Figure of Hate

Chapter Ten

It was proving to be a busy day for Devonshire's coroner, measured by the number of visitors and interruptions. After Reginald de Charterai had left, John went back to his chamber and began struggling again with his reading lessons. Every time he felt he was making some progress, some crisis seemed to drive it all from his mind and he had to start afresh. He could now write his name tolerably well and recognise several dozen words in Latin, mainly those dealing with the legal matters that arose repeatedly in the Shire Court and in Thomas's inquest rolls. His progress was painfully slow, however, and he accepted that at his age he could never become really proficient.

For the moment, John was alone at the top of the gatehouse tower, with only the whistle of the breeze through the pointed window openings for company. Gwyn had gone to the soldiers' quarters in search of a drink and a game of dice, while Thomas had taken himself to the cathedral scriptorium, with the excuse that he must scrounge some more ink from the canon, who ground the best gall and soot pigment in the city. In reality, he wanted to let his feet tread the hallowed stones and boards of an ecclesiastical building, which was the nearest place to heaven that the little clerk could find on earth.

An hour passed and John began to fidget over his parchments, wishing that the noon bell of the cathedral would ring to release him and allow him to go home for his dinner, even though this meant facing Matilda in her present strange mood following her drunken episode. Just as his wandering attention settled on speculation as to what Mary might have cooked for the day's main meal, footsteps again sounded on the staircase outside. This time, there was no soldier to announce the visitor, as the face that poked through the sacking screen was that of a servant from the close. It was a pimply boy who worked as the bottler's assistant in the house of Canon John de Alençon, and he brought a message to the effect that his master the archdeacon would be obliged if the coroner could call upon him at his earliest convenience.

'Give him my compliments and tell him I will be with him very shortly!' commanded John, and as the boy scuttled away down the steps he rose to roll up his parchments with a sigh of relief and take his grey cape from a peg on the wall.

Outside, the October day had turned colder and grey clouds and wind warned of a grim autumn. The wet summer of that year had already provided a very poor harvest, and if winter turned out to be a hard one he feared that starvation would claim many before the next spring.

He walked briskly down Castle Hill to High Street and turned into Martin's Lane. He passed his own front door but refrained from going in, for fear that domestic problems would detain him from meeting his good friend the archdeacon. It was unusual for de Alençon, to send for him, and even the lure of Mary's cooking failed to divert him.

When he arrived at the tall house in Canon's Row, the continuation of Martin's Lane past the north side of the cathedral, a servant showed him straight into the spartan room that the canon used as his study. A table carrying several books, two stools and a large plain cross on the wall were the only furnishings that this austere priest allowed, a marked contrast to the lavish luxury enjoyed by many senior members of the cathedral establishment. But John de Alençon's face was anything but austere today, for he advanced on the Coroner with a beatific smile and sat him on one side of the table while he took the other stool. Almost immediately, his bottler, a skinny old man with a bulbous nose, entered with two glass goblets and a glazed pottery jar whose seal told de Wolfe that it was the very best quality Anjou wine.

'Why the celebration, John?' he asked his namesake. 'Is it your birthday or have they at last made you a bishop?'

'Neither, my friend, but I have some good news,' replied the archdeacon, his blue eyes twinkling in his thin face. 'Your clerk — my nephew — has at last been granted readmission to the clergy! I had a message from the chapter clerk of Winchester today, anouncing that Thomas de Peyne is to present himself there in seven weeks' time!'

The stolid coroner was incapable of tears, but he felt an unaccustomed prickling in his eyes for a moment as he thought of the joy that this would bring to his woebegone clerk. It was through de Alençon's intervention that the near-starving Thomas had been taken on by de Wolfe as his clerk, and they both held considerable affection for the little man, whose intellect and devotion more than compensated for his poor body and unprepossessing appearance.

'Does he know of this yet?' John asked, as they raised their goblets in celebration of this long-awaited event.

'It's little more than an hour since I had the message,' replied the archdeacon. 'I've no idea where he might be, which is partly why I sent for you, to discover his whereabouts. '

The matter was soon resolved, as the boy with the pimples was sent off at a trot to the cathedral archives above the chapter house, where the coroner rightly suspected he would be found, in his quest for ink.

Within a few minutes, Thomas appeared, rather apprehensive at the summons, especially when he found his master with his uncle, both of them wearing spuriously grim expressions.

'Oh God!' he gasped, the words being a genuine supplication rather than an oath. 'Please don't tell me that they have changed their minds!'

As he seemed on the point of fainting, the two Johns hurriedly dropped their charade and broke into smiles as they told Thomas the good news. Then he almost fainted again, falling to his knees and bursting into tears, rocking back and forth on the floor, crossing himself and blubbing prayers of thanks between his sobs. His uncle, more used to pastoral emotions than the discomfited coroner, laid a gentle hand on his head. De Wolfe took a spare wine cup from the table and filled it.

'Here, boy, take this and join us!' he said, holding it out. 'I know you dislike ale and cider, but drink this with us in celebration. You're unlikely to have the chance of tasting this quality again!'

Thomas staggered to his feet and gradually his tears subsided as his elfin face became wreathed in smiles. The archdeacon told him' of the need to be in Winchester some weeks hence and they discussed the practicalities of the journey and the need for someone to accompany him on the lonely and dangerous roads.

'I'll send Gwyn with you, to make sure you get there in one piece,' promised de Wolfe. 'How I'll manage without either my clerk or my officer, I don't know, but we'll worry about that when the time comes.'

Thomas's euphoria suddenly evaporated, as a look of desperate concern appeared on his face.

'I'll not leave you, master! Even when I am taken back into the bosom of Mother Church, I will remain your clerk until you have no further need of me.'

John fidgeted with his wine cup. 'Don't concern yourself with that now, Thomas,' he muttered gruffly. 'You enjoy this moment and the prospect of what your heart has desired for so long.'

After a few more minutes of discussion about this great event, Thomas became agitated again and pleaded to be excused.

'I need to spend the rest of the day on my knees before the high altar, giving thanks to God for my deliverance.' He made his escape as soon as he could and the two older men watched him go with benign smiles on their faces.

Thank God for that, and I have never meant it so sincerely,' commented the archdeacon. 'I think my poor nephew would eventually have pined away and died, had this never come about.'

'Even I will go down on my knees beside my bed tonight and offer up my thanks for it,' grunted de Wolfe. 'But before that, we must have a celebration at the Bush this evening and try to get the little fellow drunk for the first time in his life!'

There was much of the day left before any such celebration could take place. First John had to get back to his house to make muttered excuses for his late appearance at dinner. Matilda looked very rough; her eyes were red rimmed and her face even more sallow than usual. For once she had no caustic comment to make on his tardiness at coming to table and sat silently with downcast eyes, chewing without enthusiasm the salt fish followed by boiled mutton that Mary had prepared. Afterwards the cook-maid brought them apples, which were now in season and, though small, were smooth and round, unlike the wrinkled fruit that they would get in the winter.

John made a few attempts at conversation, including the news that Thomas was to be readmitted to the Church. He had hoped that his wife's partiality to things ecclesiastical would allow her to be pleased at the return of a priest to the fold, but her dislike of Thomas prevented her from showing any interest, and he relapsed into silence again.

When Mary came into the hall to collect the remains of the trenchers and the platters, she dropped a wooden tray on the flagstones with a loud clatter. Matilda winced and screwed up her eyes as if a dagger had been plunged into her ear, and John realised that she was still suffering badly from the effects of her drinking the night before. She was still managing to swallow a respectable quantity of the less expensive wine that remained after her excesses, however, and they sat in uncompanionable silence while they emptied their cups. John once again tried to strike up some conversation to ease the strain between them, and this time he had more success when he tapped the snobbish, rather than dote religious, vein in his wife's nature. He told her of the unexpected visit of Sir Reginald de Charterai that morning, and her eyes, though still bleary, showed a spark of interest at the mention of an aristocrat from across the Channel.

'He is very well known, John, as well as a charming and handsome man,' she grunted. 'You would do well to cultivate his friendship.'

Surprised, John enquired how she came to know him.

'I saw him at the feast where he had that altercation with that evil Peverel fellow,' she replied. 'And I have seen him once or twice at tournaments in past years — usually when I went with my brother, as you were absent for most of my life!'

Even in her present low state, she could not resist jabbing her husband with her barbed tongue.

'It seems that he is enamoured of Lady Avelina, the widow of William Peverel,' he informed her, somewhat spitefully, as he suspected that Matilda was harbouring a distant admiration for the august Reginald, a man who seemed the type to appeal to ladies of a certain age. This news appeared to double her interest and she was almost animated as she enquired about the Frenchman's visits to Sampford Peverel. John could almost hear the gossip mill grinding away outside St Olave's church next Sunday.

'It seems odd that he is paying court to the wife of a man at whose violent death he was present and who now, months later, he alleges was murdered!' observed John. 'One might even wonder if he is raising a smokescreen to divert suspicion from himself.'

He himself did not for a moment believe this, but cussedly prodded Matilda's obvious partiality for the Frenchman. His wife immediately rose to the bait.

'What nonsense you do come out with, John! Sometimes I despair of your common sense. Sir Reginald is a knight of impeccable character — and why should he now raise the issue of foul play if he himself was involved?' She glared scornfully at her husband and downed the last of her wine. 'Look elsewhere for your culprit and be glad that this man's sense of honour brought him to you with information that might prove useful.'

De Wolfe sighed, chastened by his wife's fondness for de Charterai. She would deem him innocent even if he were found clutching a bloody knife. Even worse, she was almost certainly right.

The third interruption of the day came in midafternoon, when de Wolfe was in the sheriff's chamber, checking the names of those who were to be hanged the next day. Henry de Furnellis had inherited his sheriff's clerk from Richard de Revelle, a wizened, miserable cleric in minor orders, by the name of Elias Pulein. Though he was probably not yet forty, he looked and acted like a man twenty years older. No one could ever recall seeing him smile, and his attitude was one of martyred resignation at having to serve a succession of high-born idiots. His one saving grace was an ability to read and write almost as well as Thomas de Peyne, and a pedantic attention to detail and routine that kept the somewhat haphazard administration of justice in Devonshire in some sort of order.

Now he stood at the sheriff's elbow with a sheaf of parchments, comparing one list with another.

'Edwin of Cullompton died of a fever in the South Gate gaol last week and Robert de Combe had his throat cut by another prisoner, so we can cross them off our list.' He spoke in a tired, dispassionate voice, as if he were cancelling invitations to a guild dinner, rather than an appointment with the gallows-tree.

'So how many are there left?' asked John irritably.

'Five, including one woman … the girl who poisoned her husband for beating her.'

John had to attend the hangings on Magdalen Street, the high road to the east outside the city walls, to see that the executions were correctly recorded for presention to the King's justices when they eventually came to hold the General Eyre. This was the major inquiry into the administration of the county and might not occur for several years, but all legal events had to be catalogued for their perusal. In addition to the more frequent Eyres of Assize, there were the courts of 'Gaol Delivery', held by commissioners who could be either judges or senior officials from Winchester or London, and who came to clear the congested gaols of prisoners awaiting trial. These gaols were not places of punishment after conviction, as no such penalty existed — they merely held those awaiting trial until they were acquitted, fined or hanged. In actual fact, a significant proportion of those on remand never reached the courts, as they either died, were murdered or escaped, the latter through widespread bribery of the gaolers or the connivance of the local inhabitants in small towns and villages, where the cost of guarding and feeding miscreants for long periods was unwelcome.

After agreeing on the names of the felons to be dispatched on the morrow, Elias Pulein began a litany of cases to be dealt with at the next Shire Court, due the following week. This was mainly the responsibility of Henry de Furnellis, though he seemed content to nod sagely at intervals and let his clerk make all the arrangements. Some of the cases needed some input from the coroner, such as declarations of outlawry, depositions about appeals and the confessions of 'approvers' trying to save their necks by incriminating their accomplices.

The dry voice of the chief clerk droned on and John fancied that he could see the sheriff's eyelids drooping as he slumped behind his table. Indeed, the coroner himself felt drowsy from the combination of a heavy dinner and Elias's boring monologue. Abruptly, they were delivered from this wearisome catalogue by a rapping on the heavy door and the appearance of Sergeant Gabriel's helmeted head.

'Sorry to disturb you, sirs, but what looks like an important visitor has just turned up at the gatehouse, wearing the royal livery. Got two armed escorts and says he comes from London on the King's business.'

John uncoiled himself from the corner of the table where he had been perched and Henry managed to shake himself fully awake and get to his feet.

'Who is it, Sergeant? Where is he now?' asked the sheriff, looking slightly confused.

De Wolfe stalked to the door ahead of him and hurried out into the main hall of the keep. As he made for the door at the top of the wooden staircase, two tall men-at-arms on either side of a shorter, youthful figure appeared in the arch. All wore round iron helmets and leather cuirasses, over which were tabards bearing the three golden lions on a red ground — the royal arms of Richard Coeur-de-Lion. Judging by their dusty and mud-spattered appearance, they had ridden long and hard.

The man in the middle — hardly more than a youth, though he had a knightly bearing — advanced with a smile and offered his right arm in a forearm grasp of greeting.

'I know that you are Sir John de Wolfe. I saw you last year with the King at that short but bloody fight at Nottingham after his release!'

He introduced himself as William de Mora and said he was acting as a herald for Hubert WaIter, the Chief Justiciar and Archbishop of Canterbury. By this time, Henry de Furnellis had" arrived, puffing, and introduced himself to the newcomer as the sheriff, immediately pressing the herald to eat, drink and rest.

'First I must deliver my message, sirs, which my Lord Hubert emphasises comes from the King himself. Then I will gladly avail myself of your hospitality, though we must set off with your reply tonight, as apparently the matter is of some urgency.'

Henry dispatched Cabriel with the two escorts to see that they were fed and to make sure that their horses were looked after, then led the way back into his chamber off the hall. Elias Pule in was still standing there, looking aggrieved that such a trivial matter as a messenger from King Richard should interrupt his routine.

The young knight was a fresh-faced fellow, obviously from the family of one of the major barons, who had been placed on the fringe of the royal court as a good launching point for his career. Henry fussed over him, divesting him of his riding cloak and getting him seated with a cup of wine pressed into his hand.

'Now, William de Mora, what urgent business can the King have with me? Has he decided to sack me already?' The herald smiled and shook his head deprecatingly — John thought that the lad's easy manner would take him far in the corridors of power.

'I fear my business is not with you, Sheriff, though I may say that your name is spoken of with great respect at court.'

Henry de Furnellis looked uncertain as to whether he was being praised or snubbed, but relief at not having new orders to bother him won the day.

'No, I have a message for the coroner,' went on de Mora. 'Dictated from the lips of the Justiciar himself.'

He slewed around on his seat to unlace a pouch at the side of his belt and drew out a parchment package, heavily sealed with tape and red wax. Handing it to de Wolfe, he repeated his plea for an early reply.

John stared at the square of vellum, folded over at either side to make an envelope. The main seal, carrying a mounted rider and a cross, was recognisable as the personal emblem of Hubert Walter:

'Please open it at once, Sir John,' requested the young knight, who could only have earned his spurs very recently. The coroner turned the package over, then back again, before pulling the tapes to crack the brittle wax from the seams of the parchment.

It was a single sheet, carrying a few lines of elegant script and a further seal at the bottom. He stared at the manuscript, but although he recognised his own, name at the top and a few scattered words, the Latin was beyond his simple capabilities, and he cursed under his breath as he remembered that Thomas was on his knees in the cathedral, instead of being at his side to translate.

He looked across at the sheriff, who shrugged helplessly, but at once Elias Pulein came to the rescue and held out his hand for the letter. To be fair to the man, he managed to suppress the supercilious sniff that he could have made to express his disdain for the barbarian's he had to work with.

'Shall I read it out, Crowner?' he asked with a deadpan expression.

John nodded curtly, wondering whether the courtly herald could read and, write and if so, what he thought of these clod-hoppers in Devon.

The sheriff's clerk quickly scanned the message from top to bottom.

'It's in Latin, but I'll give you sense of it in our usual tongue.'

He converted the words into Norman French rather than Middle English, as he felt it more fitting for a royal message.

'Archbishop WaIter sends you his warmest greetings and says he thinks often of the times you were together in campaigning and battle … and so on.' The clerk seemed to gloss over these pleasantries as if they were a waste of his effort.

'Then he says that Our Sovereign Lord King Richard himself sends his personal greetings to you through the Justiciar, remembering your faithful service to him in the past, both in Outremer and on the fateful journey home.'

A note of respect crept into Elias's voice as he related this part.

'The King now Wishes your further aid, in that he comrnands you to be at Chepstow Castle in the Welsh marches by the sixteenth day of this month, to escort an embassy to meet the Lord Rhys, Prince of South Wales. William, Marshal of England, will lead the deputation and will be supported by the Archdeacon of Brecon, Gerald de Barri.'

Elias looked up, clearly awe-struck by these great names.

'There is no reason given for the embassy, but the Justiciar says that you are an ideal escort and guide, as you are familiar with Wales, speak its language and are known to both the marshal and to Gerald de Barri.'

John thought whimsically that he could have added.I further qualification — that of having a Welsh mistress!

The clerk gave a last look at the bottom of the manuscript. 'It ends with the felicitations of Archbishop WaIter and his confidence that you will carry out this royal commission in your usual faithful and efficient manner.'

There was a silence as the now respectful Elias handed the manuscript back to the coroner.

Henry de Furnellis, his bushy eyebrows climbing high on his lined forehead, grinned at de Wolfe. 'You should have been sheriff in place of me, John, with all these friends in high places!'

There was no rancour or sarcasm in his voice, and John thought that he probably meant what he said. Before he could reply, the herald broke in with an easy but firm voice. 'I am to return with a reply as soon as possible, Sir John. Though I take it that you are in no mind other than to obey the King's wishes?'

De Wolfe had not a second's hesitation. Though the notice was short and a prolonged absence would make things difficult, to him his monarch's wish was an absolute command.

'Of course, I will be at Chepstow next week! Have you any idea how long this enterprise may take? I have many arrangements to make.'

William de Mora turned up his hands. 'I cannot be definite, but I gathered from the Justiciar that this was to be a single visit to the Welsh prince and a quick return, as I understand that William Marshal needs to be back in Normandy without delay.'

This was all John could glean about the journey, and after the sheriff had fussily shepherded the young knight away for food, drink and rest, the coroner went in a slightly dazed mood back to his house and sat by his fireside with a quart of ale to think through this sudden turn of events.

Thomas de Peyne did not get drunk that evening, but enough wine was forced on him to bring a flush to his sallow cheeks and to keep a smile on his usually melancholy features. When Nesta heard the good news, she immediately chivvied her maids into making extra pastries and a huge cauldron of mutton broth; a dozen capons were set turning on spits in the cook shed.

By the seventh hour that evening, the Bush was full of well-wishers, some of whom Thomas hardly knew. A few of the cathedral clergy came along, vicars, secondaries and some choristers, though the only senior member was his uncle, John de Alençon. Apart from Brother Rufus, the jolly fat monk who was the castle chaplain, the rest of the crowd were laymen, ranging from Henry de Furnellis to Ralph Morin, Gabriel, the two town constables and of course Gwyn and the coroner. One unexpected visitor was John's business partner, Hugh de Relaga, who turned up in an outrageous new surcoat of green velvet over a blue brocade tunic, with a floppy feathered hat to match. He had in tow a young man of about seventeen years, whom he introduced as his nephew, Eustace de Relaga.

The festivities carried on for much of the evening, though people came and went, after clapping the frail Thomas on the back and roaring out their congratulations and good wishes for the future. As dusk fell, many made their way home before curfew, though in these times of peace it was barely enforced — especially tonight, when both the enforcers, the constables Osric and Theobald, were themselves in the Bush.

Eventually, the remaining celebrants gravitated to a couple of tables near the hearth, the coroner's team being augmented only by Nesta, the sheriff, Ralph Morin, Gabriel and Hugh de Relaga and his silent relative. With some platters of savoury pastries and ample drink being replenished by old Edwin, the conversation moved on at last from Thomas's forthcoming restoration, which had been discussed up hill and down dale all evening. Henry de Furnellis, who had sunk an inordinate amount of ale, boisterously took the subject in a new direction.

'Your clerk's going to. Winchester, John, but what about your own journey to Wales — and in such exalted company?'

All eyes swivelled to look at the coroner, who had said nothing to anyone yet about his royal summons. Not even to Matilda, who had been out at her cousin's house for supper, which gave him the opportunity to get to the Bush early.

'Wales? Are you going to Wales, John?' demanded Nesta, for whom the word conjured up nostalgic visions. There was a chorus of queries from around the tables and de Wolfe held up his hand for quiet.

'I only heard this afternoon,' he explained gruffly. 'I suppose it's really a state secret, but I trust no one here is going to rush off to tell Philip of France.'

Tell him what, Crowner?' grunted Gwyn.

'That you are coming with me to Chepstow Castle to meet William the Marshal and escort him down west to pay a call on the Lord Rhys.'

There was a squeak of horror from Thomas de Peyne. 'But I am due in Winchester next month, Crowner!' he said, aghast at the prospect of missing his bishop's benediction.

'Don't fret, my lad. I'll not need you on such a journey, especially as you would never keep up, slung side-saddle over that broken-winded pony of yours! In any case, Gwyn and I will be back long before you go off to Winchester.'

The clerk's fears assuaged, the coroner told the whole story as far as he knew it — that because of his ability to speak Welsh and his familiarity with the country, he had been chosen by the Chief Justiciar on behalf of the King to accompany an embassy to Prince Rhys ap Gruffydd, the powerful ruler of most of south and west Wales, universally know as the Lord Rhys. John produced the parchment from his pouch and it was handed around the gathering. Although few of them could read a word, it was studied as reverently as if the King had penned it with his own hand.

'I don't know why the marshal is going to see him, and it's none of my business,' he added sternly. 'My task is to help make sure that he gets there and back safely.,

'You went around Wales like this once before, John,' said the excited Nesta. 'Wasn't it to guard some bishop?'

'Back in '88, that was,' broke in Gwyn. 'I was with him when we paraded around the country with old Archbishop Baldwin, drumming up volunteers for the Holy Land — and ended up taking the cross ourselves!'

De Wolfe nodded. 'That's why Hubert WaIter picked me for this,' he said. 'It's the same sort of job, nothing glamorous about it, just a bodyguard who can speak the language and find my way through the Welsh woods and hills.'

Nesta, her eyes glistening with pride at her lover's achievements, refused to let him belittle the honour. 'John, the King himself picked you and sent you his personal greetings, so you said the parchment states. You are an important man!'

De Wolfe felt that perhaps some of Matilda's revelling in fame was rubbing off on his mistress, but he was in too good a mood to complain.

'Gwyn, we have to be in Chepstow by next Thursday, a three-day journey, if we cross the Severn by boat. So we must leave no later than Monday.'

The coroner's exciting news kept the conversation going through another platter of meat pasties and another gallon of ale. There was much discussion about the politics of the ceaseless conflict between the English Crown and the independent Welsh princedoms, but as most of the news from there was weeks or months old by the time it reached Devon, no one was quite sure what the present political situation might be. When a lull came in this discussion, Hugh de Relaga shifted his portly, multi-coloured figure from his stool and dropped himself down with a bump on the bench alongside John.

'Before you go rushing off on your royal excursions, John, there's something I want to raise with you.'

The coroner expected his friend and business partner to launch into a discussion about the price of wool or the cost of shipping it abroad, but instead he beckoned to the young man, who came over and stood expectantly behind his uncle.

'Eustace is my brother's youngest lad,' he began, patting the youth affectionately on the shoulder. 'Until a year ago, he was a pupil in the cathedral school at Gloucester, and since then has been staying with me while he attended the pedagogues in a college house in Smythen Street.'

John wondered where all this was leading. He knew that Hugh's brother was a successful tin merchant in Tavistock, one of the Stannary towns on the west side of Dartmoor. He also knew that a few small centres of higher learning had sprung up in Exeter, as they had done some years ago in Oxford. Here the sons of wealthier people paid to attend lectures on subjects such as philosophy, grammar, logic and rhetoric, given by educated clerics, usually 'monks, canons or other learned clerks. Exeter, though a long way behind Oxford, was rapidly gaining a reputation for such colleges, most of the teaching being held informally in houses in Smythen Street, strangely to the accompaniment of nearby smiths and metal-workers banging their anvils.

De Wolfe looked from his old friend's face to the placid one of Eustace de Relaga. 'No doubt you were a good student, lad. But how can an old soldier like me be of any service to someone bursting with brains and learning?'

Eustace spoke for the first time, his voice high and clear and completely free of any Devon accent. 'My parents, especially my mother, had set their hearts on my entering the priesthood, sir. My education has been directed towards that end, but I fear that I feel no vocation for it.'

Thomas de Peyne, who had been chatting to Nesta, pricked up his ears at this statement. For anyone to decline the opportunity of entering his beloved Church was to Thomas almost a blasphemy. As his bright little eyes fixed on the young man, Eustace glanced rather bashfully at his uncle, who took up the tale.

'My brother and his wife have now accepted that he will not train for holy orders, nor does he wish to follow his father into the tin trade. But they agree with his desire to enter the public service in some capacity and hopefully work his way up to some useful position of trust and authority — maybe, in the fullness of time, even into government service in London or Winchester. '

The coroner still failed to see what this had to do with him, and rather bluntly said as much to his friend. The tubby portreeve took no offence.

'Eustace speaks, reads and writes Latin, French and English and is conversant with all modern learning, thanks to an excellent education. What he lacks, quite naturally at his tender age, is practical experience and a knowledge of the everyday world. I and his parents would dearly like to attach him to you as a sort of apprentice in the coroner's service — a kind of assistant to Thomas here, who might welcome some help in his copying of documents and suchlike.'

John's black brows came together as he thought about this sudden proposition. Hugh may have taken this for rejection, as he hurriedly went on to reassure his friend.

'There would naturally be no salary required — indeed, I would be happy to reimburse any expenses that might be entailed. It would be but for a trial period, to see if you could put up with him! And now that Thomas is to become actively involved again in ecclesiastical affairs, perhaps with a parish or prebend of his own, you may in the future be seeking a new clerk.'

The coroner looked across at Thomas, who was listening intently to this exchange.

'What do you think of this notion, Thomas? Would you like an acolyte to sit at your feet and help you with your quills and inks?'

The little clerk, until then euphoric at the prospect of his return to his beloved Church, abruptly seemed more sober.

'If it is your wish, Crowner, I see no reason why he should not follow us to learn something of the clerk's trade,' he said rather stiffly. 'But I have assured you that I have no intention of leaving your service, even though I am returned to the priesthood. I owe you much, even my very life, and I would never abandon my duties 'until I was sure my services were no longer required.'

De Wolfe read this as a warning shot against any move to displace Thomas in the short or long term, and he suspected that Hugh and his nephew got the same message from the tone of Thomas's voice.

'What about you, Gwyn? What do you think of having an addition to our little team?'

The big Cornishman shrugged. 'It's all one to me, Crowner! If the young fellow can ride a horse and drink ale, he's welcome to tag along.'

John turned back to the portreeve and his nephew, whose fresh, almost girlish face was tense with anticipation.

'We'll give it a try, Hugh, for a few weeks at least. Eustace, you can join us at our visitations to all the legal incidents that concern us and attend the inquests and various courts in which we are involved. You will take your instructions from Thomas de Peyne here, and help him in any way in which he directs you. Is that agreed?'

The young man nodded enthusiastically and thanked the coroner in his too-perfect English. His uncle added his own effusive thanks and ordered a flask of Nesta's most expensive wine as a final celebratory drink for everyone. After everyone had toasted Thomas's good news for the last time, the portreeve added another salute, this time to the addition of his nephew Eustace to the ranks of those who upheld the law in Devonshire.

As he downed the dregs in his cup, John glanced at Thomas's face and hoped to God that he had done the right thing by the little clerk.

As he strode home alone though the darkened lanes, John's thoughts slid away from the relatively minor problem of Thomas and Eustace and returned to the more portentous news of the day, his trip to Wales. There was much to be done in the time before he departed, especially another effort to resolve the death of the silversmith and the mystery at Sampford Peverel, which he was convinced were connected. As he tramped past the first street light, a guttering pitchbrand stuck above the Beargate leading into the cathedral close, he wondered how the coroner's business would survive without him for at least two weeks, which was an optimistic estimate of the time it would take to get into the hinterland of Wales and back again. His counterpart in North Devon, who had been appointed a few months back, could cover for some of the major cases in the centre of the county, but he could not be expected to ride down to the south coast, except in exceptional circumstances. John shrugged in the darkness — Hubert WaIter could not have his loaf and eat it. If he wanted John in Wales, then he would have to accept that his new coroner system would be overstretched for a time. It was already almost impossible for only two officers to cover every death in the huge county, and he knew that many cases went by default. The original Article of Assize from the King's justices in Kent, a year last September, had decreed that three coroners were to be elected in each county. That was all very well, but where were they to be found? Few active men had the time or inclination to take on a demanding and often distasteful job for no recompense at all.

Two weeks away from home! At least he would have a respite from Matilda's gloom and despondency, which were as bad as her usual carping and nagging.

As he reached the narrow entrance into Martin's Lane from the Close, where there was another flickering torch stuck in an iron ring above the arch, de Wolfe suddenly stopped dead. He had been struck by the glimmerings of an idea. If he was going away, so was Reginald de Charterai. And he was going to Normandy … and Matilda was always pining for another visit to her relatives! His mind raced ahead, like a horse suddenly released from a stall. If she went away, why could Nesta not go with him to Wales, at least as far as Gwent, where she too had her family?

He slammed a fist into his palm, suddenly exultant at these interlocking ideas, which had tumbled down upon him like an avalanche.

Jauntily, he strode into the darkened lane and made for his front door.