Fear in the Forest

CHAPTER FIVE

While John de Wolfe was riding back from the edge of Dartmoor, his mistress was giving instructions to Edwin and her maids about their tasks while she was away from the inn for an hour or so.

The day was as warm as ever, so Nesta wore no mantle or shawl when she went out into Idle Lane and walked across to the top of Stepcote Hill, the steep lane that led directly down to the West Gate. When she was bustling about the tavern, she always concealed her hair inside a linen helmet, but today she had discarded the coif and allowed her auburn tresses to hang in two plaits over her breast, the ends braided into two green ribbons.

As she passed the Saracen inn, she pointedly ignored the lewd stares and suggestive comments of a pair of foreign seamen who leaned against the wall, quart pots in their fists. The slope steepened and became terraced by shallow steps leading down to the level ground inside the town wall, alongside the appropriately named church of St Mary Steps.

A stream of dirty water washed sewage down the central gutter, much of it contributed by Willem the Fleming, the oafish landlord of the Saracen, who deliberately threw a leather bucket of slops out of the door just after she had passed. Lifting the hem of her woollen kirtle with one hand, she sidestepped the flow and ignored the coarse laughter behind her. Another day she might well have turned and given the offenders a lashing with her tongue, for she could curse with the best of them, both in English and Welsh.

But today Nesta had no inclination for a shouting match. Her spirits were low and her mind troubled. All she could think about was the life that was growing deep in her womb — and the complications that it would inevitably bring. So far, no maternal urges had surfaced; she felt nothing yet for whoever it was that was lodging in her belly. Apart from the loss of her monthly flow — something that happened irregularly from time to time, anyway — she felt no different. It was only the realisation that she was going to have a child, and all the trouble that was to flow from it, which had suddenly turned her world upside down.

As she walked through the West Gate, oblivious of the pushing and jostling of porters with their huge bundles of raw wool and the yelling of drovers bringing in sheep and pigs for slaughter, Nesta thought of John and his avowed determination to stand by her. Was he really happy at her condition? Or was his love for her suppressing his concern for the burdens and aggravation that would descend upon his head once it became common knowledge that he was going to recognise a bastard? And what of the other problem, the one that had kept her awake the whole of the night, giving her pretty face the dark smudges under her eyes and the sad droop of a usually cheerful mouth?

Outside the city walls, she trudged on towards the unfinished bridge across the river, whose many arches curved up over the muddy grass of the tidal valley of the Exe before they came to an abrupt end at the main channel.

Before reaching the ramp to the bridge, Nesta turned right, down into Frog Lane. This was a track going upstream across Exe Island, worn down by the feet of porters, pack mules and sumpter horses taking wool to the fulling mills at the upper part of the marshy island. There were dwellings dotted along the lane, mostly poor shacks of old timber which housed mill workers and those who could not afford to live within the city walls. Side tracks branched off Frog Lane towards the river, broken by leats that cut through the marsh and which filled up at every tide and when heavy rain fell on faraway Exmoor, the source of the river. Floods often carried away the flimsy huts, and every year lives were lost when spring tides or cloud-bursts deluged the island.

It was on to one of these sodden tracks that Nesta now turned, heading for a solitary shack that looked even more dilapidated than most. Perched on the edge of a deep leat, it was little more than a collection of rotting planks that leaned dangerously to one side. The roof was thatched with reeds, on which ragged grass and weeds were growing. A hurdle that had once acted as a door had crumbled to the ground and the entrance was now covered with dirty hessian from the coverings of a couple of wool bales. The Welsh woman approached hesitantly, thankful that the dry weather had at least turned the usually glutinous mud into damp earth. Having no door to knock on, she stood uncertainly for a moment outside the crude curtain. At her feet, she saw a pile of white chicken feathers, guts and a severed cockerel’s head, probably from the vanquished contestant of a cock-fight, given to the old woman who lived here for her dinner.

‘Lucy? Lucy, are you there?’

She called several times until a gnarled, filthy hand slowly pulled the sacking aside. A haggard face appeared, and though Nesta had seen this woman many times before her appearance still sent a tremor of fear and distaste down her spine. Bearded Lucy, as she was universally known, had wispy grey hair growing over all her face except for the upper cheeks and forehead. It surrounded her mouth and trailed over her pointed chin. Even the hooked nose was hairy, and a moustache partly concealed the toothless gums when her thin lips parted. Lucy’s eyes were milky with cataracts, and with her bent back and trembling claw-like hands Nesta wondered how she had avoided being condemned for a witch.

‘Who is it? I can see a woman’s shape — do you want what women usually want of me?’

‘It’s Nesta from the Bush. I need your advice.’

The old crone shuffled farther out of the hut to peer more closely at her visitor. She was draped in shapeless, drab clothes that were little better than rags.

‘Ah, the Welsh woman. The crowner’s whore.’

Nesta bit her lip to stop an angry retort to the old woman’s insolence — she needed Lucy today. ‘Can I come in? I’ll not keep you long.’

The old crone cackled, but held aside the sacking with a gnarled hand.

‘I suppose you want what they all want, my girl.’

With distaste, but driven by necessity, Nesta pulled her skirts closer and edged sideways past the old woman into the dim interior of the shack, which was little bigger than her pigsty back at the Bush. It smelt about the same, too, and she was thankful for the gloom, such that the coarser details of the dwelling were obscured. She skirted a small fire-pit on raised clay in the middle of the floor, filled with dead ashes and reluctantly lowered herself on to a small stool which, apart from a rickety table, seemed to be the only furnishing other than a long box like a coffin against the far wall. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the walls and a perilously slanted shelf held a few pots and pans.

‘So tell me about it, Welsh woman,’ said Lucy, in her high-pitched, quavering voice. She aimed a blow at a mangy grey cat that sat on the long box, which had a few grubby blankets spread on top and obviously served as the old woman’s bed. The cat squealed maliciously and fled through the door, letting Lucy sit down, her joints creaking almost audibly as she lowered herself slowly on to the box.

‘I think I am with child,’ said Nesta, in a low voice.

‘You don’t need to come here to discover if you’re with child,’ said the hag, tartly. ‘A score of wives inside the town walls could tell you that. So you must think that I can help you to get rid of it, eh?’

Nesta flushed with sudden shame, but stuck doggedly to her mission.

‘That all depends,’ she replied in muted tones.

Lucy’s sparse eyebrows rose on her lined, dirty forehead.

‘That makes a change! On what can such a dangerous matter depend?’

‘I wish to know for how long I have been pregnant.’

The crone nodded knowingly. ‘Ah, I see! You’re not sure who the father might be, is that it?’

Nesta was unable to meet the old woman’s clouded eyes, but bobbed her head briefly. Bearded Lucy hauled herself painfully to her feet and held out a shaky hand, the finger joints knobbled like pebbles.

‘Let’s have a look at you, then, my girl. Open up that kirtle, I need to look at your dugs.’

Reluctantly, Nesta unlaced the front of her bodice and shrugged it off one shoulder. In anticipation of what she would have to endure, she had left off her thin under-chemise, so one of her ample breasts was exposed. The old woman brought her head so close that her hooked nose was almost touching the skin, to give her poor sight the best advantage. With one of her claw-like hands, she grabbed the breast and squeezed, testing the firmness of the gland.

‘Is it tender yet, girl?’ she demanded. Nesta flinched as the rough massage continued, but murmured, ‘A little tense, but not tender.’

Lucy shifted the open bodice to look at the other side, peering closely at the nipple, then pulled the woman’s neckline together and stepped back.

‘The teats are darkening a little,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve not had children before?’

Nesta shook her head and pulled at the lacing to cover up her exposed skin. The hag turned and indicated the grimy blankets covering the box-bed.

‘Lay yourself down there and we’ll find what’s to be found.’

With even greater reluctance, Nesta sat on the bed and swung her legs up on the end. She was already regretting the impulse that had driven her to Exe Island.

‘Lie back, this won’t take long.’

Lucy hovered over the innkeeper like some huge dishevelled bat, feeling her belly at length through the thin material of her summer kirtle. Then, like the midwife in Priest Street, she examined Nesta internally, a process that the tavern-keeper endured with gritted teeth and screwed-up eyes. In an age when cleanliness and hygiene were usually thought irrelevant, she was unusually fastidious. Nesta washed almost every day and, in the fashion of the Welsh, even cleaned her teeth with the chewed end of a hazel twig dipped in wood ash. It was anathema to have to lie on a flea-infested blanket and have the grimed fingers of an old woman, who had probably not washed since old King Henry was on the throne, pushed into her most private parts.

But she endured it, as she had little choice if she was to learn what she urgently needed to know. Bearded Lucy, still muttering to herself, rummaged about inside her with one hand, the other digging into Nesta’s belly just above her crotch. Like all women, the innkeeper wore no underclothing around her hips, so the hag needed only to reach up under her skirt.

After a few moments Lucy grunted and withdrew her hand, wiping it casually on the sleeve of the rags she wore.

‘You are with child, girl, no doubt of that.’

Nesta pulled down the hem of her kirtle and swung her legs to the floor, rising thankfully from the grubby bed.

‘But for how long?’ she persisted.

The old woman rubbed her fingers over her wispy beard, a gesture that irrelevantly reminded Nesta of Gwyn of Polruan.

‘About three months, that’s as near as I can tell you. These things are never exact.’

A cold hand reached into Nesta’s chest and seized her heart. This was the news she dreaded, though it was half expected.

‘So it could be before early April?’

Lucy wagged her grotesque head. ‘It’s now past mid-June, so they tell me — so certainly you conceived not later than the middle or end of March. You may be able to tell that better than me, if you can remember when you rode the tiger around that time!’ She cackled crudely.

Nesta ignored her and sank down on to the stool, which at least was wooden and free from obvious filth.

‘There can be no mistake?’

‘Yes, within a couple of weeks, either way. But if your crowner friend wasn’t rogering you for a month or two before mid-April, then he’s not the father.’ She had astutely guessed Nesta’s problem.

The younger woman stared blankly at the floor for a few moments.

‘I need to be free of it, God help me,’ she said in a hollow voice.

Bearded Lucy stood over her, hands on hips.

‘God can’t help you, dear — and I’m not sure I can, though so many women think otherwise.’

Nesta raised her head slowly and her eyes roved over the bunches of dried vegetation hanging around the walls. ‘Some of them think rightly. Will you try for me? I have money I can give you.’

‘I can be hanged for that, Welsh woman. Even for trying.’

‘But will you do it? I’m desperate, I cannot have this child. Not for my sake, but for that of a good man.’

The old crone considered for a moment. ‘He came here once, that man of yours. He was not unkind, like some who would see me hanged or worse.’

‘Then you’ll do it?’ Nesta’s voice carried the eagerness of desperation.

Lucy raised her crippled hand.

‘Wait. I’m not doing anything. The days when I could put a sliver of slippery elm into the neck of a womb have long gone. With these poor fingers and my failing sight, I’d as like kill you as cure you.’

Crestfallen, Nesta looked at her pathetically.

‘But you can help me some way? Give me some potion or drug?’

Sighing, the old woman shuffled over to her shelf and took down a small earthenware pot.

‘You can try these, but never say that I am trying to procure a miscarriage for you. I am only trying to bring back your monthly courses, understand?’

Nesta nodded mutely as Lucy shook out from the pot half a dozen irregular brown lumps, the size of beans.

‘What are they?’ she asked in a lacklustre voice.

‘A mixture of my own — just to bring on your flow, mind,’ she warned again. ‘Only herbs — parsley, tansy, pennyroyal, laburnum, rue and hellebore.’ She dropped the crude pills into Nesta’s hand and closed her fingers over them. ‘I make no promise that they will work. You will feel ill after you take them and no doubt spend half the day in the privy. If you begin to bleed, then probably God would have willed it anyway. And if you bleed too much, call an apothecary — but whatever you do, never mention my name. Though my life here is hardly worth living, I prefer not to end it dangling from a gallows!’

In the late afternoon of that day, John de Wolfe was relaxing as best he could before his own cold fireplace. He had not long arrived back from Manaton and, ignoring Matilda’s displeasure, was sprawled in one of the monk’s chairs with a quart of ale in one hand, the other resting on Brutus’s head. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, his feet enjoying their freedom after a day in tight riding boots. His wife’s tut-tutting was due to his lounging in his black woollen hose without shoes, especially as one big toe protruded through a hole in the foot.

‘You still behave like a rough soldier, John!’ she scolded, sitting opposite him in tight-lipped disapproval. ‘Why can’t you comport yourself like a knight and a gentleman? What would anyone think if they came in now?’

He rolled up his eyes in silent exasperation at her eternal snobbishness.

‘I’ll do what I like in my own house, wife,’ he grunted. ‘And who in hell is likely to come calling here on a hot Monday afternoon, eh?’

Promptly, as if the fates were conspiring against him, there was a loud rapping on the front door. Mary was cleaning his boots in the vestibule and answered straight away, then put her head around the screens to announce visitors.

‘It’s Lord Guy Ferrars — and some other nobles,’ she proclaimed in a somewhat awed voice. Matilda jumped to her feet as if struck by lightning, and hurriedly began to straighten the wimple at her throat and pat down her kirtle.

‘Put on your shoes, at once!’ she hissed, as John hauled himself from the chair and groped for his house slippers. A moment later, Mary had stood aside for three men to stride past her into the hall.

‘De Wolfe, forgive us for intruding unannounced,’ boomed the leading man, who sounded as if he was in no way seeking such forgiveness. A powerful, arrogant fellow, some years older than John, Guy Ferrars was one of the major landowners in Devon — and indeed had manors in half a dozen other counties. De Wolfe knew him slightly and disliked him for an overbearing, ruthless baron, whose only saving grace was that he had been a good soldier and a loyal supporter of King Richard.

Behind him was Sir Reginald de Courcy, a lesser light but still an important member of the county elite, with manors at Shillingford and Clyst St George, as well as property outside Devon. The third man was also known to the coroner by sight, being Sir Nicholas de Molis, whose honour included a number of manors along the eastern edge of Dartmoor. Rapidly gathering his wits together after this sudden invasion, John ushered the visitors to the long table, as there were too few chairs at the hearth.

‘Mary, wine and some wafers or whatever you have for our guests,’ he commanded, pulling out the benches on either side of the table. Matilda, her sallow face flushed with mixed pride, excitement and shame at her husband’s dishevelled appearance, stopped bobbing her head and knee and rushed after their cook-maid to accelerate the arrival of refreshments.

John took the chair at the end of the table, with Reginald de Courcy on his left and the other pair to his right. Lord Ferrars began without any preamble, his harsh voice echoing in the bare hall.

‘We have just come from the castle, where we attended upon your dear brother-in-law.’ The tone was unambiguously sarcastic, and John was glad that Matilda was out of the room. The speaker was a large, florid man with a mop of brown hair and a full moustache, both flecked with grey. He wore a long yellow tunic, slit back and front for riding, with a light surcoat of green linen on top. The last time the coroner had seen him he had had a full beard, but this was now gone. That had been a sad occasion, as the fiancé of Ferrar’s son Hugh had been found dead in an Exeter churchyard — and she had been the daughter of Reginald de Courcy.

‘Our meeting was less than satisfactory, de Wolfe,’ continued Ferrars. ‘We went as a deputation of landowners to protest at various happenings in the Royal Forest, but received little satisfaction.’

‘None at all, to be frank!’ snapped the third man, Nicholas de Molis. ‘De Revelle was his usual mealy-mouthed self, full of evasions and excuses.’

Mary bustled back with a tray full of savoury tarts and fresh-baked pastry wafers, together with a large jug of wine. Matilda was close behind and de Molis, a burly man with a face like a bull-dog, snapped his mouth shut on any further condemnation of her brother. She went to a chest against the far wall and took out some goblets of thick Flemish glass, only brought out on special occasions.

When she had poured wine for them all, simpering and nodding at these county luminaries who had graced her house, she retired to one of the fireside chairs. Only the linen cover-chief over her head stopped her ears from flapping, determined as she was to hear every word of their conversation. Guy Ferrars looked across at her in irritation, but he could hardly evict the woman from her own hall. He turned back to the coroner.

‘I know you have been involved twice within the past few days on some of these matters, de Wolfe. But our complaints go back much farther.’

‘And concern many more than we three,’ said de Courcy, speaking for the first time. ‘We are but a deputation — the Abbot of Tavistock was to have joined us today, but he is indisposed.’

John knew that Tavistock Abbey was a major landholder in Devon and anything that interfered with its business would be greatly resented. In fact, he had learned only today that the burned-out tannery in Manaton had belonged to them.

‘So what can I do for you in this situation?’ he asked cautiously.

De Courcy, a thin, gaunt man with a completely bald head and a thin rim of grey beard running around his jaw, thumped the table with his fist.

‘We know you for a man of honour and one totally loyal to the King. There seems to be a campaign afoot to greatly increase the royal revenues from the forest at our expense.’

‘Though I wonder how much of this extra profit ever gets to the treasure chest in Winchester,’ added Nicholas de Molis, with a look over his shoulder at the woman listening avidly across the room. For once, Matilda took the hint, murmured something about fetching more wine and left the hall. A few moments later, John’s keen ears heard the solar door open and close, and guessed that she was listening through the slit high up on one side of the chimney breast.

By now, the three visitors were in full flow, their indignation more potent than the wine in loosening their tongues. ‘More and more of the breweries, forges and tanneries in the forest are being taken over by the bloody foresters,’ ranted Guy Ferrars. ‘I’m losing revenue hand over fist — and when my men protest, they are told that the forest law allows this and there is nothing that we can do to stop it.’

Nicholas de Molis took up the complaint. ‘They are enforcing the rules of venison and vert even more strictly than before. I make no complaint about punishing a man who hunts down a stag or wild boar, but for years many a blind eye has been turned to some peasant who traps a coney or puts an arrow in a fox that’s been stealing his chickens. Now they treat them as if they are murderers and the families are thrown on the parish for us to support.’

De Wolfe looked from one to the other, as de Courcy completed their protests.

‘The Warden seems unwilling or unable to do anything — perhaps we need a different man. Though when I put this to de Bosco, he said that neither he nor any other successor who was appointed could control the foresters.’

Guy Ferrars swallowed some wine, then glared at the coroner.

‘What do you read into all this, de Wolfe? The damned sheriff seems indifferent to the problem, but with his history I suspect that he may be involved.’

John, wondering what his wife was making of all this upstairs, gave a guarded reply. ‘Something is certainly going on in the forest, but I can’t yet make out what it is — or who is behind it. There seems to be a plot to unseat the Warden and I suspect that whoever wants to take his place is fostering trouble to prove that de Bosco is incompetent.’

De Courcy nodded his shiny, hairless head in agreement. ‘That crossed my mind, de Wolfe. But who in hell wants a lousy, thankless job like that?’

The four men looked at each other, then Ferrars spoke.

‘The same man who hung on to the wardenship of the Stannaries when everyone tried to unseat him … Richard de Revelle. But why?’

The other three knew all about the sheriff’s dalliance with Prince John’s cause and his close brush with accusations of treachery the previous year.

‘De Revelle is an expert at embezzlement himself,’ said de Wolfe. ‘But I fail to see what he could gain from the forests — the foresters have a monopoly on extortion there.’

No one had any better suggestions, but they worried away at the worsening situation for some time, cataloguing the misdeeds of the foresters and their loutish servants.

‘This man William Lupus seems to be the most active and obnoxious of them all,’ said John, relating the scene at Manaton that very morning.

‘Yet I can’t see him putting an arrow into the back of a verderer,’ objected de Courcy. ‘That seems more the style of one of these bands of outlaws. We all know the edge of Dartmoor is infested with them, as well as farther afield in the east of the county.’

‘Loyal as I am to our King, I wish he would devote more attention to what goes on in England,’ muttered Guy Ferrars, which was the nearest he would ever get to treason, thought de Wolfe.

‘Yet Hubert Walter speaks for him in most matters. Is he aware of what is going on?’ asked Nicholas de Molis.

‘He’s in a difficult position,’ replied Ferrars, who was nearest to the levers of power in the land and often visited London and Winchester. ‘I have spoken to him about this and he says that every penny is needed for Richard’s undoubtedly expensive campaigns against the French, so it would be difficult to curb powers in the forest, which means revenue.’

‘But that revenue never reaches Winchester,’ snapped de Courcy. ‘Filling the pockets of foresters is not what we need here.’

Eventually they ran out of new grievances and fell silent. John rounded off the meeting with a question about how to proceed.

‘If it gets any worse, then some action must be taken. I have the ear of the Chief Justiciar, as I knew him well in Palestine. If necessary, I will travel to meet him, be it in Canterbury, London or Winchester, and place the case squarely before him. If we can show that these outlaws are colluding with the forest officers, then he must be persuaded to send troops against them.’

‘The sheriff will never do that of his own volition,’ grumbled Guy Ferrars. ‘But I agree that we arouse Hubert Walter’s interest if things do not improve.’

The meeting broke up and the three barons left, with John promising to speak sternly to the sheriff about their misgivings. When the heavy oak door had swung shut behind them, John went back to his chair and waited for Matilda to appear. He heard the solar door close and soon she came back into the hall. He wondered whether she would be angered at hearing the remarks about her brother — or chastened by the knowledge that the powerful men she admired were contemptuous of him. For a moment, he was uncertain which it would be, as she walked silently to her chair opposite him and sat down.

‘Is he going to be in trouble again, John?’ she asked in a low voice.

There had been times when John had relished any opportunity to denigrate his brother-in-law’s reputation, but the grief that overcame his wife at the several falls from grace that Richard had suffered had taken away any potential pleasure in repeating the process.

‘I don’t know, wife,’ he replied sadly. ‘He seems to have replaced the dead verderer with remarkable haste and his obstinate refusal to take any action against these misdeeds in the forest is suspicious.’

‘Is it the John affair all over again?’ she asked dully, meaning the Count of Mortain, not her husband.

De Wolfe shrugged, turning up his hands in mystification. ‘Again, I don’t know. I can’t see the connection, so let’s hope it’s just one of Richard’s schemes to fill his purse — and nothing more sinister.’

But privately he doubted it, and as much as living with Matilda irked him he had no wish to make her life more miserable as regarded her brother’s transgressions.

After their supper, at which Matilda was markedly subdued, she announced that she was going over to the nearby cathedral. The day’s offices were over until midnight matins, so John presumed she was going to spend time on her knees, probably praying that her brother would keep out of further trouble.

After the complaints that the county barons had brought to him, de Wolfe felt that he had better make the effort to get some sense from his brother-in-law, so in the warmth of the evening he strode up to Rougemont. The continued dry weather had turned the mud of the streets into dust, except where the effluent ran down the central gutters — but the downside was the increase in the stink from the ubiquitous refuse. The burgesses had recently invested in an extra soil-cart, which trundled around the city picking up the larger piles of garbage, dead dogs and putrefying offal, but several weeks of heat had so increased the stench of the city that even John’s insensitive nose began to notice it.

He wondered whether it might not be a good idea to take himself off out of the city for a few days, down to the healthier air of his family home at Stoke-in-Teignhead near the coast. But Matilda would never come, being flagrantly disdainful of his widowed mother, who was part Welsh, part Cornish. In his wife’s eyes, Celts were worse than Saxons, almost on a level with Moors and Barbary apes. John thought that if she had fully realised he had so much native blood, she would never have married him — and now he wished he had impressed this on her before they went to the altar. Ruefully, these thoughts passed through his mind as he climbed the slope to the castle gate — if he had stayed unmarried, this present crisis that loomed over Nesta’s pregnancy would never have arisen.

He called in at his room high above the guard chamber, but neither Thomas nor Gwyn was there. The clerk often stayed late, labouring over the rolls needed for inquests or making copies for the King’s justices — and Gwyn sometimes slept there when late drinking or gaming prevented him from going home to St Sidwell’s after the city gates closed at curfew. Coming down again, John crossed the inner ward, the red stone of the battlements glowing almost gold in the rays of the setting sun. It was quiet there, only a few off-duty soldiers squatting to play dice or sprawled on their backs fast asleep. Some children played outside the huts against the far wall, their mothers gossiping at the doors or preparing food for a late meal.

He loped across to the steps to the keep, his long grey tunic flapping around his calves and his thick black hair bobbing against the back of his neck. Inside, the main hall was noisy with squires, captains and clerks either finishing their evening meal or lounging at the trestle tables with jars of ale and cider. De Wolfe looked around to see if Ralph Morin, the castle constable, was there, or his sergeant Gabriel, but there was no sign of them. A few other men waved or called out a greeting, some inviting him to join them for a drink, but he made for the side of the hall where a bored man-at-arms lounged at the sheriff’s door.

John sometimes wondered why Richard insisted on having a full-time guard deep inside his own castle, but knowing of the multitude of people who had cause to dislike or even detest de Revelle, he admitted that it was probably a wise precaution. The sentinel pulled himself up sharply when he saw the coroner approach and raised a hand to his basin-shaped helmet in salute.

‘Sheriff’s got a visitor, Crowner,’ he advised.

John scowled. He had wanted to get Richard alone, to avoid too much embarrassment about his possible dubious dealings in the forest — though there were other possible reasons for embarrassment when walking in on the sheriff unannounced, as he had discovered several times before.

‘Is it a man or a woman?’ he demanded, with these last thoughts in mind.

‘It’s the new verderer, Sir John. Don’t recall his name.’

John grunted and turned the heavy iron ring on the door. Inside, his brother-in-law was seated behind his wide work-table, dressed for the warm weather in his usual dandified fashion, with an open surcoat of blue velvet over a long shirt of white linen, cinched at the waist with a wide belt of fine leather. Under the table, John could see fine cream hose ending in shoes with ridiculously curved, pointed toes, a recent fad imported from France, enemies of England though they might be.

A pewter wine cup stood next to his hand and, on the other side of the table, the new verderer sat on a stool with similar refreshment.

Philip de Strete was known only by sight to the coroner, being a rather plump man of average build, nearing thirty years of age. He had ginger hair and a matching moustache of the same colour as Gwyn’s, but of much more modest proportions. All that John knew about him was that he had a small manor near Plymouth, had not been to the Crusades, but had fought in some of the French campaigns without any particular distinction.

Richard looked up in annoyance, his usual expression when de Wolfe appeared. De Strete jumped to his feet as the sheriff somewhat reluctantly introduced him and made considerable play of expressing his honour and delight at meeting the coroner. De Wolfe felt that he was insincere and distrusted him from the start, especially as Philip’s eyes always seemed to evade direct contact with his.

‘De Strete’s appointment is to be confirmed at the Shire Court tomorrow,’ announced de Revelle.

‘How can that be? The time has been far too short to get approval from the King or his Justiciar,’ objected John.

The sheriff shrugged impatiently. ‘Then it is to be made conditional on that consent being granted. It’s a mere formality. Hubert Walter will approve on the King’s behalf. I’m sure the Lionheart has not the slightest interest in who is appointed a verderer in a remote county.’

‘What’s the hurry?’ demanded John.

‘The next Attachment Court is to be held in a week’s time. There are cases to be heard. We can’t wait weeks or months for messengers to go scurrying around the country or even to France.’

De Wolfe sat heavily on the corner of Richard’s table, to the owner’s annoyance.

‘As most of the cases will merely be referred to the Forest Eyre, there can be no urgency. That court sits only every third year!’

Whenever something became awkward, the sheriff managed to change the subject.

‘Was there something you wanted, John?’ he said pointedly.

‘It’s about this very matter. You had a deputation today from some of the most influential barons in this area.’

De Revelle’s narrow face became wary and his eyes flicked between John and the new verderer. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Because they came to see me directly afterwards, to express their dissatisfaction. They want some explanations — and some action.’

Richard suddenly stood up to dismiss the new verderer.

‘I’ll see you at the Shire Hall tomorrow morning, Philip. There are matters I need to discuss with the coroner.’

He almost hustled de Strete from the chamber, thrusting him out into the hall and closing the door behind him.

‘That was indiscreet, John, in front of a new forest official,’ he snapped.

De Wolfe sat unbidden on the stool that the verderer had so abruptly vacated. He took up the half-full wine cup, threw the dregs into the rushes on the floor and refilled it from the jug that stood on Richard’s table.

‘Why? Is there something he shouldn’t hear about?’ he asked with sarcastic innocence. ‘Or might he have said something you didn’t wish me to hear?’

‘Of course not!’ blustered Richard. ‘Now, what is you want to say to me?’

‘Something’s going on in the forest and I want to get to the bottom of it. Guy Ferrars and his friends are becoming restive — they’re losing money and they don’t like it. And when Lord Ferrars is unhappy, people in his vicinity are apt to become equally miserable. That might include you, brother-in-law.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said de Revelle. ‘Why should you think I have any interest in the matter?’

‘I know you of old, Richard! You’ve sailed very near the wind more than once and you can’t afford another whiff of scandal. Why are you so insistent that I should not investigate these problems in the Royal Forest?’

‘Because you have no authority there, in spite of what you say. The whole point of the forest laws is that they are outwith the common law.’

‘Only for misdeeds that affect forest matters, Richard. How often do I need to tell you? You don’t seem to want to listen and that makes me suspicious.’

The sheriff’s face reddened, whether with anger or guilt John couldn’t decide. ‘You’re a soldier, not a lawyer! Don’t take it upon yourself to interpret the law. The forest laws have been in place since Saxon times, whilst your new-fangled coroner’s play-acting is not yet a year old.’

John put down his empty cup with a bang.

‘Very well, if you want to dispute my authority, I’ll ride to Winchester and see the Justiciar. I’ll bring back a document confirming my authority to investigate deaths, injury, fires and the rest of it, anywhere I please — or rather where the King pleases.’

He stood up and towered over the seated sheriff like a bird of prey.

‘And whilst I’m there, I’ll ask him for a Commission to investigate the state of the Royal Forest of Dartmoor. A coroner can be commissioned to undertake any task in the kingdom, if the monarch or his ministers so desire.’

Under direct threat, de Revelle held up a placatory hand.

‘Sit down, John, sit down! Let’s not fight over this. You’re making such an issue of a few coincidences.’

‘Coincidences? A verderer shot in the back, the Warden half killed, a tanner burned to death and foresters up to even more of their tricks than usual?’

Richard reached over to pour more wine for the coroner, as if this would solve the problem.

‘Calm down, John! These issues amount to very little in the great scheme of things. There are more important problems every day.’

‘Tell that to the widow of the dead tanner — or the murdered verderer! Convince me that you have no part in this, Richard. Why have you so rapidly forced this de Strete fellow into the verderer’s post — he’s a close neighbour of yours at Revelstoke, is he not?’

He threw down his drink and continued his tirade unabated.

‘And who is trying to unseat the Warden of the Forests — either by anonymous notes or clubbing him on the head? And why does rumour say that you would like to be the Warden in his stead? You have enough responsibilities now, being sheriff, Warden of the Stannaries and God knows what else. Why seek another unpaid job? It’s not like you, is it?’

He thumped the table with his fist. ‘There’s a common factor in all this and I’m going to find it, Richard. And God help you if I discover that you’re involved in some underhand scheming once again. I thought you would have learned your lesson by now!’

He stalked out, leaving his brother-in-law torn between anger and anxiety.

The next morning, John sat glumly in the Shire Hall waiting for the start of the regular County Court, a forum where a mixture of criminal and civil cases were mixed with petitions and a whole range of administrative affairs related to the running of the county of Devon.

Unable to sleep well, he had arrived too early and now sat contemplating the seemingly intractable problems in his personal life. The previous evening, after leaving the sheriff, he had gone down to the Bush, but it was not a successful visit. Nesta had been quiet and withdrawn and all his efforts to cheer her had failed. When he had asked her casually whether she had been out that day, Nesta had suddenly burst into tears and scrambled up to her room in the loft, intriguing many of the patrons, especially when they saw the King’s coroner follow her up the ladder. Her door was barred, and, in spite of his hissed demands to be let in, she continued to sob quietly on the other side. Defeated, he went back down, finished his ale and eventually, in gloomy confusion, trudged home, where he found Matilda back from her devotions. She was equally silent, though he sensed that for once her disgruntlement was not directed at him.

He was drawn out of his reverie by the arrival of the participants for the court hearings and tried to raise some interest in the proceedings.

On a low dais in the bare hall the sheriff sat centre-stage in a large chair, flanked by his chaplain, the rotund Brother Rufus on one side and the coroner on the other. They sat on the ends of two benches, which also carried Hugh de Relaga, one of the portreeves representing the burgesses of the city, John de Alençon, the Archdeacon of Exeter, on behalf of the cathedral, and several guildmasters and burgesses from Tavistock, Barnstaple and other towns in the county. Behind them, one man from each Hundred, the smaller divisions of the county, sat as a jury. The cases ranging from applications for fairs and licences for trading to allegations of assault and theft, were dealt with rapidly.

John was always doing his best to divert serious crimes into the royal courts, but many were still dealt with at this ancient county level. Two men were summarily sent to be hanged for confessed robbery with violence, in spite of John’s protests that they should be remanded to appear before the next Commissioners of Gaol Delivery, who were due to visit Exeter within a few months. The full majesty of the King’s Justices in Eyre had been in the city only a matter of weeks earlier and were unlikely to return for a couple of years, which gave the sheriff and burgesses a good excuse to ignore John’s argument that serious cases should only be handled by the royal courts.

As coroner — the ‘Keeper of the Pleas of the Crown’ — he did his best to implement Hubert Walter’s edict of the previous autumn, but it was hard work pushing against the old traditions, especially when the sheriff was violently opposed to anything that reduced his jurisdiction and his opportunity to extract more money from the population.

John had stood to present several cases already, fed to him by his clerk Thomas, who sat among the gaggle of secretaries and scribes on the benches at the back of the platform. When an approver or appealer was called, Thomas appeared behind de Wolfe and thrust a parchment into his hand. As he could not read, the little clerk whispered the content into his ear, a face-saving stratagem that was wasted on the literate sheriff, who watched the charade with a sardonic grin.

The main business of the court lasted two hours and, at the end, Philip de Strete was presented and stood smirking before the dais as the sheriff browbeat the court into unquestioning approval of his appointment as verderer. As John had no official standing in this matter, there was nothing he could say, even if he had had any grounds for objecting to the nomination. When the proceedings broke up for noon-time dinner, de Wolfe walked across the inner ward with his good friend, Archdeacon John de Alençon. The lean, ascetic clergyman, one of the senior canons of the cathedral chapter, asked him about Thomas de Peyne, his own nephew.

‘Is he proving satisfactory, John? The poor fellow has had a rough time these past few months.’

De Wolfe gave a rare lopsided grin. ‘Being almost hanged for murder after failing to kill himself was certainly a test for his soul! But he is an excellent clerk. His prowess with a quill pen is equalled only by his intelligence.’

The archdeacon nodded in approval. ‘He certainly seems more cheerful these days. Though I have little hope to offer him of a return to Holy Office in the near future.’

The coroner grunted his agreement. ‘I suspect he would have to move to some place far distant from either Winchester or Exeter. I know an influential churchman in Wales, Gerald de Barri, the Archdeacon of Brecon, who might help him. But to be honest, I am loath to lose Thomas, at least until I know that I could get someone half as reliable to replace him.’

The priest turned to de Wolfe, a smile lighting up his thin, lined face. ‘No, John, I don’t believe that such selfish motives would ever impede you, if you thought you could help my luckless nephew. Gerald de Barri, you say? Giraldus Cambrensis, a famous man in his own way, though a thorn in the flesh of Canterbury and even the Pope. No wonder you are friends, you are two peas from the same pod!’

They walked on in companionable silence, two figures both dressed sombrely, the one in a black cassock, the other in his grey tunic, until the archdeacon brought up a new subject.

‘I hear there is trouble in the forest — that verderer reminded me that one of the parish priests has voiced his concerns to me.’

‘Would that happen to be Father Amicus from Manaton?’

‘It was indeed — when he brought his tithe money in yesterday, he told me about the dead tanner and of the other problems in the forests.’

De Alencon stopped walking and ran a hand through his crinkled grey hair. He turned a worried face to the coroner.

‘I have heard through channels that need not be named that the old trouble may be stirring again, and I cannot but wonder if this unrest in the forest is related.’

De Wolfe rubbed the black stubble on his face.

‘You mean the old trouble involving our royal namesake? How can that be, what could he gain from it?’

They began walking again, down Castle Hill towards the high street.

‘More money, more influence, disruption of the existing order,’ replied the priest. John did not ask him where he had heard the rumour — it was a poorly kept secret that Bishop Henry Marshal, in common with some other senior churchmen, had been sympathetic to Prince John’s abortive rebellion when King Richard was imprisoned in Germany and not expected to survive. They walked on for a few more yards, then the archdeacon spoke again.

‘My duties these days are more administrative than pastoral or devotional,’ he said rather bitterly. ‘I meet many other priests from the diocese and hear many scraps of gossip and chatter.’

De Wolfe waited patiently; he sensed that his friend was gathering himself to tell him something that the secretive ecclesiastical community would rather keep to itself.

‘I heard a rumour not only that certain senior colleagues were dabbling again in sedition, but that some particular priest was actively engaged in furthering that ambition.’

They took a few more strides, which brought them into the hubbub of the main street, before the coroner pursued the matter.

‘Have you any idea as to his identity? You are not talking about one of the prime movers, I assume?’

He meant the bishop himself, but kept to their coded way of talking.

‘No, no, he will keep a low profile until things develop much further, having had his knuckles rapped last time. This priest seems to be some kind of go-between, a buffer to insulate the leading lights from any dirty work that may be needed.’

‘And you have no idea who or where he is?’

John de Alençon shook his tonsured head. ‘Only that he is not from Exeter, but probably farther west. I have no means of improving on that hint — I had it second hand from someone whose informant unwisely let slip a few words and immediately regretted it.’

As they shouldered their way through the crowded street, with stall-holders and shop men advertising their wares and hawkers shaking trays at them, John once again realised what a dilemma men like himself and the archdeacon faced. They were devoted to the King, both from a sense of loyalty to their monarch and because of his powerful personality and courage. Yet competing reluctantly with these feelings of fidelity was the common-sense realisation that Richard Coeur-de-Lion was not the best head of state as far as England was concerned. In the past six years he had spent a bare four months of his reign in the country; he seemed unwilling ever to return; and he had never even bothered to learn to speak English. His interest in the country seemed confined to how much money he could squeeze from its inhabitants; time and again he had imposed crushing taxes and additional demands on religious houses and nobles alike. He and his Curia Regis strove to raise extra funds for his French wars, on top of the great debt still owing on his ransom to Emperor Henry of Germany. Richard auctioned titles and offices of state to the highest bidder and brazenly sold charters to towns and cities. He was once reputed to have said that he would have sold London itself if he could have found a rich enough buyer!

In contrast to Richard and his careless and profligate manner, his brother appeared to many to be a more practical and prudent caretaker of the island of Britain. Even the rather blinkered John de Wolfe could appreciate that to many the accession of the Count of Mortain, as John was also known, might be advantageous to the country. But never would men like de Wolfe accept this while the Lionheart lived, especially as John’s personality was so unattractive. Mean spirited, conceited and arrogant, the younger brother was personally highly unpopular. Having lived for so long in the shadow of his illustrious royal brother, John was disgruntled and jealous.

In his father’s time he had almost no territory of his own, being dubbed ‘John Lackland’, but when sent by Henry II to prove himself by governing the new conquest of Ireland, his rule was such a disaster that he had to be recalled in ignominy. When Richard came to the throne, he was excessively generous to John and gave him six counties for himself, including Devon and Cornwall — and was repaid with treachery when he was imprisoned on the Continent. Even after his release, when he rapidly crushed John’s rebellion, Richard was far too forgiving — instead of hanging his brother, he pardoned him and even restored some of his forfeited lands. Now, thought John sourly, the King’s compassion was being thrown back in his face, if the prince was once more seeking the throne. But how could this be related to the troubles in the forest?

De Wolfe’s cogitations had brought them to Martin’s Lane, where the archdeacon left him at his front door.

‘I have a suggestion, John,’ said the canon, as they parted. ‘I know you think highly of my nephew’s artfulness. You have told me before that he is adept at worming his way into the confidence of priests, so why not send Thomas out of the city to seek better information?’

He gave the coroner a broad wink with one of his lively blue eyes and strode away, his long cassock swirling as he crossed the cathedral Close.