The Witch Hunter (40 page)

But de Wolfe knew that his brother-in-law would never take that way out – he must be waiting for some news or other, possibly for messages to go to the Prince or others among his supporters, to gather ammunition to fight back against any censure from the royal council.

Unable to sit idle any longer, after dinner John left the morose Matilda and walked through the clammy afternoon heat to Hugh de Relaga’s house in High Street. He found him in a purple silk robe, sitting in a chair in his solar, cooling himself with an oriental fan made of woven palm fronds.

‘No news from Winchester, I suppose?’ John asked. ‘When do you expect this Mercury-heeled messenger back?’

The rotund burgess wiped the perspiration from his face with a linen kerchief. ‘Expect him back? Not for another week, John. He’s riding to Rye and Dover after Southampton, with letters to other ship-masters.’

Crestfallen, the coroner explained that he had hoped for some response very soon and thought that Hugh’s courier might have brought back at least some indication of whether the justiciar intended acting on the urgent information.

‘Be patient, John,’ advised the placid portreeve. ‘Maybe the first you hear will be Richard Coeur de Lion’s hoofbeats coming up the street!’

De Wolfe went home and continued to be fretful about the complete lack of any activity in this tense situation. His brother-in-law, the sheriff, was on the verge of disgrace and possibly a charge of treachery which would carry the death penalty – but he had vanished.

Canon Gilbert was lying low, refusing to see anyone, according to the archdeacon, on the grounds that he was ill. John de Alençon said that the infirmarian confirmed that his carbuncle was in a horrid state of weeping purulence, but that his minor stroke seemed to have resolved itself almost completely.

De Wolfe was also anxious about Nesta, though he knew that she was safer with his family than anywhere else. However, he missed her, not only for the adventures in the now incinerated French bed, but for her pleasant, loving company, not to mention her cooking and superb ale. He also missed the Bush, which had become more than a second home to him. There was nowhere quite the same when he wanted an excuse to take the dog for a run or to have a quiet quart of ale or cider. He took to going to the Golden Hind or the New Inn in the high street, but he felt a stranger there – and the ale was far inferior. However, he went out each evening, mainly as a respite from the silent, withdrawn Matilda, who spent most of her time either in her solar or in church.

Gwyn and Thomas felt the tension in their master and did their best to humour him, with little success. As the coroner’s work had declined that week, Thomas suggested that he might help de Wolfe with his reading lessons, which had recently fallen by the wayside.

John had no great appetite for this, but as he did not want to snub his little clerk, he made a few half-hearted efforts to master some of the work that the vicar in the cathedral had been trying to din into his head for the past few months.

Thomas had his own preoccupations, too, though he was wise and considerate enough not to burden his master at the present fraught time. He was still yearning for news of any restoration of his ordination, following the revelations at Winchester. It would be too much to hope for that the response from that city to the coroner’s urgent message might also contain some reference to Thomas’s reinstatement, but nevertheless he could but hope.

The weather continued to suit their tense mood, as every day was hot and still, without a breath of wind. The sky was a glassy blue, although on the far horizon, when seen from high up in the gatehouse tower, a line of piled-up dark clouds gathered towards evening and during the clammy nights the growl of thunder could be heard far away.

It was late afternoon on Friday before the impasse was broken. John was at his table with Thomas at his shoulder, laboriously writing his name repeatedly on a scrap piece of parchment. He had managed it six times, one after the other, his tongue outside his lips, moving in time with the scratchy pen, as the clerk twittered encouraging noises.

The peace was broken by the familiar clump of boots on the stairs and the hessian curtain was jerked aside by Gabriel’s head, flushed with heat, exertion and suppressed excitement.

‘He’s back, Crowner. Just ridden in with some fellow who looks like a minor lord from somewhere. Not from these parts, talks like he might have come from Gloucester or the Marches.’

John threw down his quill and jumped to his feet. ‘Is he in his chamber?’

‘Yes, Sir John. By the state of his horse, he’s ridden up from Revelstoke without drawing breath. Poor beast is near dropping in this heat.’

Gabriel caught Gwyn’s eye, as the redhead sat on his window ledge, whittling a stick with his dagger. The eyes swivelled to the cider jar in the corner, but de Wolfe was already starting down the stairs.

At the keep, he thrust open the sheriff’s door and barged in to confront his brother-in-law. Still dusty from his journey, Richard was pouring wine into one of a pair of pewter goblets. The other cup was not in expectation of John’s visit, but for a man who lounged in a leather-backed folding chair placed in front of the desk. De Wolfe had never seen him before, but he was about thirty, of slim build and elegant in his dress. Black haired and clean shaven, he had a sallow, almost Spanish complexion, his face long and smooth with high cheekbones. Although he was not wearing clerical dress, he had a small gold cross on a chain around his neck.

De Revelle’s head jerked up at the sudden intrusion and he scowled at John, although the look was mixed with wary apprehension. ‘Do you never knock at a door, Crowner?’ he snapped.

‘I probably will when the next occupant is here. It seems likely to be Henry de Furnellis once again.’ Courtesy inhibited John from starting his tirade against the sheriff in the presence of a guest, so he began cautiously. ‘I hear you have ridden hard from Revelstoke today.’

The stranger picked up his goblet and languidly intervened. ‘We have ridden from Glastonbury – we left Gloucester yesterday.’

Richard scowled, having been caught out in a lie before he had even opened his mouth. He had been nowhere near his manor in the west, but had ridden north a week ago. John immediately realised what was going on, for Gloucester was now Prince John’s principal house in England. He had been given no less than six counties, including Gloucestershire and the county of Mortain in Normandy, by his recklessly generous brother at the time of Richard’s accession in 1189. They were taken from him after the abortive rebellion, but recently Gloucester and Mortain had been restored to him. It was obvious that de Revelle had hurried to the Prince’s nearest domain to rustle up support in this latest crisis, and his next words confirmed it.

‘This is Roscelin de Sucote, who, though in holy orders, is also a lawyer and an aide to the Count of Mortain. He has come to give me some advice and bring support from his lord.’

The man nodded at John condescendingly, but made no effort to rise to his feet. ‘Prince John is at present at his court in Normandy, but I can speak for him on virtually every issue,’ he said smoothly.

De Wolfe grunted back at him and decided that he had no need to offer this rebel lawyer anything more than basic civility. He turned to his brother-in-law. ‘I wanted you at an inquest this week, Richard. If you feel you can vanish from the county, after giving a false account of your movements, and ignore your responsibilities for a week, then it seems an added reason for it being high time for you to relinquish the shrievalty.’

‘You have no authority to even suggest that Sir Richard should give up his office,’ cut in de Sucote. ‘And it is both ill mannered and possibly treasonable for you to speak to the King’s representative in that way!’

John rounded on the man, his long face dark with annoyance. ‘When I want your opinion, clerk, I’ll ask for it – though bulls are more likely to give milk before that happens. And if we’re talking of manners, it would do you well to stand when you speak and address the King’s coroner as “sir”!’

The lawyer’s sallow face flushed, but he made no effort to rise. John swung back to the sheriff, who stood behind his table, looking nervously defiant. ‘Come, John, there’s no call to be offensive to a guest. I’m sure these recent difficulties can be dealt with in a civilised way.’

‘Bollocks, you devious, lying bastard! And if you take offence at my words, I’m more than happy to meet with you with horse, shield and lance down on Bull Mead.’

He was on safe ground here, as the last thing Richard de Revelle would accept would be a challenge from the battle-hardened coroner. John plunged on, ignoring the look of outrage on the face of the Prince’s emissary. ‘You have even more to answer for now than before you slunk away to your rebel friends. I know now that you paid your whore’s sister to falsely denounce the landlady of the Bush. That led to a death and a major fire in the city, both of which you will be called to account over, when I can finally drag you to an inquest!’

De Revelle made loud protestations at this and the lawyer-clerk finally jumped to his feet to add his outraged denials. John shouted them down at the top of his voice, to the delight of a cluster of people outside the ill-fitting door. ‘So add manslaughter and conspiracy to arson to your existing crimes of stealing the King’s money, Sheriff!’ he yelled. ‘You’re still on probation for treason, aiding and abetting the King’s enemies. Explain all that to the royal justices when they get here! You’ll need more than a Gloucester lawyer to wriggle out of that!’

Not trusting himself to avoid physically assaulting his brother-in-law, de Wolfe stalked to the door, went out and slammed it behind him with a force fit to knock it off its hinges. Scattering the eavesdroppers outside, he marched out of the hall, his temper subsiding sufficiently to hope to God that someone in Winchester had taken notice of his urgent message.

By Sunday morning de Wolfe’s patience was in shreds and he even considered sending Gwyn riding out on the high road to the east to see whether there was any sign of emissaries from Winchester. He soon realised that this was a futile gesture and turned his attention instead to Nesta, wondering if he should ride to Stoke-in-Teignhead to see if all was well there. This idea in turn was rejected, in case someone from the capital should arrive in his absence. Instead, he restlessly alternated between his chamber in Rougemont and the taproom in the Golden Hind, where he drank more ale than his bladder could cope with.

At noon, he had another silent meal with Matilda, his efforts at conversation being largely unsuccessful. He had told her about her brother’s return on Friday and the fact that he had been in Gloucester, not with his own wife at Revelstoke. He also described the lawyer-priest that Richard had brought back with him, but she seemed uninterested. John had expected her to go up to visit Richard again, but she seemed indifferent to the man who had been for so long her paragon of success and virtue. After the meal, she took herself off to the solar and, feeling that he had done all he could for her in this time of her despair, he whistled for Brutus and went down to Idle Lane to inspect the work that he was paying for. During the past week, Adam had organised more men and now the site was virtually clear of debris. Edwin, the potman, had recovered from his ordeal and, though he was coughing like an old horse, he was comfortably housed in the brew-shed, acting as watchman over the building works. The two serving maids had gone home to stay with their families in nearby streets, with the promise that they would be re-employed as soon as the inn was back in business.

John walked around the remains of the tavern and saw that the masonry of the front and back walls and the high gables on either side was now intact. Where stones had been pulled down by the fall of the rafters and roof beams, Adam had employed masons to mortar new blocks into place. The stumps of the logs that had held up the floor of the loft had been removed and the holes cleaned out, ready to receive new timbers. John was eager to see these first beams brought up by teams of oxen from Holcombe, as they would surely bring news of Nesta, probably in a note penned by his literate sister Evelyn, which Thomas could translate for him.

On the way back, he called in at Canons’ Row to see John de Alençon, mainly to ask him whether he knew anything about this Roscelin de Sucote, the priest that Richard had brought from Gloucester.

‘I have heard of him by name, no more,’ replied the archdeacon. ‘He is part of Prince John’s entourage and spends more time in Mortain than England. He is an ordained priest, but seems to play no part in religious affairs. He is an aspiring politician and presumably is looking ahead to high office under John, when, God forbid, he takes over the throne from his brother.’

‘In that, he has much in common with de Revelle,’ said de Wolfe, cynically. ‘But what’s he doing here? Can he really get Richard off the hook, merely because he is a creature of the Prince?’

De Alençon shrugged over the wine that he had as usual produced for them both. ‘A desperate situation calls for desperate remedies, I suppose! I know that this Roscelin went with the sheriff for an audience with the bishop yesterday. No one knows what was said there, but I get the impression that Henry Marshal is not too keen to openly associate himself with potential rebels these days – just as he has distanced himself from the witch-hunting campaign.’

‘Our bishop was never one to be seen backing the losing side,’ observed John, sarcastically. ‘What’s happened to that bloody fellow-canon of yours, Gilbert de Bosco?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Lying low, as far as we can tell. It seems that he has been afflicted by all manner of ailments, which most folk – including himself – put down to the witch’s curse!’

‘What’s wrong with him now? I heard he had some sort of seizure.’

‘That seems to have righted itself almost completely, so my steward tells me, as Gilbert refuses any visitors. But he still has a stinking mass of corruption on his neck – and now he has a red rash over all his chest and belly, which the infirmarian tells me is probably some sympathetic reaction to the purulence of his carbuncle.’