The Manor of Death

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Though John had always considered that Henry de Furnellis made an unenthusiastic, even indolent sheriff, he seemed to have found a new source of energy and even ruthlessness over the Axmouth situation.

The two carters had been interrogated while roped to the tavern fence. Though the truculent Dolwin Veg had only spat curses at his captors and threats of horrible mutilation at his partner, words had tumbled from Adam Grendel and were duly scribed on to parchment by Thomas de Peyne. Afterwards, the two men were locked into one of the storehouses on the quayside, and soon the other suspects in Northcote's house were herded down to join them. Their protests were bitter and vociferous, but the sheriff blithely ignored them and promised that this accommodation was better by far than that which they would soon enjoy in Exeter Castle. Some bread, cheese and ale were left with them and the doors locked again. Sergeant Gabriel and another soldier were left on guard outside, with instructions to eavesdrop in case any useful information was bandied about during the arguing and recriminations that inevitably must take place.

The search of the village revealed no other fugitives hiding away nor any further evidence that would help the law officers. It was now late aftemoon and there was no prospect of getting back to Exeter before dusk, as they intended to use the ox-cart to transport the seven prisoners to Rougemont.

'We'll stay the night in the alehouse,' decided de Furnellis. 'The men-at-arms can forage for themselves in the village and bed down in a couple of the barns.'

Seeing the way that the village had been stripped of its leading inhabitants, the landlord became more cooperative, especially after the sheriff hinted that people who gave shelter to a couple of murderers might themselves be in trouble. He found potage, cold pork, boiled beans, bread and cheese for them, together with a passable ale and some rough cider, which Henry, Ralph and the coroner's trio ate around a rough trestle in the main room. The tavern was larger than the Bush but had the same low walls of mortared stones supporting the high trucks and rafters which held up the thatch. As they ate and drank they discussed what they had learnt so far.

'Those two swine we caught here killed the pedlar and the Keeper,' said Morin. 'But was it on the orders of someone else?'

'I suspect that killing Setricus was on the spur of the moment,' declared de Wolfe. 'They had already caught him spying on their wagon at dead of night and then later trying to steal something from the back of it. They had to get rid of him for their own safety.'

The sheriff spat a piece of pork gristle into the rushes on the floor, where a pregnant bitch immediately slunk up and seized it. 'But surely the killing of our poor Luke de Casewold and his clerk was done in cold blood,' he said.

De Wolfe tore off a piece of barley bread to wrap around a slice of the tough meat. 'I don't know about that. It depends on what that foolish Keeper was up to. He told me he was going to haunt the roads at night to catch them shifting stolen goods. Maybe they caught him red-handed?'

'Or perhaps they set a trap for him, as we did for Martin Rof?' hazarded Ralph. 'If he was making a dangerous nuisance of himself, then the ringleaders may have decided to get rid of him.'

'But who are the ringleaders?' grunted Gwyn. 'I'm confused as to who's guilty of what!'

'Henry Crik is certainly one of them, for the younger carter admitted that they got their orders from him as to where to drop off their goods,' said Thomas, timidly joining the conversation.

The sheriff agreed. 'He may be the centre of this conspiracy, as being a merchant's agent he would travel the county and could find customers who wanted cheap goods. Then he organised these carters to deliver what was ordered at the right places.'

'The portreeve is also a leading figure in this,' said John. 'It was his falsification of Capie's tallies that allowed the documents to appear legitimate, if they were questioned — as we did and the Prior of Loders does at intervals, so he claims.'

'What about John Capie — is he a criminal as well?' grunted Ralph.

'He probably knew what was going on. I fail to see how he could not,' replied Henry. 'But he's small fry compared with the others, though I'm sure he fiddles the wool tax for a cut from the exporters.'

De Wolfe wondered if his own partner Hugh de Relaga or his minions took part in this sort of evasion — then decided he did not wish to know.

'Edward Northcote — he's the problem, I feel,' said Ralph. 'Is he or is he not involved in piracy and theft?'

There was a pause, broken only by sounds of chewing and Gwyn slurping his ale. 'I just don't know,' said John eventually. 'It's hard to see that a bailiff of a place like this doesn't know everything that goes on here. But no one has put the finger on him so far.'

'We'll see who cracks first after we get them back to Rougemont,' said de Furnellis grimly. 'A spell in the undercroft should loosen a tongue or two!'

The journey back to Exeter next day was painfully slow, as the two oxen moved at a snail's pace. The sheriff and constable left most of the troop of soldiers behind and trotted away over the horizon with a couple of men, but John de Wolfe, who was in no particular hurry, stayed with the caravan. This suited Thomas, to whom horse-riding at anything more than walking pace was a miserable experience. They trudged all day across the southern part of Devon, the cries and curses from inside the covered cart becoming less shrill as no one took any notice of them. The prisoners' wrists were tied together and the ropes passed from one to the other, so there was no possibility of escape. The most vociferous was Brother Absalom, who called down vengeance from everyone above, from God Himself to the cherubims and seraphims.

By early evening the cart had reached the castle, and the passengers were given over into the care of the evil guardian of the undercroft. Gabriel had reported that when they had been locked in the barn at Axmouth, his efforts to hear anything incriminating had been frustrated by Henry Crik, who had ordered everyone to shut up and say nothing, as it was obvious to him that they were being spied upon. The sheriff agreed with de Wolfe that it was probably a waste of time to have someone listening all night in Rougemont, especially as they were all in different cells.

John took Odin back to his stable and went thankfully to his own door across the lane. He was weary and anxious, but at least the last traces of the boil on his buttock had disappeared, so the long ride had not been too uncomfortable. As he had not returned the previous night, Mary had no idea when to expect him, but he soon had a cup of wine in his hand and a promise of food within the hour. He sank gratefully into the chair near his hearth, with Brutus at his feet, though given his absence and the mild weather Mary had not lit a fire in the empty grate.

'No message from my wife?' he called at her departing figure as she went back towards the cook-shed.

'Nothing at all, Sir Coroner,' she replied. 'She's keeping you dangling, right enough!'

He sat with the pewter cup in his hand and sipped the good red wine of Aquitaine as he pondered the situation. 'Bloody woman!' he muttered to his dog. 'She's doing this on purpose, to make my life difficult. She knows now that I'm leaving for London, but how can I go not knowing what she's intending to do?' Brutus looked up at him, head on one side, but the hound had no suggestions to offer.

John sipped again and thought of Nesta. He had posed the big question to her, but she had given no answer, either. Could he just ride away to Westminster or wherever and leave her behind? She had promised him an answer when he returned, but he was almost afraid to hear it. However, the nettle must be grasped, and as soon as Mary had fed him he would go down to Idle Lane and hear her decision. He felt like someone arraigned at the Eyre of Assize, waiting for the justices to deliver a verdict that could send him to the gallows!

Mary had no chance to go out to buy fresh food at that time of the evening, so she raided her stores and found three smoked herrings hanging from a nail in the rafters of her cook-shed. She grilled these on skewers over her firepit and served them with boiled cabbage and fried onions. After two decades of eating whatever could be found during campaigns in forest, desert and ravaged countryside, John ate anything that was put before him and made no comment about this peculiar combination. Too early in the season for fresh fruit, it was followed by a bowl of nuts and raisins and a small loaf of fine wheaten bread, a change from the usual coarse ones made from barley or rye.

By now, dusk was falling, and when he had finished his solitary meal he plucked up his courage and whistled for Brutus to make the customary walk down to the Bush. As he went, he again thought of the familiarity of the route and the fact that within weeks it would be just a memory.

As he passed through the twilit lanes, men touched fingers to their foreheads and women bobbed their heads respectfully. The tall, slightly hunched figure dressed in black was a familiar sight to most people in the city, loping along with his dog at his side. They knew him for a stern but fair and honest man, which was more than could be said for many in similar positions of power and influence. Those who had already heard that he was leaving for London wondered if his successor would be as well respected as Sir John de Wolfe.

As he approached the door of the Bush, he took a deep breath and marched in, this time without hesitation, resigned to getting this over with as soon as possible. It was gloomy inside, as, like Martin's Lane, the fire was only a heap of dead ash and the sole illumination came from the flickering tallow dips in their niches around the walls. Though the shutters on the few narrow window-holes were open, the final pale light of the western sky did little to dispel the shadows, and at first he had to strain his eyes to seek out the trim figure of his mistress.

Nesta was standing by the barrels of ale, racked on wedges near the back door, dipping a jug into a large crock of cider. As soon as she saw him, she thrust it into Edwin's hand and hurried across towards him as he stood near his table. On the way, she snatched her shawl from a peg on the wall and somewhat to his surprise threw it over her head and shoulders. When she reached him, she slipped her arm through his and pulled him towards the door.

'John, let's walk. I am glad to see you safe. I was worried about you.'

Bemused, he let himself be taken out into Idle Lane, where Nesta guided his steps to Smythen Street, the dog loping along behind them.

'Where are we going, cariad?’ he asked.

'Let's walk a while. I have a fancy to see the last of the daylight from the city wall,' she replied firmly.

This was not what he expected, and he didn't know whether it boded good or ill for him. They walked steadily down towards Stepcote Hill, where the steep lane was terraced to give a foothold. As they passed the church of St Mary Steps, he attempted to broach the big question.

'Nesta, have you thought of what I said last time?' he asked anxiously.

'I have thought of little else, John — but wait until we are there.'

She pointed to the jagged top of the town wall, silhouetted against the fading light. Across the road from the church, narrow steps were built into the stonework to reach the walkway fifteen feet above. Holding up the hem of her long kirtle with one hand, she climbed up and, when they reached the parapet, set off slowly towards the Watergate away to their left. After a few hundred paces, they reached the nearest of the twin towers that straddled the gateway below. Turning so that her back was against the stonework, she held out her hands and grasped his own.

'John, I cannot come with you to London,' she said simply.

De Wolfe tried to ignore the sudden void in his chest. 'Why not, my love?' he asked, hoping that she wished to be persuaded.

'Because I am soon to be married,' she murmured, her eyes cast down as she spoke.

He dropped her hands as if they had become red hot. 'Married? How can you become married?'

This was the last thing he expected. After her fling with a servant in the tavern last year, he might have expected another affair with the good-looking Welshman. Yes, that was within his expectations. But married!

She raised her face and they stared at each other. 'Is it so extraordinary, John? I can never become your wife, we both know that. Am I to remain your leman for the rest of my widowed life, seeing you when it suits you? A lonely foreigner in a strange country for ever?'

'This is that Owain, no doubt?' he muttered grimly, already wondering whether he should seek out the stonemason and kill him.

'Of course it is Owain,' she answered. 'A good man, kind, and of my own age and kin. He has asked me to marry him and I have said that I will — and go home to Wales with him.'

'Have you lain with him?' he rasped.

Nesta stiffened a little and stared at him defiantly. 'How is that any of your business, John? You are not my husband,' she said crisply. 'But if you must know, I have not! He is a man of honour and is content to wait until the Church has bound us together.'

De Wolfe, for all his stern, stolid nature, crumpled at this. He pulled her to him, and his hand pressed her head against his chest.

'Nesta, Nesta! Does this have to be? I thought you loved me?'

'Of course I love you, John! But now I also love Owain, and he I can have, unlike you.'

'How can you love us both?'

She looked up at him in reproof. 'You should know that, sir! I have always felt that I have shared you with Hilda of Dawlish.'

It was something of a shock for him to realise that she was right. He had never suspected that she knew of his real feelings for the blonde Saxon.

'Is there nothing that I can say or promise that might change your mind?'

She shook her head, still close to his body. 'You cannot marry me or take me home to Gwent, John.'

There was iron determination in her voice that told him that nothing he could say would alter her decision. At that moment he knew that his life was going to change far more than just a move to London. His mind capitulated and his practical nature straightway began to make plans.

'Sit here, my love. We must make sense of this thing,' he said gently, guiding her to one of the stone blocks that sat behind the crenellations of the wall. Down below, Brutus had run along keeping pace with them and was now sitting looking up, whimpering slightly as he sensed that something disturbing was going on.

'Nothing will divert you from this course?' he began.

She shook her head again. 'God knows I have agonised over it long enough, but this is my last chance. I want to go home and I want to be with this good man. Do not hate him for it, John. He truly loves me and will be kind to me.'

'I should break every bone in his body, Nesta — and chastise myself as well, for it was I who was foolish enough to bring him to you!' He said this without bitterness, as a kind of calm had descended upon him. 'But what are we to do about everything?' he asked helplessly.

She reached out and held his hand again, as they sat side by side on the cold stone. 'You have been so good to me, John. When Meredydd died, you saved the Bush and saved me. And again after the fire, you had the inn rebuilt. I can never repay you enough.'

He gave one of his throat clearings to cover his emotion. 'It was nothing, for I loved you, Nesta. But what are we going to do now?'

'You are going to London, I am going to Wales. The Bush is rightly yours, you must do as you think fit. Sell it and recover what you have spent on it.'

He pulled her head towards him. The shawl had slipped off and her auburn hair flowed over his shoulder. 'Nonsense! The Bush belongs to you. That loan I made when your husband died has been repaid, thanks to the skill you showed in running the place so successfully. '

'You paid for the repairs when it was burnt, John!'

'The profit from a few cargoes of wool soon covered that. No, it is yours, for you will need money to start your new life.'

'Owain is a master mason, he has a house in Chepstow and can support a wife with ease.'

John did not miss the tinge of pride in her voice and knew that the situation was irrevocable now. 'Money never comes amiss, but we will see. Maybe I already have the germ of an idea,' he said.

Now that the die was cast, he became the practical man of action that had ensured his survival as a warrior and his success as a law officer. Shocked though he had been, he already felt an unexpected sense of lightening and freedom, like lizards he had seen in the desert, which shrugged off their old skin and started life afresh. Standing up, he held out his hands to the woman he still loved but could not have.

'Come, let's go back to the Bush. I had better meet this Owain again and congratulate him — the swine!'

Next morning de Wolfe carried on with his usual routine, going up to the gatehouse of the castle to decide on the day's tasks with his clerk and officer. When Mary had put his breakfast before him in the cook-shed, he had decided not to tell her about Nesta until he had worked out a plan of action. As he spooned down his oatmeal gruel sweetened with honey, he recalled with some, surprise that he had slept like a log, after fearing that sorrow and recrimination over Nesta would keep him awake all night.

Now, he was sitting behind his table in the bleak chamber at Rougemont, with Thomas scratching away on his rolls with a goose quill and Gwyn perched on his window-ledge, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood.

'When the cathedral bells ring for Prime, we are to meet the sheriff and Ralph Morin in the undercroft to see what we get from those bastards locked up there,' he announced. 'In the meantime I have some grave news to tell you.'

His tone made Gwyn throw down his toothpick and Thomas laid his pen aside, as both men stared expectantly at their master.

'Nesta is to be married to that stonemason and is going back to live with him in Wales,' he announced flatly.

The reaction of the two men was very different.

Thomas adored Nesta, who had been kindness itself to him during his many and various problems. He was devastated and his eyes immediately filled up.

'Nesta leaving us?' he gasped. 'May Christ Jesus make her happy, but, oh, how I will miss her!' He crossed himself repeatedly and sniffed back his tears.

Gwyn, on the other hand, scowled ferociously and offered to go down and strangle Owain ap Gronow. When de Wolfe had explained a little more and made it clear that he had become resigned to the situation, Gwyn asked the obvious question. 'But what about the Bush?' he demanded. 'What will happen to that when we go to London?'

John, who had thought long and hard about it before going to bed the previous night, had a proposition to make.

'Gwyn, you are fonder than most men of good food and good ale. How would you like to be the new owner of the Bush?'

The big Cornishman stared at him, uncomprehending. 'Me? How could I buy the Bush? I've not two pennies to rattle together!'

'I'll buy it for you, Gwyn,' growled John. 'Nesta is going. Though she wants to give me the place, I'll buy it from her, then pass it over to you.'

His officer looked at the coroner as if he had taken leave of his senses — which perhaps he had.

'But I'm coming to London with you!' he protested. 'How can I become an alehouse keeper in Exeter?'

John was unperturbed. 'You live in a hovel in St Sidwell's, renting a shack from some grasping landlord. You have said many times that you wish you could move your goodwife and children into somewhere better, so now's your chance!'

'You mean put them in the Bush?' asked Gwyn incredulously.

'Why not? I know your wife is a capable, strong-willed woman and a good cook. She could run the inn as well as Nesta, for there's old Edwin and the two maids to do much of the work.'

Gwyn floundered for something to say. 'But why me? Why give a valuable property to a drunken old soldier like me?'

'An old drunk you may be, but you've served me for twenty years and saved my life more times than I can count on my fingers. It's time you had something to rely on for your old age.'

'I can't just take it, Crowner. How can I? It's not proper.'

John turned up his hands. 'I don't want to see the Bush fall into disrepute and end up a foul den like the bloody Saracen. If it eases your conscience, I'll keep the freehold myself and give you a rent-free lease for your lifetime, allowing you to keep any profit you make. That should see your wife and family secure.'

Thomas, who had been listening to this exchange with delight, offered his help. 'I can draw up a deed to that effect, master. Nesta told me that she has a parchment which her husband Meredydd obtained when he bought it, confirming his title to the land in Idle Lane. We just need to set out the new arrangement, everyone puts their mark upon it and have it entered in the burgess court to make it all legal! '

It took another half-hour of argument and discussion to convince Gwyn that de Wolfe was deadly serious in his intentions.

'Will your wife agree to this?' asked Thomas solicitously. 'It is she who will have the burden of the place, if we are gallivanting off to London.'

Gwyn, finally reconciled to the idea, began to revel in its implications. 'Free food and ale for life!' he chortled. 'Of course Avisa will agree. Anything that gets her and the boys out of that hovel in St Sidwell's will be like a gift from heaven! She has a sister in Milk Street, with a great lump of a daughter, who can help her when needs be.'

John, who was trying to submerge his sadness in boundless activity, stood up and announced that he was going over to talk to the sheriff. 'Then we have work to do in Stigand's cesspit,' he reminded them. 'Gwyn, you go home and talk to your wife about my proposition. I have no wish to force this upon you, but I see nothing but advantage for everyone.'

His officer could walk through the East Gate back to St Sidwell's in a few minutes and be back well before the bells rang for Prime at about the ninth hour. Gwyn clumped off down the stairs, whistling cheerfully, and left Thomas and the coroner looking at each other.

'That was a very kind and generous act you did for him, sir,' offered the clerk, a rather bold speech for him to make to his master, but he was full of admiration for John's generosity.

'He has been my best and sometimes only friend for almost half my life, Thomas. It is time I did something in return.' He looked keenly at the little priest. 'And I will not forget you, when the time comes.'

Thomas looked acutely embarrassed. 'You have already saved my sanity and my very life by your kindness in taking me as your clerk when I was destitute, sir. And my needs as a priest are small. There is nothing I desire, other than to be able to serve you.'

John grunted and rumbled a little at this close shave with emotion and after a few nods at his clerk vanished down the stairs.

De Wolfe spent some time with Henry de Furnellis discussing the events of the previous two days and trying to make sense of what they knew of the suspects incarcerated below their feet. John told the sheriff nothing about the recent developments in his private life, feeling that they had better settle their official problems first.

'What about this damned lay brother from Loders?' grumbled Henry. 'Someone must have informed his prior by now. We'll soon have an army of monks besieging us to get him released.'

'I suppose we can't be as hard with him as the others, if the need arises,' said John. 'It depends on what we can learn from them as to his involvement. If he's clean, which I doubt, then we'll have to let him go.'

'I'll wager my money on this agent Crik,' mused de Furnellis. 'He had the best opportunity to set up this conspiracy, being the agent for The Tiger and having contacts for getting rid of the stolen goods.'

'If that's so, he and Martin Rof must be close accomplices. They are the two who need to be squeezed the hardest.'.

The distant bells sounded from the cathedral, and they made their way out of the sheriff's chamber into the hall and then down the wooden stairs to the inner ward. As they turned into the low doorway of the undercroft, John asked the sheriff what had happened to the two shipmen from The Tiger.

'The one your monk took away to St John's died, as they expected. The other one seems to have survived — at least until we hang him.'

A group of people were already waiting for them in the dank, dismal cellar. Only feeble light came through the doorway and from a couple of slits in the walls opposite the grating leading to the cells. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, John saw that Gabriel and half a dozen of his men-at-arms were lined up, with Ralph Morin, Gwyn and a reluctant Thomas standing behind them. There were another two persons whom he failed to recognise for a moment, then realised that they were Robert de Helion and his wizened chief clerk.

Henry de Furnellis marched over to the merchant, who stood with a rich red cloak pulled closely about him in the clammy cold of the undercroft.

'I'm not sure that you have the right to be here, de Helion,' he said. 'This is king's business and we have to seek the truth from the prisoners by whatever means proves necessary.'

'I'm a knight like you and de Wolfe here,' responded the ship owner tartly. He was not used to being told what he could and could not do. 'I've done my share of fighting and seen plenty of violence, so don't concern yourself with my feelings. I heard that my servant Crik had been caught up in your snare and I also want to know if any of these people know where my ship has got to.'

The sheriff nodded. 'Very well, but your agent seems to be the most suspect of the lot, apart from your shipmaster. '

'If Crik was involved, then he must be punished,' countered Robert.

'If Crik's involved, he'll be hanged,' was the sheriff's laconic response.

The corpulent gaoler came out through the rusted gate in the row of iron bars that went from floor to roof in the centre of the undercroft. Stigand waddled up to the sheriff, jangling a ring on which were a collection of keys. 'Do you want them brought out yet, sir?' he said thickly, his round, waxy face with the hooded eyes reminding de Wolfe of a large toad.

'Yes, let's get on with it,' grunted Henry and motioned to Gabriel.

The soldiers filed through the gate after the sergeant, and after a great deal of clanging, scuffling and a barrage of shouting and cursing the prisoners were led out in a line. They were in a sorry state, dirty, dishevelled, their clothes soiled and scattered with stalks of filthy straw. Several faces showed numerous recent bites from lice and other vermin. All wore leg irons to prevent them from running away, but their hands were free, which they used to shake furiously at their captors as they raised a cacophony of protests and demands to be freed.

De Furnellis stood this for a moment or two, then bellowed for silence. He was only partially successful, and after a moment Morin signalled to his sergeant, who walked along the line of prisoners with a short staff, whacking the shins of the noisiest offenders until they subsided into sullen silence. The last one to obey was Henry Crik, who seeing Robert de Helion shrieked out for him to save him. He got no response from a stonyfaced de Helion, and another crack from Gabriel's stick shut him up.

'As you are so talkative, Crik, we'll start with you first,' said the sheriff.

John again marvelled at the new-found energy that the old knight was displaying, after months of letting the coroner do most of his work.

The agent was jerked forward by two of the soldiers and stood before de Furnellis, who looked him up and down before starting his inquisition.

'Tell us how you and Martin Rof worked this criminal conspiracy, which has cost the lives of many innocent seamen,' he began sternly.

'I've nothing to say, for I am innocent,' growled Crik sullenly.

The sheriff repeated the question in various ways several times; Crik either ignored him or snarled that he had nothing to say. Eventually, de Furnellis gestured to the soldiers, who held Crik by the arms and led him across to an alcove beneath an arch a few yards away. The sides of the undercroft were formed by these stone arches, green with slime and mould. Most of the alcoves were used for the storage of building materials and old timber, though one held the squalid living quarters of Stigand. The area that Crik now faced was empty apart from an unlit charcoal brazier, but had four rings set into slabs in the damp earthen floor, positioned in a square. Everyone listened as the sheriff began to speak again.

'Henry Crik, I declare you wilfully 'mute of malice'. The law has prescribed a treatment for this sad condition, the peine forte et dure.' He waved a hand at the gaoler. 'Show him the plates, Stigand.'

The obese man went to the side of the alcove and, wheezing with the effort, picked up a heavy iron plate about eighteen inches square. He took it over to the sheriff, and de Furnellis hit the rusty metal with the hilt of his dagger, producing a dull thud.

'To encourage your memory to return and to loosen your tongue, we can tie you down to these rings and place this plate upon your chest. If you still feel unable to tell me what I wish to know, then Stigand here can fetch another — and another. We have no shortage of iron, I assure you.'

'You can't do this to me, it's not allowed!' howled Crik, turning pale with fright.

De Furnellis made a show of turning around and staring about the undercroft. 'Can you see anyone here who says I can't? I am the sheriff of this county and there is no one this side of Winchester who can prevent me.'

Crik made one more attempt to call his bluff, but at a sign from the crafty old sheriff Stigand dropped the plate with a clang and went to pick up some lengths of rope, which he began to thread through the rings on the floor. Sweating, Henry Crik began to weigh up which form of death he must choose. He, like most people, knew exactly what the peine forte et dure meant — increasing pressure on the chest, inability to breathe, blueness of the face and lips, burst blood vessels in the face and eyes — and eventually a horrible death from asphyxia.

If he confessed, he would be convicted and hanged — but because of the tardiness of the courts, that might be some time away, and many prisoners escaped, either by bribing the gaolers or escaping to claim sanctuary or to vanish into the forest to become outlaws. As his guards jerked him towards the rings, he suddenly broke and screamed out that he would talk.

'Too late, Crik. I can't deprive my gaoler of his sport. He might lose his touch if he fails to get enough practice.'

The wily sheriff had no intention of torturing the man, but he knew that an extra dose of terror would ensure that Crik did not change his mind.

Just as Stigand held up a rope to tie around the screaming man's wrists, the other Henry clapped his palms together to halt-the charade.

'Give him once last chance, then. Crik, I want everything you know, or you'll be tied down on that floor! '

It took the rest of the day to squeeze the truth from the crowd of suspects and for Thomas to write down all the facts and confessions on his rolls. Once Crik had broken and implicated others, it was just a matter of time and threats to extract the truth about the long-running conspiracy in Axmouth.

The proceedings were interrupted in the afternoon by the arrival of the Prior of Loders with his chaplain and cellarer. They had ridden as fast as their horses could travel to bring them to the rescue of their brother Absalom. Behind him was Archdeacon John de Alençon, whom the prior had roused out of the cathedral before coming to the castle. Robert of Montebourg was in a state of high indignation at the arrest of his servant, and when he saw him in such a bedraggled state, shackled like a common criminal, he became incandescent with rage.

'Release him at once, sir! He is a cleric, albeit in lower orders, but still immune from the secular power! What are you thinking of, treating him like a felon!'

Henry de Furnellis was unmoved. 'Because he is a felon, prior! He has admitted it from his own mouth, and you are welcome to read the confession that Brother Thomas here has written for consideration by the king's justices.'

The prior angrily scanned the parchment that Thomas handed to him, then deflated like a pricked pig's bladder. He strode over to the hapless lay brother and glared at him. 'Is this true, Absalom? Have you been deceiving me?'

The man's sullen scowl and his silence were enough for the prior. He gave Absalom a resounding slap across the face and marched back to confront the sheriff. 'Nevertheless, it is not seemly that one of the priory's brothers should be held in this place. I want him released into my custody,' he demanded.

'And that would be the last we or the court would see of him, eh?' said de Furnellis stubbornly. 'He is party to piracy and murder. He must be called to account, like the others.'

As it seemed an impasse, John de Alençon stepped forward to intervene. 'I see both points of view, gentlemen. I suggest that this clerk is transferred to the custody of our cathedral proctors. We have secure cells in the cathedral Close and robust men to guard them, until the bishop and the prior come to some agreement as to how the matter should be resolved.'

Rather grudgingly, the sheriff agreed, and two soldiers unshackled Absalom and took him stumbling out after the churchmen.

De Furnellis turned back to the line of prisoners, now wilting badly after their long ordeal. 'Right, now let's hear from you, Martin Rof — unless you want a hundredweight of iron to keep your chest warm!'

With Henry de Furnellis in such an unusually bullish mood, John had been more than content to stay in the background. He felt somehow remote from what was going on, his mind full of images of Nesta. The years they had had together now seemed like some dream, already fading but shot through with clear images of times they had made love or had sat together in the warm fug of the Bush's taproom, as well as the several crises that had bonded them even closer. As he stood in the dank undercroft, the yells from the prisoners and the bark of the sheriff's voice faded in and out as he recalled learning that Nesta was with child, then the loss of the babe, her attempt at drowning herself — and the time when she came near to being hanged as a witch, let alone her close escape from death when the Bush was set on fire.

The many hours and the frequent nights that he had spent in her little cubicle screened off from the public loft wafted in and out of his consciousness as he stood alongside Gwyn in Stigand's domain, half-listening to the cries, the pleas and the protests of the men from Axmouth.

The sheriff's voice snapped him out of his reverie and he pulled himself together, chiding his own inattention at such an important point in their investigation.

'The bastards are contradicting themselves and starting to accuse each other, John, which is just what we need. But I'm getting confused about who did what, so I hope your clerk is making more sense of it than I am!'

Poor Thomas, now seated on a box dragged from one of the alcoves, was sitting where he could get enough light from the doorway to write on the parchment resting on a board across his knees. A pot of home-made ink rested precariously on one corner, and he was scribbling away as fast as he could.

'Are you getting the gist of this down, Thomas?' said de Wolfe, leaning over his shoulder. He saw an irregular series of marks, which although he could not read looked different from his clerk's usually immaculate script.

'It is my own method of making brief notes, master,' answered the harassed Thomas. 'Everyone is speaking too quickly for me to record it verbatim; it is not like dictation. But afterwards I will transcribe it into a fair copy for you — and presumably the Justices in Eyre.'

'Well said, Thomas!' cut in the sheriff. 'This is getting so damned complicated that I suggest we should keep the sods locked up and push the whole problem over to the king's judges or the Commissioners, when they next come to the city.'

When all the half-dozen prisoners had been interrogated and shouted at sufficiently, they were forcibly herded back into the cells. The law officers and their assistants adjourned to the hall upstairs for some refreshment and to discuss what they had learnt. The sheriff commandeered one of the long tables, clearing off the people who had been sitting there, and the castle constable yelled at some servants to bring them food and drink.

'So what did we manage to squeeze out of those lying swine?' asked John, determined now to give his full attention to the matters in hand.

Thomas spread his tattered palimpsests on the table and scratched his shaven crown with the end of his quill as he began deciphering the shorthand he had scribbled down.

'We know that Martin Rof strangled Simon Makerel, as the young shipman admitted that he had seen him do it. Whether or not the other conspirators like the bailiff and portreeve sanctioned it, is not clear.'

'What else have you got written down, Thomas?' asked John.

The clerk shuffled his parchments on the table. 'The carter Adam Grendel blamed Dolwin Veg for killing the pedlar who had spotted them delivering at dead of night — and for the death of the Keeper and his clerk, though it seems that both Grendel and some others were involved. It seems that they had a sideline as paid assassins as well as running an ox-cart.'

'Remind me of what Henry Crik had to say,' grunted the sheriff. 'He was the real breakthrough, of course. The threat to crush his chest certainly made him talkative.'

Thomas found the correct page and studied it short-sightedly, running his finger along his hieroglyphics. 'He says that Martin Rof and the portreeve were the ones who first decided to start indulging in piracy, about two years ago. The evasion of Customs duty had been going on much longer, though it got more lucrative when the' King's Council brought in the wool tax and increased the other import duties. As they had had such success with that misdemeanour, they thought they could make even more profit from stolen goods brought in by The Tiger.'

'And Henry Crik got involved because he was the cog's agent and they also needed him to help find buyers for the illicit goods,' added the sheriff.

John rubbed a hand over his black stubble, often an indication that he was puzzled. 'So how did this bloody lay brother from Loders come into it?'

'Crik says that he soon tumbled as to what was going on and demanded a share in the racket, or he would denounce them to the cellarer and prior. Absalom denied it all, of course, but Crik says that he was keen to put a nice nest egg aside and then vanish from the priory to live comfortably far away.'

The food and ale had arrived and they broke off to cut fresh bread, hack hunks of cheese and chew some hot meat pastries that the castle cooks had provided. Then Henry de Furnellis returned to the main issues.

'So we have Elias Palmer, Martin Rof, Henry Crik and Brother Absalom certainly guilty of either murder, piracy or evasion of Customs dues. Then these two carters killed the pedlar and the Keeper, according to both Crik and Grendel, who tries to shift the blame on to the other carter, Dolwin Veg.'

'And I suspect they attempted the murder of Gwyn and myself,' growled de Wolfe. 'They are most likely the bastards who laid an ambush for us with crossbows, when we were getting too close to their misdoings. The business with the false call to a corpse in Ottery St Mary was too clever for those dullards. No doubt the Axmouth gang set it up, with some stranger paid to impersonate the Ottery reeve.'

The sheriff put his tankard down on the table with a bang.

'What about the bailiff, this Edward Northcote? And that John Capie, the fellow the county employs as a Customs collector, God preserve us? What are they guilty of?'

The little clerk thumbed nervously through his notes. 'No one has actually said that either of them were involved in the piracy and the selling of the stolen goods, sir. But everyone seems to accept that the whole village knew about evading the taxes, so they must have been aware of that, for Capie was the man responsible for counting the stuff.'

John strove to keep his mind on the problem. 'I'll wager the bailiff knew every damned thing that went on in that village. He may not have taken an active part in the piracy nor perhaps shared in the loot. But there's no way that he wouldn't have known about it, and at the very least he must have turned a blind eye.'

Henry tossed the crust of a pastry to a thin cat that was slinking from under the table. 'Well, as I said earlier, I'm going to dump the problem in the lap of the king's court. The Commissioners of Gaol Delivery are due here next month, so let them sort it out! The villains from Axmouth can rot down the cells until then and I'm letting the Church decide what they want to do with that fellow from Loders.'

John thought rather sourly that the sheriff's recent revival of enthusiasm had suddenly petered out, but in a couple of weeks he would be in London, so it would not be his problem.

What was his problem was managing the upheaval in his private life, and the sooner he got down to dealing with it, the better.

De Wolfe had expected that having to go down to the Bush again would be an ordeal, but somewhat to his surprise he found that a certain calmness had entered his soul. That evening he walked Brutus around the Close for a while, not to disappoint him, but then returned him to Mary and set out alone for Idle Lane.

He entered the taproom without hesitation and strode across to his table, as he had done for several years. Gwyn was already there, as arranged earlier, a bowl of fish soup and a hunk of bread before him. As John sat down, Edwin came across as usual and placed a pot of ale in front of him but hovered about, an uneasy look on his aged face.

'Hear you're off to London, cap'n,' he said rather nervously. 'We'll all miss you greatly.' He hesitated for a moment. 'And we'll be lost without Mistress Nesta, too.' He swung away quickly, as if he feared a tear would appear in his one good eye.

John took a deep swallow of the ale, thinking that he had better make the most of it, as it was unlikely that he would get such a good brew in London. He glanced around at the score of men drinking in the room and knew from the way they studiously tried not to look in his direction that the news was already all over the city … 'the ale-wife's getting married and the crowner's leaving town!'

A few moments later he broke off talking to Gwyn as he saw Nesta coming down the ladder from the loft. At the same time Owain ap Gronow appeared through the back door, carrying a large pitcher of cider which he placed alongside the ale barrels. An illogical feeling of relief flooded John's mind when he saw that the Welshman had not been up with Nesta in her tiny bedroom, until he realised that it was now none of his business.

He stood up and stalked across the taproom to where the pair were now standing together, apparently discussing the ale and cider. When Owain saw John advancing upon him, he stiffened and looked as if he was expecting an assault upon his person, but John held out his hand and gave a twisted grin.

'By rights, lad, I should give you a beating — but I'll settle for congratulations!' He gripped the mason's upper arm in a gesture of acceptance, and Owain smiled in relief as Nesta watched warily.

'I don't know what to say, Crowner!' Owain blurted out in Welsh. 'Nothing can be adequate after what you've done for me. Saved my life, then led me to the best woman in the world.'

Again, John smiled crookedly 'I'll not argue with the last part, though perhaps I should have let those outlaws cut your throat!'

He turned to Nesta. 'We have important business to talk about, cariad. It now concerns your future husband, so let's all go and sit down with Gwyn, for he's involved as well.'

Mystified, Nesta did as she was bid, and as she sat down Gwyn noticed with a sigh of sadness for times past that she placed herself on the bench opposite de Wolfe with Owain close alongside her. John leant forward and the others did the same, not wanting their business to be heard by the other patrons.

'Nesta, you had the silly notion of giving the Bush to me when you left for Gwent, but that just cannot be! I will purchase it from you and there will be no arguments. '

He overrode the start of her protests. 'It is true that I helped you when Meredydd died, but you have repaid that to me from the success you made of running the inn. It is also true that I paid to repair the building after it burnt down, but in recent years Exeter has burgeoned with its trade. Now, property is worth more, so unless you object to the price I will repay you what Meredydd paid four years ago.'

With flushed cheeks, she again started to reject his offer as too generous, but he would have none of it. 'Look on it as a dowry or a wedding gift, Nesta. Perhaps you might wish to open a tavern in Chepstow — it would be a sin if the world was deprived of the best ale in Christendom!'

Then he went on to explain his plan to give the tenancy of the Bush to Gwyn, the place to be run by his wife Avisa in his absence. Gwyn, after his initial bewilderment at his master's generosity, had taken enthusiastically to the idea. He had already told John that Avisa was delighted with the proposal, a dream come true to get out of the squalor of their hut in St Sidwell's and have a bigger home and a business to run.

Now knowing that her good friend Gwyn was to be the beneficiary, Nesta soon came round to accepting John's stratagems. She knew Avisa as a strong, sensible and capable woman and was sure that she would make a success of running the inn. It was also a relief to Nesta to know that the Bush would be in friendly hands, instead of being taken by a stranger who might let the place degenerate, like some of the other drinking dens in the city.

At first, Owain was a little insulted that John felt that his bride might need her own money, when he, a master craftsman, could easily support her. However, Nesta's new-found enthusiasm soon weaned him around to the good sense of the scheme. It was not long before Nesta was plotting with Gwyn to have another partition in the loft to act as a sleeping place for the two boys, an almost unheard-of luxury in all but the most affluent homes. They talked for a time, and as they drank each other's health in her best brew, all trace of awkwardness between them faded away.

De Wolfe looked at the two younger people across the table and saw that they were genuinely fond of each other. He knew how much Nesta yearned for her homeland and her family and resignedly accepted that this had to be the best solution. John accepted that he could never marry her and that as they grew older the division between them would grow more obvious. However, after an hour or so, sadness began to creep over him again as he saw how his visits to the Bush would never be the same again — and in fact would soon cease altogether except on occasional visits to Exeter.

The sight of Nesta sitting so close to her new man at what had always been 'their table' eventually drove him away, and after a warm kiss on the cheek from her, he stalked out into the night. Gwyn thought of going after him, but in a rare moment of sensitivity he decided to let him go alone. Five minutes later, he slid away himself and went to the Crown Inn in High Street for a final quart before the East Gate was closed at the evening curfew. Then he went home to Avisa to confirm to her that her new life would soon be a reality, but at the same time he wondered what the future had in store for him.

Two weeks later, on a bright morning in early May, a farewell party assembled in Idle Lane, outside the front door of the Bush.

A score of the inn's regular patrons formed a large half-circle, inside which Edwin and the two maids were going round with jugs of ale, topping up the pots and cups with which the crowd was toasting the health and happiness of Nesta and Owain.

The stonemason was already seated on his horse, a grey mare which had been recovered after his ambush and housed ever since in the farrier's stable in Martin's Lane. Owain looked flushed and slightly embarrassed at the unexpected celebration that was attending their departure, but happy that he was going home with such a comely bride-to-be.'

Gabriel, a frequent customer of the tavern, held the bridle of Nesta's mount, a sleek rounsey that de Wolfe had bought her for the journey. Brought up outside a small village in Gwent, she was an expert rider, having sat bareback on Welsh mountain ponies since she was old enough to walk. Now, she stood for the last time with Gwyn, Thomas and John, in a tight little group alongside her saddle. The little clerk was openly crying, as she hugged him close and gave him kisses on both cheeks.

'May Jesus and his Blessed Mother keep you safe and happy, Nesta,' he gulped, pressing into her hand a parting gift. It was a small ivory crucifix, one of his few prized possessions. She kissed him again, tears in her own eyes, then moved into the bear-like hug of Gwyn, another of her devoted admirers. He kissed her enthusiastically on the lips, his great moustaches tickling her face and neck.

'Look after yourself, good girl!' he boomed in his version of Welsh. He gave her a small eating knife, in a wooden sheath that he had carved himself. 'If that bloody man doesn't treat you well, stick this into him!' he added with a great laugh that softened his advice.

Lastly, Nesta moved to John, standing silently near her horse's rump. Crying unashamedly now, she reached up and put her arms around his neck to kiss him farewell, oblivious of her husband-to-be sitting on his horse a few yards away.

The kiss lingered, then her face moved to his shoulder as she whispered into his ear. 'I will always love you, cariad — but this has to be the best way!'

All he could manage when she slipped out of his arms was a rasping noise in his throat as he watched her through a blur as she went to Gwyn, who lifted her on to her side-saddle as if she were a doll.

'We must be off!' called Owain, raising his hand in the air. 'Or we'll miss our company at the East Gate.' They had arranged to travel, as far as Taunton with a group of merchants and pilgrims for safety against the threat of robbers on the highways.

With a noisy chorus of well-wishing, the circle opened to let them through and the two riders clopped away, their few possessions, mainly clothes and Owain's tools, packed securely behind the high cantles of their saddles. With final shouts and waves, they reached the junction with Priest Street. As they turned, John's eyes were fixed on the figure of his lover, her green cloak flowing over the palfrey's back, the linen of her cover-chief bright in the morning sun. His last sight of Nesta was of her raising a hand to her lips and throwing a kiss to him — then she was gone.

As the throng broke up, many of them vanishing back into the tavern where Gwyn's wife bustled around to serve them, John felt as if all his blood had been sucked out of his body. He went to the wall of the Bush and slumped down on the bench, a plank laid across two logs. Gwyn came and sat on one side and Thomas on the other.

'That's that, then,' he muttered. 'She's gone and may God take good care of her!'

Gwyn did his best to console him, in his bluff and hearty manner. 'We'll see her again, never fear, Crowner! By what you told me, this new job of ours will take us all over the country. William the Marshal's castle of Chepstow is bound to be visited sooner or later — and the other Welsh Marches, like Hereford, are not far distant.'

'That young man Owain is a good and devout fellow, master,' said Thomas through his sniffles. 'He will be kind and gentle with her, never fear.'

De Wolfe was grateful for his faithful servants' efforts to raise his spirit, but he wanted to be alone for a while, to come to terms with this wrench in the ordered pattern of his existence. He stood up and stretched his back and his arms, as if he had just awoken from a deep sleep.

'I think I'll walk Odin back up to the farrier and then pester Mary for an early dinner,' he said slowly. 'Maybe there'll be some message from my wife, for we have only two days now before we leave for London.'

His words had an immediate effect on Thomas, who went pale and smote his forehead with a hand. 'Forgive me, sir, I quite forgot, with all this sad excitement of Nesta leaving.' He scrabbled in the pouch on the belt of his shabby cassock and produced a small square of parchment. 'This was brought to me after early Mass by a servant from Polsloe. It is a note written by Sister Madge.'

De Wolfe snatched it from him, then handed it back. 'Read it for me, Thomas, I beg you!' he commanded.

'It says: Written at Matilda de Wolfe's behest. She wishes to inform her husband that she needs more time to contemplate her future life and to arrive at a decision between her earnest desire to remain in the company of God or to return to the state of matrimony, whether in London or elsewhere. '

Thomas handed the parchment back to John with an apologetic look. 'That's all it says, master, I'm afraid.' He backed away when he saw the thunderous look on the coroner's face as he leapt up from the bench.

'The bloody woman!' he roared. 'She's doing this on purpose, keeping me dangling on a string! Why the hell can't she make her mind up one way or the other?' He pushed Thomas aside and strode towards the side of the Bush, where Odin was tethered to a rail, contentedly cropping at the rough grass. His officer and clerk followed him, bemused at his sudden change in mood. John grabbed the reins to untie them, then put a foot in a stirrup. As he swung himself up on to the destrier's back, he let rip another blast of invective.

'She's torn between God and the prospect of being wife of the Coroner to the Royal Court, that's what it is!' he shouted angrily. Pulling Odin's head around, he touched his flank with his heels.

'Are you going up to Polsloe, Crowner?' called Gwyn.

De Wolfe looked down from the stallion's back. 'No, I'm bloody well not!' he shouted. 'I'm off to Dawlish, where I have unfinished business!'