Fear in the Forest

by Bernard Knight

  They walked around the cloisters and then up some stairs to reach the long dorter, where the monks slept in spartan conditions, their hard pallets devoid of bedspreads and their clothing and meagre belongings conforming to the harsh edicts of the Rule of St Benedict, which the Cistercians had reintroduced earlier in the century. The lay brother stood with Thomas, looking down the long bare dormitory.

  ‘You may have been more comfortable in the guest hall, brother,’ he admitted rather sheepishly, but the coroner’s clerk was only too delighted to share the rigours of these men of God. An aged monk appeared from a small anteroom and introduced himself as Brother Howell, the curator of the dorter. He was allowed to talk when business demanded, especially to those not of his order, and soon settled Thomas on a spare mattress in a corner of the long, high-roofed sleeping hall.

  ‘We have no separate hospitium for accommodating visiting priests, but these pallets are reserved for them.’

  ‘You can eat in the refectory with the rest of the brethren,’ advised the lay brother as he left. ‘Though if you want anything other than vegetarian fare, you’ll have to come across to the guest house.’

  Just as John de Wolfe was enjoying his visit to his old home, Thomas de Peyne was also relishing these two nights and a day in this beloved environment of a religious establishment. He went to every one of the six daily services, took the sacrament twice and was overjoyed on the second occasion to be asked to assist near the altar, attired in a borrowed surplice over his grubby robe.

  So elated was he by his good fortune, Thomas almost forgot why he was there, and certainly, during his almost trance-like state during the offices, he had no thoughts to spare for the coroner’s problems. In the refectory, where he shared the extremely simple fare, eaten in silence whilst extracts from the Gospels and from the Rule of St Benedict were intoned by a brother standing at a lectern, there was nothing to be learned about the politics of Buckfast. However, during the brief periods after meals when conversation was allowed, he remembered his role as a spy and did his best to pick up any useful information. In truth, there was very little that the monks themselves could tell him as they led a very introverted existence and knew little of what went on outside the abbey.

  What meagre information he did manage to pick up came not from them, but from the lay brothers, who were local men who worked for the abbey for their bed and board plus a small wage. This was the workforce of the Cistercians, labourers who worked the huge estate, herded the sheep and cattle, ploughed the land, harvested the crops and did all the construction and maintenance work on the buildings. In his walks around the abbey compound and short forays out into the gardens, where huge vegetable plots and numerous beehives provided the sustenance for the community, he spoke to many of the workers, the majority of whom were happy to lean on their shovels or brooms for a moment to gossip.

  In the stables, where his pony was also enjoying a well-fed respite, Thomas talked to the grooms and the farrier, storing up a picture of the abbey’s lifestyle and governance in his clever little head. Out of all this, Thomas gained very little of use to his master in Exeter, but one item of intelligence intrigued him, though he had no real reason to think that it had any bearing on his mission. On Saturday afternoon, he was exchanging small talk with the loquacious custodian of the guest hall, both of them standing outside the door in the sunshine, as the threatened bad weather had cleared after a mild thunderstorm the previous night. They were idly watching the comings and goings of people in the wide courtyard, which was bounded by a wall joining the abbey buildings, the large guest house opposite and the north and south gateways. A man came striding towards them, his clothes streaked with road grime, a saddlebag slung over his shoulder. A short fellow with a tanned, leathery face, the traveller gave a friendly nod to the lay brother and walked straight through the door with an assurance that indicated his familiarity with the place.

  ‘One of our regulars,’ commented the custodian, as if sensing Thomas’s thoughts. ‘Stays here every few weeks – more often that that, sometimes.’

  ‘Does he work for the abbey?’ asked the ever-curious clerk.

  ‘No, he’s a horse and stock dealer, but he does a lot of trade with us. He’s forever closeted with Father Edmund, bargaining over sales of our sheep, cattle and horses, especially breeding stock, for which Buckfast is famous.’

  Thomas’s interest waned a little – he was not interested in the sale of beasts. However, a priest had been mentioned, one that he had never heard of before.

  ‘So who’s Father Edmund? One of the monks?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a senior man in the chapter is Father Edmund Treipas. A Cistercian, but also an ordained priest, like you. He came here from Exeter a couple of years ago to be the cellarer, though now he’s far more than that.’

  ‘How do you mean, more than that?’

  ‘Well, he’s more like the abbey’s ambassador, always travelling to buy and sell in the world outside. A big place like this is an industry in itself – and the abbot and the brothers don’t like going outside much, with their vows of silence and suchlike, so he does all that business side. We needed a clever mind, after that demand from the King in ’93, when were almost ruined over the wool crop.’

  Thomas had the sense not to draw too much attention to himself with more enquiries, but the presence of a much-travelled senior ecclesiastic caused him to make a special foray early on Sunday morning, between services in the church. After taking directions from a porter in the courtyard, he made his way into the cloisters and sought out a small door off the southern arcade. Tapping gently on the heavy panels, he did not wait for a response, but pushed it open and peered around the edge. He saw an untidy room, looking quite unlike any other part of the well-ordered abbey. A wide table was covered with open rolls of parchment and a long rack on a side wall was filled with dozens of rolls sticking out of pigeon-holes. The floor was cluttered with crates and boxes, even a full bale of raw wool, some sticking out of the hessian covering as if having been sampled.

  Behind the table was a monk in a Cistercian habit, but with a wide leather belt around his waist, which carried a large document scrip.

  The cellarer was standing up, sorting parchment lists with an air of grim determination, his strong features set in concentration. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, irritation on his face at the interruption.

  ‘What is it? Who are you?’

  As Thomas’s objective was merely to get a look at the man, he took the quickest means of escape. Fumbling in his scrip for some coins, he made the excuse that as a passing priest grateful for accommodation for a couple of nights, he thought he should give his widow’s mite to the abbey – and having heard that Father Treipas was the focal point of the management, he had come to offer a few pence, which was all he had.

  The burly priest waved him away impatiently.

  ‘There’s an offertory in the church, brother – and another in the guest hall. Put it in there, don’t bother me with such trifles. I’ve two hundred bales to be carted to Plymouth tomorrow.’

  Thomas bobbed his head apologetically and withdrew rapidly, but not before impressing the father’s face on his mind, in case he needed to recognise him again. Content that he had done all he could for the coroner, Thomas made his way reluctantly to the stables to collect his pony. As he rode out of the abbey compound under the south gatehouse towards the high road, he looked back longingly at the place where, for a few short hours, he had been a priest again, among his own kind and the prayers, chants and ceremonies that were so dear to him. He had given up all thoughts of trying to end his miserable life, as God had given him a sign when he had failed in his solitary attempt – now perhaps this was another sign, for if his uncle’s attempts to have him reinstated in Holy Orders failed, then perhaps he could seek solace by spending the rest of his life as an unordained monk.

  As he turned his pony’s head towards the Exeter road and his rendezvous with Gwyn at Ashburton, he clung on
to his side saddle in a better frame of mind than he had experienced for many months.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In which Matilda goes to Polsloe

  It was early evening before all three of the coroner’s team got together at Rougemont. De Wolfe had arrived back from Stoke-in-Teignhead late in the afternoon, to find no sign of Matilda at home. Thankful for a postponement of her inevitable sniping at his visit to his family, he assumed she had gone either to St Olave’s or to her long-suffering cousin in Fore Street. Neither Mary nor Lucille was at the house in Martin’s Lane, but as it was Sunday they were entitled to a few hours’ freedom.

  He promised himself a visit to the Bush as soon as possible, but before that he wanted to make sure that his two assistants had returned safely and to hear what they had learned, if anything. When he climbed the stairs to his chamber above the gatehouse, he was relieved to find that they were both there. Thomas had met Gwyn as arranged at the inn in Ashburton, and together they had travelled back to Exeter. John lowered himself to his stool behind the table and glared at his two henchmen, his habitual fierce expression disguising the fact that he was relieved to see them safe and sound.

  ‘Why the new baldric strap?’ he asked, looking at the band of new leather running diagonally across Gwyn’s huge chest. His officer’s red moustache lifted as he grinned.

  ‘A long story, Crowner, but some bastard outlaw sliced through the other one. I must be getting old, it took me several seconds to kill him!’

  Their more timorous clerk blanched at this casual talk of slaying, even though he had already heard the story. Now he heard it all again, as Gwyn related his brief penetration of the outlaw gang and then summed up his conclusions.

  ‘It’s clear that they are being paid by someone to aggravate whatever’s going on in the forest. As well as their usual tricks of thieving and robbery with violence, Robert Winter and his mob are doing dirty work for the foresters – or at least for two of them, William Lupus and Michael Crespin.’

  De Wolfe considered this for a moment, brooding over his table like a great black crow. ‘Why are they doing it – and who’s paying them?’ he ruminated, half to himself.

  ‘It can hardly be for personal gain,’ piped Thomas. ‘To pay men to beat up some cottar just because he refused to give them a bit of fodder and a couple of pigs seems ridiculous. I think it more likely that there’s a campaign to make the forest administration look unmanageable – closing forges and burning tanneries, penalising alehouses. Surely that must be to make the forest dwellers so outraged that they demand change.’

  ‘Who the hell cares about how the forest is run?’ objected Gwyn, who usually appeared to ridicule anything the clerk said, though in reality, he had a deep regard for the little man’s intelligence.

  John rasped his fingers thoughtfully over his black stubble – he had forgotten his Saturday shave the day before, being in Stoke.

  ‘Yes, who could possibly gain by it?’ he pondered. ‘But what if someone wanted to replace the existing senior forest officers by making it obvious that the present regime had lost its grip?’

  Gwyn nodded his shaggy head. ‘We’ve had a verderer murdered and the Warden attacked and half killed. That’s a good start towards getting new officers.’

  ‘And our sheriff appointed a new verderer almost before the slain one was cold!’ added Thomas.

  ‘One of the outlaws sniggered when I suggested that their behaviour would have the sheriff down upon them,’ Gwyn recollected.

  De Wolfe beat an agitated tattoo on the table with his dirty fingernails.

  ‘Yes, the bloody sheriff! He hinted to me that he would like to be Warden of the Forest himself. Though God knows why, there can’t be much money in it. There’s no salary and I can’t see the foresters sharing the loot from their extortions with him.’

  There was a silence as John worked things over in his mind. Gwyn took the opportunity to lug out his pitcher of cider and get three pottery cups from a niche in the stony wall. Shaking out woodlice and spiders, he filled the mugs and handed them around.

  ‘Did you learn anything else in your brief sojourn as an outlaw, Gwyn?’ grunted the coroner.

  ‘Not much – only confirmation that the foresters have stepped up their oppression in the last few months. But we knew that already. The odd thing is that this Robert Winter – who seems quite a smart fellow –is getting paid for helping the foresters create their disturbances. I’ll wager that it was one of their gang who put an arrow in the verderer’s back, probably for money.’

  ‘So who the hell is paying them?’ mused de Wolfe, sipping his cider.

  ‘They seem to be quite bold in their dealings with townsfolk. I saw this Martin Angot deep in conversation with someone in the tavern in Ashburton,’ said Gwyn. ‘Someone like that could easily be passing on orders and payment.’

  ‘Did you recognise him?’

  ‘No, but I’ve got a feeling I’ve seen him here in Exeter at some time. He was a little, dark-featured fellow with a face like a dried fig.’

  At this, Thomas sat up and took notice.

  ‘I saw a man in Buckfast yesterday who looked like that,’ he squeaked. ‘A lined, leathery face and no taller than me.’

  The coroner looked dubious. ‘Plenty of men look like that.’

  Thomas was not to be put off. ‘This one was a horse-trader, they told me. I don’t know his name, but he did a lot of business with the abbey, through Father Edmund, the cellarer.’

  Now it was Gwyn who looked interested. ‘A horse-trader? One of those outlaws said that a horse-trader came in to see Robert Winter now and then. Could be the same man.’

  ‘Who’s this Father Edmund you speak of?’ demanded John.

  ‘He’s a priest-monk, but seems to conduct all the business for Buckfast. Came from Exeter a couple of years ago, but by his accent he’s from up north somewhere. I went to take a look at him, but I’ve never seen him before.’

  De Wolfe rasped his chin again as an aid to thought.

  ‘He’s a senior priest from west of Exeter, which fits with the vague hint I had from your uncle. Though there’s plenty of them about.’

  ‘But worth looking into, if he has dealings with this horse-dealer, given it’s the same fellow as the one in the alehouse,’ recommended Gwyn.

  ‘I’ll ask about him, too,’ ruminated the coroner. ‘Ralph Morin is the one to talk to about horses. He has to buy them for the garrison.’

  They chewed over the scanty information for a few more minutes, but failed to distil anything further from it. When the cider was finished, for which Thomas’s more fastidious palate was thankful, they went their various ways and John returned to his house in Martin’s Lane.

  There was no one in the hall when he put his head around the screens, and when he climbed the stairs to the solar John found that empty as well. When Matilda went to her cousin’s house, she occasionally stayed until late – and sometimes, when she was particularly annoyed with him, she stayed the night without bothering to let him know. He was therefore not much concerned at her absence and decided to go straight down to the Bush to see Nesta and have something to eat.

  As he clattered down the steep steps into the yard, Mary came out of her kitchen shed a few yards away and stood waiting with her arms folded in what struck John as a rather belligerent attitude.

  ‘She’s gone, you know!’ she said challengingly.

  John stopped on the last step and stared at his maid.

  ‘I know that! Is she at church or at her cousin’s?’

  ‘Neither – I told you, she’s gone. This time for good, she said!’

  He took Mary by the arm and led her back into her hut, pushing her gently down on to a stool, while he stood towering over her.

  ‘What’s all this about? How can she have gone – and where?’

  The dark-haired maid, usually on his side against his abrasive wife, looked up accusingly. John had the feeling that she was siding with all the women.

&nbs
p; ‘You’ve really done it this time, Sir Crowner!’ Mary only used that half-cynical title when she was annoyed with him. ‘Your lady wife has discovered that you’ve got Nesta with child – and she’s up and left you.’

  De Wolfe groaned. It had to happen sooner or later, but he had hoped to put off the evil hour a little longer. Nesta was not even showing her pregnancy yet.

  ‘She’ll be back,’ he said half-heartedly. ‘She’s taken umbrage many times before and gone to her cousin for a few days or so.’

  Mary shook her head with disconcerting assurance. ‘Not this time! She’s taken herself to Polsloe and says she’s going to stay there for the rest of her life.’

  John’s heart leapt in his chest. ‘The priory? I can’t believe it!’

  There was mixed doubt and elation in his voice. This was something he had hoped for and even fantasised about for ages. He had been intending to ask his archdeacon friend whether Matilda taking the veil was equivalent to an annulment of his marriage, as this was the only way he could see himself ever being free of her, short of her death, for which he had never wished.

  Mary was still glaring at him, from solidarity with all wronged women, but he pressed on with eager questions.

  ‘How did she find out? No one knows except a few at the Bush – and you. When did all this happen?’