Whistling at Brutus to creep out from under the table, where the dog-loving Gwyn had been stroking his head, de Wolfe made for the backyard of the inn, to give Nesta a goodnight squeeze and a kiss, before trudging back to Martin’s Lane and his lonely side of an unwelcoming bed.
An hour after dawn the following morning, a cart drawn by two patient oxen drew up outside the alehouse in the village of Sigford. In the back were two large barrels and as soon as the clumsy vehicle came to a stop the driver and his villainous-looking companion jumped down and removed the tailboard. They propped a couple of planks against the back of the cart and knocked out the wooden wedges that secured the first cask.
As they rolled the heavy barrel to the ground, the door to the tavern flew open and the ale-wife bustled out.
‘What do think you’re doing?’ she screeched. ‘I don’t need any ale, I brew my own!
The driver’s assistant, a rough fellow dressed in little better than rags, gave her a gap-toothed leer. ‘Yes, and it tastes like cow-piss, so I’ve heard!’
Widow Mody, broad of hip and bosom, advanced furiously on the man and raised her hand to clip his ear, but he gave a her a push that sent her staggering.
‘This is some decent stuff, Mother, whether you like it or not.’
Outraged, but now wary after the threat of violence, the woman looked around the threadbare village green for someone to help her. Outside his cottage a hundred paces away, she saw their reeve looking towards the cart and she waved wildly at him.
‘Morcar, Morcar, come here!’ she yelled, before turning back to the pair, now getting the second cask down to the ground.
‘There’s some mistake! Where’s this come from? I don’t want it.’
The carter, a milder-looking man who seemed embarrassed by the proceedings, spoke for the first time.
‘It’s nothing to do with us, woman. We’re just delivering it.’
He started rolling the barrel towards the door of the alehouse, the other fellow grinning as he began to follow him.
‘If you’ve got any questions, ask them!’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and turning, the widow saw two men on horseback coming into the village. As Morcar arrived, so the riders reined up alongside the cart. By now several other men had been attracted by the shouting and were drifting towards the green, the smith amongst them.
The village reeve scowled up at the first horseman, a thin, erect fellow with grizzled iron-grey hair. He had unusually high cheekbones, over which the skin of his face was stretched like a drum. His chin and hollow cheeks were covered with dark grey stubble, framing a humourless, thin mouth. He wore a green tunic and a short leather cape, the hood hanging down his back. A thick belt carried a short sword and a dagger, and from his saddle hung a long, evil-looking club. On the breast of his tunic was a yellow badge depicting a hunting horn, the insignia of a forester. The other rider stayed a few paces behind in deference to his master, as he was what was euphemistically called the forester’s ‘page’, though he was a rugged bruiser in his late thirties.
Morcar continued to eye the newcomer with distaste.
‘What’s all this about, William Lupus?’
The forester stared down impassively at the village reeve.
‘From today, only this ale will be sold in Sigford. It will save that good-wife from the labour of brewing her own.’
Incredulous, Widow Mody screeched back at the man in green. ‘I don’t want your bloody ale! Take it away, wherever it came from!’
‘Where did it come from, anyway?’ asked the smith, truculently.
‘From the new brew-house near Chudleigh. From now on, all the alehouses within a day’s cart journey will sell it.’
‘Who says so?’ yelled the ale-wife, her hands planted belligerently on her hips.
‘I say so, woman! On behalf of the King, whose forest this is.’
‘And is this ale a present from King Richard?’ she snapped sarcastically.
William Lupus looked down at her coldly. ‘It will cost you one shilling for a twenty-gallon cask. How much you sell it for is your business.’
For a moment, Widow Mody was speechless at the extortion.
‘That’s well over a ha’penny a gallon! I can brew it for less than half that price. No one will buy it from me. I’ll be ruined and will starve!’
There was a general murmur of horror from the bystanders, who saw their only pleasure being priced beyond their reach, but the forester shrugged indifferently.
‘If they don’t buy it, then they can go thirsty – or drink water.’
Morcar, though he already had a presentiment that the fight was lost before it had begun, felt that he must make some effort on behalf of his village.
‘This is part of the manor of Ilsington, Lupus. I must first hear what our lord William de Pagnell has to say.’
‘It matters not what he says, Reeve. He does not sell ale, so mind your own business.’
‘I will still have to send word to him and his steward and bailiff, Forester. No doubt he will need to protest this to the verderer.’
William Lupus gave a nasty smile, the thin lips parting over his yellowed teeth. ‘The verderer is dead. You all should know that only too well, as his body lay here only yesterday.’
‘There will be a new verderer appointed soon,’ persisted Morcar doggedly.
The smile cracked even wider. ‘There will indeed – and undoubtedly it will be Philip de Strete, who will have little sympathy with your useless complaints.’
There was renewed murmuring amongst the small crowd of villagers who had gathered around the cart. Philip de Strete was about as popular in mid-Devon as Philip of France.
‘No doubt our lord will appeal to the Warden, then,’ grumbled the reeve obstinately.
‘He has no say in the matter – and I doubt he’ll be there for much longer,’ snapped Lupus. When he saw that the carter and the other man had taken the casks inside, he gave a sign to his thuggish page, who slid from his horse and ambled into the alehouse. The widow took fright and hurried after him, but she was too late. There was a scream of anguish and a splashing of liquid, then the page and the ruffian from the cart reappeared with four large earthenware crocks, each of several gallons’ capacity, the dregs of mash and ale still dripping from them. William Lupus nodded at the men, and almost carelessly they tossed them into the air, letting them smash into a thousand pieces on the hard-baked ground.
With a wail and a stream of invective, the ale-wife rushed at the page, but he gave her a resounding smack across the face and a push that sent her to her knees. She began blubbering into her apron, as a woman neighbour ran to comfort her.
There was a general growl of anger from the half-dozen village men and they took a step towards the page. But there was also a rattle of steel as the forester pulled a foot of sword from its scabbard. Wisely, the men subsided into a resentful, sullen silence.
‘Let no one get any ideas of brewing their own here, either in the alehouse or your homes. If I get wind of it, the verderer will have you arraigned at the Woodmote faster than you can take a breath.’
He jerked his head at his page to remount, then pulled his own horse around and trotted out of Sigford, leaving the villagers to become more resentful, impoverished and thirsty.
Later that morning, the coroner succeeded in tracking down the sheriff, who often tried to avoid him. As Richard de Revelle was not to be found in his chamber in the keep, he looked in the courthouse, but the dismal hall was empty. Irritated at the waste of time, he went back to the gatehouse and demanded of the solitary guard whether he had seen him. The man pointed his lance towards the tiny building that stood on the far side of the gateway, towards the eastern curtain wall.
‘I saw him go in there, Crowner – not long ago, with another man.’
Muttering under his breath, de Wolfe strode across to St Mary’s, the little chapel that served the garrison. It was poorly attended except on saints’ days and special occasions, so the ful
l series of daily services had been greatly thinned down by the amiable chaplain, Father Roger.
Unlike his sister, Richard was not renowned for his devotion, except when it was politically expedient to appear in church or cathedral, so John wondered why he had shown this sudden urge to go to chapel on a Wednesday morning.
He opened the main door on the side of the building and stepped out of the bright sunlight into the dim interior. As his eyes adjusted, he saw his brother-in-law in the act of closing a smaller door on the other side of the nave, holding up a hand in what seemed to be a farewell gesture.
‘Taken to holding your meetings on holy ground now, Richard?’ de Wolfe called. The sheriff spun around and peered across the paved floor at him.
‘It’s you, John! Are you spying on me?’
He walked across the empty chapel towards the coroner. Richard was a head shorter than de Wolfe and lightly built, a dapper man with a taste for expensive and showy clothes. Today he wore a peacock-blue tunic down to his calves, the neck and hem embroidered with a double line of gold stitching. White hose ended in extravagantly pointed shoes in the latest fashion. He had light brown wavy hair curling over his ears and a neat, pointed beard of the same colour. His narrow face wore a permanently petulant expression, especially now, as he seemed annoyed that the coroner had surprised him in some private matter.
‘Who was that, then? Your confessor?’ snapped John, deliberately provoking his brother-in-law.
‘It’s no concern of yours. What did you want with me?’
‘You must have really pounded the road between Tiverton and here, to arrive by this hour.’
De Revelle shook his head impatiently. ‘The dawn comes early in June. I took to the road while you were still snoring, no doubt.’
He came closer and lifted his face to look up at the coroner. ‘Were you looking for me for some particular reason?’
Shafts of sunlight poured through the small unglazed windows high in the wall, causing dust motes to dance in the beams. Pools of light fell upon the stone ledges that ran down both walls of the little nave, the only place where the older or more infirm of the congregation could sit. John lowered himself to the cold slabs, but the sheriff remained standing, his gloved hands jabbed impatiently into his waist as John spoke.
‘I came to tell you that one of the verderers has been murdered – Humphrey le Bonde. As he was a King’s officer like us, I thought you should be told as soon as possible.’
John was puzzled to see a look of relief pass over Richard’s face – he seemed to relax suddenly, almost as if the air had escaped from a punctured bladder.
‘Thank you, John, but I already knew that. In fact, I have already appointed his successor – that was the fellow who just left through the other door. A messenger came to my manor last night, to tell me of the death.’
The coroner sighed – de Revelle so often seemed one step ahead of him, thanks to the legion of informers that he had scattered around the county.
‘You were quick off the mark filling his shoes! Who is it?’
Richard stroked his small beard with his fingertips, a mannerism that annoyed de Wolfe – though almost everything about the sheriff annoyed him.
‘Philip de Strete – I offered to nominate him to the County Court just now and he quite naturally accepted,’ he said smugly.
John shrugged. ‘Never heard of him. Who is he and where’s he from?’
‘A knight from Plympton, not far from my other manor at Revelstoke – that’s how I know him, as a lesser neighbour.’
De Wolfe thought cynically that, like his sister, Richard was ever conscious of his position in the pecking order of the county aristocracy and could not resist emphasising his higher status over this Philip. He wondered why the man so conveniently happened to be in Exeter to be offered the unexpected vacancy, but could not think of any sinister reason for it – though anything involving the sheriff was always liable to be devious.
‘Why the rush to appoint someone? The previous incumbent is not even in his grave yet!’
De Revelle began to look impatient, tugging at the cuffs of his gloves and glancing at the door.
‘The verderer’s work has to go on. The Attachment Court is due next week, over which he must preside.’
‘Did you discuss it with Nicholas de Bosco before you offered the job to this man?’
Now the sheriff’s impatience turned to annoyance. ‘That man is an incompetent old fool. It’s none of his business. The appointment is made by the freeholders of the county upon my writ. The Warden of the Forests has no say in the matter.’
He paused, then added angrily, ‘Neither is it any of your concern, John. I hear that you went to Sigford yesterday and held an inquest on the dead man. You had no right – forest law prevails there.’
This was too much for de Wolfe. He jumped up to tower over the sheriff, his dark face glowering down at him.
‘What arrant nonsense you talk, Richard! I am the King’s coroner and it’s his rule that runs everywhere in England. The forest laws concern offences against venison and vert, not men being shot in the back!’
Richard’s face reddened in anger. ‘I dispute that! This coroner nonsense came into being only last year – before that the forest, the stanneries and the Church dealt themselves with matters within their own jurisdiction.’
‘Well, they don’t now, Sheriff!’ bellowed de Wolfe, equally incensed. ‘The tinners no longer dispute my right to investigate their dead, even though you, as their Warden, tried to stop me. And the Bishop has agreed that any violence in the cathedral precinct should be handed to the secular powers. So if you wish to question the will of our King Richard, do so and suffer the consequences.’
De Revelle marched towards the door. ‘I’ll not waste time bandying words with you, John. You’ll overstep the mark one of these days and then it will be you that suffers the consequences!’
As the sheriff furiously threw the door open so wide that it banged against the wall, de Wolfe called out a warning.
‘Your sudden interest in the forest officers is suspicious, Richard. I trust, if only for your sister’s sake, that you’re not up to your tricks again – remember that you’re still on probation!’
His brother-in-law vanished into the sunlight without deigning to reply and John sank down again onto the stone shelf to ponder the situation. Though he was the King’s representative in Devon and the highest law officer in that county, Richard de Revelle had been in trouble ever since he took office as sheriff. Appointed at Christmas ’93, he was dismissed by Hubert Walter, the Chief Justiciar, a few months later on suspicion of being a supporter of Prince John’s abortive rebellion against the Lionheart, when the King was imprisoned in Germany. De Wolfe well remembered the anguish that his wife showed then, as her brother was her idol. When he was suspected of having feet of clay, Matilda urged her reluctant husband to intercede on de Revelle’s behalf with both the Justiciar and William Marshal, the two most powerful men in the land. In the summer, nothing having proved against him, he was reinstated. It was partly out of a begrudging gratitude – and Matilda’s insistence – that the sheriff supported John’s election to the new post of coroner, offered by Hubert Walter on behalf of the King.
But ever since, apart from the usual embezzlement and corruption that were the hallmark of most sheriffs, de Revelle had begun toying again with a covert allegiance to Prince John. De Wolfe suspected that the Prince had promised the politically ambitious de Revelle advancement at court, should he be successful in unseating his royal brother. Others were of the same mind, including Bishop Henry, brother to William Marshal, several of the senior clergy and some of the Devonshire barons, such as the de Pomeroys. It was only a few months since de Wolfe had caught his brother-in-law in another embryonic plot to foment more rebellion – and again, only Matilda’s pleading had stopped him from exposing de Revelle’s treachery. Since then, the sheriff had been treading carefully, but John now always kept a sharp lookout for a
ny schemes that Richard might be hatching.
A mellow voice suddenly brought him out of his reverie.
‘I’m glad to see you using my humble chapel for meditation, Crowner. Though I didn’t take you for someone with strong religious inclinations!’
Standing over him was a cheerful priest with a round face which matched the stomach that pushed out his black Benedictine habit into a comfortable bulge. He dropped down onto the ledge alongside de Wolfe and mopped his brow with a rag drawn from his gown.
‘Or maybe it was just cooler in here, Sir John.’
The coroner grinned crookedly at Father Roger, who he found an amiable companion. Only a short time before, the priest’s insatiable curiosity had briefly caused him to be suspected of multiple murders in the city, and John was glad that the accusations had soon proved unfounded.
‘Not curing souls this morning, Roger?’
‘Too hot for such laborious pastimes, Crowner. Thank God I only hold services here in the cool of early morning and towards dusk. Not that many of the heathen soldiery in Rougemont bother to attend, though their womenfolk are more devout.’
The priest had recently come from Bristol to become chaplain of the garrison and was always eager to learn more about Exeter, its people and its intrigues. The coroner told him of the killing of the verderer and the odd meeting in Roger’s own church between the sheriff and the new appointee. The chaplain was already well aware of the antagonism between coroner and sheriff and had a shrewd idea of its causes. John went on to recount to him the unrest that seemed to be growing in the Royal Forest and the unexplained antipathy towards the Warden, Nicholas de Bosco. He thought that the ever-curious chaplain might have heard some useful tittle-tattle from the priests in the town or nearby parishes.
‘I’ve heard nothing through the ecclesiastical grapevine,’ Roger said thoughtfully. ‘But I’ll keep my ears open for you. I sometimes meet parish priests from around Dartmoor – they are usually fond of a gossip.’
They chatted for some time, finding that they had many experiences in common. Roger of Bristol had a military past rather like de Wolfe’s, having been a chaplain to the King’s forces in several campaigns in which both had served, though they had never met before. His loyalty had been rewarded with curacy of the chapel at Bristol castle, until the soldierly Archbishop of Canterbury, the same Hubert Walter who was also Chief Justiciar, posted him to the vacancy at Exeter.
Fear in the Forest Page 6
