The Manor of Death

by Bernard Knight

  As Elphin came back into the room clutching a sheaf of parchments and looking accusingly at his master, Henry sighed. 'I'd better get back to work, John. Maybe de Casewold will turn something up. He seemed a ferreting kind of man, by what I recall of him.'

  John threw down the last of his wine and stood up. 'He'd better watch his step over there, or he'll end up floating face down in the river,' he grumbled.

  On leaving Rougemont, John walked to North Street through the back lanes of the city, intent on visiting an apothecary to make sure that his boil was really on the mend. Of the several men in Exeter who claimed proficiency in pharmacy, Richard Lustcote was the acknowledged leader, being warden of their guild and the longest-established apothecary in the city.

  An avuncular man with greying hair, he kept premises on the ground floor of his house in North Street, where a journeyman and two apprentices were kept busy making potions, lotions and all manner of salves to sell to the more affluent citizens. The poorer majority were content to seek their medical care from local 'wise women' and from members of their family who claimed to possess some degree of familiarity with herbal remedies. There were no doctors in Exeter, the nearest thing to a physician being provided by the priories.

  The coroner entered the aroma-reeking shop of the apothecary, its walls lined with shelves and compartments filled with dried herbs and packets of powders and salves. Lustcote sat at a table, decanting liquids into phials; in the room behind, several youths were rolling pills and pounding concoctions in a pestle and mortar. Richard was an old friend of John's, and after a brief explanation of his complaint the coroner was taken behind a curtain in a corner of the room to expose his nether regions to the apothecary.

  After some gentle prodding and probing, accompanied by a muttered commentary to himself, Lustcote fetched a pottery jar of some green foul-smelling salve and applied it liberally to the brawny swelling on the coroner's buttock. Covering it with a pad of wool, he bound it in place with a long length of linen and presented the pot of ointment to his friend.

  'Get someone to replace this each day under a new pad,' he advised. 'It's getting better slowly, so it'll not turn into a purulent abscess now. In a week it will be entirely gone.'

  John pulled up his hose and lowered his grey tunic back to calf level, then looked at the pot suspiciously. 'What's in this stuff?' he asked.

  'It's quite innocuous,' said Lustcote reassuringly. 'Strong sea salt to draw out the poison, together with pounded leaves of marshmallow, cabbage and a little myrrh.'

  As John was fumbling in the scrip on his belt for the two pence that was all that the apothecary requested for his fee, he asked him where he obtained all the raw materials for his medicaments.

  'Most come from the fields and woods of the countryside,' replied Lustcote. 'I send my apprentices out to seek them, but others I buy from dealers whose trade it is to collect them. And of course some have to be imported. They can be very expensive, like the myrrh that's in that salve I gave you, which comes from Africa.'

  John was intrigued by the notion that some exotic substance from the almost mythical continent of Africa could find its way to his left buttock. 'How in God's name do you get hold of such rare products?' he asked.

  'There are some dealers who supply me at intervals but I also give lists to certain merchants who have ships trading across the Channel. They bring me certain goods I need - I don't ask how they get hold of them.' He winked and tapped the side of his nose as if half revealing some secret.

  A small warning bell rang in John's head. 'Do these marvellous substances carry any levy or tax when they come into England?' he asked.

  Richard shrugged. 'I don't ask. I just pay the price demanded. Merchants and ship owners in this city pass on the lists to their traders, and in the fullness of time the packages arrive.'

  'And which merchants would be involved in this trade?' queried John, wearing what he hoped was a guileless expression.

  Richard Lustcote began to wonder what earthly interest the coroner could have in the means by which he obtained his medicaments, but he had no reason to prevaricate. 'There are a few of them. Edward of Yeovil for one - and some come on the ships of Robert de Helion, whom I know quite well.'

  This name cropping up again made de Wolfe decide to call upon the merchant at some early opportunity. Though he had no idea if medical supplies carried any Customs duty under the new financial regime of Hubert Walter, the rather secretive manner of the apothecary made it worthwhile to enquire, as Luke de Casewold had seemed convinced that Axmouth was involved in some dubious business.

  With his bottom now more comfortable, John bade his friend goodbye and walked back to Martin's Lane in the gathering dusk. After his supper, the usual silent meal opposite a morose Matilda, John sat for a while staring into the glowing logs of a small fire in the hearth. He had his customary cup of wine in one hand, the other fondling Brutus's ears as he squatted beside his master's knee. Predictably, it was not long before Matilda called for her maid Lucille and went off to her solar, to be undressed for bed after a long session on her knees in prayer.

  John gave her another half-hour, then rose and, with his hound padding expectantly after him, took his sword and a short cloak from the vestibule and stepped out into the lane. When he turned right into the Close, the two great towers of the cathedral were dark silhouettes against the remaining pale light in the western sky, which was clear enough to give a chill to the evening. One of the bishop's proctors was lighting the pitch-brand that hung in an iron ring over Bear Gate on the other side of the wide burial ground that fronted the great church. John walked across towards it, past the imposing West Front of the building, Brutus ambling from place to place, cocking his leg against any projecting structure.

  The Close was a warren of overgrown burial mounds, piles of rubbish and a few open grave-pits, ready for tomorrow's corpses. Beggars crouched in corners, and respectable citizens were loath to walk alone there at night, for fear of the cutpurses that often lurked in the darkness. John had no fear for himself, as it would be a very bold robber who would tackle this tall, formidable man with a sword at his belt and a large hound at his heels.

  He strode the familiar path out into Southgate Street , and then across to the smaller lanes that sloped down towards the western wall and the river beyond. Crossing Milk Lane, he went down Priest Street, where Thomas lodged, and then turned into the short lane that joined it to Smythen Street, where the iron workers had their forges. This lane had almost no buildings, as they had burnt down in a fire some years earlier, and the empty ground around the Bush Inn gave it its name of Idle Lane. The tavern, itself substantially rebuilt after a fire the previous year that had almost claimed the life of its landlady, was a whitewashed stone structure with a steep thatched roof that came down to head height. A low door flanked by two shuttered window-openings graced the front, with a large fenced yard at the back containing Nesta's brew-shed, kitchen, privy and pigsty.

  De Wolfe bent his head to enter the low room that occupied all the ground floor, making for his favourite bench at a table near the central firepit. It was sheltered by a wattle hurdle from the draught from the front door and was so well known as the coroner's personal seat that anyone already sitting there would hastily move out of his way. Brutus slid under the table, aware that he would soon get a bone or some scraps from a platter, while John eased himself down on to Lustcote's new woollen pad. Almost immediately, a quart jar of best ale was set in front of him by the potboy. This was old Edwin, who had not been a boy for fifty years - an old soldier with a crippled foot and one eye, the other being a ghastly white globe in a scarred socket, the legacy of a spear-thrust in one of the Irish wars. The garrulous old fellow saluted John in semi-military style, calling him 'captain' by virtue of their being in the same campaign in France many years ago.

  'The mistress is in the kitchen-shed, cap'n!' he croaked. 'Screaming at a new cook-maid who can't boil a bloody egg.'

  Edwin was easily the
most inquisitive man in the city of Exeter and had often fed John useful titbits of information gleaned from the hundreds of travellers who passed through the Bush. The coroner thought it might be worth trying to tap his store of gossip.

  'Know anything about Axmouth, Edwin? I've got to deal with a killing over there.'

  The haggard old man rubbed his chin, his dead eye rolling horribly.

  'God's guts, Crowner, they're funny buggers over that side of the county!' he said, falling in with most people's opinion of the inhabitants of the Axe valley. 'Busy place, though, a lot of trade passing in and out of that river. I left from there in '73 on a voyage to St-Malo when we went to fight in Brittany for old King Henry.'

  John was more interested in present problems than in ancient history.

  'You must get shipmen in here sometimes. Have you heard of any ill-doings in that port, such as piracy or smuggling?'

  Edwin gave a toothless grin as he gathered up empty ale-pots.

  'Smuggling? Of course, who doesn't dodge the tallyman when he can? Goes against the grain to pay for something, then have to pay the bloody Exchequer as well. Begging your pardon, Crowner,' he added hurriedly as he realised that he was speaking to a senior officer sworn to uphold the law.

  As this seemed an almost universal sentiment amongst the citizens, John let it pass. 'What about piracy?' he demanded.

  Edwin considered this for a moment. 'Well, cap'n, there are rumours, but you get them from any port along the western coast. A few drunken shipmen have occasionally boasted how they outran some privateer - and there are whispered tales of ships never being heard of again and of corpses washed up with their throats cut.'

  'But Axmouth in particular?' persisted the coroner.

  The old man shrugged. 'Never recall anyone mentioning it, sir. As I said, they are a rough lot over there; they don't seem to have much to do with us here in the city.' He heard the back door bang and saw the landlady bustling towards them, so he made a show of wiping John's table with a rag to mop up the spilt ale. 'Here's the missus coming,' he muttered and moved away.

  'What's that old rascal been gossiping about, John?' she asked briskly, then slid along the bench towards him and grasped his arm. 'And where have you been this past week, Sir Crowner?'

  This was Nesta's half-bantering, half-sarcastic mode of addressing him when he had annoyed or neglected her. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a kiss, looking down at this pretty, auburn-haired woman of twenty-nine, his mistress for the past two years.

  'I've been dealing with the villains of this county, of whom there are far too many,' he said lightly, for he knew that he had failed to visit her often enough lately. Cases seemed to come one after the other and, though they took little time to settle, the travelling around the second-largest county in England swallowed up the days and left him weary by the time he got back home. Thank God, recently they had managed to replace the coroner for the north of Devon, the first one having killed himself after a fall from his horse. For a long time, de Wolfe had had to deal with deaths and other incidents as far away as Barnstaple and Clovelly, the round trip taking several days.

  'Have you eaten, John?' asked Nesta in a more conciliatory tone.

  They spoke in Welsh, her native tongue and one that John had learnt at his mother's knee, as Enid de Wolfe was the daughter of a Cornish knight and a mother from Gwent, the same part of south-east Wales from which Nesta came. Even Gwyn could converse with them in that language, being a Cornishman from Polruan - a fact that annoyed Thomas when he was with them, as he was a dyed-in-the-wool English Norman, his father being a minor knight from Hampshire.

  John assured Nesta that he had not long eaten, having been filled to capacity by Mary, who had boiled a whole pike and served it with turnips, onions and beans. As tomorrow was Friday, no doubt they would have the rest of the large coarse fish then, in some guise or other.

  As the hazel eyes in the heart-shaped face looked up at him while he recounted his tales of visits to Axmouth and Kenton, he tried to erase the images of Hilda from his mind. A mildly guilty conscience made him omit any mention of the extension of his trip down to Dawlish, though he knew that Nesta had sufficient knowledge of geography to know that Kenton was almost within spitting distance of Hilda's village.

  'That was what I was asking old Edwin,' he said, adroitly turning the conversation. 'He hears all the gossip, and I wondered if he knew anything sinister about Axmouth, for it seems an odd place.'

  Nesta's high forehead, framed by the band of her white cover-chief, creased in thought and she pursed her rosebud lips. 'Wasn't there some scandal there a couple of years ago, about a bailiff beating a man to death? I seem to remember gossip about him being judged innocent.'

  John shook his head. 'I recall nothing about that. It must have been before I was made coroner, surely?'

  'Indeed, my Meredydd was still with me then, God rest his poor soul.'

  This was Nesta's husband, an archer from Gwent. He had been with de Wolfe in several campaigns, and when he had ended his fighting days he had taken John's advice and spent his war booty in buying the Bush, bringing his wife down to Exeter from Wales. For a year or so they had worked hard to improve the tavern, then Meredydd died of a fever and left Nesta with serious debts. John had come to her rescue with a loan, and their friendship had blossomed into romance.

  'Do you remember the name of this bailiff?' he asked, but Nesta had no more information and even Edwin, when he was asked later, could throw no more light on the matter. 'I'll have to make enquiries with the court clerks. Maybe they have records, unless this was in another county like Dorset.'

  Their talk drifted on to other things, but de Wolfe had the feeling that his mistress was rather sad and preoccupied this evening. They had settled into a routine these past few months, where John came down to the alehouse several times a week and often they retired up the broad ladder at the back of the taproom. Here, Nesta had her little chamber, partitioned off from the large loft where rows of straw-filled hessian pallets provided accommodation for those who wanted a penny lodging for the night, which included ale and breakfast. In this small room they would make love in the comfort of her goose-feather bed, though it was rare that he could ever manage to stay all night, unless Matilda was staying with her cousin in Fore Street or, in former times, with her brother at one of his manors. This routine had slowed lately, mainly because of John's increased workload.

  Tonight, she seemed listless and made no move to suggest that they went up to the loft, claiming that she must keep going out to the yard to keep an eye on the new girl in the kitchen, who could not be trusted for long on her own. The food, and especially the ale, in the Bush was famed throughout the city, and much of Nesta's skill in making the business a success after her husband died was due to her reputation in this direction. Several times, she rose and left John at his table, returning after some time to complain about the stupidity of her new skivvy. Nesta was usually more tolerant than this, and eventually John pulled her to his shoulder and asked her if she was quite well.

  'You seem out of sorts tonight, cariad,' he said affectionately. 'Is something bothering you?'

  She sighed and reached out to take a sip from his ale-jar, which Edwin had recently refilled. 'Nothing new, John. I just feel that things are so hopeless for us. The weeks and months go by and nothing changes. Nothing can change, can it?'

  John knew what she meant, for they had been through this many times before. He was a Norman knight, married to the sister of another Norman knight and a former sheriff. In addition, he was a senior law officer in the service of the king, who had personally nominated him. By contrast, she was a lowly ale-wife and a Welsh foreigner to boot. What chance could they ever have together, short of running away to Flanders or Scotland?

  As always, de Wolfe had no answer for her. He squeezed her to him in a futile attempt at comfort and reassurance. 'We can go on as we are, my love,' he murmured. 'Nothing has changed, as you say. But we have
managed like this for two years and more.'

  'Yes, we have managed,' she said bitterly. 'But can we ever do more than just 'manage'? You have to skulk down here in the evenings, pretending to take your hound for a walk. We can never be in public together like other folk. People nudge each other when they see us, with a sneer or a knowing look.'

  This was a little unfair, as though every patron in the Bush knew of their landlady's liaison with the county coroner they all approved, and their prime feeling about it was one of mild jealousy at his luck in having such an attractive mistress.

  'Do you want me to go, Nesta?' he asked, baffled at the situation. John de Wolfe and any sort of emotional crisis mixed as well as oil and water.

  The offer instantly softened Nesta's mood. 'Of course not, you great oaf!' She snuggled closer, and several nearby patrons tactfully found some other direction in which to stare. 'I'm sorry, dear John. Maybe it's the time of the month. I get so sad sometimes, but take no notice.'

  After her next foray to the kitchen-shed, de Wolfe decided that he had better make for home, as Nesta's remarks probably indicated that the loft would be out of bounds that evening. Finishing his ale, he went with her to the door, where a final good-night kiss saw him on his way to Martin's Lane.

  The next day, Friday, was taken up with the county court, held in the Shire Hall, inside the inner ward of Rougemont. The central area of the castle, ringed with its defensive wall, held three buildings, the keep at the far side from the gatehouse, the small garrison church of St Mary and the courthouse. This was a bare stone box with a slated roof, as thatch would be vulnerable to fire arrows in the event of a siege. However, there had been no fighting here for over half a century, since the castle had held out for the Empress Matilda for three months in the civil war against King Stephen.