The Tinner's corpse

CHAPTER EIGHT

While Chagford was thrown into consternation by the disappearance of one of its most prominent townsmen, the King’s coroner was carrying out his promise to his clerk. In the endless round of devotions that were the life-blood of cathedrals, the quietest period was in the late afternoon when the service of Compline, the last of the canonical hours, had ended, and there were a few hours for eating and sleeping before Matins at midnight. These Offices meant little to de Wolfe, but he chose a time when his friend John of Alençon would most likely be free.

There were four archdeacons for the different areas of the diocese and John of Alençon was responsible for Exeter itself, as Bishop Henry Marshal’s senior assistant for the city. Like most of the twenty-four canons, he lived in the cathedral precinct and had the second house in Canons’ Row, the road that formed the northern boundary of the Close, a continuation of Martin’s Lane.

Some of his fellow prebendaries lived in considerable style, with many servants, good stables and well-furnished accommodation, but John of Alençon was of a spartan nature and lived the ascetic life. Exeter was a secular establishment, not monastic like some other cathedrals, and its priests were not monks. However, though standards had slipped in recent years, allowing many priests to indulge in a life of luxury, some of the canons, especially John, still clung to the old Rule of St Chrodegang, a strict code of conduct laid down by Bishop Leofric more than a century earlier.

When de Wolfe was shown into the Archdeacon’s living chamber by a servant, he found his friend sitting on a hard stool at a bare oak table, reading a leatherbound book before a large wooden crucifix hanging on the wall. There was no other furniture and the coroner knew from past visits that the priest slept on a simple palliasse on the floor of an adjacent room.

‘Am I disturbing you at your devotions, John?’

The thin face, with cheekbones of almost skull-like prominence, broke into a charming smile. Wiry grey hair complemented grey-blue eyes that smiled with the rest of his face, and all who saw him were convinced that here was a good man in every sense of the word.

His spare frame was clothed in a long plain cassock; the chasuble and alb were reserved for saying the Offices in the cathedral across the way. He assured his friend that he was not interrupting any great religious study and, in fact, looked slightly guilty. ‘To tell the truth, I am reading a most secular book, John.’ He laid a hand on the now closed volume on the table. ‘It’s Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain. I am still trying to decide if the man was a genius, a charlatan — or just plain mad.’

De Wolfe had heard of the volume — it had created a sensation when it was written half a century earlier — but his illiteracy prevented him from enjoying it. For some months, he had been covertly taking instruction in reading and writing, and could sign his name and stumble slowly through some of the coroner’s rolls that Thomas prepared, but in recent weeks he had been too busy to persevere and already what he had learned was slipping away.

The archdeacon signalled to his servant, who hovered at the door, and ordered some wine. His asceticism did not extend to eschewing the juice of the grape, as long as it was a good vintage. His family came from Alençon in Normandy, and there drinking fine wine was as natural as breathing.

‘Is this a welcome social visit, John? Or have you some special purpose?’

Over two cups of wine, John de Wolfe explained the problem concerning Thomas de Peyne. ‘The man’s becoming more morose with every new day,’ he explained. ‘He was born to be a priest, and he says life outside your cosy community of God is not worth living.’

The archdeacon was well used to his friend’s marginally sacrilegious way of speech and smiled gently at him. ‘I can well understand his anguish, poor lad. If I were to be cast out, I doubt if I would have the will to continue living.’

‘He claims he was innocent of the crime alleged,’ commented de Wolfe, ‘which makes it so much worse. I tend to believe him — he is too devout to be a good liar.’

They discussed the problem for a time, but de Alençon was doubtful of any prospect of successful reinstatement. ‘Any appeal to a Consistory Court would have to be in Winchester, where he was ejected, not here in Exeter. Robust testimonials would have to be produced from senior ecclesiastical figures concerning his behaviour and character during the time since he was unfrocked, and I would certainly provide a good character for him. But there are political factors to be taken into account, John.’

The coroner looked questioningly at the Archdeacon over the rim of his wine cup. ‘Political factors?’

‘It is well known in this precinct — and in the city outside — that you and I are good friends and of like mind, especially in our avowed loyalty to the King. Any glowing testimonial from me about your clerk, especially as he is related to me, would be seen as favouritism, especially by those who have been opposed to us — and, indeed, humiliated by us in the recent past.’

De Wolfe looked glumly at his friend. ‘You mean those inclined to Prince John — men like Thomas de Boterellis?’ He named the precentor, the canon responsible for organising the services and the chanting, who had supported the abortive rebellion a few months back.

The priest nodded. ‘And perhaps, even more importantly, Henry Marshal himself.’

It was well known that the Bishop was also a Prince’s man and had openly declared himself when he was bishop-elect the previous year.

However, after more discussion, de Alençon agreed to sound out some other canons discreetly to see if there was any realistic prospect of launching a petition to Winchester on Thomas’s behalf, but again he sounded pessimistic. With that de Wolfe had to be content, realising that the fate of some obscure clerk would never arouse much interest amongst the ecclesiastical community.

When he left his friend, de Wolfe went slowly across the Close, his feet taking him along the familiar route to the inn in Idle Lane. The morning’s storm had passed, but a leaden sky made the approaching dusk all the gloomier, to suit his own mood. He walked almost reluctantly, although he knew that he must make the journey. Since he had surprised Nesta with the new man in the brew-house, his mood had swung between sad resignation and cold anger. At one moment, he would decide to draw a line under his affair with the delectable Welsh woman and let her go her own way, if that was what she wanted, but at the next, he was all for storming down to the Bush and throwing Alan out into the road, before carrying Nesta up to her room and making violent love to her.

As his feet carried him across Southgate Street, he dithered between the two extremes, but by the time he reached the tavern his determination had settled into a middle path. He would act normally, talk to her rationally and see what she wanted to do about this twist in their relationship.

However, this sober, sensible plan was doomed as soon as he stepped inside the smoky cavern of the ale-house. Nesta was seated at his usual table, tucking into a trencher laden with a knuckle of pork surrounded by boiled turnips. There was quite a crowd of customers and Alan of Lyme was going from table to table and bench to bench, cracking jokes and slapping favoured men on the back, as if he was the jovial landlord.

De Wolfe scowled, but the younger man waved at him airily, then turned away to gossip to another group of regulars. Almost everyone in the inn knew of the coroner’s long-standing affair with Nesta, and some looked slightly embarrassed at his presence, given that they were also aware of the landlady’s partiality to her new barman.

John loped across the rush-strewn floor to the table near the hearth and stood looking down at the pretty woman. Usually, her rich red hair was coiled under a close-fitting linen cap, but today it cascaded over her shoulders, being worn like a young girl’s. Sourly, he wondered if this was for the new man’s benefit.

Sensing his presence, she looked up slowly, a strip of pork poised in her fingers, and spoke to him in the Welsh tongue they normally used. ‘Oh, it’s you — visiting twice in as many days. It must be the attraction of my good ale.’

The unexpected sarcasm stung him into an unwise response. ‘Has it improved since you hired a new brewer? Perhaps the time you spend in the brew-house makes it even better.’

She coloured with anger and dropped the meat back on to the trencher. ‘What I do in my own tavern is my business.’

Even in his anger, he had the wit not to point out that without the money he had lent her she would have no tavern. Instead, he sat down unbidden on the bench beside her and tried not to notice that she pointedly moved away a token inch or two. A few heads were turned towards them, and he had no doubt that some ears were flapping amongst the nearest customers. He decided that the best tactic was to be calm and apologetic and coax her out of the combative mood that seemed to grip her — but she forestalled him as he was opening his mouth. ‘Has she tired you out today that you need to come here to recover?’

He shut his mouth and stared at her in mystification. ‘What d’you mean? She’s either at her damned church or snoring in the solar.’

Nesta, a knucklebone half-way to her lips, gave him a sideways look that as good as called him a liar. ‘I’m not speaking of Matilda. I saw Hilda of Dawlish in North Street this morning — at a distance, for I’d no wish to speak to her.’

De Wolfe gaped at her. ‘Hilda? Here in Exeter?’

The landlady nibbled delicately at the warm flesh, then gave him a look not far removed from contempt. ‘Don’t come the innocent with me, John. If you want to bed your blonde beauty, that’s your concern. At least it explains why you’ve been too busy to visit me lately.’

He protested that he had had no idea that Hilda was in the city, and in his vehemence, he laid a hand on her arm. She shrugged it off impatiently. ‘It’s none of my business, just as my affairs are none of yours. But don’t try playing both at home and abroad, John.’

Again he tried to convince her that he had not seen Hilda recently and that the pressure of his work had kept him away from the Bush these past weeks, but Nesta seemed immune to his pleadings, kept low to avoid the eavesdroppers all around.

‘Can’t we go upstairs, where we can at least talk more privately?’ he suggested, staring at a man who was grinning at him from a nearby bench.

‘I’ve got a tavern to run after I’ve snatched a meal,’ she said tartly. ‘And with your busy life, no doubt you can find better things to occupy your time.’

De Wolfe’s resolution to be calm and rational began to evaporate under the rising of his own temper, but he took a grip on himself and made one last effort. ‘Nesta, for God’s sake, we’ve forged too much between us over the past year to act like this. What’s got into you, that this young lout has turned your head?’

She dropped the bone on to the table boards and turned quickly to him, her lips pressed together in a thin line. As a redhead, her own temper more than matched his when she was roused. ‘Listen, Sir Crowner, what future have I with you? You’re married, however much you regret it. You are a high law officer for your king and county and a knight of some substance, while I am a mere ale-wife, little better than one of the villeins on your two manors. How long am I to keep my heart and my bed reserved for such a man as you with no prospect of preferment? Is it not better for me to look elsewhere for my future, while I still have youth and looks to offer?’

He saw tears in her eyes, which she angrily wiped away with her sleeve, before ostentatiously turning from him to attack her food again.

De Wolfe found he had nothing to say in response to this cry from her heart. He stood up and tentatively laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘It would be better if I went to the Saracen to sample their ale tonight. But I’ll not leave the matter like this, Nesta. I’ll be back when we can both think more sensibly.’

He walked heavily to the door without a backward glance, ducked under the lintel and went out into the blustery evening.

A couple of hours later Gwyn found his master, after failing to track him down at his usual haunt in Idle Lane. With his remarkable capacity for ale and cider, it had been no great hardship for the Cornishman to seek the coroner in several other taverns before he came to the Saracen on Stepcote Hill. ‘I wonder at your drinking here, Crowner. You always say it’s one of the lowest ale-houses in Exeter.’

The Saracen had a bad reputation as a den for the worst type of cutpurses, whores and criminals. The landlord was Willem the Fleming, an obese hulk of a man who kept some sort of order by the strength of his huge arms. One of the drabs who combined the careers of harlot and barmaid dumped two pottery quarts of indifferent ale before them, and Gwyn immediately filtered half of his through his great moustache while looking keenly at de Wolfe over the rim.

Like most in the city, he knew there was trouble at the Bush between his master and the landlady — and had made an accurate guess at the cause. He was sad and worried, for he was fond of Nesta and concerned about the coroner’s unhappiness. But though he had been de Wolfe’s constant companion for almost twenty years, they were still master and servant and he was not presumptuous enough to raise the subject.

It seemed that de Wolfe wished to keep the issue bottled up, as his first words were about duties for the morrow. ‘Have we anything I must attend in the next two days?’ he demanded. He had drunk well over half a gallon of ale in the last couple of hours but, unlike wine, it never seemed to affect him and his efforts to dull his anxiety over his mistress had come to nothing.

His officer rocked his gingery head from side to side. ‘Tuesday is hanging day, but there’s nothing for the scaffold tomorrow. And the other matter I’ve heard is not coroner’s business — yet.’

De Wolfe raised his head from his ale-jar. ‘What business is that?’

‘I heard gossip in the Anchor — the inn down near the quay-side — before I found you here. It will interest you, I’m sure.’

By now, de Wolfe should have been used to Gwyn’s habit of spinning out news, but it was still infuriating. ‘Tell me, then, for Satan’s sake!’

‘There were men there from Matthew Knapman’s warehouse, which is nearby. It seems their master’s servant had just ridden back from Chagford, with orders to turn out half a dozen men at dawn to ride back with him.’ Gwyn paused for dramatic effect, but the steely look in de Wolfe’s eyes made him hurry on with his tale. ‘Matthew’s brother Walter, the one we saw in Chagford and on Crockern Tor, has gone missing. They found his horse riderless today but not a sign of the man himself.’

The news roused de Wolfe out of his miserable reverie. The tin-master’s disappearance and the recent ghastly murder of one of his overmen seemed more than a coincidence. Yet, as Gwyn had said, the man’s disappearance need not concern a coroner. He might be found disabled after a fall from his horse — or he might have been attacked by outlaws, even rival tinners.

‘Where did he vanish from? Was it on the high moor?’ he asked.

‘Nowhere near there — it was almost half-way back to Exeter, it seems. Knapman owns a mill on the Teign, the other side of Dunsford from here.’

De Wolfe nodded. Dunsford was where they had discovered a Saxon treasure-trove a few months back.

‘Maybe the sheriff has spirited him away, so that Knapman can’t dispossess him as Warden of the Stannaries!’ joked Gwyn.

‘Stranger things have happened,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘But there’s no cause for us to meddle in it.’ He stretched his long arms and legs. ‘If there are no duties tomorrow, I’ll ride down to see my family. I’ve not seen them since that Templar stayed there last month.’

An alarm bell rang in Gwyn’s head. Fond as de Wolfe was of his brother, sister and widowed mother, he often went months without visiting his family home at Stoke-in-Teignhead. And the road from Exeter to Stoke passed through Dawlish.

As soon as the city gates were opened at dawn, Odin and Gwyn’s big brown mare clattered through the cobbled archway of the South Gate, bearing their riders out on to Holloway and the road to Topsham, the little port where the Exe river widened out into its estuary and the open sea beyond.

They passed a stream of people bringing produce into the city, ox-carts laden with cabbages and root vegetables stored over the winter, mules and donkeys labouring under wicker panniers filled with butter, cheese and eggs, and a stream of peasants, some pushing handcarts laden with whatever was available in spring before the new crops had come to fruition. Others drove pigs, sheep and a few spring lambs, all destined for the slaughterers in the Shambles of South Gate Street — a few old women even had a live chicken under each arm, hoping to make a penny out of someone’s Tuesday dinner.

The track dipped into the little valley just beyond Southernhay, where the outflow of the city’s drainage gave the little stream its odious name of Shitebrook, and then up on to the level road that ran along the bank of the Exe, past St James’s Priory.

At a steady clip, the two big horses rapidly covered the three miles to Topsham, where a large flat-bottomed rope-ferry carried them across to the marshy ground on the other side of the river. Soon they were trotting towards the low hills that ran down to meet the sea at Dawlish. An hour later, as they approached the village on the sand, Gwyn privately wondered how his master was going to deal with the situation. As they slowed to a walk to splash through the little creek that sheltered a few boats from the open beach, he won his mental wager with himself. De Wolfe began to inspect the one or two larger sea-going vessels that were beached on the banks of the stream by the ebbing tide.

‘Very few vessels here today, Crowner,’ observed Gwyn, keeping a straight face. He knew very well that de Wolfe was looking for the one owned by Thorgils the Boatman, the husband of the lovely Hilda.

The coroner gave one of his noncommittal throat clearings and reined in his horse at the top of the further bank of the creek. Gwyn knew what to expect next: it was a routine they had played out several times before.

‘We’ll have a short break from our journey, Gwyn,’ he muttered. ‘I have an errand to carry out, so get yourself to that alehouse and refresh yourself. I’ll call for you there when I’m finished.’

Both knew exactly what was going on, but nothing was put into words.

Gwyn was surprised, therefore, when less than a quarter of an hour later his eating and drinking were interrupted by de Wolfe, who stalked into the primitive single room of the alehouse and demanded a quart, a hunk of bread and some cheese. The ginger giant made no comment but waited for some explanation from his master.

‘We’ll carry on to Stoke straight away, Gwyn. We’ll leave there early this evening.’ He hesitated and made another rumble in his throat. ‘It may be that we will have to break our return journey and stop somewhere overnight.’

Gwyn dipped his face into his ale-jar to hide a grin. He could wager confidently that their overnight stay would be in Dawlish on the way back. Hilda, the beautiful blonde, was the daughter of the reeve at Holcombe, just down the coast. When much younger, de Wolfe had had a long love-affair with her, but as she was both a Saxon and the child of a manor servant, there had been no question of a permanent relationship between them, let alone a marriage. When de Wolfe had gone to the wars, Hilda had married an older man, but kept an ember glowing in her heart for the lover of her youth, which was fanned into fire at intervals when Thorgils was away on the high seas.

The two men continued along the coast road, keeping up a good pace on the dry track. The weather was dull but dry, with a persistent cold breeze. The trees and bushes were well into leaf and bud, and primroses brightened the verges. Patches of scrub and woodland alternated with hamlets nestling in their strip-fields, and more ground was constantly brought under cultivation by cutting assarts from the surviving forest.

De Wolfe rode immersed in his own problems, but Gwyn, in his contented, easy-going way, had time to contrast this mellow coastal strip with the bleak harshness of Dartmoor, which they had visited a few days earlier. One such prosperous village was Holcombe, the second of the de Wolfe manors and Hilda’s original home.

John deviated a little from the main track to visit the manor farm, in case his brother was there, but the bailiff told him that William had returned to Stoke-in-Teignhead the previous evening. The elder brother, though also tall and dark, was quite different in nature from the warrior John. He was devoted to managing the two estates and improving the farming. This suited de Wolfe, as he had been left a share of the profits by their father Simon. He was content that the land had been given to William, who cared so much for its welfare. A lesser share of the income had been bequeathed to his spinster sister Evelyn, their sprightly mother Enyd also having a life interest in the estate.

‘The whole family will be at Stoke, Gwyn. I’ll be happy to see them all together — and no doubt you’ll get your usual welcome from the maids in the kitchen, who’ll fill you to bursting point.’

As they rejoined the track to Teignmouth, where they could cross the river, he felt happier at the thought of a pleasant afternoon and a dalliance with Hilda on the return journey that night, after his disappointment earlier. Having made sure that Thorgils’ boat was away from Dawlish, he had called at the fine stone house in the middle of the village. His first setback was being told by a giggling maidservant that Mistress Hilda had been in Exeter for the past two days, shopping for a new gown and cloak to attend her younger sister’s wedding next week. She was expected back that afternoon and de Wolfe left a discreet message that he would call upon her that evening.

But ‘Man proposes and God disposes’, as the devout Matilda could no doubt have told him. De Wolfe’s anticipation of a family reunion followed by an evening of passion was dashed within minutes of their leaving Holcombe. Two riders came towards them, trotting so purposefully that Gwyn instinctively felt for the handle of his mace, which hung from a loop on his saddle. ‘Careful, Crowner, these fellows are coming at too fast a clip to be out for some morning exercise.’

His caution proved unnecessary, for de Wolfe soon recognised one of the horsemen as they came nearer. ‘It’s the reeve from Teignmouth. I’ve known him since we were lads — we fished together in the river there.’ The coroner’s boyhood home of Stoke was within walking distance of the reeve’s village.

The recognition was mutual, and a moment later the village headman from Teignmouth reined up alongside them, astonishment written on his broad face. ‘Have you dropped from the sky, Sir John? We were on our way to Exeter to find you or the sheriff’s men.’

Their story was soon told, the other man being an armed companion for the messenger: lone horsemen were easy targets for trail-bastons.

‘A body was found washed up at the mouth of the river early this morning, though he probably came downstream during the night. Our bailiff says that strange corpses must be notified to the sheriff or the crowner without delay these days.’

‘Or else the village gets stuck with a big fine,’ added the other man wryly.

‘Any knowledge of who it might be?’ asked de Wolfe.

The reeve shook his head. ‘No one local, that’s for sure. And by his clothes he’s no peasant.’

These words caused the first niggle of concern to rise in de Wolfe’s mind. ‘You’d better lead us to this mystery man,’ he grunted. ‘Is he still where he was found?’

‘Indeed he is, Crowner. The bailiff said that, these days, on no account must we interfere with corpses.’

It was less than two miles to the river and the four horsemen spurred their mounts to a canter, covering the remaining distance in a short time. As they jogged down the slope to the Teign, John looked ahead to gauge the state of the tide. It had been ebbing at Dawlish, so should be nearing low water now. The river had a broad estuary about two miles long running straight inland, but at the seaward end a sand bar cut across much of the outflow, leaving a narrow gap that could be forded at low tide.

As they moved on to this grass-grown spit, they could see that a dozen or more people, some leading sumpter horses, were clustered at the edge of the water, slightly inside the tip of the sand spit, where debris washed down by the river had been beached by the falling tide. A tangled mass of broken branches, reeds and even a length of wattle fencing was strewn along the foreshore where the crowd was gathered.

‘A train of pack-horses has arrived, by the look of it,’ said the reeve, sliding off his mare and walking her across to the group. De Wolfe and the other two followed him across the coarse grass. There were some local people with the hauliers, one a sailor by his cloth breeches and short tunic, and a couple of villeins holding mattocks. The inevitable flock of urchins was running around, and Gwyn called to one to hold their horses while they pushed through the small crowd. Then he bellowed at the onlookers to make way for the King’s coroner.

They stood aside and let John through to look down at a bedraggled body, lying under a heap of twisted branches and part of a holly tree.

‘Washed down with all this heavy rain,’ volunteered the reeve. ‘Yesterday, the river was in spate far more than this.’

The corpse was lying face down on the muddy sand, its tunic washed up over its head, exposing breeches and one riding boot; the other foot was bare. The saturated clothing was soiled and badly torn from snagging on obstructions in the river.

‘Get him up from the waterline and turn him over,’ ordered de Wolfe, a grim thought already forming in his mind.

Willing hands disentangled the cadaver from the holly-bush and pulled the thorny twigs off the tunic. Gwyn and the reeve each took one of the outstretched hands and slid the body up the wet sand to the grass, then rolled it over on to its back.

Puffy and sodden, with scratches on cheeks and forehead, the square face stared sightlessly up at the grey clouds. The soaking hair was plastered to the scalp, but the fair ringlets confirmed the identity the features had already proclaimed.

It was Walter Knapman, lately a tin-master of Chagford.