Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) (14 page)

John looked at Ranulf. ‘Better than going hungry! Though it would take a few hours to roast on a spit.’

After some haggling, the crofter sold them the pig for ten pence, which Ranulf intended reclaiming from the Keeper as part of their expenses. ‘Best get the men organised, if they want to eat before midnight!’ advised de Wolfe.

They arranged for the ale-wife to supply all the spare drink she had, collected later by soldiers who carried the large five-gallon pottery crocks back to the churchyard. The old priest made no objection to starting a fire inside the ring of large stones which was used every time the village had an ‘ale’ for some celebration or other. The men entered into the spirit of the event, gathering fallen wood from the edge of the forest and when the gutted pig had been brought, it was turned on a makeshift spit supported on forked branches stuck into the ground.

Darkness was falling by the time the meat was cooked, making the scene look like some barbaric festival, with a circle of hungry men sitting around the fire, lit up by sizzling flares when gobs of fat dripped into the flames. As a log burnt through and fell, a shower of red sparks rose into the air, like a swarm of fireflies. When the sergeant-at-arms, who had appointed himself cook, declared the flesh ready to eat, every man, including the knights and Thomas, lined up to cut themselves slices with their eating knife or dagger. In spite of her pessimism about the amount of bread, the tavern widow had found enough coarse loaves to give every man a hunk, on which he laid his hot pork until cool enough to eat.

Together with some ale dipped from the crocks in a few pint pots and passed from mouth to mouth, the succulent meat and the comradely atmosphere satisfied everyone. By the time the hog had been reduced to a near skeleton, most of the men were ready to sleep, though four were obliged to stay awake to form the first watch to guard the treasure wagon until morning.

The rest ambled back to the little church and gratefully curled up on the earthen floor, wrapping themselves in their riding cloaks though the night was still warm.

All the horses had been watered at a stream than ran through the village and then turned out into a large meadow with a dry-stone wall around it. The cart, bereft of its draught animals, stood forlornly against the church wall, with two of the guards sitting on the driving-board and the other two crouched on the grass at the rear.

‘We may as well test the softness of the priest’s hay, I suppose,’ suggested Ranulf, leading the way towards the small barn. Its interior was almost completely dark, but a half moon and the remains of the fire gave them enough light to see that it was almost empty. At the end of spring, most of the stored roots like turnips and carrots had been used up and it was too early for much of this year’s produce to be gathered in.

‘Just enough hay to lie on, I reckon,’ said Gwyn, peering around in the streaks of fitful moonlight that penetrated the gaps between the rough planks that formed the walls. It was more a large shed than a proper barn, but was enough to hold the meagre tithes that such a small hamlet could produce for their priest. The five men shuffled around in the gloom and each found a corner or a nook amongst the remains of last year’s crops, curling up in their mantles and ignoring the rustling of mice and rats that were their fellow guests for the night. The coroner and the two knights from the Marshalsea decided to lay where they could see the precious cart through the open doors of the barn. Gwyn and Thomas preferred a spot against the back wall.

John found it warm enough to roll up his riding cloak to use as a pillow, after he had wriggled himself into a comfortable position on a thin layer of musty-smelling hay. He had pulled off his boots and laid his belt, which carried sword, dagger and pouch, on the ground alongside him. Too tired tonight to churn his personal troubles around in his mind, he fell almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.

Hours later, when the moon had declined almost to the horizon, he suddenly awoke, with the feeling that something was wrong. As an old campaigner, used to sleeping rough where danger was ever present, he was instantly fully awake. He heard Ranulf snoring nearby, but his nose and his ears told him that they were in danger. Jerking upright, he sniffed repeatedly and then got to his feet and hurried to the door, ignoring the jabs to his bare feet from debris on the floor. As he emerged into the near darkness, there was a sudden yell of ‘Fire!’ from nearby and William Aubrey stumbled around the corner of the barn, clutching his breeches around his backside, his belt hanging loose.

‘The thatch is on fire, come and see!’ He grabbed John by the arm, pulled him to the corner and pointed up. ‘I went outside for a shite and then saw flames!’ he gabbled. Almost at the same time, there were sudden cries of alarm from across the churchyard, where the four sentries were guarding the wagon.

‘Fire, fire!’ came the dreaded yells and going further out from the barn, John coughed as a wreath of smoke drifted down from above. Due to the overhang of the eaves, he could see nothing until he ran out into the coarse grass and weeds of the churchyard. Stumbling backwards and looking up, now he could see that part of the barn’s ragged thatch was alight and spreading rapidly, fanned by the slight breeze and aided by the dry state of the old straw after days without rain.

He heard shouts and running feet coming towards him, and turning saw that the soldiers from the wagon detail were racing towards the barn. A sudden thought occurred to him and he yelled at them urgently.

‘Get back to your posts, damn you! That’s more important than a poxy shed!’

The possibility that this could be some sort of diversion, to leave the treasure cart unattended crossed his mind, though it seemed highly unlikely. But the barn was undoubtedly on fire and John hobbled back to the entrance, cursing as small stones cut into his almost bare feet. As he went through the doorway, he was just about to start yelling ‘Fire!’ himself, when he dimly saw that Gwyn had risen to his feet and was starting to bellow a warning, as he pushed Thomas ahead of him to safety.

‘The bloody thatch is afire!’ hollered de Wolfe. ‘Give that other fellow a shake, Gwyn!’ he shouted, pointing at the inert shape of Ranulf, who seemed capable of sleeping through an earthquake. Scooping up his boots and his belt, John retreated to the door and hurriedly thrust his feet into his footwear and buckled on the belt. By now, the fire had reached the inside of the thatch and bits of burning straw were falling through the framework of twisted hazel withies that held it up. There was no danger to any of them, as by now Gwyn had hauled the bemused under-marshal to his feet and given him a push in the direction of the doorway, where Aubrey was tucking his shirt into his breeches and anxiously awaiting his friend.

A moment later, they were all outside and by now the men-at-arms who had been sleeping in the church had streamed out and were standing in a half-circle, staring impotently at the burning roof.

‘There’s no way we’ll save that now!’ called out the sergeant. ‘There’s no water here and by the time we get buckets to the stream, the place will be well alight.’

Now the crowd was strengthened by some villagers who had been attracted by the noise and the priest had emerged from his dwelling on the other side of the churchyard to witness the destruction of his property. Thomas hurried to console him, but he seemed unperturbed.

‘It is the will of God!’ he cried philosophically, crossing himself, content in the knowledge that the manor would have to rebuild it for him, hopefully a better one than the decrepit structure that was now burning merrily.

Ranulf, now fully awake but rubbing his eyes sleepily, decided that they themselves must have been the cause of the fire.

‘Blame the damned pig!’ he muttered. ‘Must have been a spark that flew up from our fire that landed in the thatch and smouldered until it caught hold. I’d best give them a couple of marks in compensation – I’ll get it back from the palace when we return.’

John went over to the wagon and paced around it suspiciously, under the uneasy eyes of the four sentinels. He suspected that they had all been fast asleep, as their recognition of the burning barn had been remarkably slow.

‘Have you seen or heard anything untoward?’ he demanded of them. They denied seeing anything out of the ordinary and when a now more wakeful Ranulf and Aubrey came across to join him, they checked the two chests and saw nothing wrong. Before long, the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky and it seemed pointless to try to settle back to sleep. When it was full light, the soldiers went off to the stream to drink and splash their sleepy faces with cold water. By then, it was time to round up the horses and prepare to continue the journey. De Wolfe was still anxious about the treasure chests and studied the locks more closely.

‘No one seems to have tampered with them,’ muttered Gwyn, looking over John’s shoulder at the pair of large iron padlocks on each box. They were covered with a thin patina of rust, in which no fresh scratches were visible around the keyholes to suggest any attempt had been made to pick them.

Eventually satisfied that they had not been robbed, the cavalcade moved off, leaving a village glad to see the back of them. Having had no breakfast, the troop and their officers were all pleased to reach Kingston, where they were able to eat and drink at the manor house, then set off on the last leg of the journey to London. Their slow journey kept them south of the Thames all the way to Southwark, where in the early evening their tired horses clattered over the old wooden bridge into the city. The oppressive heat had declined during the days since they had left for Hampshire and it remained pleasantly warm as they plodded the last half-mile through busy streets along the north bank to the Tower. The grim grey rectangle stood high above a confusion of construction around its base, as Hubert Walter was busy carrying out the Lionheart’s orders to encircle the keep with a retaining wall and a moat. They picked their way through mounds of stone blocks and heaps of sand and lime, where masons and labourers were still working overtime to build a twenty-foot rampart, further evidence of the royal mistrust of the citizens of London.

‘Our chests should be safe enough inside this lot!’ jested Ranulf, as they dodged under wooden derricks and tripods hauling stones to the top of the growing wall. Once close to the Tower itself, the construction chaos ceased and they drew their cart up to an arched entrance in the north face of the cliff-like tower. Here a brace of guards with spears stood each side of the big doors which led into an undercroft, partly below ground level. The entrance to the upper floors was up a nearby flight of wooden stairs, the usual defence mechanism to prevent easy access during a siege, as the steps could be thrown down in minutes.

‘Now what happens?’ grunted John, tired of sitting on his horse for so many hours. As if in answer to his question, a wicket gate in the large doors opened and several men stepped out into the evening sunshine. He recognised one as Simon Basset, a senior Treasury official, for he had once sat next to him in the Lesser Hall. The other two seemed to be Tower officers, in severe military-looking tunics with the three royal lions embroidered on their surcoats. Each had a large sword swinging from a belt and baldric. John and the two other knights-marshal dismounted and went to meet the men, apologising for the delay in their arrival and explaining the problem with the cracked wheel-hub. De Wolfe thought it pointless to mention the fire, which appeared to have no relevance to their journey.

Simon Basset was a portly cleric, still a canon of Lichfield Cathedral. He had climbed the Westminster ladder during old King Henry’s time and was now one of the senior administrators in the Treasury. Though he had met him only twice, John felt that Basset was an astute royal servant, as well as being a pleasant, amiable character, with a round face and pink cheeks.

‘What’s to be done with these damned boxes?’ asked the coroner. ‘We’ve guarded them like precious babes all the way from Winchester. I’ll be glad to see them safely housed, so that we can stop looking over our shoulders at every corner!’

Simon motioned to the two gate guards to open one leaf of the heavy, studded doors. ‘We’ll get the chests taken inside right away, Sir John. They’ll not be here more than a few days, as we are waiting for a king’s ship to take them over to Rouen.’

John guessed that the sale of the gold and silver was needed to pay the Lionheart’s troops and to finance the endless need for food and fodder for the large army.

The soldiers from their escort began sliding the large boxes from the wagon and carrying each between four men down the ramp into the undercroft. De Wolfe, together with Aubrey and Ranulf, followed the Treasury official and his two companions into the gloomy basement and across to another locked door which was lit by guttering flares stuck in rings on the wall. They went along a passage to yet another heavy door, where one of the Tower officers produced a large key. He let them into a small chamber devoid of any windows or other openings, obviously deep in the bowels of the Conqueror’s fortress. A soldier brought another flaring pitch-brand and by its light John could see that half a dozen other chests were lined against the walls.

‘All destined for Normandy!’ observed Simon Basset, as they watched the two new boxes being added to the collection.

‘I presume I leave the keys with you?’ growled de Wolfe, feeling in his pouch for the heavy bunches that he was only too happy to be rid of.

‘What about checking the contents?’ asked Ranulf. ‘The inventory was certified correct when we left Winchester, but I wouldn’t want any loss to be alleged while the chests were in our care.’