Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) (41 page)

‘Always sniffing around young Maud here, he was. Wanted to walk out with her, but she turned him down and quite right too. He’s a pig of a fellow, smells like one and acts it, too.’

The midwife came, a wheezy old woman who walked with the aid of two sticks. How she managed to deliver babies in her state of health, John failed to imagine, but he left her to her task whilst he went to see the suspected man, locked in one of the cells that acted as the palace gaol, yet another shed attached to the back of the stable block. The sergeant opened the door and John went in to find Edward Mody, a coarse-looking man of about thirty, chained by an ankle fetter to a massive iron ring set in the wall. He was crouched on the floor, which was covered in dirty straw that looked as if it had already been used in the stables.

‘I didn’t do anything wrong, sir. She was quite willing, I swear!’ he yelled as soon as de Wolfe entered. The rest of the interview was a loud declamation that she was his girlfriend and that she had changed her mind about allowing their sexual congress after the deed was done.

John had heard similar stories many times before and he suspected that probably some of them were true. However, it was not his duty to judge the matter, only to record all that was said and present it on his rolls to the judges. He came out within a few minutes and told Thomas that he would dictate his statement when they got back to their chamber. Going back to the laundry, he saw the old crone with the walking sticks, who gave him a piece of rag stained with blood.

‘You’ll need that to show the justices as proof, Crowner,’ she cackled. ‘The poor girl’s been ravished right enough and her a virgin, too! Bruised and battered, she is, around her vital parts. Still bleeding a little, as that cloth testifies.’

He gave her a penny and she stumbled off, quite satisfied with her fee. As she left, the gaunt figure of the Keeper appeared, having heard that there had been trouble in his palace, breaking the welcome quiet that the exodus with Queen Eleanor had brought him. Anything untoward that happened in the precinct came within his notice and Nathaniel de Levelondes was still concerned that one of his guest-chamber clerks had been murdered and no one had yet been arrested for it, as well as the coroner himself being half-strangled in St Stephen’s crypt.

He heard from de Wolfe that this was a genuine rape that had happened on his premises.

‘I’ll see that the girl gets a few days free from her duties in the laundry,’ he said magnanimously. ‘And the miscreant can appear before the justices in the morning – we can get him hanged by nightfall.’ They went on to talk about the stabbing of Basil of Reigate and John had to admit that he had made no progress in finding the killer.

‘My officer had a brief glimpse of him as he ran past our chamber, but then he vanished,’ he said in his defence. ‘This palace is too large and full of passages and doors to catch anyone unless you are right on their heels.’

The Keeper grunted his agreement. ‘There are plenty of louts in the village, to say nothing of the city, who would murder their own mother for half a mark!’

‘I wonder if it was the same lout that had me by the throat under the chapel the other day,’ growled de Wolfe. ‘The problem with this place is that half the population of England seem to wander in and out as they please.’

De Levelondes shrugged. ‘What else can we do but let them in? It is a court of law, where all sorts of folk, criminals, witnesses and jurors have to attend. We have merchants in the hall, and traders bringing supplies to us, pilgrims by the hundred coming to the abbey – Westminster is at the crossroads of the world!’

John then brought up the vague hint offered by Robin Byard about Basil being afraid of the consequences of overhearing some seditious talk in the guest chambers.

‘Do you think that is a feasible possibility?’ he asked. ‘There have been rumours of King Philip sending spies to England.’

The Keeper gave a cynical laugh and repeated the Justiciar’s opinion on the matter.

‘There have always been spies here and no doubt the palace shelters more than its share of them. We have a constant stream of visitors from across the Channel and God knows where the sympathies of some of them may lie.’

John went back to his chamber and when Thomas had written the short account dictated by the coroner on to his rolls for the use of the court next day, they settled back into their usual inertia, as de Wolfe could think of no way to push forward any of their investigations, in spite of the stern admonitions of Hubert Walter. That evening, he went to the Lesser Hall for his supper, where the patrons were few in number now that the court was absent. At least he did not have to dodge Hawise, as the certainty had strengthened within him that Hilda was his true love and that he must remain as faithful to her as his poor weak nature would allow.

The two under-marshals were also absent and he found himself sitting opposite Archdeacon Bernard de Montfort, who had remained in Westminster to continue his researches in the abbey archives. With him were the two other nobles from across the Channel, to whom Bernard had introduced him some time ago, Guy de Bretteville and Peter le Paumer.

‘My work is coming to an end soon, so I shall take myself back to the Auvergne,’ he said, with his usual slight lisp due to his distorted lip. ‘I have another trip down to Canterbury to search for one more ancient document which I think is in the scriptorium of the cathedral.’

He was an amiable companion, with a massive appetite that demolished each new dish that the servants placed on the table.

John asked him about his research, more for politeness’ sake than any real understanding of his obsession with the saintliness of Edward, last king of the Saxons. De Montfort readily obliged and chattered on happily, with John giving monosyllabic replies, more concerned with getting his share of the roast pigeon and the boiled bacon.

By the time the puddings, figs, nuts and cheese appeared, de Bretteville and Peter le Paumer had engaged de Montfort in an obscure debate about the criteria that Rome employed to elevate worthy men and women to sainthood and John’s attention had wandered. De Montfort must have sensed that he was being left out of the conversation and brought him back into the fold by asking him how his own investigations were progressing. John felt some sympathy for physicians and apothecaries, who must suffer like coroners, when their friends pester them about their own illnesses, as he often was about his efforts at detection.

‘There is something to report about the robbery at the Tower, I’m pleased to say. The king himself has charged me, through the Chief Justiciar, with discovering who stole his treasure, and I am making rapid progress towards catching the thieves.’

He uttered this bare-faced untruth with no compunction at all, as it was his only hope, faint as it was, of scaring the culprits out of cover.

The archdeacon nodded as he swallowed the last spoonful of his cherry torte. ‘And what about this rumour we heard of spies in the palace being connected to that poor clerk who served us so well in the guest chambers?’

Again John concealed his total ignorance of who might responsible. Bernard de Montfort was an inveterate gossip and there was no better way of spreading John’s false optimism, than telling the archdeacon.

‘Ah, there I am also most optimistic!’ he replied. ‘I hope to lay my hands on Basil’s murderer before the week is out. There are certain pieces of the riddle still to fall into place, but I shall soon have them, never fear!’

If he had been Thomas de Peyne, the coroner would certainly have made the Sign of the Cross and murmured a prayer for forgiveness for his blatant lies.

The next few days passed without incident until the palace began to murmur with anticipation at the return of the court from Gloucester. A herald rode in with the news that they were at Oxford and would probably arrive in Westminster in three days’ time. This meant a great deal of work for those who would have to deal with the sudden influx of several hundred hungry souls, horses and oxen. The Keeper was seen to be striding around with an even more woebegone face than usual, harrying his staff into greater preparedness.

For the Coroner of the Verge, there was little to do. The only event that concerned him was a fire in Thieving Lane, where sparks had set the thatch of a house alight. Neighbours and lay brothers from the abbey managed to limit the damage by rushing for ladders and pulling clumps of smoking straw down into the street, but John still had to attend the scene and get Thomas to write a short report for the abbot and the justices, as fires in towns were a serious hazard which could destroy acres of closely packed buildings.

Two days before the queen and her entourage were due to return, John had an invitation from Bernard de Montfort to join him and some others in a hunting trip to one of the abbey manors. Unusually for a knight, John was not addicted to hunting, perhaps because he had spent so many years in campaigns and battles, where the hunting was usually of two-legged beasts. Most of his fellow Normans saw hunting the boar, the stag and the wolf as both a sport and a means of keeping them in practice for war, by honing their skills with horse, bow and lance.

However, he had little else to divert him and he agreed to go with them to the forests around Green-ford, one of Abbot Postard’s manors, about twelve miles to the west. He took Gwyn with him as his esquire, as the Cornishman was still adamant that he was not going to let him out of his sight until his would-be assassin was dealt with. They left Westminster in the afternoon and rode out with Bernard de Montfort, Guy de Bretteville, Peter le Paumer and half a dozen others, including the prior and the precentor of the abbey, both keen hunters and Gerald, the chaplain of the palace chapel.

John had borrowed a couple of ‘coursers’ from the Marshalsea, as Odin and Gwyn’s heavy mare would be of little use for rapid sprints in woodland. The stay in the manor house at Greenford was pleasant enough, with a good meal and plenty of ale, cider and wine to lubricate the conversation. Early next morning, they rode out from the stockade around the house into the surrounding farmland, then into the park. This was a few hundred acres of forest that had been surrounded by a deer-proof fence to keep in the game and discourage those who might risk the inevitable death penalty for poaching. At intervals around this fence, there were deer traps, a deep ditch on the inner side to prevent the animals from escaping, but a grassy ramp on the outside to allow any wild beasts to enter. Attracted by hinds in season, males would jump in, but were unable to get out again and so increased the manor’s stock.

The hunting party, about a dozen in number, assembled on their horses and waited whilst the huntmaster and his assistants marshalled their hounds. The different types of dog had different functions – the scent-pursuing lymer, the running-dog for stamina and the greyhound for the speed needed once the quarry was sighted. The hunters carried a variety of weapons, some with short bows, others with crossbows. A few preferred the short lance and most carried clubs hanging from their saddle-bows. A platoon of servants ran beside them when they began to move, some holding hounds on the leash, others beating the trees and yelling to drive the quarry out of hiding. Several green-clad hunt-masters and their assistants were mounted and kept in touch by blasts on their horns.

Soon the party broke up into smaller groups, most with a hound or two out ahead, being controlled by a handler running behind. John cantered down a path between the trees and then turned to follow the sudden urgent sound of horns, somewhere away to his right. Gwyn came close behind, with Bernard de Montfort, dressed in a very un-clerical brown tunic and breeches, his silent manservant Raoul close behind on foot. The path narrowed and then petered out so that they had to go forward between the trees and saplings at a walk, their horses brushing aside leafy branches and bushes.

‘This is getting us nowhere, de Wolfe!’ called the archdeacon from behind. ‘Best to go back and work our way around on the main track.’

John, brought up against what seemed to be an impenetrable thicket of ash and hazel, had to agree and pulled his courser’s head around to face back down the path of crushed vegetation that they had just made. As he did so, there was a distinct and chillingly familiar twanging sound from beyond the bushes and John de Wolfe jerked in his saddle as a crossbow bolt hit him in the chest.

‘I’m all right, Gwyn! You get the bastard!’ roared John, who rather to his surprise was still alive and apparently uninjured.

He looked down at the tear in his grey riding cloak, which now overlaid a smarting bruise over his ribs, but nothing else.

Gwyn, ignoring his master’s command, hastily came back and slid from his saddle, with de Montfort close behind. John looked down and saw a bolt on the ground nearby, with some odd red fragments scattered around it. The Cornishman insisted on feeling around de Wolfe’s chest to see if there was any wound or bleeding. Both he and de Montfort took some convincing that he was not seriously hurt, but again he yelled at his officer to pursue whoever had loosed off the crossbow at him. With a roar of rage, the Cornishman set off on foot, crashing through the bushes towards where the bolt must have come from.

‘My man has already gone after him, he’s quick on his feet,’ bellowed the archdeacon. ‘But you, Sir John, what about you? How could you survive that bolt?’

The coroner, still in the saddle, had been investigating his chest, pulling aside his cloak over the painful bruise that was now smarting like fury. He gave a shout of surprised astonishment.