The Noble Outlaw

CHAPTER ELEVEN

On Wednesday morning, the coroner rose later than usual; after the long ride across the moors, his back and buttocks ached as if they had been beaten with a pike handle. After eating his morning gruel, bread and salt bacon in Mary's warm hut, he found his cloak and boots and ventured out into the streets. A light covering of snow had fallen during the night. It was barely an inch deep, but the icy breeze kept it from thawing, and his boots made a crisp crunching noise as he walked up to the castle. The passage of men, beasts and wheels would soon churn the snow into a dirty grey paste, but while it was still pristine it was attractive even to the unimaginative de Wolfe, especially as it covered up the filth that lay in the gutters in the middle of the streets.

Up in his chamber, high in the gatehouse, it was freezing as there was no means of having a fire. The floor was wooden and there was no modern hearth or chimney. The tower had been the first place built on the orders of William the Bastard when he demolished forty-eight houses to make room for the castle, immediately after quelling the Saxon rebellion of 1068.

Sometimes, one of the guards brought up a charcoal brazier and lit it on a large slab of slate in a corner of the room, but today there was nothing.

Gwyn had abandoned his usual seat on one of the windowsills, as the icy wind was moaning through the narrow gap, having already blown a powdering of snow across the floor. He sat on Thomas's stool at the table, hugging his thick leather jerkin to his chest, his pointed hood sticking up over his untidy red locks.

'Colder than a nun's backside,' he complained. 'I would have gone back to the soldiers' barracks, only I waited to see if you had any orders for me.'

De Wolfe stood a moment, rubbing his hands together and looking at the pile of parchments on the table — unreadable until Thomas came from saying his Masses. John sat for a few minutes attempting to concentrate on the reading lessons the vicar in the cathedral had given him in his lack-lustre attempt to teach John to read. Boredom soon made him seek some excuse to abandon the attempt, and he got up from his bench.

'Too bloody cold to stay here, Gwyn! Makes the heat in the Holy Land seem almost welcome — though when we were there, we yearned for cold weather.' He turned to the staircase. 'Until the little fellow arrives, there's nothing to be done, so let's get to the fire in the hall. I presume there are no new deaths reported overnight?'

The Cornishman shook his head and lumbered over to join him.

'What's to be done today, Crowner?' he enquired as he followed John down the winding steps.

'No court or hangings today, so I thought I would have a word with our good sheriff about Nicholas de Arundell, then go and talk to his wife.'

'What about tackling de Revelle again? You'll have to do that sooner or later.'

With the memory of Matilda's verbal assault still fresh in his mind, John was reluctant to think about that problem, though he knew he would have to challenge his brother-in-law before long. For now, John was content to make Joan de Arundell his next target.

They walked across the inner ward, where the usual crusted mud was temporarily hidden under the thin blanket of snow, and climbed the high wooden steps to the entrance of the keep, whose two storeys squatted on the undercroft which housed the castle gaol and torture chamber.

Inside the hall, crowded even at this early hour, Gwyn made for the firepit, where he could scrounge some food and ale and talk to his many acquaintances, while John headed for the door on the left wall which led into the sheriff's chamber.

Henry de Furnellis was hunched over his fireplace, which did have a chimney running up through the outer wall. 'I'm damned cold, John! My blood must be running thin in my old age,' he complained as de Wolfe joined him. He was still a fit man, if rather lazy — he had once confided to John that after more than forty years fighting for several kings, he felt he now deserved an easier time in his dotage.

Ignoring his chief clerk's pained expression as he surveyed the heap of neglected documents on the sheriff's table, Henry retrieved a wineskin from a shelf, and poured two cups for John and himself.

After they had settled down, hunched on two stools close to the fire, de Wolfe told him of the journey out to Dartmoor and his partial abduction. The sheriff's lugubrious features showed mild surprise.

'The county coroner consorting with outlaws! What's the world coming to?' Then he grinned and topped up John's cup. 'What's to stop me raising a posse and going out there and hanging the lot of them?'

De Wolfe could have retorted that Henry's usual regime of masterly inactivity made that highly unlikely, but he knew that the sheriff was not serious. 'I haven't told you where they are, for one thing. And I promised, as one old Crusader to another, not to reveal it,' he said.

'Though I'll admit, it would take very little enquiry amongst the folk around the edge of the moor to discover their hideout.'

He drank some of the wine and stared into the leaping flames of the burning logs. 'What's to be done about it, that's the thing? That bastard de Revelle has stolen a nice little manor and is getting away with it, thanks to the fact that de Arundell got himself outlawed, through no real fault of his own.'

'You say his steward actually felled this man who died?' asked de Furnellis.

'He swears it was not deliberate, just an unlucky blow during a free-for-all in which they were outnumbered. And I believe him, but of course there was no inquest or any sort of court hearing.'

De Furnellis grunted in disgust. 'And if there had been, who would be the judges down around Totnes? Pomeroy and de Revelle! But what trapped Nicholas was running for sanctuary and then escaping.'

John nodded gloomily. 'That's the problem, Henry. Not answering to their attachments in the county court has put them outside the law and bans him from any attempt at getting legal redress.'

They sat in silence for a moment.

'The king seems the only hope in this matter,' said the sheriff finally. 'I can do nothing, as it was my own county court that made them outlaws — though before I was in office — so I can't turn round now and say it never happened. The writs of exigent will still be lying in the court records.'

John finished his drink and stood up. 'It's not really any of my business, either. All this happened before the office of coroner was set up, so I've no power to look into the death of that man almost three years ago.'

Henry looked up at his friend with a knowing expression. 'But you're going to make it your business, I can tell. How will you set about it?'

De Wolfe hauled his cloak higher and wrapped it around himself before leaving the relative warmth of the chamber. 'It's no good waiting for the next visit of the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery, or even the judges at the next Eyre, whenever that might be. They're not likely to be sympathetic to an outlaw's plight. I'll need to talk to Hubert Walter and see what he can do. I might even have to cross the Channel to seek King Richard, come the spring sailing season.'

Henry rose and walked to the door with him. 'Let me know if there is anything I can do, as I would hate to see that crafty swine de Revelle getting away with this. He's kept it pretty well hidden, for very few people know what happened in Hempston. It was put about that de la Pomeroy bought it back from the so-called widow.'

The coroner left, content at least that de Furnellis was not going to send a contingent of soldiers on to Dartmoor to hunt down Nick o' the Moor and either slay him or drag him back for hanging. John went across the hall, which had become even more crowded as the morning went on, and found Gwyn sitting at a trestle table with a quart of ale which had been sizzled with a red-hot poker. Before him lay a bowl of potage, ladled from a blackened cauldron sitting on an iron tripod at the side of the firepit. The Cornishman was noisily sucking from a wooden spoon with every sign of relish.

'D'you never stop eating, man?' demanded the coroner.

His officer grinned up at him, his red hair sticking out from his head like a hedgehog's spines. 'I've got a bigger body than most folk, so it needs more sustenance,' he claimed. 'Is there something you want me to do now?' He began to rise, but John pressed a hand on his shoulder.

'No, you sit there and make a pig of yourself; good man. I'm off to see a lady.'

His officer grunted. 'It's a bit early for Idle Lane, isn't it?'

His master shook his head. 'I'm off to see de Arundell's wife. I'll be back before dinnertime.'

He loped away, his tall, black-clad figure parting the crowd like a ship cleaving through the waves. Going along towards the East Gate, he turned off into Raden Lane and soon was admitted into the le Bret household by the servant with the prominent birthmark.

'You led us a fine dance across the moor,' said John good-humouredly.

Maurice grinned. 'I spotted you right from where the road turned off to Crediton, Crowner!' he chortled. 'But I didn't let on, for having you follow me to the tavern was just what Lady Joan would have wanted. I told Peter Cuffe what was going on and he played along with it.' He escorted de Wolfe inside, where a warm welcome awaited him from Gillian and her cousin Joan. Matilda had already been there to pass on the welcome news and all John could do was to confirm it more formally.

'But don't expect too much of this yet, my ladies,' he warned before he left. 'Finding Hubert Walter is a task in itself, and I have no means of knowing whether he will have any sympathy with the appeal. Officially, your husband is still an outlaw, and must keep clear of any risk of being seized.'

In spite of the caution, Joan was effusive in her thanks.

'Both you and your good wife have been kindness itself to me. I feel sure that God will see fit to right this wrong done to us, and you are his instrument.'

John had never been given such an accolade before and hawked and cleared his throat in his usual way when he wished to disguise his embarrassment. 'One thing I can say is that you have no need to hide yourself away now,' he advised. 'You have committed no crime and can appear as Lady Joan de Arundell with no fear or shame.'

De Wolfe stood in the doorway, adjusting his cloak ready for the cold outside. 'As soon as circumstances and the weather permit, I will ride to Winchester and if necessary to London, to seek out the Chief Justiciar and put the case before him. That is as far as my powers will extend and it will be up to him to decide what, if anything, shall be done.'

Heavy snow brought many activities to a stop, including crime. The streets were layered by half a foot of snow and outside the walls, travel was brought almost to a standstill. Traders in the city had a hard time in getting supplies of meat, fish and vegetables from the surrounding countryside and though they shovelled the dirty white slush from around their stalls, the range of goods on display was much reduced. Many households were becoming anxious about obtaining their staple provisions, and in the mean lanes of Bretayne the rapidly rising prices made the poverty-stricken existence of the poor even more miserable. The slowdown in the pace of life also meant that John de Wolfe had little to do, as the January Fair had to be cancelled, which meant a hiatus in the usual crimes always associated with such events. The cut-purses, armed robbers and thieves who normally infested the fairground never arrived, and even the usual violent rowdiness in the ale-houses abated.

Every morning, the coroner trudged up through the snow to Rougemont, where he discussed with Gwyn his proposed visit to Winchester. As they sat in the keep, warming before a huge log fire and supping the castle ale, he broached the subject of Thomas.

'Should we take him? He'll slow us down, the way he rides that damned rounsey,' observed John.

His officer shrugged, squeezing the ale from his whiskers with his fingers. 'Thank God, he's at last throwing a leg over its saddle now, instead of sitting on his arse sideways like a bloody woman. But he's still so damned nervous on the back of a horse, you'd think he was riding a tiger.'

'He'd be much happier playing bishop in his little side chapel every morning,' conceded de Wolfe. 'So I think we'll give the poor little fellow a holiday and leave him here to commune with his Maker, rather than drag him half across England.'

This agreed, they talked about the journey itself. The distance a horse and rider could travel in a day was very variable. In the depths of winter, there were only about nine hours of daylight, as opposed to more than double that in high summer. Without changes of horses, as were provided for the royal messengers and heralds, a beast could not be expected to toil along all day without rest and fodder. Then the state of the tracks was paramount — heavy rain which turned the surface into glutinous mud made it almost impossible to get very far. Hard frost, in which the ruts were frozen into stone, could cripple a horse's legs. Floods and the crossing of swollen rivers were additional hazards, so it was never really predictable how long a journey would take. In good conditions in winter, the most a rider could hope for was thirty miles a day, not the fifty that the official messengers might achieve with relays of mounts.

'We'll have to reckon on five days to Winchester, if the weather improves,' grunted de Wolfe. 'And another three if we have to go on to London.'

Two days after Twelfth Night, the weather warmed up a little and most of the snow melted, with the sages and wiseacres in the taverns forecasting that January would be relatively mild.

But it was not only the coroner and his officer who had an interest in the weather — twenty miles to the west, two men in Berry Pomeroy castle were considering the same problem.

The lord of Berry, Henry de la Pomeroy, was entertaining some of his friends, one of these being Sir Richard de Revelle.

The main bond between Henry and Richard — apart from a venal love of money and power — was their continued, though covert, attachment to the cause of Prince John, Count of Mortain. When King Richard, the Lionheart, was imprisoned on the way home from the Holy Land, Prince John had made an abortive attempt to seize the English throne. He had been supported by many barons and high clergy, including Bishop Henry Marshal of Exeter — and amongst the hangers-on, who hoped for advancement under a new monarch, were Henry de la Pomeroy's father and Richard de Revelle.

The two manor lords were sitting in a chamber in one of the twin towers that flanked the main gate. The ladies were in another room with their companions and tire-women, having left the men alone to drink wine before one of the several large braziers set around the chamber.

They sat in heavy folding chairs with thick hide seats and backs, keeping them close to the fire. The wooden shutters on the window-slits kept out most of the wind, though even the easterly breeze had died down considerably.

'There should be no problem getting up to the moor in this,' observed Henry. 'There will still be snow on the slopes, but the valley bottoms should be clear by then, unless it turns bad again.'

De Revelle nodded, holding out his heavy glass goblet for a refill of the excellent red wine that Henry imported from Bordeaux. 'How many men will you muster?' he asked. 'I have arranged for a dozen of my retainers to come up on Monday.'

De la Pomeroy fingered his heavy jowls thoughtfully.

'I thought to take about the same number. That will be double the strength of Arundell's gang.'

'Are you sure that he can be found up in that great wilderness?' asked de Revelle, concerned both for his comfort and his safety.

'I sent one of my bailiffs up to Widecombe, to scout around and listen to the local gossip. Though there are a number of these cursed outlaw bands up on Dartmoor, it seems no secret that this Nick o' the Moor, as they call him, is the best known.'

'But is it clear exactly where he hides out?' persisted de Revelle.

'There is little doubt that he camps somewhere up in the vale of the Webburn. When we get near there, I have no doubt that my men will soon flush them out.'

Richard still looked anxious. 'Are you sure that we will have enough men for this? We want no survivors to go carrying tales to my damned brother-in-law or the Justiciar.'

His host rang a hand bell to summon a servant to bring more charcoal for the braziers. When he had gone, Henry answered his guest.

'These men of Arundell's are village clods, who ran away with him when he fled. They have no talent for fighting, whereas most of the men I will take are men-at-arms from the garrison here. Together with your fellows, they will be able to wipe out this bunch with one arm tied behind their backs.'

'When will we ride out then?' asked de Revelle.

'As soon as possible, Richard. You said that your sister forcefully informed you that her husband is setting off to seek the Justiciar immediately the roads are clear of this snow. God knows how long he'll be gone if he has to chase Hubert Walter over half the country. So we should have a clear field to complete our business before he returns, if we set out at the same time.' Richard still looked uneasy, drumming his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair. 'There'll be hell to pay when he finds out, especially if he managed to obtain the support of the Justiciar over this.'

'Kill these bloody outlaws now and then all we can be accused of is doing our duty!' reasoned Pomeroy. 'If your bloody brother-in-law has no one left to champion, the whole affair will fade away.'

Henry de la Pomeroy shrugged his burly shoulders.

He was a tougher character than the former sheriff.

'We are respected landowners who have been pestered by the depredations of outlaws, who steal and rob on our lands, Richard! We have every right, indeed a duty, to flush them out by raising a posse to exterminate them.'

He grinned wolfishly, showing his stained and chipped teeth. 'I might even claim the five-shilling bounty on each wolf's head that we collect up on the moor!'

The following night, John de Wolfe strode away towards the Bush Inn, heedless of the steady rain that had moved in overnight, washing away the remnants of the snow and making the air feel almost mild after a month of continuous frost.

'This will hamper your journey tomorrow, John,' said Nesta solicitously. 'The highway will be a morass of mud if it keeps on raining.'

She put a quart of best ale in front of him, but was unable to sit with him for the moment, as the inn was busy. He looked up at her trim figure, her delicious bosom sheathed in a green linen kirtle, over which was a long apron. He hoped that he could have at least a few hours with her later that day, up in her little room in the loft, for it might be weeks before he could touch her soft flesh again. Nesta seemed to read his thoughts, for her green eyes twinkled and she bent to give him a quick kiss before gliding off to chivvy her kitchen maids in the cook-hut in the back yard.

He sat alone at his table by the firepit, but his isolation was short-lived. The huge figure of Gwyn rolled in through the door from Idle Lane and, a moment later, Thomas de Peyne appeared, both of them sitting down opposite him.

'Bloody rain!' began the Cornishman, echoing Nesta's complaint as he signalled to old Edwin to bring him a drink. 'This will add at least a day to our journey.'

The little clerk looked smug, having been excused the torture of a long horseride. 'I'll pray for you every day, Gwyn, in the hope that that great fat backside of yours doesn't develop saddle sores.'

John gave instructions to Thomas about the conduct of the coroner's business in his absence. The clerk was to record all details of every case reported and seek the aid and advice of the sheriff if any death, rape or assault occurred. There was now a second coroner in the north of the county, who in desperate circumstances could be summoned.

After they had thrashed out the routine for putting the coroner system on hold for at least a couple of weeks, de Wolfe turned to Gwyn.

'Are you all set for an early start tomorrow? Has your family given you grief over your absences?' The ginger scarecrow grinned. 'My wife is usually glad to see the back of me every now and then. We love each other dearly, but absence makes the heart grow fonder. And I've promised my two lads that I'll buy them new knives at Candlemas if we're back by then.'

'Candlemas? You'll not be away that long, surely?' Nesta had come back and was shocked that she might not see her lover again until the second day of February. 'I'll be looking for a new suitor by then, John de Wolfe.'

John hastened to reassure his mistress that if the Chief Justiciar could be found at Winchester, they should be back within little more than ten days. He omitted to mention that if they had to go on to London, that time could be at least doubled.

'You are going to great deal of trouble and discomfort for this Lady Joan,' observed Nesta, with a tightening of her lips which suggested the dawning of disapproval. 'I presume she is pretty? You could never resist a damsel in distress, could you?'

John grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on to the bench alongside him, throwing his arm around her shoulders and hugging her to his chest. 'Jealous, are we?' he growled, planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. 'Yes, she is fair, though not at all my type. You are my type, you Welsh hussy.'

Mollified, Nesta cuddled closer to him, oblivious of the grinning Cornishman opposite and the slightly askance glances of the celibate Thomas.

'Very well, Sir Crowner, as long as you deliver her husband to her and don't get up to any of your tricks with the fair lady.' Like Matilda, Nesta was well aware that John had a roving eye, and though she felt that during the past months he had remained faithful to her, she accepted that like most active men he would have difficulty in resisting temptation if it was placed squarely in his path,

'I'll keep an eye on him, cariad,' said Gwyn in the Welsh-Cornish patois they used between them. When Thomas was there, they usually reverted to English, but just to tease him Gwyn sometimes lapsed into the Celtic that was the first tongue of Nesta and himself, and which John had picked up from his mother when a child.

Thomas scowled and in reprisal said something in Latin, which none of them understood, but which sounded sarcastic.

John placated his clerk by telling him how much he depended upon him to look after the coroner's business while they were away. 'You know as much about the system as I do, Thomas. I have no doubt that all will be recorded on your immaculate rolls when we get back.'

'What happens if another guildsman gets murdered, Crowner?' asked the priest rather tremulously.

'Tell the sheriff and Ralph Morin, that's all that can be done. After all, it's their business to chase criminals, not mine. But don't meet trouble halfway, my lad. We've had no problems of that sort for a while, so offer up some spare prayer, in that chapel of yours so that it continues that way.