘Let no one get any ideas of brewing their own here, either in the alehouse or your homes. If I get wind of it, the verderer will have you arraigned at the Woodmote faster than you can take a breath.’

He jerked his head at his page to remount, then pulled his own horse around and trotted out of Sigford, leaving the villagers to become more resentful, impoverished and thirsty.

Later that morning, the coroner succeeded in tracking down the sheriff, who often tried to avoid him. As Richard de Revelle was not to be found in his chamber in the keep, he looked in the courthouse, but the dismal hall was empty. Irritated at the waste of time, he went back to the gatehouse and demanded of the solitary guard whether he had seen him. The man pointed his lance towards the tiny building that stood on the far side of the gateway, towards the eastern curtain wall.

‘I saw him go in there, Crowner — not long ago, with another man.’

Muttering under his breath, de Wolfe strode across to St Mary’s, the little chapel that served the garrison. It was poorly attended except on saints’ days and special occasions, so the full series of daily services had been greatly thinned down by the amiable chaplain, Father Roger.

Unlike his sister, Richard was not renowned for his devotion, except when it was politically expedient to appear in church or cathedral, so John wondered why he had shown this sudden urge to go to chapel on a Wednesday morning.

He opened the main door on the side of the building and stepped out of the bright sunlight into the dim interior. As his eyes adjusted, he saw his brother-in-law in the act of closing a smaller door on the other side of the nave, holding up a hand in what seemed to be a farewell gesture.

‘Taken to holding your meetings on holy ground now, Richard?’ de Wolfe called. The sheriff spun around and peered across the paved floor at him.

‘It’s you, John! Are you spying on me?’

He walked across the empty chapel towards the coroner. Richard was a head shorter than de Wolfe and lightly built, a dapper man with a taste for expensive and showy clothes. Today he wore a peacock-blue tunic down to his calves, the neck and hem embroidered with a double line of gold stitching. White hose ended in extravagantly pointed shoes in the latest fashion. He had light brown wavy hair curling over his ears and a neat, pointed beard of the same colour. His narrow face wore a permanently petulant expression, especially now, as he seemed annoyed that the coroner had surprised him in some private matter.

‘Who was that, then? Your confessor?’ snapped John, deliberately provoking his brother-in-law.

‘It’s no concern of yours. What did you want with me?’

‘You must have really pounded the road between Tiverton and here, to arrive by this hour.’

De Revelle shook his head impatiently. ‘The dawn comes early in June. I took to the road while you were still snoring, no doubt.’

He came closer and lifted his face to look up at the coroner. ‘Were you looking for me for some particular reason?’

Shafts of sunlight poured through the small unglazed windows high in the wall, causing dust motes to dance in the beams. Pools of light fell upon the stone ledges that ran down both walls of the little nave, the only place where the older or more infirm of the congregation could sit. John lowered himself to the cold slabs, but the sheriff remained standing, his gloved hands jabbed impatiently into his waist as John spoke.

‘I came to tell you that one of the verderers has been murdered — Humphrey le Bonde. As he was a King’s officer like us, I thought you should be told as soon as possible.’

John was puzzled to see a look of relief pass over Richard’s face — he seemed to relax suddenly, almost as if the air had escaped from a punctured bladder.

‘Thank you, John, but I already knew that. In fact, I have already appointed his successor — that was the fellow who just left through the other door. A messenger came to my manor last night, to tell me of the death.’

The coroner sighed — de Revelle so often seemed one step ahead of him, thanks to the legion of informers that he had scattered around the county.

‘You were quick off the mark filling his shoes! Who is it?’

Richard stroked his small beard with his fingertips, a mannerism that annoyed de Wolfe — though almost everything about the sheriff annoyed him.

‘Philip de Strete — I offered to nominate him to the County Court just now and he quite naturally accepted,’ he said smugly.

John shrugged. ‘Never heard of him. Who is he and where’s he from?’

‘A knight from Plympton, not far from my other manor at Revelstoke — that’s how I know him, as a lesser neighbour.’

De Wolfe thought cynically that, like his sister, Richard was ever conscious of his position in the pecking order of the county aristocracy and could not resist emphasising his higher status over this Philip. He wondered why the man so conveniently happened to be in Exeter to be offered the unexpected vacancy, but could not think of any sinister reason for it — though anything involving the sheriff was always liable to be devious.

‘Why the rush to appoint someone? The previous incumbent is not even in his grave yet!’

De Revelle began to look impatient, tugging at the cuffs of his gloves and glancing at the door.

‘The verderer’s work has to go on. The Attachment Court is due next week, over which he must preside.’

‘Did you discuss it with Nicholas de Bosco before you offered the job to this man?’

Now the sheriff’s impatience turned to annoyance. ‘That man is an incompetent old fool. It’s none of his business. The appointment is made by the freeholders of the county upon my writ. The Warden of the Forests has no say in the matter.’

He paused, then added angrily, ‘Neither is it any of your concern, John. I hear that you went to Sigford yesterday and held an inquest on the dead man. You had no right — forest law prevails there.’

This was too much for de Wolfe. He jumped up to tower over the sheriff, his dark face glowering down at him.

‘What arrant nonsense you talk, Richard! I am the King’s coroner and it’s his rule that runs everywhere in England. The forest laws concern offences against venison and vert, not men being shot in the back!’

Richard’s face reddened in anger. ‘I dispute that! This coroner nonsense came into being only last year — before that the forest, the stanneries and the Church dealt themselves with matters within their own jurisdiction.’

‘Well, they don’t now, Sheriff!’ bellowed de Wolfe, equally incensed. ‘The tinners no longer dispute my right to investigate their dead, even though you, as their Warden, tried to stop me. And the Bishop has agreed that any violence in the cathedral precinct should be handed to the secular powers. So if you wish to question the will of our King Richard, do so and suffer the consequences.’

De Revelle marched towards the door. ‘I’ll not waste time bandying words with you, John. You’ll overstep the mark one of these days and then it will be you that suffers the consequences!’

As the sheriff furiously threw the door open so wide that it banged against the wall, de Wolfe called out a warning.

‘Your sudden interest in the forest officers is suspicious, Richard. I trust, if only for your sister’s sake, that you’re not up to your tricks again — remember that you’re still on probation!’

His brother-in-law vanished into the sunlight without deigning to reply and John sank down again onto the stone shelf to ponder the situation. Though he was the King’s representative in Devon and the highest law officer in that county, Richard de Revelle had been in trouble ever since he took office as sheriff. Appointed at Christmas ’93, he was dismissed by Hubert Walter, the Chief Justiciar, a few months later on suspicion of being a supporter of Prince John’s abortive rebellion against the Lionheart, when the King was imprisoned in Germany. De Wolfe well remembered the anguish that his wife showed then, as her brother was her idol. When he was suspected of having feet of clay, Matilda urged her reluctant husband to intercede on de Revelle’s behalf with both the Justiciar and William Marshal, the two most powerful men in the land. In the summer, nothing having proved against him, he was reinstated. It was partly out of a begrudging gratitude — and Matilda’s insistence — that the sheriff supported John’s election to the new post of coroner, offered by Hubert Walter on behalf of the King.

But ever since, apart from the usual embezzlement and corruption that were the hallmark of most sheriffs, de Revelle had begun toying again with a covert allegiance to Prince John. De Wolfe suspected that the Prince had promised the politically ambitious de Revelle advancement at court, should he be successful in unseating his royal brother. Others were of the same mind, including Bishop Henry, brother to William Marshal, several of the senior clergy and some of the Devonshire barons, such as the de Pomeroys. It was only a few months since de Wolfe had caught his brother-in-law in another embryonic plot to foment more rebellion — and again, only Matilda’s pleading had stopped him from exposing de Revelle’s treachery. Since then, the sheriff had been treading carefully, but John now always kept a sharp lookout for any schemes that Richard might be hatching.

A mellow voice suddenly brought him out of his reverie.

‘I’m glad to see you using my humble chapel for meditation, Crowner. Though I didn’t take you for someone with strong religious inclinations!’

Standing over him was a cheerful priest with a round face which matched the stomach that pushed out his black Benedictine habit into a comfortable bulge. He dropped down onto the ledge alongside de Wolfe and mopped his brow with a rag drawn from his gown.

‘Or maybe it was just cooler in here, Sir John.’

The coroner grinned crookedly at Father Roger, who he found an amiable companion. Only a short time before, the priest’s insatiable curiosity had briefly caused him to be suspected of multiple murders in the city, and John was glad that the accusations had soon proved unfounded.

‘Not curing souls this morning, Roger?’

‘Too hot for such laborious pastimes, Crowner. Thank God I only hold services here in the cool of early morning and towards dusk. Not that many of the heathen soldiery in Rougemont bother to attend, though their womenfolk are more devout.’

The priest had recently come from Bristol to become chaplain of the garrison and was always eager to learn more about Exeter, its people and its intrigues. The coroner told him of the killing of the verderer and the odd meeting in Roger’s own church between the sheriff and the new appointee. The chaplain was already well aware of the antagonism between coroner and sheriff and had a shrewd idea of its causes. John went on to recount to him the unrest that seemed to be growing in the Royal Forest and the unexplained antipathy towards the Warden, Nicholas de Bosco. He thought that the ever-curious chaplain might have heard some useful tittle-tattle from the priests in the town or nearby parishes.

‘I’ve heard nothing through the ecclesiastical grapevine,’ Roger said thoughtfully. ‘But I’ll keep my ears open for you. I sometimes meet parish priests from around Dartmoor — they are usually fond of a gossip.’

They chatted for some time, finding that they had many experiences in common. Roger of Bristol had a military past rather like de Wolfe’s, having been a chaplain to the King’s forces in several campaigns in which both had served, though they had never met before. His loyalty had been rewarded with curacy of the chapel at Bristol castle, until the soldierly Archbishop of Canterbury, the same Hubert Walter who was also Chief Justiciar, posted him to the vacancy at Exeter.

They found that they also had something else in common that morning, as today was a hanging day and it was Roger’s turn to shrive the two unfortunates who were to go to the gallows on Magdalen Street outside the city walls. The coroner also had to be present, so that his clerk could record the forfeiture of the felons’ property. The two men followed the sad procession as the ox-cart trundled its fatal burden from the castle gaol in the undercroft of the keep. When the condemned men had been dispatched into the next life, John left Thomas in Roger’s company and went back home for the midday meal, his appetite none the worse after watching the agonal thrashings of the strangled men dangling on their ropes.

Matilda was away, visiting her cousin in Fore Street, and John ate the boiled pig’s knuckle that Mary put before him in peace and quiet. This was shattered just as he was dropping the stripped bone under the table for Brutus.

A hammering on the front door was answered by the maid, as she was bringing a bowl of dried apricots for his dessert. Mary came through the screens into the hall, followed by the thin figure of one of the burgesses’ constables, responsible for trying to keep public order on the streets.

‘Osric’s here, in a lather of excitement,’ she said disapprovingly. ‘You’re wanted urgently, as usual, to the ruination of your digestion!’

The lanky Saxon, who seemed all limbs and Adam’s apple, stood awkwardly, twirling his floppy cap in his hands.

‘There’s been a killing and an assault, Crowner. Not an hour ago, in St Pancras Lane. I went up to Rougemont to report it, but Gwyn said you were at home. He’s gone straight to the house.’

At the mention of the address, de Wolfe rose to his feet.

‘St Pancras Lane — who’s involved?’

‘The dead ‘un is an old servant. Bottler to the injured party, Sir Nicholas.’

The coroner was already moving towards the door. ‘God’s toenails, what’s going on? I was with both of them only last evening!’

Striding through the streets, with the constable pattering alongside, the coroner looked like a large, avenging bat, his black surcoat flying wide over his long grey tunic. As they thrust aside folk dawdling in the lanes, Osric breathlessly added some details.

‘Must have happened earlier this morning … only just discovered by the cook who comes to make the dinner. The servant was dead in the vestibule, the master lying out of his wits in his hall.’

There was knot of neighbours clustered outside the door of the Warden’s house, kept at bay by the massive form of Gwyn of Polruan, who stood on the step. Grimly, de Wolfe thrust his way through and, with the constable close behind, went into the vestibule with his officer, who slammed the heavy door behind them.

‘The cook called an apothecary, who’s with him now,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘The corpse is there, under that table.’

As in John’s own house, the vestibule led at one end into the hall and at the other to a passage to the back yard. It was bigger than the one in Martin’s Lane and had a bench, a table and a row of pegs for cloaks and sword belts.

The bench was overturned and the table knocked askew. Between the legs was the crumpled body of the old man who had served wine the previous evening.

‘Have you looked at him yet?’ demanded the coroner.

‘Just a quick glance. He’s had a beating, poor old devil. Look at his head.’

John motioned for Osric to lift the table away and then crouched down alongside the cadaver, which was on its side, bent so that the knees were almost touching the face. An ominous pool of blood lay under the head, soaking into the earthen floor. When he turned the head, he saw a great tear in the skin of the temple and dark bruising covering most of the cheek.

Something about the ease with which the neck moved gave him further concern.

‘I suspect his neck is broken, too. See what you think about it.’

He rocked back on his heels to give Gwyn space to get at the body. His officer was as experienced as the coroner in the various modes of death, learnt in battles, riots and ambushes the length and breadth of Europe and beyond. They sometimes competed with each other over the accuracy of their diagnoses of different types of lethal injury. Gwyn tested the rigidity of the arms first, to compare with the neck.

‘Been dead more than a few hours, by the stiffness. I wonder when he was last seen alive?’

As he gripped the bloody head to swing it about, the hovering Osric answered his question. ‘Last night, it seems. The cook gave them their supper, then went home. None of the neighbours saw them this morning.’

Gwyn finished his manoeuvres and stood up, wiping his stained hands on his breeches. ‘You’re right, Crowner. His neck’s snapped. Must have been a tidy stroke on his head to do that, though he’s a frail old fellow.’

They stood looking down at the pathetic remains of the aged bottler.

‘A club or a baulk of timber did that. Nothing sharp edged,’ announced de Wolfe, determined to have the last word on fatal injuries. ‘Now what about Sir Nicholas?’

He turned to the door into the hall and lifted the crude wooden latch. Inside, he saw the same high, gloomy chamber that he had sat in the previous evening. Now the owner was stretched out on the long table, lying on a sheepskin coverlet fetched from his bed. He was groaning and moving restlessly, with an anxious-looking man standing alongside, a cup of some liquid in his hand. De Wolfe recognised him as Adam Russell, an apothecary from a shop in High Street, a well-known and trusted dispenser of remedies.

‘He’s getting his senses back, then?’

The apothecary, a small man with a round, owl-like face, nodded thankfully.

‘Just these past few minutes, Sir John. He’s also had a nasty crack on the skull, though naturally not so heavy as the poor fellow outside. There was nothing I could do for him.’

De Wolfe advanced to the side of the table and looked down anxiously at the Warden of the Forests. Part of his concern was for the victim himself, but part was the fear that de Bosco might not be able to identify his attacker and the possible motive. The man’s eyes were open, but rolling about. He was moaning and trying to lift his hands towards his injured head, where a deep cut could be seen through the thin white hair. Blue bruising spread down his forehead and his upper eyelids were black and puffy.

‘Can he hear me, I wonder? What potion have you got there?’

Adam allowed himself a slight smile. ‘The best medicine for this, Crowner — a little brandy wine.’ He bent over the Warden and held the cup to his lips. Nicholas spluttered as the strong spirit burned his mouth, and he struggled to sit up, but fell back with a groan.

‘De Bosco, it’s John de Wolfe, the coroner. We met only yesterday, in kinder circumstances. Can you understand what I say?’

The victim’s eyes stopped swivelling and focused on the speaker’s face. His thin lips parted to show his bare gums and a weak voice emerged.

‘De Wolfe? Why have they done this to me?’

John bent lower to catch the whispers. ‘They? There were more than one?’

The Warden tried to nod, but the movement made him hiss with the pain in his head. ‘Two men — burst in here at dawn. I was just out of bed, sitting here drinking ale. I never take food to break my fast.’

De Wolfe had feared that the Warden’s mind was wandering, but he seemed to be recovering his wits by the minute.

‘Did you recognise them? What did they say?’

The apothecary frowned at the coroner. ‘He’s not yet in a fit state to talk much.’

John bobbed his head impatiently. ‘I know, but just a few words. We need to set up a hue and cry.’ He looked down again at Nicholas de Bosco, who returned his gaze through blood-shot eyes, and raised his head a little from the coverlet.

‘I recollect very little — not even being struck. But they were rough louts, poorly dressed. They said nothing, not a word.’

He groaned and closed his eyes, his head sinking back again. At the apothecary’s disapproving frown, John straightened up and stepped back.

‘I’ll not bother you more at present. When you are stronger, we’ll talk again.’

He looked at Adam Russell. ‘Do you want him taken to the monks at St Nicholas or St John’s?’ These were the two priories that had infirmarers with some skill as physicians.

‘There’s little they can do that God and time will not, Crowner. I’ll get some men to carry him to his bed, then I’ll send my apprentice around to sit with him. I’ll return myself in a few hours.’

‘When can I talk to him again?’

‘Try this evening — or better, tomorrow morning.’

With that John had to be content and, leaving the injured Warden in the care of the apothecary, he took Gwyn back to their chamber in Rougemont.

Thomas was already there, busy writing up duplicate copies of the rolls, which eventually would have to be presented to the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery or the Justices in Eyre when they next came to Exeter. He sat on his usual milking stool at one side of the trestle table and pulled his parchments and inks nearer to give space to de Wolfe, as he bumped down on to his bench opposite. Gwyn took up the only other flat surface in the bare room, perching his broad backside on the stone sill that ran below the pair of slit windows. The inevitable pitcher of cider came out for the coroner and his officer, though the abstemious clerk declined, preferring water — when he could get any that looked even halfway clean. He had already heard of the trouble in St Pancras Lane from one of the guards and started off the debate about its significance.

‘Can this be connected with the killing in Sigford, Crowner?’

‘God knows, Thomas! It could be a chance robbery, though the cook says that de Bosco never had much of value in that small town house. He had several manors out in the country where most of his goods and his strongbox were kept.’

Gwyn lowered his drinking pot long enough to comment.

‘The assailants may not have known that, though. Yet they made no attempt to force either the old bottler nor the Warden to tell them where there might have been valuables.’

John drummed his fingers on the table restlessly. ‘To my mind, it’s too great a coincidence that a pair of forest officers get attacked within as many days. De Bosco told me that he had had several threats recently, seemingly designed to force him out of office.’

‘Three feet of arrow certainly put the verderer out of office!’ said Gwyn. ‘But I wonder if they intended to kill the Warden — or just beat him up as a warning?’

‘Is there no clue as who these villains might be?’ piped Thomas.

‘No one saw them, except the servant and Nicholas de Bosco,’ growled John. ‘And one of those is dead and the other has wits back only partly yet. No one saw them in the street, so I suspect they climbed into the garden and came from around the back.’

‘Any chance of finding them still in the city?’ asked the clerk optimistically.

Gwyn fell back to heckling Thomas, a sign that the clerk’s melancholia was improving. ‘You’re an idiot, little man! Do we go around asking almost four thousand people whether they were nasty enough to batter two old men this morning?’

The clerk stuck his tongue out at Gwyn in a most unpriestly manner, but the officer persisted. ‘Even if the sheriff shifted himself to put a watch on the city gates, who would they look for? Two men can walk in and out as they like, especially if they were pushing a barrow or carrying a bale of wool.’

The mention of the sheriff started de Wolfe’s fingers drumming again.

‘I’ll swear he’s up to something concerning this affair — but I’m damned if I see what. Why was he in such a hurry to appoint this fellow as a new verderer? Does anyone know anything of this Philip de Strete?’

Gwyn shook his big head, but Thomas de Peyne, whose large ears collected all manner of information, knew a little.

‘He’s a knight from down the west end of the county, fairly young, I hear. He was in one of the French campaigns and scraped enough loot together to buy out his knight-service and get himself a freeholding.’

The coroner digested this, but was none the wiser.

‘Why should he want to burden himself with a thankless, unpaid job like that of a verderer? He’d be better off staying home to look after his flocks and his fields.’

As the words left his mouth, he realised that the same applied to himself and his coroner’s appointment — though he had no flocks and fields to labour over. His brother William was quite content to look after the two family manors and John’s business partner, city burgess Hugh de Relaga, turned them a nice profit from their wool-exporting enterprise.

But the fact remained that Richard de Revelle had produced this man from nowhere and was going to install him in a dead man’s shoes.

‘The post may be unpaid, master — but anything to do with the forests is suspect of being involved with extortion and corruption,’ Thomas reminded him. They argued the issues back and forth for a time, but with no solid facts to hand it became a futile exercise.

‘I’ll hold the inquest on the bottler this afternoon in the courthouse — not that it will advance us one inch farther,’ grumbled John. ‘Gather the neighbours for a jury in a couple of hours, Gwyn. Afterwards, I’ll go to see if de Bosco has recovered any more of his memory.’