Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) (38 page)

Inadvertently, the Chief Justiciar helped de Wolfe to maintain his celibacy, as John was able to leave the procession early and so remove himself from the temptation offered by Hawise d’Ayncourt. He had originally intended waiting until they reached Bristol before seeking Hubert Walter’s consent to leave for Devon, but on the night after his escapade with Hawise, they stopped at Chippenham, the last stage before Bristol. By chance, the Justiciar turned his horse as soon as they arrived at one of the royal manors and rode back down the line, greeting many he knew and enquiring if all was well after a day on the march. When he came to de Wolfe, the coroner took the opportunity to broach the matter of going to Devon to settle his family affairs, since so far there had not been a single incident that required the attention of the Coroner of the Verge. After some thought, Hubert agreed and suggested that he may as well leave in the morning, rather than go on to Bristol.

John made sure that he remained invisible to Hawise for the rest of the night and at dawn he set off across country with Gwyn and Thomas de Peyne. The route that led through Shepton Mallet and Ilminster to Honiton and thence to Exeter took them two nights and three long days of hard riding, which taxed Thomas and his rounsey to the utmost. During the journey, John had plenty of time to reflect on many aspects of his present situation and also to revisit the unsolved mysteries in London. They seemed a world away, here in the rural fastnesses of western England, but he knew this was only a respite from the problems that would still confront him when he returned to Westminster. Was there some French subversive seeking to ferret out secrets of Kent’s defences? And had he murdered Basil, a potential threat to his identity, as Robin Byard had claimed?

And where was this damned treasure hidden away? Was Simon Basset involved and if not, why should anyone wish to poison him?

As they rode the last miles towards Exeter, de Wolfe sighed and consigned these problems to the future, knowing that he had other more immediate problems to deal with when he reached the city. Soon the tops of the great twin towers of the cathedral were visible as they trotted along Magdalene Street, the country road to the south of Exeter where the gallows tree stood. They reached the South Gate just before it closed at curfew and turned up through the Serge Market and the Shambles, where in the mornings beasts were slaughtered in the road. At the top was Carfoix, the crossing of the main streets from the four gates which had been there since Roman times. Here they parted, as Gwyn and the clerk were going down to the Bush Inn, where his wife was now landlady, and where Thomas would lodge during their short stay.

John turned right into High Street and a tired Odin plodded up past the Guildhall, his nostrils twitching as he picked up the old familiar odours of the livery stables where he used to live. This was in Martin’s Lane, a narrow alley that led down into the cathedral precinct and was virtually opposite John’s house.

Andrew the farrier was happy to see both Sir John and his stallion and when John had seen Odin fed and watered, he crossed the lane to the front door of his tall, narrow house, one of only two in the lane. As always, the door was unbarred and he pushed inside to the vestibule, where boots and cloaks were kept. The door to the hall, the main room of the house, was on his right and to the left a covered way went around the corner of the building to the backyard. The front door had barely slammed behind him when a large brown hound loped around that corner, as fast as his old legs could carry him. With a yelp of pleasure and a great wagging of his tail, Brutus rushed upon John, slobbering a welcome into his hand.

Close behind him came a handsome, dark-haired woman who gave a less demonstrative, but equally warm welcome. John hugged Mary to him and gave her a long kiss, not passionate, but full of warmth. They had had furtive tumbles in her cook-shed or laundry in the past, but when his wife had taken on a nosey French maid several years earlier, Mary had decided that her job was worth more than tumbles with her master. Now that Matilda was no longer there, matters could have been different, but John’s new state of virtue put that out of his mind.

‘This is a surprise, Sir Crowner,’ said Mary, her voice rich with the Devon dialect. ‘I had a message from that shipman, Roger Watts, to say that you hoped to get home some time, but I did not expect you this soon.’

As he had done for years past when he wanted a gossip and a decent meal, he went around to the yard and sat with Mary in her kitchen hut, where she also lived and slept. Producing good ale and a platter of savoury pastries, she promised him a full meal as soon as she could prepare it. He sat on a milking stool and told her all his news, though avoiding any mention of Hawise d’Ayncourt. While she stoked up her fire and put the makings of a mutton stew into an iron pot hanging on a trivet, Mary told him of events in the city, though there seemed little enough to relate.

‘Your brother-in-law still has his town house in North Street and Lucille is still in service with his wife,’ she announced. Lucille had been his wife’s handmaid, but she had been shunted off to Eleanor de Revelle when Matilda took herself to the nunnery. This brought them to the vexed question of his wife.

‘Have you heard anything of her, Mary?’

‘Nothing, apart from the fact that she is still at Polsloe and presumably is in rude health,’ she answered. ‘I wish to God and all his angels that I knew what was to become of me and this house, for it seems wasteful for it to stand empty with me living here like a hermit.’

‘I will go to Polsloe first thing in the morning, good girl,’ he promised. ‘This matter must be settled one way or the other.’

While Mary finished cooking for him, he stripped to his hose in the yard and with a leather bucket of water from the well, washed the grime of many days travelling from his body. He did not go so far as to shave, but finding a clean tunic still in his chest up in the solar at the back of the house, he felt refreshed and sat to enjoy his meal all the more. Though it was now dusk, he walked down through the lower town to the Bush, savouring the sights and smells of Exeter that were so different from those of London. It was strange to enter the tavern in Idle Lane without Nesta being there to greet him and a wave of sad nostalgia engulfed him for a moment. However, the welcome from Gwyn’s buxom wife and a quart of excellent ale soon restored his spirits, as he greeted many old acquaintances among the patrons. Gwyn was beaming with pleasure at being home, his two small sons clinging to his breeches as he helped his wife to serve the customers. Old Edwin, the one-eyed potman, was still there and cackled a greeting to John as if the coroner had been gone only a couple of days.

Thomas had vanished down to the cathedral to meet his ecclesiastical friends and no doubt would spend half the night and most of next day at the many services that dominated the clergy’s day. De Wolfe was soon brought up to date on all the local gossip, though nothing of great importance seemed to have happened in the few months since he had left.

‘The new coroner is well liked – he seems a fair man,’ said a master mason, who John had known for years. ‘But I hear that he is fretting somewhat at having to spend too much time away from his manor down west.’

Sir Nicholas de Arundell had been persuaded into taking the coronership when de Wolfe left and John suspected that he had done so mainly out of gratitude for his help in rescuing him from a life as an outlaw on Dartmoor and restoring him to possession of his manor of Hempston Arundell.
⁵

Gwyn’s wife Martha persuaded him to eat another meal, in spite of having had Mary’s mutton stew; and after a few more quarts of ale, it was growing dark when he finally tore himself away from the familiar and hospitable inn and made his way home to Martin’s Lane. After kissing Mary goodnight, he wearily climbed the outside stairs to the solar, built up against the back wall of the house and gratefully slid into bed, a large mattress on a low plinth on the floor of the bare room, where he had spent so many lonely nights, with Matilda snoring on the other side.

De Wolfe could only afford to spend a couple of nights in Exeter before setting off again for Gloucester, where he had promised to return to Hubert Walter’s company. He decided that there would be no time for him to go down to Stoke-in-Teignhead to visit his family, as this would take at least an extra day.

As he had promised Mary, his first task was to try to make some decision about his wife’s future and an hour after dawn he was back in Odin’s saddle and on his way to Polsloe. He had told Gwyn and Thomas to make the most of their time on their own affairs, so he rode alone for the mile or so from the East Gate to the small Benedictine priory. Here seven nuns lived and provided medical care to the women of the area. John knew the prioress well enough, but his main contact there was a formidable nun, Dame Madge. She was a tall gaunt woman, with a specialist knowledge of women’s ailments and the hazards of childbirth. She had been of considerable help to John when he was county coroner, in cases involving rape or miscarriage.

It was Dame Madge that he sought out when he reached Polsloe and, after leaving his horse with the gatekeeper, a novice took her a message. As men were not particularly welcome inside the building, he waited in the porch of the west range until she arrived. Dressed in her black habit, tall and slightly stooped, she was almost a female counterpart to himself and in spite of her often stern, abrupt manner, they got on well.

‘I have come from Westminster, sister, in the hope of seeing my wife and learning of her intentions,’ he began.

The old nun gave a grim smile and shook her head. ‘We have been over this ground before, have we not, Sir John? This must be the fourth time you have sought to see your wife here.’

‘Is it not natural, sister?’ he grunted. ‘For better or worse, we were joined by the Church in matrimony and now she rejects me – or at least, I assume she has, for she refuses to say anything, one way or the other. I need to get on with my life.’

Dame Madge nodded sympathetically and they talked for a while, as he explained how his situation had been so radically altered on the orders of King Richard. For her part, the nun could only repeat that Matilda had given firm instructions that she was not to be contacted by any of her previous friends or relatives, especially her husband.

‘But that must have been some time ago, as she cannot know that I was to come here today,’ urged John. ‘Can we not try once more, to see if her resolution has weakened?’

Dame Madge again shook her head sadly. ‘I very much doubt her opinion has changed, for she is a very strong-willed woman. But we can speak to the prioress, to see what she thinks.’

They went into the building and upstairs to the prioress’s parlour, a comfortable room where a small, rather plump woman sat behind her table studying the monthly accounts of the little establishment. She received John graciously and given that the hour was too early for wine sent for some damson cordial and pastries. After hearing of the same old problem, she asked Dame Madge to go down and speak to Sister Matilda, to see whether she would receive her husband to speak of the future. When the older nun had left, John asked the prioress how his wife was faring in this solitary life.

‘She is very devout, Sir John,’ she answered frankly. ‘Almost too devout in some ways, as she is inflexible and intolerant of any straying from the path of righteousness. I sense that she is saddened by life and constantly angry that she can do little to alter it.’

De Wolfe was not sure what she meant, but it sounded typical of the old Matilda that he knew all too well.

‘I never wished to cause her such discontent and sadness,’ he admitted. ‘But I of necessity was away from her for most of our married life.’

‘I do not think that you are the sole cause of her disillusionment,’ said the prioress thoughtfully. ‘It is her brother’s misbehaviour and fall from grace that is a major factor – but, of course, she blames you for being the instrument of his downfall.’

Dame Madge returned with the not unexpected news that Matilda had flatly refused to see her husband.

‘She is adamant and would not even discuss the reasons with me,’ said the nun. ‘I fear it is hopeless trying to pursue the matter, Sir John.’

He sighed. ‘What am I to do? I have a house in the city and cannot either use it or sell it, in case she decides to return. I have a maid living there, discontented and worried. It is no secret that I have a liaison with another lady, but I cannot do anything about that. Archdeacon John de Alençon has advised me that even if Matilda takes her full vows, that will not dissolve the marriage and leave me free to take another wife.’

He turned up his hands in despair. ‘She has found the most exquisite method of punishing me, worse than the thumbscrews or the torments of the Ordeal!’

The two women were sympathetic, but impotent to help. The prioress pressed more cordial upon him and they began talking about his new life in London. For celibate ladies who had chosen largely to cut themselves off from the outside world, they were intensely curious about Westminster, the court and the personalities that John knew. He regaled them with a description of the palace and the abbey and of the huge city that lay a couple of miles down the Thames. He told them of Queen Eleanor and the pomp of her arrival from Portsmouth with the Archbishop and the Marshal, then the procession of the court across England to meet Prince John. They listened avidly and he guessed that they would have plenty of material to gossip about with the other sisters at the supper table that night.

When he had exhausted his fund of stories about his life as Coroner of the Verge, he took his leave, despondent but not surprised at the complete failure of his mission. As Dame Madge saw him off at the porch, she left him with a sliver of hope for some resolution to his problem.