The Tinner's corpse

CHAPTER FIVE

The following evening, the coroner’s trio rode wearily into Dartmeet, almost at the centre of Dartmoor. It was no more than a couple of farms and some scattered shepherds’ huts, where the two upper branches of the Dart met to form the river that meandered down to the sea twenty miles away. The rolling moors spread around them, like a fossilised ocean, some crowned by weird tors — flattened, wind-scoured rocks piled up into fantastic shapes.

They plodded down into the valley from Yartor Down to the ancient clapper bridge, at the end of a long, winding, eight-mile track from Ashburton, seeking shelter for the night, which was heralded by the closing dusk. De Wolfe reined in alongside the bridge. ‘This side or the other, Gwyn?’ On this bank there was a longhouse of cob under thatch, with two barns behind it. On the other side of the Dart, he could see a larger dwelling with wattle and daub walls within a timbered frame, but only one barn and a couple of ramshackle sheds adjacent.

The Cornishman settled for the nearer demesne. ‘We’re not likely to get room by the house fire, with all these damned tinners congregating for the morning, so let’s try for a pile of hay in a barn.’

It was true that that day the moorland tracks had been busier than usual, with groups of men drifting towards Crockern Tor, almost four miles further on. No doubt a few men would be sleeping in every nearby hut and byre overnight.

They pulled their horses round and, with Thomas dragging disconsolately behind, made their way to the farmhouse, which hunkered low and forlorn under the loom of the moor, like a beast hibernating for the winter. Gwyn was about to dismount and bang at the weathered door when it opened and a man came out, dressed in a sacking tunic tucked up between his legs like a loincloth, secured by a wide belt. ‘In the smaller barn, men. The other’s full already.’ He waved vaguely in the direction of his outbuildings and vanished back into the house, from where the lowing of cattle and the grunt of pigs competed with the wailing of a child.

As the door slammed shut, de Wolfe chuckled sardonically. ‘The poor devil must get this influx every time the tinners have their Great Court. Probably needs to keep on the right side of them — they’re a powerful force on the moor.’

Six horses were tethered outside the smaller barn, which had wattled walls under a steep thatched roof. A small fire within a ring of stones was being tended outside by three men, who were boiling a pair of hares in a blackened pot. Tall doors, high enough to admit a loaded wagon, gave on to a large, almost empty space. As it was April, little of the winter stores of hay, straw and root crops remained.

Eight men were sitting or lying inside, and before long, John and Gwyn were deep in conversation with them. They were a companionable lot and reminded de Wolfe of his warrior days when, after marching or fighting, tale-telling and gossip rounded off the day over food and drink. Thomas sat apart, morose and silent, still trying to summon up the courage to broach with his master the subject of his reinstatement. But tonight was not the best time, he decided. The coroner and his henchman were lolling in the remaining hay eating their bread, cheese and meat and drinking raw cider and stale ale from the leather bottles and stone crocks that were passed from hand to hand.

For the first time that day John de Wolfe felt relaxed. Although when the opportunity presented he was an enthusiastic womaniser, he also enjoyed the company of men such as these. They were rugged, strong fellows who said what they thought and had none of the devious conceits of so many noblemen and merchants. These tinners were more like the soldiers with whom he had spent so many years.

Gwyn, an equally seasoned warrior, also revelled in their company, and as darkness deepened in the barn, they swapped tales of adventure and daring, from floods in the stream-works to attacks from outlaws on the high moor, the slaughter outside Acre or the pursuit of Irish tribesmen beyond Wexford. Eventually the only illumination came from the fire, which still flamed outside the doors. No lights could be brought into the barn for fear they might set the hay and thatch ablaze. As they sat in the gloom, the talk turned to the Great Court on Crockern Tor in the morning.

‘How often are these held?’ asked Gwyn, mopping the sour cider from his moustache.

‘Whenever there’s business to settle, but certainly more than twice each year,’ answered a hulk of a man from Tavistock. ‘Tomorrow there are a few grave matters to chew over and we have had several such meetings this past winter.’

‘What’s the main concern, then?’ asked the coroner.

‘The business of the Lord Warden,’ cut in another tinner. ‘We want someone of our own choice, and not to have the sheriff foisted on us. Especially when it’s this bastard we’ve got now.’

This was music to John’s ears and he wanted to know more. ‘What difference would it make, then?’

‘Our own man would understand tinning and tinners, and not be dunning us for extra taxes all the time. We’re sure that de Revelle is creaming off some of the coinage that should go to the King but we can’t prove it.’

The man from Tavistock spat towards the glowing fire. ‘Walter Knapman has been pressing for an elected Warden these past three years, but he’s got nowhere. At the meeting tomorrow we will draw up a plan to force a change. We’ll petition the Chancellor or Chief Justiciar or the King himself, if need be.’

‘Paying these crippling taxes is bad enough, but we wouldn’t mind so much if we knew the money went to the King. Having part of it stolen by the officials is what irks us,’ said a third tinner.

This was all new to John — he had always known that the tinners were a breed apart, but he had not realised that they were taxed so heavily and apparently unjustly. ‘How are the taxes calculated? he asked.

‘We have to take our raw ingots to one of the three Stannary towns to be assayed and stamped — “coinage” we call it. A tax is paid on that first coinage. Then the crude metal must go to Exeter to be resmelted and another tax is taken.’

‘Thirty silver pence a thousand-weight, that’s the first tax,’ muttered the Tavistock man.

‘How much is a thousand-weight?’ asked John.

‘Twelve hundred pounds burden,’ replied the man. ‘After the second smelting in Exeter, there’s the extra tax of a mark per thousand-weight!’

‘More than five times as much?’ queried Gwyn, outraged.

‘Yes, though I admit the metal’s purer then and commands a higher price per bar.’

A cadaverous fellow seen dimly in the background shouted across, ‘It’s the Warden who fixes the rate — and I suspect he fixes some of the registry clerks to falsify the weighing. Who’s to say what the rate should be, except the Warden? And he is the sheriff, with a whip hand to control everything that happens in the county.’

The discussion became more acrimonious as the cider flowed. De Wolfe gathered that most of the tinners felt they were being exploited by a Lord Warden who cared little for their industry but was only concerned with filling his own purse by extorting as much coinage from them as he could. This matched John’s experience of his brother-in-law, but he had not appreciated until now that the sheriff had available to him this extra avenue of corruption. ‘So, in this, Walter Knapman is your champion, is he?’ he asked.

‘He’s the main figure in the play, Crowner,’ answered the Tavistock man. ‘He’s the one we want for Warden, if we could only get shot of de Revelle.’

Privately, de Wolfe thought this unlikely: where money was concerned, the sheriff would hang on like a dog at a bull-baiting. He also felt that if Walter Knapman persisted in trying to unseat de Revelle, he had better watch his step.

‘What else is to be talked of tomorrow?’ enquired Gwyn.

‘The killing of poor Henry of Tunnaford. We have had several incidents these past months, none fatal until now. But someone is trying to upset our streaming. Sluices have been broken and one blowing-house was deliberately burned down. We have to find out who’s behind it, if we can.’

As this was why de Wolfe was attending the Great Court, he kept the talk going on this theme. ‘This Saxon, old Aethelfrith they speak of. Could he be behind it?’

A sudden flare from the fire showed the tinners looking at each other, each seeking their fellows’ opinion.

‘It could be. He’s a mad old devil,’ said one man. ‘Hates all Normans — in fact, I think he hates everyone on earth, God forgive him. But I didn’t think he would kill for it.’

‘What’s the cause of his anger, then?’ asked Gwyn.

‘The early conquerors killed both his parents, so I hear — must have been some time in Stephen’s reign when Aethelfrith was a child. Then, later, his own son was hanged. He claims England still belongs to the Saxons, especially the minerals on the moor where he was brought up. But he’s been more of a nuisance than a danger, so far.’

The conversation drifted on to other matters and the fire, after a final spurt, dimmed to a dull glow, so that the men could no longer see each other. One by one, they curled themselves in their cloaks and huddled deep into the piles of hay. Snores and coughs replaced the chatter until all was quiet.

Only Thomas sat awake, alone with his morbid thoughts.

In the sullen light of early morning, well over a hundred men gathered on a hill-top of wind-beaten turf, broken by menacing outcrops of grey rock. Crockern Tor was just north of the track leading across the middle of the vast moor, chosen for the tinners’ parliament because it was roughly at the centre of the Stannary districts. Though only two dozen men from each district were officially jurates, many of the tinners they represented had also given up a day’s work and pay to attend the Great Court. The issue of the Lord Warden was becoming increasingly contentious, and feelings were running high.

These tinners now stood in a large half-circle, facing a natural rock wall whose jagged strata projected through the sparse grass and clumps of dead bracken. It ran like the spine of some petrified monster, forming the crest of the ridge, ending in a ten-foot tor of rocks piled on each other like a giant’s plaything. Most of the men were wrapped in woollen or leather cloaks against the keen wind, the less fortunate huddled under empty sacks thrown about their shoulders. They stood stolidly or squatted on the scattered rocks that littered the ground, watching and listening to the proceedings. In the background, further down the slope, were hobbled the horses and donkeys that had brought most of the men to the moor — though the poorer ones had walked, some for more than a day and a half.

In the middle of the outcrop wall, a canopy of large rocks had been built up over a natural slab that served as a throne. On this, almost like a statue in a niche, sat Richard de Revelle. Sergeant Gabriel and the handful of men-at-arms who had escorted the sheriff from Exeter stood conspicuously in front of the outcrop, to emphasise the authority of the Lord Warden of the Stannaries.

In addition to the sheriff, a clerk was keeping a record, crouched shivering over a flat stone with his parchments fluttering in the wind, which now and then brought a few flakes of snow flurrying past. Two other men, in dress that marked them as being of wealth and station, sat a few yards to either side of the Lord Warden, but they were unknown to de Wolfe. Further to the sides, three of the coinage officials, the Steward, the Controller and the Receiver, sat on convenient large stones along the granite wall.

The coroner and his two assistants kept a lower profile, standing together towards one end of the long arc of tinners. The six dozen jurates formed an inner ring between the spectators and the central figures ranged around de Revelle. Prominent in the group of jurates were Walter Knapman and Stephen Acland, but they stood as far apart from each other as possible, and there was an obvious aggregation of other jurates around each man. By far the larger group was clustered near Knapman, and between these and Acland’s dozen the remainder stood as a buffer. John assumed that these were independent tinners, not committed to either of the main players on the moor.

For the first two hours, the proceedings were a dull catalogue of routine tinners’ business and de Wolfe regretted getting up so early to ride from the barn at Dartmeet for the start of the Great Court. As one issue was settled or referred for further investigation, another jurator would stand forward and give the next problem an airing, having brought it from some complainant in the district he served. Occasionally, tempers became frayed, when one side of an argument blamed the other. Richard de Revelle contributed virtually nothing to the debates, and de Wolfe soon realised that he had little knowledge of — or apparent interest in — the tinners’ concerns.

It was Knapman who conducted most of the arbitration and informed discussion, sometimes helped, but more often hindered, by Acland. When the jurates became over-excited and began to yell abuse at each other, it was Knapman who controlled the outburst with a combination of firmness and fairness. The coroner could easily see why the majority of tinners wanted him to administer the system, rather than an indifferent sheriff whose only concern was the amount he could squeeze from them in taxes.

Most arguments arose over the claiming of new sites for exploitation. De Wolfe learned that this was called ‘bounding’, and when a tinner wished to commence operations on a chosen site, he had to mark the limits of his claim by placing a turf at each corner and six stones along the edges. It seemed that sharp practice occurred, with rivals moving or removing these markers, when different claimants were competing for ore-rich locations along the many streams that drained down from Dartmoor.

It also became clear that, in the district of which Chagford was the Stannary town, there was tension between the jurates who worked for Walter Knapman and those who had Stephen Acland as master. Some heated exchanges took place between the two men across the few yards of faded winter grass that separated them.

However, it seemed that jurates, officials and background audience were used to this, and the proceedings rolled on as everyone waited for more urgent matters to surface.

After a couple of hours, the sheriff-cum-Lord Warden declared a break for the morning meal, and everyone sat or squatted on the ground to consume whatever they could produce from capacious scrips and saddle-bags. Afterwards, de Wolfe and Gwyn wandered around for a time, looking curiously at the column of rock at the end of the long outcrop. Sculpted by aeons of wind and rain, it marked the prominence of Crockern Tor, standing sentinel above the track across the moor.

When the Court resumed, the first item was a report on the new Stannary gaol in Lydford, given by Geoffrey Fitz-Peters, the lord of that manor. He was one of those sitting further down the stone wall, alongside William de Wrotham, another manorial lord who, like Fitz-Peters, had tin interests on the western side of the moor. A bystander had identified them to de Wolfe. Fitz-Peters was a gaunt, almost skeletal man with a vaguely sinister aspect, in keeping with the reputation of the Stannary prison. He advanced to the centre of the grassy court and, in clipped, terse words, gave a short account of the new building. ‘It is now finished and occupied since February. A square stone tower now replaces the old wooden keep that was built fifty years ago at the upper end of the bailey of the first castle, which has long been ruined. The new tower has three floors, the lowest of which is the prison, reached only by a trap in the floor above. On that floor, we hold our Stannary court each fortnight.’

He glared around at the throng like an avenging angel. ‘The law of Lydford is just, but strict. Already we have twelve prisoners, convicted for infringements of the tinners’ code. Go back to your districts and let it be widely known that, unlike at many a burgess or shire prison, there is no escape from Lydford. The walls are three yards thick and the gaolers are incorruptible.’

With a quick backward glance at the sheriff, as if to emphasise the difference between his gaol and those in Exeter, Fitz-Peters turned and strode back to his seat.

Then Walter Knapman took a few paces forward and turned to face the jurates and the crowd. ‘Now we must face a serious matter,’ he shouted. ‘We all know that one of my senior overmen, Henry of Tunnaford, was foully slain a few days past. He was killed on one of my own stream-workings in a most brutal fashion. He had no personal enemies, and there can be no doubt that the evil act was committed in connection with our trade.’

A collective growl of concern rolled over the assembly, and Knapman held up both hands for quiet. ‘I am offering a bounty of twenty marks to anyone who can give information that leads to the capture of whatever foul villain committed this atrocity. If anyone knows anything — anything at all — he can tell me or the coroner, who is with us here today.’

‘The first to be told should be me!’ snapped de Revelle, reacting to the snub from Knapman. ‘I am both your Lord Warden and the sheriff of this county.’

Without so much as looking behind him, Knapman ignored the interruption and carried on. ‘I can only think that this slaying of one of my most valued workers was meant to be a direct threat to my tinning interests — and I can only assume that someone is trying to destroy my business. I have had stream-works damaged before and now one of my best men is beheaded!’

He was answered by another growl from the crowd, many of whom had known and respected the dead Henry.

But another reaction came from closer at hand. Stephen Acland, his face red with anger, pushed nearer to Knapman, though the latter’s supporters still formed a barrier. ‘Are you accusing me yet again, damn you?’ he yelled.

Walter looked stonily at the younger man. ‘Did I accuse anyone?’

‘We all know what you’re insinuating! You did at the crowner’s inquest, now you’re repeating it.’

‘If the cap fits, Acland, wear it!’ roared Knapman, his anger getting the better of his tongue.

One of Knapman’s jurates made an obscene sign to the Acland supporter in front of him and received a violent push in the chest for his trouble. Immediately, an affray developed between the rival jurates, with pushing and fists flying. The spectators in the outer ring surged forward ready to join in.

Gabriel leapt down from the stony ledge, waving his men to follow, and set about the fighting tinners with his stave. The men-at-arms had not come to Crockern Tor in battle array, so wore leather jerkins rather than chain-mail hauberks. Though swords hung from their baldrics, they had exchanged their lances for stout sticks, and with these they laid about the dozen jurates who were fighting. Within minutes, the squabble had subsided, and Gabriel and his men had pushed apart the warring factions, who stood nursing their bruises and muttering abuse at their rivals and the soldiers.

All through the skirmish Richard de Revelle had been yelling ineffectually for order and now admonished the jurates for their unseemly behaviour. It seemed to de Wolfe that the tough band of tinners found nothing unusual about a brawl during the Great Court and it had subsided as rapidly as it had arisen — though Knapman and Acland continued to glower at each other over the heads of their supporters. Before the proceedings started again, de Wolfe took advantage of the lull to stride out to the spot from which Knapman had addressed the throng and barked at the assembly in commanding tones. ‘You have heard Walter Knapman offer a reward for information about the death of his man, and that he recommends anyone to bring such information to me — or to the sheriff,’ he added, as a conciliatory afterthought. ‘But I have no reward for you, save that of reminding you that you help to keep the peace of our sovereign King Richard. One suspect is said to be the madman of the moors, this Aethelfrith. He cannot be found, so if anyone knows of his whereabouts, let him speak, now or later.’

Suddenly, as the tall, hunched figure in black was casting his baleful glare over the congregated tinners, a smaller figure advanced towards him from the outer ring of men. ‘Crowner, I have something you may wish to see.’

A wiry man, poorly dressed in a hessian tunic and coarse breeches, skirted the group of jurates and advanced to where the coroner stood. He carried a bundle wrapped in a sack, which he placed at John’s feet.

‘Why should I want to bother with you now, fellow?’ snapped de Wolfe, annoyed at being interrupted in mid-flow. ‘Who are you? Do you know anything of this killing?’

‘I have just arrived, sir. I am Simon, I work at one of Walter Knapman’s blowing-houses near Chagford. As to Henry’s death, Crowner, maybe you should see this.’ Bending, he took the bottom corners of the old sack in each hand and up-ended it.

Out rolled what John took to be a large ball — until he saw the blood-soaked grey hair and pallid face above the ragged stump of a severed neck.

Much against his will, Thomas de Peyne had been dispatched on his pony to Chagford, with the sack containing the head of Henry of Tunnaford bumping against the other side of his saddle. He had orders from the coroner to deliver it to the vicar of the church of St Michael and have the sexton reunite it with the rest of the body in the recently dug grave.

After the shocked uproar caused by the production of Henry’s head had subsided, Richard de Revelle called another interval. Those who had the stomach for it — and there were many among the hardy tinners — began again to eat and drink, with plenty to talk about during their unexpected break.

Meanwhile, the sheriff, the coroner and the two manorial lords gathered around the craggy throne. The soldiers, clerks and the coroner’s officer were in close attendance and the jurates, still divided into their two factions, hovered nearby, just out of earshot.

The man Simon stood before them, Sergeant Gabriel’s horny hand firmly gripping his shoulder. ‘I found it last evening, hidden under a slate slab behind the blowing-house,’ he explained nervously. ‘I was coming to the Great Court anyway, so I thought it best to bring it and give it to someone in authority.’

De Wolfe stared down at the man, a stringy fellow of some thirty years, who looked ill. A hacking cough suggested that his life expectancy was not great, probably from phthisis of the lungs, the coroner decided.

‘You said Walter Knapman was your master, so which of his blowing-houses was this?’ demanded de Revelle, in his best Shire Court manner.

Simon shook his head. ‘It wasn’t ours, sir. I called at another to collect a friend, who was also walking here to Crockern Tor. Before he arrived, I went behind the hut to relieve my bowels. As I crouched, I saw blood on some weeds alongside a flat stone. When I moved it aside, that awful thing was there.’

‘So whose blowing-house was it?’ asked Geoffrey Fitz-Peters harshly.

‘It was one near Shapley, on the way from Chagford to the track over the moor that comes to here. It belongs to Stephen Acland.’

The eyes of all those in authority flicked briefly at each other to test their reactions. The sheriff was first to react. ‘Acland! Come here — and you, Walter Knapman!’

‘Don’t be too hasty, Richard,’ grunted John quietly, as the men advanced. ‘You’re too fond of jumping to convenient conclusions.’

His brother-in-law ignored his advice and glowered at Stephen Acland. ‘What have you to say about this, both of you?’

Knapman looked shaken, as might be expected after the face of an old acquaintance had been produced in such a macabre manner. ‘I have nothing but revulsion for this foul act — and sorrow for my man,’ he said. ‘I have known Henry of Tunnaford for most of my life. He worked for my father years ago, when we only had two stream-works.’

The sheriff turned his haughty face towards the other tin-master. ‘And you? This relict was found on your property, so what do you say?’’

Stephen Acland reddened with anger — an emotion that John observed was easily aroused in the man. ‘What should I say? This fellow says he found it behind one of my blowing-houses, but that means nothing at all. It had to be somewhere! It might as easily have been behind any cowshed or barn.’ He glowered at Knapman, who stared stonily back at him. ‘Again I’m being put in the wrong,’ roared Acland. ‘Walter of Chagford thinks he owns the whole industry. Any challenge he takes as a personal insult.’

The coroner looked from one man to the other. ‘What’s going on between you two? Why are you at loggerheads all the time?’

Acland stayed sullenly silent, but Walter Knapman was only too willing to explain. ‘This upstart is jealous of my position in the Stannaries. Because I have more than twice the number of stream-works and far more tinners labouring for me, his avarice wishes to deny me what my family has built up over these past thirty years.’

Richard de Revelle stroked his pointed beard ruminatively. ‘Why should that make such a violent feud between you?’

‘Because he wants to displace me as the chief tin-master,’ snapped Knapman. ‘He’s bought out a couple of the small independent workings and has tried to persuade me to sell him some of mine. When I refused, he became vicious and abusive.’

Red-faced, Acland denied this hotly and began to push forward towards Knapman, but was restrained by the sergeant. ‘What’s wrong with a fair offer by way of trade?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing — apart from the way you made it,’ snarled Walter, pushing his face aggressively towards the other man’s. ‘And when I refused, no less than three times, maybe you thought to intimidate me, by smashing my sluices and killing one of my best men!’

This started another shouting match between the two tin-masters, and the sheriff motioned the soldiers to pull them apart and lead them back to the main group of jurates, where they stood surrounded by their supporters.

‘This is a waste of time,’ grated de Wolfe. ‘Their petty squabble is none of our concern. I fail to believe that Acland would have a man beheaded just to further his chances of buying another stream-works.’

William de Wrotham, a rather corpulent man in middle age, with a classic Norman haircut — trimmed up to a shelf all round his head — uttered a caution: ‘Don’t underestimate these tinners, Crowner. Passions run high amongst them. They are all jealous of their independence and their status in the Stannary community.’

Geoffrey Fitz-Peters nodded agreement. ‘Competition between them is a matter of honour rather than commerce. If it were not for their belligerence and quick tempers, my new gaol at Lydford would be empty.’

De Wolfe was still unconvinced that a decapitation could be laid at the door of a frustrated business deal. He was quite prepared to include Stephen Acland in any list of suspects, but that applied to most of the population of Devon.

The court clerk was whispering into de Revelle’s ear and pointing up at the sun, seen erratically through gaps in the heavy cloud. ‘It’s long past noon, we must finish our business, as most will want to get on their road home,’ the sheriff announced, and led the way back to their places along the craggy ridge.

De Wolfe and Gwyn went back to the outer line to listen to the final items. After a dispute about labourers’ rates of pay, Walter Knapman again stepped forward and raised the most controversial issue of the day. In an eloquent and increasingly passionate manner, he demanded a halt to the increasing taxes on the tin they produced and, linked to this, repeated their desire for a warden elected by the tinners themselves and not one who was automatically the King’s own representative in the county, the sheriff. With no attempt to defer to Richard de Revelle, who sat as chairman behind him, he pointed out the conflict of interests. ‘How can we press for a stay or even lowering in the crippling coinage we pay to the Crown when the leader of this assembly is the very man who must collect it?’ he demanded in strident tones.

De Revelle glared down at the back of Walter’s head, but the leading tin-master was in full flow, to the accompaniment of shouts of support for him and jeers at the sheriff.

‘Each year, the coinage increases, the cost of wresting tin from the streams increases — but our profit shrinks! We need a strong leader, an advocate to protest to the Royal Council, to the chief ministers, to the King himself. The sheriff cannot continue to have a foot in both camps. He has a divided loyalty. We need someone who knows about tinning, who knows our problems and knows how to solve them.’

The shouting from the back grew louder and the name ‘Knapman, Knapman’ began to be chanted, but then came the first challenge to Walter’s words.

‘And this new leader, the tinner Messiah, no doubt that’s going to be you, Knapman!’

It came from the throat of Stephen Acland, and the half-dozen men around him began yelling for him. This provoked the more numerous Knapman supporters and the yells rose to a crescendo. De Wolfe saw a ground-surge of movement and the tinners thrust reddened faces towards their opponents and began to shove at each other.

As the wily old soldier Gabriel motioned to his few men to move into the crowd, Richard de Revelle stood up in front of his granite throne and threw up his arms, fists clenched. ‘Be still, all of you!’ he screamed.

The sudden shout echoed down the slope and the unruly tinners subsided as quickly as they had become inflamed, turning away from their quarrels to see who had spoken.

As the sheriff glowered around the assembly, John felt a twinge of admiration for him, a sensation foreign to him as his usual feelings for de Revelle were of dislike, distaste and contempt. But now, the little jutting beard and cold eyes had imposed his will on a hundred and more tough men, who fell silent to listen to him.

‘Have a care as to what you say, Knapman!’ the sheriff carried on. ‘I am appointed Lord Warden of the Stannaries by order of the King and his Council. To claim that I should be removed from this office comes dangerously near treason.’

Knapman was not intimidated by this open threat. ‘Sheriff, how do we know what coinage has been fixed by that Council — if any has been fixed at all? You pay a large sum to Winchester as part of the county farm and much of that comes from the tin taxes. But how do we know how much that should be?’

‘And how much of it actually reaches Winchester?’ yelled a voice from the crowd, wisely letting his voice come from behind the shelter of another’s back.

‘Am I being accused of embezzlement, damn you?’ shouted back an infuriated de Revelle.

There were several calls of ‘Yes, yes’, but again the owners of the voices could not be identified, and Gabriel certainly made no effort to grab any culprits.

De Wolfe’s momentary spasm of admiration for the sheriff had faded and his face cracked into a rare grin as the bolder tinners gave vent to their opinion of the sheriff’s honesty.

Then Acland’s voice rose above the cat-calls and shouts. ‘Treason be damned! We tinners equal the woolmen in bringing wealth to Devon and taxes into the King’s coffers. I agree that we need a Warden who will speak for us, fight for us. But it doesn’t have to mean yet more fawning to Walter Knapman. It must be a free election, the choice of a majority of all tinners, through their jurates.’

This started another round of yelling and it was again apparent to the coroner that Knapman would easily win any vote, if it ever came to that. Richard de Revelle was also well aware of who was likely to succeed him if he was ousted, and he marked down Knapman as a serious threat to what he creamed off the coinage fees destined for the iron-bound Treasury chest in Winchester Castle. From this point on, the assembly became disordered and confused, with yells, shouts and hotly-contested arguments all over the rocky arena.

The sheriff’s remonstrations now had little effect and, at a sign from him, Gabriel reluctantly took his men into the throng and half-heartedly began laying about them with their staves. De Revelle watched for a few moments, then, with an angry shrug, got up and walked away. Fitz-Peters and de Wrotham accompanied him to their tethered horses.

John tapped Gwyn’s shoulder, distracting the big Cornishman from his delighted viewing of the mêlée. ‘Come on, let’s start for home. The fun’s all over here.’

As they trudged down the slope towards Wistman’s Wood, where they had left Odin and the brown mare, Gwyn began chuckling through his magnificent moustache. ‘Acland hates Knapman, Knapman hates Acland, they both hate the sheriff and the sheriff hates Knapman. Where will it all end, I wonder?’