Crowner's Quest (34 page)

A rather distant and abstracted bishop listened politely, then agreed to leave everything in the hands of the coroner and decided to abide by whatever decision he made at his inquisition. When they left the palace, John de Alencon again arranged to provide servants and horses from the Close, as they had at the time of the ambush. They would to go again to Dunsford in the morning, armed with pick, shovel and baskets, in the fervent hope that this time there would be more to find than a single Saxon brooch.

The cavalcade that arrived next day at the little village contained three canons, attired in plain travelling clothes. Apart from the Archdeacon, the Treasurer felt obliged to be there too and Jordan de Brent also accompanied them, the archivist agog with enthusiasm for this bit of diocesan history come to life. De Wolfe, Gwyn and Thomas were naturally the leaders of the expedition, which might well end in an inquest, and the remaining three were servants from the Close.

The village priest was overawed by the arrival of such senior colleagues from the cathedral and watched, along with half the village, as the servants unstrapped the tools from the packhorse. Within minutes, the measuring began and the rotund Canon de Brent was flattered to be used as having an average stride – de Wolfe and Gwyn were judged too tall for accuracy. The jovial prebendary marched across the rank grass of the neglected churchyard along a line sighted by the coroner, who stood with one eye closed at the rear of the old tower, shouting directions at de Brent to veer left or right.

The priest came up against the rough hedge at forty paces and had to wait until a hole was hacked through the dead brambles, hazel branches and weeds for him to proceed into the rough copse beyond. At the sixtieth pace, a stake was hammered into the ground, then Gwyn took a sight-line from it to the prominent yew tree a hundred yards away. Off went the canon again for twenty paces and stopped. With a ragged cheer from a few throats, a second stake was knocked in and the digging began, Gwyn joining the cathedral servants in throwing up red earth, thankfully a few feet clear of the roots of several small trees.

To allow for errors in pace-lengths and direction, they cut a six-foot circle through the soil and, within a few minutes, the four men’s efforts took them thigh deep. It was David, the groom who had been with them at the ambush, who made the first contact. He was working at the edge of the two-yard excavation when his wooden shovel, a copper band riveted to the edge, gave out a clanging noise as it hit something. ‘A pot, sirs! A big one,’ he shouted, after he had bent to scrape away soil with his hands. A few minutes later, two large earthenware pots, rather like amphorae, were dragged from the earth. They had broken ring-handles near their necks and the wide mouths were stoppered with wooden plugs covered in thick red wax.

As they were hoisted up to the coroner and the canons, the other diggers made sure that there were no others in the wall of the pit. ‘They’re damned heavy, Crowner!’ said the groom happily. ‘I reckon there’s more than a brooch in them this time.’

Though de Wolfe had intended taking them back intact to Exeter before opening them, the beseeching looks on all the faces, from that of the Archdeacon to the village idiot, were such that his resolve was weakened.

Right opposite the church, across the track that lay at the bottom of the steep path from the church door, was an alehouse, the one they had used during the ambush. The woman who brewed and sold the ale was only too happy to let them use her single room to open the jars, and most of the population of Dunsford either crowded in behind them or peered from the doorway.

Gwyn cracked off the hard but brittle wax of the first jar and used his dagger to lever out the wooden stopper, which had softened with age and dry-rot.

‘Tip it gently on to the floor,’ commanded John and the audience watched with amazement as a cascade of coins poured out. The majority were silver, pennies from a dozen different Saxon mints, even a few Roman coins – but a number were gold, dulled by time and damp, but which shined up on being rubbed with a finger. While Gwyn watched the heap with an eagle eye and kept off any villager tempted to stretch out a hand, de Wolfe examined some of the golden coins. ‘This says ‘Offa Rex’ – that’s an old one,’ he said.

The know-all Thomas peered over his shoulder and pointed out the crude Arabic lettering. ‘Made for the Eastern trade, copied from the Kaliphate of Al Mansur,’ he said importantly, which earned him a poke in the ribs from Gwyn.

That first jar contained only coins, and the coroner made a rough guess that they amounted to probably seven or eight hundred. When Gwyn up-ended the other amphora, half the contents were similar coins, but an assortment of brooches, rings and pins also slid out on to the earthen floor. Most were gold or silver, but a few had red and green gems embedded in the intricate metalwork. No one there had seen such wealth, not even the cathedral Treasurer had seen as much at any one time.

‘This Saewulf must have been a very rich man, John,’ murmured the Archdeacon, whose ascetic other-worldliness was still impressed by such a display of precious metal.

While Gwyn carefully scooped up all the treasure and replaced it in the jars, de Wolfe ordered a celebratory jug of ale for the team before they returned to Exeter. The Archdeacon promised the village priest of Dunsford that if any of the value came back to the diocese, he would not be forgotten – not least for having to fill in two large excavations in his wood, which belonged to the Church.

‘At least that avoids one complication,’ said the coroner. ‘It was found on Church land, not that belonging to the manor, so we don’t have to negotiate with the Fulfords over this.’

Ironically, the manorial lord of Dunsford was related to Jocelin de Braose’s squire, Giles, but John was sure that they would not wish to associate themselves with their notorious kinsman.

With the jars safely strapped to the packhorse, the procession made its way back the seven miles to Exeter. De Wolfe’s mind jumped between treasure trove, Matilda’s intentions and his developing plans for dealing with de Braose.

That night, there was no sign of his wife in Martin’s Lane, and though he spent the evening at the Bush he came home to sleep, feeling strangely lonely on the big mattress in the solar. Huddled under sheepskins with a wide bear fur over the top, he missed the snorts and grunts that previously had been a source of nagging irritation. He was under no illusions that he had developed a fount of affection for Matilda since the crises of recent days. It was just that, since returning from Palestine two years before, he had become too dependent on the stability of a well-accustomed routine. He tossed and turned in the cold chamber, wishing now that he had stayed with Nesta – and his mind strayed occasionally to the blonde Hilda, who was forbidden fruit for at least a month or two.

Finally, before sleep eventually claimed him, he looked ahead with interest to the morning, when he would hold the inquest on Saewulf’s treasure. In the four months since he had become coroner, he had never before had cause to enquire into such a hoard. The instructions as to coroners’ duties and rules were so scanty that he had considerable latitude as to how to conduct the inquisition. He wondered if he should just record all the facts and let the King’s Justices deal with it in the future – but no, to the devil with them, he thought. I’m the coroner, I’ll make my own decisions.

In the morning, he used the Shire Hall for these deliberations. The sheriff kept well out of the way, as he had no obligation to be present, but the castle constable was there. The persons present at the excavations yesterday were all called as a jury, even the priests. For once, the inquest was a fairly private affair, and took place on the platform of the hall where Gwyn had placed a trestle table purloined from the castle kitchens. The two Portreeves had heard of the find and were there, as were a few of the other canons. Some off-duty soldiers and a handful of townsfolk were standing at the foot of the dais, gawking at the glint of gold and silver, but for once yesterday’s expedition had been kept fairly quiet.

Before the inquest, John and his clerk had sorted all the coins into groups by metal and value, and had laid out the jewellery separately. Then Thomas had laboriously recorded the numbers of coins and descriptions of all the brooches, rings and pins. Some of the brooches were large, circular hoops several inches across, used for securing a cloak at the shoulder by pulling the corner of the cloth through the ring. The weight of gold in some of these was considerable and scales had been borrowed from an apothecary to weigh each item. The value of the pieces with gemstones would remain unknown until a craftsman could examine them.

The inquest was simple, mainly because de Wolfe had no idea what needed to be said, except to decide upon the disposition of the hoard. ‘The value will have to be assessed by coiners, goldsmiths and silversmiths,’ he said, after the usual preliminaries were over. ‘We have no idea of the purity of the precious metals here, or of the value of the jewels. The whole treasure may have to be taken to London for this to be proved, even though the equivalent value, or part of it, may return to Exeter.’ He looked without avarice at the fortune gleaming on the table.

‘Now, though Saewulf intended this treasure to be given to his family if he died – as indeed he did – he did not abandon it or lose it. He left instructions that if the hoard could not reach his descendants, it should be given to the Church.’

John of Exeter, the cathedral Treasurer, spoke up. He was an open-faced man of fifty, with iron grey hair. ‘Does that not constitute the testament of Saewulf, which still pertains today? I don’t see that the passage of a century makes what he willed any the less valid.’

De Wolfe thought about this for a moment. ‘I agree that maybe Saewulf’s intentions remain the same. But, remember, they were made under a different race of kings, and a different system of law was introduced after the battle of Hastings. We have no reason to abide by what Saxons intended before they were conquered.’

Gwyn made one of his threatening noises in his throat, but no one took any notice as his Celtic aversion to the Norman conquest was as well known as his dislike of organised religion.

‘I could therefore decide that this hoard be declared treasure trove, found in the soil of England, all of which soil belongs to King Richard, in which case the entire value would go to the Crown.’

There was a silence as every ear strained to catch his next words.

‘However, given the will of Saewulf and the fact that the hoard has lain in Church ground ever since its concealment, I feel the most equitable course would be to divide the value into two equal parts, one to go to the King, the other to the diocese of Devon and Cornwall for them to use as they see fit. That is my verdict.’

‘Just like the bloody sturgeon last week,’ muttered Gwyn, but everyone else seemed satisfied with this compromise. De Wolfe gave the treasure into the keeping of Ralph Morin, to be locked up in the strong box of Rougemont, which was kept in the sheriff’s chamber. Though he did not expect de Revelle to get up to any more bad behaviour for a considerable time, de Wolfe made a mental note to check the treasure at intervals against Thomas’s detailed list, until it was sent to London for valuation.

As he left the Shire Hall, the coroner looked across the inner ward to the entrance to the undercroft of the keep, where Jocelin de Braose languished. His next priority was to do something drastic about that evil man, and within the hour he was on Bran’s back, riding with Gwyn to Dartington to see the bereaved family of William Fitzhamon.

As he was too late to return to Exeter that night, John de Wolfe stayed again with his family at Stoke-in-Teignhead, but wisely returned straight to the city next morning with no diversion into Dawlish. He had a long discussion with his officer about his intentions as far as de Braose was concerned, as the plan might well endanger Gwyn’s future livelihood. However, the Cornishman, though doubtful whether the coroner’s proposition was possible, was happy to go along with it, if it was accepted by the other parties.

As soon as they arrived in Exeter, John lost no time in putting his plan into effect. They rode straight up to Rougemont and collected Thomas from the gatehouse, to act as witness and recorder. Mystified, the little ex-cleric hobbled after the other two, across the inner bailey down into the undercroft.

Gwyn roused the dozing Stigand from his pile of straw and prodded him across to open up the gaol gate. Inside the passage, which stank of damp, mould and human ordure, de Wolfe peered through the door grilles until he found Jocelin de Braose and Giles Fulford in adjacent cells. The blubbery gaoler, his face still mottled from the bruising he had suffered a few days before, went to unlock Jocelin’s door, but the coroner stopped him. ‘What I want to say can be done from here!’ he grated.

Peering through the bars, he saw the man sitting on the slate slab, hands on knees, staring towards the voices. He was filthy, and a reddish stubble grew on his cheeks inside his rim of beard. As soon as he saw the coroner, he leaped to the door and shook the bars, screaming abuse at him. From the next cell, Giles Fulford also began yelling at his master to know what was going on. Stigand battered with his cudgel on Fulford’s door for quiet, and gradually the pandemonium subsided. The coroner waited patiently until he could speak.

‘Jocelin de Braose, you will certainly be hanged if the due processes of law are applied to you. Your crimes are Pleas of the Crown and the usual course would be to present you before the King’s Justices when the next Eyre of Assize reaches the city. The sheriff wanted to try you in the County Court, as you so foully engineered for me – and that would mean a hanging within a week.’

Jocelin’s foul language had abated as he considered this menu of certain death. Then he said, ‘The sheriff! De Revelle wouldn’t let me be harmed. We have powerful protectors in the country.’

‘Not any longer, young man. The sheriff has seen the error of his ways and is now fully a king’s man. And your patrons in Berry Pomeroy and Totnes will be too anxious to save their own skins to concern themselves with you. They now have a rebellion that is as flat as a griddle cake on Shrove Tuesday.’