The Sanctuary Seeker (16 page)

Although the woods and forests came to the road edge for much of the way, this lowland was fertile and villages were frequent. Soon, whenever there were gaps in the trees, the barer hill-tops of Dartmoor could be seen, some surmounted by tors, the strange outcrops of granite rock.

They passed the hamlets of Kennford, Little Bovey and Ashburton before they struck north-west to the flanks of the wilderness that, together with Exmoor, covered almost half of Devon.

Near Buckland, a somewhat apprehensive Thomas was detached from the group to make his way towards Widecombe, while Sir John and Gwyn continued towards Tavistock and Peter Tavy, almost on the border with Cornwall.

The most direct way was across the moor and along the bleak track between the hills and tors of the bare plateau. The higher slopes were either dotted with scrub or were bare grass, heather and rock.

The coroner and his guard rode silently for the most part. These two had journeyed together for thousands of miles over the years of their acquaintance and, both being of a taciturn nature, found little left to say, apart from the business of the day. Yet it was not a strained silence: it was a mutual acceptance of each other’s reserved personality. Though they were master and servant, their relationship was one of fraternal comradeship: John stated what needed to be done and Gwyn carried it out, usually without demur. Occasionally, the Cornishman would answer an order with a direct stare when John knew that discussion was needed of an alternative strategy. If the coroner persisted in his demand, Gwyn would carry it out to the letter, but with an almost palpable air of disapproval that usually caused John concern about the wisdom of his decision.

At noon, under the glint of weak autumn sunlight, they stopped on a patch of coarse grass and winberry bushes to have their meal, using a flat slab of lichen covered rock as a table. From Gwyn’s saddlebag came a stone bottle of rough cider, which they passed from mouth to mouth, and a loaf of coarse horse-bread made from a mixture of grains. The coroner contributed a small crock of yellow butter and a lump of boiled ham, part of the provisions provided by Mary, as Matilda - never much concerned with domestic issues - was now indifferent to his welfare.

A long silence was broken as they sat on the mottled rock to eat and drink. Gwyn passed the cider bottle and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand.

‘I asked among my neighbours last night, some of them carters often in Tavistock. But about the de Bonnevilles they knew little, except that they held the manor of Peter Tavy from the de Redvers and rent some more pasture from the Abbey of Tavistock’.

John took a long swig of raw cider and set down the bottle on the stone. “I also inquired about them, in the Bush. Nesta seems to know every soul between Dorchester and Bodmin. It seems that the old lord Arnulf is in his seventieth year. He suffered an apoplexy some six months ago and now hovers between his bed and his grave.’

‘What of this son who may be your dead man?’

John cut a thick slice of ham with his dagger and looked at it contemplatively. ‘The sheriff said that the old man has three sons, two still at home to manage the estate - they have another large manor at Lamerton, as well as Peter Tavy.’

‘And the eldest?’ demanded Gwyn.

‘He went to Palestine two and a half years ago, taking the cross against his father’s wishes.’ He slipped the ham into his mouth and, through his chewing, continued, ‘Nothing else seems known of them, but that they are prosperous and keep out of trouble and the public eye.’

There seemed little else to say and, after finishing the food, the two men climbed aboard their horses and trotted off again across the deserted moor. The only persons they saw were shepherds tending the great flocks that were England’s economic strength, providing the wool that was virtually the only fabric used throughout Europe.

The clouds remained high and the mist held off until twilight. Before dark they dropped down from the moor into the broad valley of the Tavy. This marked the western edge of Dartmoor and separated it from the similar, though smaller, plateau of Bodmin moor in Cornwall. Their tired horses entered the little town of Tavistock and came to rest in the stables of the abbey, where John and his officer claimed the usual traveller’s one-night hospitality from the monks in return for a donation to their funds. After a simple but substantial meal in the guest-hall, John paid a courtesy call on the prior. The abbot was absent, which was usual among senior clerics, who spent far more time elsewhere on administration and politics than in religious duties in their own houses.

Prior Wulfstan was a benign, rather unworldly fat monk, with a vague manner and speech full of meaningless platitudes. He knew little about the de Bonnevilles, apart from their location and their prosperity. John was beginning to feel that the family was so ordinary as to be almost invisible in the social structure of the county.

After the meal, John went wearily to his hard pallet in a cubicle of the great dormitory and sank into a deep sleep, oblivious to the midnight perambulations of the monks to matins, and the bells and chanting of their nocturnal routine.

Both men and horses were refreshed when they saddled up after a simple breakfast and trotted out into the cold November mist. Peter Tavy was a couple of miles up the valley, spread across the slopes on the right that climbed back up to the moor.

‘Good land here. They must have a decent living, these de Bonnevilles,’ observed Gwyn, looking at the extensive new clearings in the river-bank woods. Turning off the main valley track that led to Okehampton, they took a well-beaten lane that slanted up the valley side. They passed a cowman with a fat herd, who told them that the manor house was another half-mile further on, and in a few minutes they entered a wide open space on the slope of the hillside. An oval earthen embankment, with a stout timber fence on top, stood inside a deep muddy ditch. It was a hundred and fifty yards in diameter, but the wooden walls were dilapidated, some stakes were missing and one section was cracked and blackened by fire. The drawbridge across the ditch in front of the only gate looked embedded in the earth and could not have been lifted for years.

The eyes of both visitors took it all in at a glance.

‘They seem seem to care little for defence - too many years of easy living,’ Gwyn grunted.

John looked at the few villagers passing by and had to agree: they looked plump and content. “I suppose there’s little fear of warfare here - unless you Cornish come rampaging across the Tamar and the Tavy.’

The later years of the reign of Henry II had brought stability and peace to much of England, other than the north and the Welsh Marches, so the fortifications raised in the troubled times of Stephen and the Empress Matilda had often fallen into disrepair. True, the recent intrigues of the scheming Prince John after the capture of King Richard had stimulated many to repair their defences, but such concerns had evidently not reached such a backwater as Peter Tavy.

There was no guard on the gate and they dismounted to lead their horses through to the manorial compound. A well-built fortified stone house occupied the centre, with an undercroft at ground level and wooden stairs leading up to the entrance on the upper floor, pierced by a single arched doorway and a number of narrow slits in the walls.

‘At least the house is defensible, even if they have let their bailey wall decay,’ said John. He looked up approvingly at the castellations surrounding a pitched roof.

‘And they have slated it with stone, not thatch,’ commented Gwyn. ‘No use shooting fire-arrows at that.’

Within the palisade, the bailey contained the usual motley collection of frame and wattle huts and sheds, as well as two barns from which a few labourers gave them curious glances. The arrival of two men of menacing and rather military appearance was never likely to be good news to a placid rural manor like Peter Tavy.

No one challenged or greeted them as they walked across to the foot of the steps leading to the door.

The undercroft had open bays for stores and stables and, as they approached, a boy ran out to take their horse’s bridles. The coroner and his henchman slid out of their saddles and the boy led away the beasts to feed and water them.

Simultaneously, a figure appeared in the arched doorway above and strode to the top of the steps to look down on them. He was a powerfully built, short-necked man of about thirty, soberly but well dressed as if he was about to go hunting, with a dark brown surcoat, slit back and front over a heavy woollen tunic. He carried no sword, but a quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulders. John was immediately reminded of Alan Fitzhai in his stocky solidarity but, unlike Fitzhai, the man’s hair and beard were as black as those of the coroner. He came down the steps to greet them at the bottom.

‘Good day to you. Have you come to visit our lord de Bonneville?’

The words implied that he was not one of the family and John guessed that he was a squire to someone he was too well dressed and self-assured to be a mere bailiff or seneschal.

‘We have indeed, though I understand that Sir Arnulph is gravely ill.’

Blackbeard nodded sadly, and spoke low. ‘He is, and never will recover.’ He glanced up quickly at one of the window embrasures above, as if to make sure that his pessimism had not carried to the bedchamber.

“I am Sir John de Wolfe of Exeter, the King’s coroner for this county, and Gwyn of Polruan is my officer. May I know who you are?’

The man’s attitude was immediately more deferential yet, at the same time, wary. The arrival of a senior royal law officer was never to be a matter for rejoicing, and these new coroners were said to bring bad news for all and sundry.

“I am Baldwyn of Beer, squire to Gervaise de Bonneville, the second son, who has had the burden of ruling this honour of Peter Tavy since his father fell so sick. May I learn the reason for your visit, sir?’

John pulled off his heavy gloves and tucked them under his baldric. ‘It is a grave and personal matter, which I must urgently discuss with the family.’

Baldwyn hesitated a moment, as if he was unused to being bypassed with any business that affected the de Bonnevilles, but the uncompromising attitude of the stern man who stood before him made it clear that the matter was not negotiable. He stood aside and waved a hand towards the steps.

‘Please come into our house and take some refreshment.

Gervaise is with his father, as is his younger brother Martyn. I will tell them at once that you have arrived.’

They entered the hall, a well-built chamber that took up more than half of the entire building. It was almost empty, apart from a couple of servants removing the remnants of the morning meal. John and Gwyn were led to a table where meat, bread and ale were placed before them. The swarthy Baldwyn, whose name indicated that he came from the small coastal village of Beer near the Dorset end of the county, vanished through a curtained doorway into an adjacent bedchamber.

Gwyn fell on the meat with appetite but John could only pick at the food for the sake of courtesy: it was only a couple of hours since they had breakfasted at the abbey. ‘Baldwyn seems to hold considerable power for a young man’s squire. Perhaps he is also the lord’s steward.’

The curtain parted and two men emerged, followed by Baldwyn. John was immediately struck by their resemblance to the Widecombe corpse: they were both fair-haired and long-nosed. They were also dressed for horse and hunting, and seemed apprehensive at the sudden arrival of the county coroner. John and the de Bonnevilles made stiff-necked bows, both Baldwyn and Gwyn standing back.

Introductions were made and John guessed that the brothers were within a few years of each other in their twenties. Martyn had an air of innocence, seen in some monks and friars, as if he was only half aware of the world in which he walked. Gervaise seemed more brisk and efficient and, no doubt, would manage the manors well in the absence of their elder brother and the disablement of the father. He had slightly darker hair than Martyn and took the lead in conversation.

‘I am my father’s middle son, Sir John. My elder brother, Hubert, is away at the Crusade.’

The Coroner nodded gravely. ‘It is he whom my visit concerns. First, I would like to speak with your father or does his disability make communication impossible?’

Gervaise’s pleasant face creased into sadness. ‘Since his stroke last midsummer he has been paralysed in his right arm and leg and has lost all sensible speech, as well as control of his bodily functions.

But sometimes he seems to understand what we say to him.’

His younger brother cut in, ‘He varies greatly from day to day. It seems unpredictable, but sometimes he nods or shakes his head.’

John looked from one to the other. “I feel I must try to speak to him first, as a matter of courtesy to the head of the household.’

Gervaise de Bonneville could rein in his anxiety no longer. ‘Sir John, please tell us what this is about.

My father is sick near to death and I would prefer to spare him whatever troubles you bring to us.’

John put a hand on his shoulder in an almost avuncular manner. ‘Your father has the right at least to my attempting to inform him about a grave matter that might concern his eldest son.’

Startled, the de Bonnevilles stared at each other, then at the coroner.

‘What has he done this time? He was always a hot-head!’ exclaimed Martyn.

John stored this in his memory for further digestion, then took both brothers by the arm and led them towards the inner doorway.

‘If he is as sick as you say, I’ll not trouble him, but I must set my eyes on him, as a token of my duty to him.’

With a warning glance at Gwyn to stay behind with Baldwyn, the coroner passed into the inner room, which was much darker than the hall, lit only by a single window slit in the outer wall. The chamber smelt of stale urine from the incontinence of the pathetic figure huddled in the bed. An elderly woman hovered in the background with a bowl and some rags. As if reading John’s thoughts, Gervaise murmured, ‘Our mother died five years ago.’