Crowner's Quest (17 page)

She put down her wine cup and snuggled closer to de Wolfe. ‘I’m tired of talking about my husband’s cargoes. Are you only here to spy on me, John, and wheedle out the secrets of Dawlish?’

He grinned his rare grin again, and held her by the shoulders to look at her smooth, lovely face. A purist might have thought her nose a trifle too long, but for a woman of thirty-two she was as near perfection as any man could want.

He leaned forward and they kissed again, then slowly slid sideways on top of the sheepskins.

As Gwyn had predicted, they reached Exeter with little time to spare before the city gates creaked shut. Gwyn carried on outside the walls to reach his hut in St Sidwell’s, while the coroner plodded his tired stallion up to the livery stables in Martin’s Lane. When he had seen Bran safely fed and watered, he walked across to his own house and cautiously entered the hall. There was no sign of Mary to give him early warning of any domestic strife so he had to cross the flagstones to the hearth, where he could see a pair of feet projecting from one of the cowled monks’ chairs.

‘You’ve deigned to come home at last, have you?’ a high, hard-edged voice snapped. Matilda was huddled against the draughts with a woollen shawl over her kirtle. ‘You stay away for two days and a night with no message for me whatsoever. How am I supposed to know where you are and when you’ll be back?’

‘Does it matter?’ he grunted. ‘You’d never have a meal waiting. If it wasn’t for Mary, I’d starve to death in this miserable house.’

‘That’s what serving-girls are for, you fool. Though perhaps you can find other uses for them, that Saxon included!’

For a moment, he thought she meant Hilda, whom he hoped was still unknown to his wife – but then he realised that her remark had been directed at Mary, whose mother was a native.

‘You’ve been in every tavern in Devon, I suppose, since I last saw you.’

This rankled with de Wolfe, as he had not set foot in an inn since Christ Mass. ‘I have been to see two dead outlaws, then stayed with my family, held an inquest and then travelled home.’ He reversed the order of the inquest and his visit to Stoke to account for the time spent that day, but whatever he said, Matilda would use it as grounds for complaint.

She ranted on for a few more minutes, managing to get in a few spiteful remarks about his family, then grudgingly gave him a message. ‘That evil little clerk you employ is sitting in the kitchen, as far as I know. He came here two hours ago, pestering us to know where you were. He says he has an urgent message for you – though what can ever be urgent in your business is quite beyond my understanding.’

Eager both to escape her and to hear what Thomas de Peyne had to say, de Wolfe loped away to the vestibule and turned down the earth-floored passageway to the backyard. In the lean-to shanty on the left, which was both the kitchen and Mary’s home, he found his crooked clerk perched on a stool. He was eating heartily, for the motherly Mary, suspecting that the little ex-cleric was half-starved, was stuffing him with good food.

When Thomas saw his master, he gulped the last mouthful and slid off the low stool next to the cooking fire. ‘Crowner, I have some news from the Close. Canon Roger de Limesi’s vicar came to me this afternoon at his master’s behest. The man Fulford has sought Langton, and demanded that he hand over the parchment that reveals the site of the main treasure. He threatens to kill de Limesi if he fails to deliver it. The canon does not know what to do, as he has no such document, as we know.’

The coroner adjusted his mind to this new and unexpected turn of events. ‘Does the Archdeacon know of this?’

Thomas nodded. ‘The canon went directly to see him, in fear for his life. I think the Archdeacon is awaiting your return to discuss what is to be done.’

De Wolfe rasped a hand thoughtfully over his chin, the stubble now well overdue for attention. ‘Go to the Close, arrange for Roger de Limesi and his vicar to attend upon John de Alencon at his house at the seventh hour, then go to the Archdeacon and say that we will all be there at that time.’

The little clerk hurried away self-importantly, and the coroner turned to Mary, who had been silently listening to these exchanges.

‘I’ll have something to eat out here, my girl. The atmosphere in the hall is colder than an easterly gale.’

He failed to mention that he did not feel like going to the Bush for a meal that night: there, he would have to meet the landlady’s eye after his visit to Dawlish that day.

The Archdeacon lived in Canons’ Row in the same way as many of his fellow prebendaries. Among the twenty-four priests some had specific appointments and duties, but this gave them no special privileges. There were four archdeacons – John de Alencon for Exeter itself, the others for Cornwall, Totnes and Barnstaple. There were also the Precentor and the Treasurer, but all had similar houses and lifestyles, either in the Close or in houses elsewhere in the city.

De Alencon, named after the town in Normandy from where his family originated, resided in the second house in the Close from St Martin’s church, almost within a stone’s throw from the coroner’s dwelling. After he had finished a hot, filling meal quickly provided by Mary, de Wolfe had made a token visit to the hall to emphasise to Matilda that he was going out on duty, to meet senior members of her beloved priesthood.

He walked across to the Close and found Thomas waiting for him, shivering in his thin cloak outside the Archdeacon’s house. Inside, Roger de Limesi and his vicar Eric Langton were already there, both looking subdued and uneasy. Indeed, the canon was afraid for his very life after the murder of de Hane and the threats of Giles Fulford.

The room in which they met was almost as spartan as Robert de Hane’s bare chamber further down the road. John de Alencon was another austere priest who took the Rule of St Chrodegang literally, as far as worldly goods and comforts were concerned. They sat around a bare table on rough benches, the only light coming from three tallow dips hung on the wall, which also carried a large crucifix.

‘We could have this villain seized by the sheriff, I’m sure,’ began de Alencon. ‘Richard de Revelle would be happy to indict him on the sworn evidence of Langton and the canon here. Threatening the life of a man of God – or anyone else – must surely be a hanging matter?’

Remembering his brother-in-law’s strange attitude to Fulford, de Wolfe was not so sure, but kept his tongue still on that matter. He said, ‘Maybe, but what would it achieve? There is not the slightest proof that he was involved with the death of Robert de Hane, though the circumstances point that way.’

‘De Revelle is not noted for his affection for proof,’ said the Archdeacon wryly.

‘No, but it would be far better to catch this man red-handed, for it may also trap any associates he may have. His master is a knight called Jocelin de Braose, and I have good reason to think that both of them were involved in some other bloody venture. Maybe this de Braose is in on the treasure hunt as well.’

‘So what do we do, John?’ asked de Alencon. ‘We have no map or directions to give him.’

John looked sideways at his stunted scribe. ‘But we could always manufacture one. How would he know the difference?’

De Limesi’s small eyes had almost vanished into his podgy cheeks. ‘Surely he could tell an ancient parchment from a new one? It’s my life that’s in danger if he suspects he is being hoodwinked.’

Thomas spoke up. ‘I could use a piece of old parchment taken from some of the blank skins that abound in the archives. I can thin my ink to make it faint like old writing. And remember, he cannot read.’

‘So how does he hope to find any treasure, if he cannot decipher the directions?’ asked the Archdeacon, reasonably.

‘This vicar will have to translate it for him. Is that what happened last time?’

Eric Langton nodded. ‘He committed what I said to memory. It was not difficult, only a number of paces and a landmark or two.’

The coroner looked grimly at him. ‘You’ll have to go with them this time, to interpret the instructions on the spot.’

As he realised the hazards, the vicar paled. ‘When they find there is no hoard, they will undoubtedly turn nasty,’ he stuttered.

‘That can be part of your penance, brother,’ observed de Alencon drily. ‘Albeit a very small part, considering the evil you have done.’

De Wolfe brought the meeting back to practical matters. ‘My clerk will produce a false parchment. Thomas, it should have complicated instructions, so that Langton will inevitably have to go with Fulford to translate them. Otherwise, we have no means of knowing when they will attempt to recover the treasure.’

He looked at John de Alencon. ‘We need to ambush these fellows and catch them in the act. For several reasons, I do not wish to involve the sheriff at this stage. Afterwards though he will need to take into custody any perpetrators.’

‘What are you asking, John?’ responded the Archdeacon.

‘We don’t know how many adventurers or ruffians Fulford will bring into this escapade. I have only one fighting man to assist me so we need a few strong arms to capture anyone who tries to dig for this treasure. Can you help there?’

There was some discussion between the two canons, and it was arranged that several of the younger servants from the Close would be recruited, including David from de Hane’s household. Thomas would go straight away that evening to the Chapter House library and write some fictitious account of where the main hoard could be found in the vicinity of Dunsford church. Eric Langton would take this to the Saracen late that evening; if Fulford was not there, he would try again tomorrow, insisting that he had better be present at the digging, to interpret the instructions accurately.

With much misgiving on the part of both Roger de Limesi and his vicar-choral, the meeting broke up so that the priests could prepare for their nightly services, and de Wolfe could go home to his frosty welcome at his own fireside.

When there was no war, revolt or insurrection in England, the nobility had to find other ways to pass the time and release their aggression. The usual surrogate for armed conflict was hunting, where the urge to kill and maim was transferred from fellow men to animals. In Devon, the wolf, the wild boar, the fox and, above all, the stag were the victims of this pastime, which in the case of some Normans was almost a full-time occupation. The forests were sacrosanct, either to the lord of the honour or to the King, who reserved to himself vast areas for hunting. It might be a capital offence for any commoner to poach on these lands and a complex system existed to protect the hunting by means of verderers and even special courts for the punishment of offenders.

But on the day before the eve of New Year, the hunting on the lower reaches of the River Dart was untroubled by poachers: a score of the local aristocracy were scouring the heavily wooded valley in pursuit of their sport. The event had been organised by Henri de Nonant, the lord of Totnes, who had invited many of his friends and neighbours to hunt on his lands, as well as in the forest owned by Bernard Cheever and on the estates of other manorial lords whose domains were continuous with theirs.

De Nonant had started the day with a lavish breakfast for all the hunters in Totnes Castle. A remarkable fortress, it had been built by Juhael soon after the Conquest; hundreds of men had toiled to raise a high mound, on which he built a circular stockade. At one side was a large bailey, itself protected by a deep ditch, the whole edifice looking down on and dominating the little walled town that stretched down to the Dart. To his surprise, as he was not the most sociable of men, Sir William Fitzhamon was one of those invited, though his son was not. Being as fond of chasing the stag as any other man, he accepted the invitation, which had come at short notice the previous day. It was delivered by word of mouth by de Nonant’s bailiffs, who travelled around the district recruiting the guests.

The hunters assembled soon after dawn, none having to travel more than a dozen miles to reach Totnes. As many of the participants had their own squires, the company amounted to more than thirty men, and after eating and drinking, the already raucous throng set off from the castle bailey into the dense woods that rose on each side of the valley. There was no set route or organisation: the hunters dispersed into the forests and scrubland as they wished, some in small groups, others in pairs or with their squires. All had their own hounds running alongside, darting hither and thither, looking for the scent of deer or boar. Most hunters carried a long-bow and a supply of arrows, though a few relied only on lances.

Within minutes, the yelling and horn-blowing around the castle subsided, though occasionally the gatekeeper could still hear a distant blast or the yelp of a hound up on the hillsides. The weather had improved slightly and the wind was not so keen in the deep vale of the Dart, though there was still frost on the ground to keep the mud at bay.

Deprived of his son, William Fitzhamon had brought with him one of his reeves, a man called Ansgot, renowned for his prowess with the bow. His lord suspected him of being an accomplished poacher, but as long as he did not practise on Fitzhamon’s own land, he was not bothered – if the fellow wanted to risk a hangman’s noose elsewhere, that was his business.

With the Saxon close behind him, Fitzhamon cantered away from the castle with the rest of the crowd, but gradually they all diverged and when well into the trees, the two were alone. Ansgot had with him a pair of large hounds, loping along one each side, but so far they had shown no sign of raising a quarry.

Fitzhamon pushed ahead, along the east bank of the river, then splashed across and started to climb the other side of the valley. Although he knew more than half of the other hunters, who were either acquaintances or neighbours, he deliberately kept away from the distant sounds of the pack, preferring to hunt alone. Soon one of the hounds shot off to the right and, nose to the ground, vanished into the trees.

‘He’s taken a scent, master,’ called Ansgot, and for five minutes or so, they pushed their way through thickening forest to keep the hounds in sight – the other had chased away to join its companion. Then the reeve called again, shouting urgently at his master’s back. Impatiently, Fitzhamon reined in his horse and looked over his shoulder. Ansgot had stopped and was dismounting to feel his horse’s back leg.