Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) (25 page)

From lack of any other inspiration, de Wolfe walked his horse around a number of byways, going up from the village of Charing to the high road which ran westward from Holbourn and then on to Tyburn, where he and his officer stopped for a few moments to look at the large elm trees that now competed with Smithfield as an execution ground. The first customer a couple of months ago had been the rebel William fitz Osbert, known as Longbeard, whose capture and hanging had brought Hubert Walter into such disfavour. But there was no sign anywhere of Simon Basset nor of his horse, so a dispirited de Wolfe followed a direct track across the marshes to where the great bulk of the abbey and palace stood up against the sultry sky.

Thankfully, that night during supper in the Lesser Hall there was no discussion about the canon, as for once, the palace gossip machine had failed to pick up the news. John was spared interrogation, but he suspected that the disappearance of someone so directly linked to the theft of the treasure would not remain a secret for long.

With a choice of boiled capon, salmon, pork ribs and a range of vegetables from leeks to parsnips, John was busy filling his stomach, but was obliged for courtesy’s sake to attend to Hawise as well. She had managed to sit opposite her husband, and next to John, her hip pressed against his as he gallantly sliced pieces of chicken to put on her trencher. The Lesser Hall sported tablecloths, instead of the usual scrubbed oak boards and the large bread trenchers were placed on oblongs of wood to spare the spoiling of the linen beneath.

They had each already finished a wooden bowl of potage, a soup of vegetables in stock, thickened with oatmeal, and Hawise was gaily protesting at the amount of food John was serving her.

‘You are intent upon making me fat, Sir John!’ she gushed. ‘I’ll need a stronger horse to carry me when we ride to Gloucester!’

The warmth of her thigh moving against his distracted him so much that he dropped a chicken leg and cursed as a large stain of gravy spread on the pristine cloth. The woman giggled and briefly touched his leg under the table.

‘You seem out of temper this evening, John! No doubt you’re missing that blonde Saxon who shared your bed recently!’ She failed to keep the jealous pique out of her voice.

The pert remark made John realize that he had not given much thought to Hilda these past few days, as the theft of the treasure and now Simon Basset’s vanishing trick had fully occupied his mind. He tried to think of a suitably cutting response to Hawise, who was now resting her fingers on his thigh, as she ate with her other hand. But her husband cut in with a return to the old topic.

‘Have you made any progress in finding the miscreant who stole the king’s gold?’ he asked in a semi-bantering tone. Archdeacon Bernard leaned forward from the other side of Ranulf, who was next to Hawise’s silent maidservant. ‘Give the man a chance, he’s only been at the task for two days! No doubt you suspect someone in the Great Tower itself?’

‘I certainly have a new path to pursue, but you will appreciate that I have to keep such matters strictly confidential,’ said de Wolfe. At least I’ve told the truth, he thought wryly – the fact that at present his new path led nowhere, need not be voiced to these inquisitive creatures. He was finding the touch of Hawise’s fingers quite pleasant, but almost reluctantly he slid his own hand under the edge of the tablecloth and gently replaced hers on her lap. As he did so, he briefly felt the warmth of her skin through the silken gown and a frisson of desire rippled through him. For her part, Lady de Seigneur gave a petulant pursing of her lips and once again John thought her husband must either be half-blind or uncaring about her flirting.

They finished the meal with a flagon of white wine from the Loire, accompanied by dried figs and apricots, then drifted out of the Lesser Hall. As Hawise was towed away by her husband towards the stairs to the guest quarters, she gave John a doleful look of longing to which he responded with a faint smile.

‘She’ll have the breeches off you yet, John!’ murmured Ranulf, as they went out into the evening light of the Palace Yard. John had arranged to meet Gwyn in the alehouse a little later, so to pass the time, he suggested to Ranulf that they took a walk along the riverbank. Passing the stables and all the less impressive parts of the back end of the palace, they went through the gate in the wall that formed the southern limit of the enclave and crossed the small bridge across the Tyburn. The marshy flats along the edge of the Thames had dried out in the recent hot weather and sheep and goats, tended by an occasional shepherd, were dotted about the wide, flat area. They walked towards the edge of the river, where a narrow path ran above the slope down to the high-water mark, now exposing a wide shelf of mud leading to the dark water.

‘Do you think she’s like that with all men?’ asked John ruminatively, taking up Ranulf’s earlier remark.

The marshal shook his head and grinned. ‘She’s not set her cap at me, has she?’ he countered. ‘It’s you that the Lady Hawise is inflamed about. I wish it was me, I’m more than a little jealous!’

The smile he gave took any rancour from his jibe.

‘Even if I was inclined to oblige her,’ said John. ‘There’s always that dumpy husband of hers to contend with.’

Ranulf stopped and stared at the sky, where thunderclouds still massed on the far horizon. ‘I get the feeling that Lord Renaud isn’t all that bothered about his wife’s fidelity,’ he murmured. ‘I’d be there like a shot if I had any encouragement.’

De Wolfe was dubious. ‘Why should he have that attitude?’ he asked. ‘She is an uncommonly attractive woman. You’d think a plain older man like him would keep her on a short rein.’

‘Unless they have hidden motives,’ suggested Ranulf darkly. John came to a sudden halt on the path and turned to face his friend. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded.

The under-marshal looked left and right as if checking that he could not be overheard, though the nearest thing on legs was a sheep a hundred yards away.

‘We get to hear things at the stables, people coming and going on official business. There is a spy scare on at the moment, according to one of our men, who overheard some barons and earls he was escorting on a barge up to Windsor.’

‘Spying on what? And how can that concern me and a flighty dame who should know better?’

They began to walk slowly back to the abbey and palace that loomed before them, Ranulf continuing with his tale.

‘My gossip also tells me that one of the reasons for Queen Eleanor’s visit is for her to impress on the Royal Council the real threat of an invasion from France – and also to dissuade her errant son John from becoming involved again in support for Philip Augustus. Naturally, the French want to know what the official reaction is and to know if military precautions are being taken along the coast of Kent and Sussex.’

‘And how could that affect me? I am a coroner, I know nothing about politics or troop dispositions!’

‘You have the ear of the Justiciar – and are known to be a favourite of the king himself, after the good service you gave him at the Crusade. When a spy is short of contacts, he or she latches on to the best option – and you are a good target in that respect.’

De Wolfe stared at Ranulf in disbelief. ‘Are you trying to tell me that the de Seigneurs are covert agents of France?’

The marshal shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility. I know that warnings have been circulating for months that there are spies in England.’

‘There are always spies in England – and always have been! Just as we have spies in France and every other country,’ said John scornfully.

‘I’m just repeating what I’ve heard,’ answered Ranulf mildly. ‘Perhaps Renaud de Seigneur plans to catch you pleasuring his wife, so that he can blackmail you into revealing the secrets of the realm!’ he added mischievously

‘He’ll be in for a great disappointment, then,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘I’ve cuckolded better men than him.’

Thinking it time that he turned the talk away from himself, he delved a little into his companion’s life.

‘What about you, friend? You cannot be married if you live in that bachelor den over the stables.’

‘I was wedded years ago, but my wife died in childbed, as did the infant.’

‘Have you not remarried, then? You are still young, not yet thirty, I would guess.’

Ranulf shook his head. ‘I enjoy life as it is, John. I do not lack for female company when I desire it, but enjoy men’s pursuits, like gambling on dice, dog-fighting and the like. I also follow the tournaments in a modest way, though I can’t yet afford to equip myself sufficiently to enter the lists in any of the great tourneys.’

John, who had also dabbled in jousting in his earlier days, knew of the passion that some men had for tourneys. Fortunes could be made – and lost – on the tourney fields, as the horses and armour of the losers were forfeited to the winners, as well as heavy wagering on the results.

‘What about young William Aubrey?’ asked John. ‘Is he another merry bachelor?’

‘He is indeed, never having married. But he is twenty-one and has little prospect of inheritance, as he is the fifth son of a manor-lord in Somerset.’ He grinned as he thought of William’s cheerful nature. ‘He is another keen one for the girls, but he has youth on his side. Also, he shares my fondness for a wager, though ratting is his game.’

‘You’ll both have to be on your best behaviour when the old queen arrives,’ observed de Wolfe. ‘All the organisation of travel is your responsibility, I gather.’

Ranulf became serious at the prospect. ‘Yes, though under the direction of William the Marshal himself, when he arrives. We have half a dozen under-marshals here and a legion of ostlers, grooms, farriers and wheelwrights to keep the cavalcade on the road, once we leave Westminster.’

They crossed the stream and entered the gate into Old Palace Yard. Just before they parted, John told him about Simon Basset, as the under-marshal was almost as involved as himself in the matter of the stolen treasure.

‘It’s not common knowledge yet, but Canon Simon seems to have disappeared,’ he said. ‘I wanted to question him about access to the chests in the Tower, but he appears to have vanished off the face of the earth. No one in his household or in the Exchequer has any news of him.’

Ranulf’s expression showed his concern. ‘But along with the Constable, he’s the most likely suspect, given that he has at least half the keys necessary,’ he said. ‘Do you think he’s fled the country with a sack full of gold?’

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘It seems a little unlikely that a respectable canon would give up his life in England for nine hundred pounds, though that’s a lot of money. And he’s left behind a valuable house and possessions, as well as a position of influence and prestige.’

‘Maybe he’s just having a few days and nights with a secret mistress,’ suggested Ranulf. They both laughed at the thought of the portly canon indulging in some passionate affair, but as John said farewell and walked off to meet Gwyn, he wondered whether that was a possible explanation.

In an upstairs room of a house in Stinking Lane, just inside the city wall near Aldersgate, a man lay naked on a feather-filled mattress. He was not a pretty sight to begin with, having an over-rounded belly and pale, pasty limbs, but the fact that he was groaning and dry-retching into an earthenware basin, made him even less attractive to the two women who stood watching him from the doorway.

‘He’s been like this for the past hour,’ reported Lucy, a pretty but over-painted girl of about eighteen years, with brightly dyed red hair reaching down her back. She pressed a long green brocade pelisse tightly about her body, her arms folded across her full bosom.

‘Has he not done what he paid for?’ demanded the older woman, a raddled former beauty, whose faded blonde hair was tucked beneath a white cover-chief.

Lucy shook her head, her eyes still on the man moaning on the pallet. ‘He got as far as taking off his garments, mistress, but then suddenly fell ill.’ She sounded as if it was a personal slight on her professional abilities that her client was unable to perform his duty.

‘He can’t stay here like this!’ snapped Margery of Edmonton, who ruled the bawdyhouse with a rod of iron. ‘If he dies on us, we’ll have the sheriff’s men here, frightening off other patrons, as well as expecting free favours for themselves.’

The more sympathetic Lucy, who over many visits had developed a fondness for her normally amiable customer, leaned over the sufferer and tried to converse with him between bouts of retching.

‘Was it something you ate, sir? Have you taken bad meat very lately?’

His eyes rolled upward and managed to focus on the face above him. ‘I supped at a good inn with …’ then his words tailed off as he tried to vomit again, though his stomach had nothing left.

His face took on a ghastly pallor and sweat appeared on his brow as a rigor shook his body. ‘An apothecary – get me an apothecary!’ he managed to gasp before another bout of retching started.

Lucy looked at her mistress, and then at two other girls, whose curiosity had brought them to peer into the room from the open doorway. ‘Can we send for Master Justin? He usually attends us girls when we have troubles,’ she asked hopefully.

The madam of the house shook her head firmly. ‘I’ll not have people parading through the place. If our gentlemen wish to be indisposed, they must do it elsewhere.’