'It's in Latin, but I'll give you sense of it in our usual tongue.'
He converted the words into Norman French rather than Middle English, as he felt it more fitting for a royal message.
'Archbishop WaIter sends you his warmest greetings and says he thinks often of the times you were together in campaigning and battle ... and so on.' The clerk seemed to gloss over these pleasantries as if they were a waste of his effort.
'Then he says that Our Sovereign Lord King Richard himself sends his personal greetings to you through the Justiciar, remembering your faithful service to him in the past, both in Outremer and on the fateful journey home.'
A note of respect crept into Elias's voice as he related this part.
'The King now Wishes your further aid, in that he comrnands you to be at Chepstow Castle in the Welsh marches by the sixteenth day of this month, to escort an embassy to meet the Lord Rhys, Prince of South Wales. William, Marshal of England, will lead the deputation and will be supported by the Archdeacon of Brecon, Gerald de Barri.'
Elias looked up, clearly awe-struck by these great names.
'There is no reason given for the embassy, but the Justiciar says that you are an ideal escort and guide, as you are familiar with Wales, speak its language and are known to both the marshal and to Gerald de Barri.'
John thought whimsically that he could have added .I further qualification - that of having a Welsh mistress!
The clerk gave a last look at the bottom of the manuscript. 'It ends with the felicitations of Archbishop WaIter and his confidence that you will carry out this royal commission in your usual faithful and efficient manner.'
There was a silence as the now respectful Elias handed the manuscript back to the coroner.
Henry de Furnellis, his bushy eyebrows climbing high on his lined forehead, grinned at de Wolfe. 'You should have been sheriff in place of me, John, with all these friends in high places!'
There was no rancour or sarcasm in his voice, and John thought that he probably meant what he said. Before he could reply, the herald broke in with an easy but firm voice. 'I am to return with a reply as soon as possible, Sir John. Though I take it that you are in no mind other than to obey the King's wishes?'
De Wolfe had not a second's hesitation. Though the notice was short and a prolonged absence would make things difficult, to him his monarch's wish was an absolute command.
'Of course, I will be at Chepstow next week! Have you any idea how long this enterprise may take? I have many arrangements to make.'
William de Mora turned up his hands. 'I cannot be definite, but I gathered from the Justiciar that this was to be a single visit to the Welsh prince and a quick return, as I understand that William Marshal needs to be back in Normandy without delay.'
This was all John could glean about the journey, and after the sheriff had fussily shepherded the young knight away for food, drink and rest, the coroner went in a slightly dazed mood back to his house and sat by his fireside with a quart of ale to think through this sudden turn of events.
Thomas de Peyne did not get drunk that evening, but enough wine was forced on him to bring a flush to his sallow cheeks and to keep a smile on his usually melancholy features. When Nesta heard the good news, she immediately chivvied her maids into making extra pastries and a huge cauldron of mutton broth; a dozen capons were set turning on spits in the cook shed.
By the seventh hour that evening, the Bush was full of well-wishers, some of whom Thomas hardly knew. A few of the cathedral clergy came along, vicars, secondaries and some choristers, though the only senior member was his uncle, John de Alençon. Apart from Brother Rufus, the jolly fat monk who was the castle chaplain, the rest of the crowd were laymen, ranging from Henry de Furnellis to Ralph Morin, Gabriel, the two town constables and of course Gwyn and the coroner. One unexpected visitor was John's business partner, Hugh de Relaga, who turned up in an outrageous new surcoat of green velvet over a blue brocade tunic, with a floppy feathered hat to match. He had in tow a young man of about seventeen years, whom he introduced as his nephew, Eustace de Relaga.
The festivities carried on for much of the evening, though people came and went, after clapping the frail Thomas on the back and roaring out their congratulations and good wishes for the future. As dusk fell, many made their way home before curfew, though in these times of peace it was barely enforced - especially tonight, when both the enforcers, the constables Osric and Theobald, were themselves in the Bush.
Eventually, the remaining celebrants gravitated to a couple of tables near the hearth, the coroner's team being augmented only by Nesta, the sheriff, Ralph Morin, Gabriel and Hugh de Relaga and his silent relative. With some platters of savoury pastries and ample drink being replenished by old Edwin, the conversation moved on at last from Thomas's forthcoming restoration, which had been discussed up hill and down dale all evening. Henry de Furnellis, who had sunk an inordinate amount of ale, boisterously took the subject in a new direction.
'Your clerk's going to. Winchester, John, but what about your own journey to Wales - and in such exalted company?'
All eyes swivelled to look at the coroner, who had said nothing to anyone yet about his royal summons. Not even to Matilda, who had been out at her cousin's house for supper, which gave him the opportunity to get to the Bush early.
'Wales? Are you going to Wales, John?' demanded Nesta, for whom the word conjured up nostalgic visions. There was a chorus of queries from around the tables and de Wolfe held up his hand for quiet.
'I only heard this afternoon,' he explained gruffly. 'I suppose it's really a state secret, but I trust no one here is going to rush off to tell Philip of France.'
Tell him what, Crowner?' grunted Gwyn.
'That you are coming with me to Chepstow Castle to meet William the Marshal and escort him down west to pay a call on the Lord Rhys.'
There was a squeak of horror from Thomas de Peyne. 'But I am due in Winchester next month, Crowner!' he said, aghast at the prospect of missing his bishop's benediction.
'Don't fret, my lad. I'll not need you on such a journey, especially as you would never keep up, slung side-saddle over that broken-winded pony of yours! In any case, Gwyn and I will be back long before you go off to Winchester.'
The clerk's fears assuaged, the coroner told the whole story as far as he knew it - that because of his ability to speak Welsh and his familiarity with the country, he had been chosen by the Chief Justiciar on behalf of the King to accompany an embassy to Prince Rhys ap Gruffydd, the powerful ruler of most of south and west Wales, universally know as the Lord Rhys. John produced the parchment from his pouch and it was handed around the gathering. Although few of them could read a word, it was studied as reverently as if the King had penned it with his own hand.
'I don't know why the marshal is going to see him, and it's none of my business,' he added sternly. 'My task is to help make sure that he gets there and back safely. ,
'You went around Wales like this once before, John,' said the excited Nesta. 'Wasn't it to guard some bishop?'
'Back in '88, that was,' broke in Gwyn. 'I was with him when we paraded around the country with old Archbishop Baldwin, drumming up volunteers for the Holy Land - and ended up taking the cross ourselves!'
De Wolfe nodded. 'That's why Hubert WaIter picked me for this,' he said. 'It's the same sort of job, nothing glamorous about it, just a bodyguard who can speak the language and find my way through the Welsh woods and hills.'
Nesta, her eyes glistening with pride at her lover's achievements, refused to let him belittle the honour. 'John, the King himself picked you and sent you his personal greetings, so you said the parchment states. You are an important man!'
De Wolfe felt that perhaps some of Matilda's revelling in fame was rubbing off on his mistress, but he was in too good a mood to complain.
'Gwyn, we have to be in Chepstow by next Thursday, a three-day journey, if we cross the Severn by boat. So we must leave no later than Monday.'
The coroner's exciting news kept the conversation going through another platter of meat pasties and another gallon of ale. There was much discussion about the politics of the ceaseless conflict between the English Crown and the independent Welsh princedoms, but as most of the news from there was weeks or months old by the time it reached Devon, no one was quite sure what the present political situation might be. When a lull came in this discussion, Hugh de Relaga shifted his portly, multi-coloured figure from his stool and dropped himself down with a bump on the bench alongside John.
'Before you go rushing off on your royal excursions, John, there's something I want to raise with you.'
The coroner expected his friend and business partner to launch into a discussion about the price of wool or the cost of shipping it abroad, but instead he beckoned to the young man, who came over and stood expectantly behind his uncle.
'Eustace is my brother's youngest lad,' he began, patting the youth affectionately on the shoulder. 'Until a year ago, he was a pupil in the cathedral school at Gloucester, and since then has been staying with me while he attended the pedagogues in a college house in Smythen Street.'
John wondered where all this was leading. He knew that Hugh's brother was a successful tin merchant in Tavistock, one of the Stannary towns on the west side of Dartmoor. He also knew that a few small centres of higher learning had sprung up in Exeter, as they had done some years ago in Oxford. Here the sons of wealthier people paid to attend lectures on subjects such as philosophy, grammar, logic and rhetoric, given by educated clerics, usually 'monks, canons or other learned clerks. Exeter, though a long way behind Oxford, was rapidly gaining a reputation for such colleges, most of the teaching being held informally in houses in Smythen Street, strangely to the accompaniment of nearby smiths and metal-workers banging their anvils.
De Wolfe looked from his old friend's face to the placid one of Eustace de Relaga. 'No doubt you were a good student, lad. But how can an old soldier like me be of any service to someone bursting with brains and learning?'
Eustace spoke for the first time, his voice high and clear and completely free of any Devon accent. 'My parents, especially my mother, had set their hearts on my entering the priesthood, sir. My education has been directed towards that end, but I fear that I feel no vocation for it.'
Thomas de Peyne, who had been chatting to Nesta, pricked up his ears at this statement. For anyone to decline the opportunity of entering his beloved Church was to Thomas almost a blasphemy. As his bright little eyes fixed on the young man, Eustace glanced rather bashfully at his uncle, who took up the tale.
'My brother and his wife have now accepted that he will not train for holy orders, nor does he wish to follow his father into the tin trade. But they agree with his desire to enter the public service in some capacity and hopefully work his way up to some useful position of trust and authority - maybe, in the fullness of time, even into government service in London or Winchester. '
The coroner still failed to see what this had to do with him, and rather bluntly said as much to his friend. The tubby portreeve took no offence.
'Eustace speaks, reads and writes Latin, French and English and is conversant with all modern learning, thanks to an excellent education. What he lacks, quite naturally at his tender age, is practical experience and a knowledge of the everyday world. I and his parents would dearly like to attach him to you as a sort of apprentice in the coroner's service - a kind of assistant to Thomas here, who might welcome some help in his copying of documents and suchlike.'
John's black brows came together as he thought about this sudden proposition. Hugh may have taken this for rejection, as he hurriedly went on to reassure his friend.
'There would naturally be no salary required - indeed, I would be happy to reimburse any expenses that might be entailed. It would be but for a trial period, to see if you could put up with him! And now that Thomas is to become actively involved again in ecclesiastical affairs, perhaps with a parish or prebend of his own, you may in the future be seeking a new clerk.'
The coroner looked across at Thomas, who was listening intently to this exchange.
'What do you think of this notion, Thomas? Would you like an acolyte to sit at your feet and help you with your quills and inks?'
The little clerk, until then euphoric at the prospect of his return to his beloved Church, abruptly seemed more sober.
'If it is your wish, Crowner, I see no reason why he should not follow us to learn something of the clerk's trade,' he said rather stiffly. 'But I have assured you that I have no intention of leaving your service, even though I am returned to the priesthood. I owe you much, even my very life, and I would never abandon my duties 'until I was sure my services were no longer required.'
De Wolfe read this as a warning shot against any move to displace Thomas in the short or long term, and he suspected that Hugh and his nephew got the same message from the tone of Thomas's voice.
'What about you, Gwyn? What do you think of having an addition to our little team?'
The big Cornishman shrugged. 'It's all one to me, Crowner! If the young fellow can ride a horse and drink ale, he's welcome to tag along.'
John turned back to the portreeve and his nephew, whose fresh, almost girlish face was tense with anticipation.
'We'll give it a try, Hugh, for a few weeks at least. Eustace, you can join us at our visitations to all the legal incidents that concern us and attend the inquests and various courts in which we are involved. You will take your instructions from Thomas de Peyne here, and help him in any way in which he directs you. Is that agreed?'
The young man nodded enthusiastically and thanked the coroner in his too-perfect English. His uncle added his own effusive thanks and ordered a flask of Nesta's most expensive wine as a final celebratory drink for everyone. After everyone had toasted Thomas's good news for the last time, the portreeve added another salute, this time to the addition of his nephew Eustace to the ranks of those who upheld the law in Devonshire.
As he downed the dregs in his cup, John glanced at Thomas's face and hoped to God that he had done the right thing by the little clerk.
As he strode home alone though the darkened lanes, John's thoughts slid away from the relatively minor problem of Thomas and Eustace and returned to the more portentous news of the day, his trip to Wales. There was much to be done in the time before he departed, especially another effort to resolve the death of the silversmith and the mystery at Sampford Peverel, which he was convinced were connected. As he tramped past the first street light, a guttering pitchbrand stuck above the Beargate leading into the cathedral close, he wondered how the coroner's business would survive without him for at least two weeks, which was an optimistic estimate of the time it would take to get into the hinterland of Wales and back again. His counterpart in North Devon, who had been appointed a few months back, could cover for some of the major cases in the centre of the county, but he could not be expected to ride down to the south coast, except in exceptional circumstances. John shrugged in the darkness - Hubert WaIter could not have his loaf and eat it. If he wanted John in Wales, then he would have to accept that his new coroner system would be overstretched for a time. It was already almost impossible for only two officers to cover every death in the huge county, and he knew that many cases went by default. The original Article of Assize from the King's justices in Kent, a year last September, had decreed that three coroners were to be elected in each county. That was all very well, but where were they to be found? Few active men had the time or inclination to take on a demanding and often distasteful job for no recompense at all.
Two weeks away from home! At least he would have a respite from Matilda's gloom and despondency, which were as bad as her usual carping and nagging.
As he reached the narrow entrance into Martin's Lane from the Close, where there was another flickering torch stuck in an iron ring above the arch, de Wolfe suddenly stopped dead. He had been struck by the glimmerings of an idea. If he was going away, so
was Reginald de Charterai. And he was going to Normandy ... and Matilda was always pining for another visit to her relatives! His mind raced ahead, like a horse suddenly released from a stall. If she went away, why could Nesta not go with him to Wales, at least as far as Gwent, where she too had her family?
He slammed a fist into his palm, suddenly exultant at these interlocking ideas, which had tumbled down upon him like an avalanche.
Jauntily, he strode into the darkened lane and made for his front door.
Chapter Eleven
In which Crowner John visits a prince
A small group of people stood on a rough quay a few yards long, set in the bank of a small inlet, where a stream came down to the vast mud banks of the Severn estuary. It was a grey, overcast day, and across the wide river the distant hills of Wales were partly hidden by rain.
'Always bloody pouring down over there,' muttered Gwyn. 'Never been in the damn country but it was pissing down.'
The patriotic Nesta gave him a playful kick on the ankle at this slur against her native land, but she was in high spirits at being able to see it only a couple of miles away, even if it was through a rain cloud.
They were waiting for a boat to pick them up and Lake them across to Chepstow. This was a Saxon name, the Welsh calling it Cas-gwent - and the Norrnans knew it as Striguil, from which the lordship took its name. The small ferry was already in sight, now that the tide was fast coming in across the huge expanse of muddy rock that was exposed for half the day.
John de Wolfe was a few yards away, with Sergeant Gabriel and the two men-at-arms that the sheriff had insisted on sending as an extra escort as far as Chepstow. They were negotiating the passage money with the owner of the ferry, a villainous-looking Fleming who John strongly suspected of having a sideline as a channel pirate.
The group had made good progress from Exeter, as Nesta was an excellent rider, having spent much of her youth on the bare back of a Welsh cob. After one night's stay at the castle in Taunton, claimed by John as an emissary of the King, and another at an inn at Wedmore near the Mendips, they had reached the tiny hamlet of Aust on the southern shore of the Severn the previous evening. From here, small craft plied the dangerous tidal streams of the river, ferrying both goods and passengers. Some went across to Beachley on the peninsula east of the mouth of the Wye, others west to the Norman strongholds at Newport or Cardiff. The destination that the coroner was bargaining for was Chepstow Castle itself, a couple of miles up the River Wye, almost directly opposite where they were now standing, shivering in the cold breeze of a murky dawn.
Figure of Hate Page 26
