They left him to walk across the wide outer court between the abbey itself and the various buildings opposite, which comprised the large guest hall, the manorial court, the stables and the smithy, as well as the two gatehouses. The court was clean and tidy, unlike most public places in the towns and cities, and beyond it were orderly gardens and orchards, dotted with the beehives for which Buckfast was famous.
‘Do you want me to collect the little turd from his devotions?’ asked Gwyn, as they approached the door to the abbey cloisters.
‘No, let him be for now. I know he’s afraid of being recognised if he’s with us. Give him an hour of make-believe, poor sod.’
They went into the passage and reached the arched cloister, Gwyn scowling at the sight of silent Cistercians perambulating the paved arcades.
‘How they can think that keeping their gobs shut for years on end makes them holy, I just can’t see!’ he muttered under his breath.
John grinned at his officer’s determined antipathy to religion, a most unusual phenomenon and one for which he had never discovered the cause. He asked a passing lay brother, who was lugging a leather bucket of hot water, where he might find Father Edmund Treipas.
‘He’s not here, sir,’ said the old man. ‘He went off to Plymouth yesterday to arrange a shipment of the abbey’s wool to Barfleur.’
De Wolfe cursed under his breath at the prospect of a wasted journey from Exeter. ‘Well, is the abbot in residence?’
‘I’ll take you to his secretary, sir, if you’ll follow me.’
He dumped his bucket in the cloister and shuffled ahead of them to another door which led to the abbot’s house, on the south-west corner of the cloister. Inside the abbot’s lodgings, they were led up a staircase to a room where a young, rather supercilious monk sat behind a table covered with scrolls and writing materials. The Cistercian rule of silence was hardly compatible with the administration of a large organisation like Buckfast and, having enquired as to their identity, the secretary’s aloof manner moderated in the presence of the King’s coroner. He went to an adjacent door, tapped and went in. A moment later he returned and ushered them into the abbot’s parlour, a large, plainly furnished room with a glazed window that overlooked the outer court.
Abbot William was an austere man, with a shock of white hair surrounding his shaven crown. He reminded de Wolfe of his friend John de Alençon, with his narrow face and clear blue eyes. William was an eminent personage, having acted as a Papal Legate five years earlier. He graciously waved them to chairs on the other side of his plain table and John sat down, but Gwyn stood stiffly behind his master. The abbot enquired politely as to the nature of their business with him.
‘It’s a delicate matter, sir,’ began de Wolfe, rather unsure of his ground here. ‘I am investigating a series of crimes and disturbances in the Royal Forest, especially in this bailiwick. We have problems with a band of outlaws who appear to be getting support from outside for their nefarious actions.’
Abbot William looked mildly surprised.
‘The abbey is outwith the Royal Forest, though some of our more distant land and pastures lie within its bounds. What is this to do with us?’
John made one of his gargling noises to cover his indecision about suggesting that one of the senior monks was involved in treason.
‘It has been noted that a certain trader has been involved as a go-between with this band of outlaws,’ he said, in as neutral terms as possible. ‘This trader is also a frequent visitor to the abbey and seems to have close ties with one of your brethren.’
The abbot’s brows came together in a frown. ‘We have many traders coming to us. We are one of the largest landowners in the area and produce a great deal of wool, beasts, honey and other provender. It is inevitable that such dealers frequent the place.’ Of a sudden, the atmosphere in the chamber seemed to have become chilly.
‘This priest has also met with our suspect dealer well away from the abbey, such as at an alehouse near Ashburton.’
William became impatient. ‘Let us not beat about the bush, Sir John. Why not name names? You are no doubt referring to Father Edmund, as you said ‘priest’, not ‘monk’?’
John inclined his dark head. ‘Indeed, that is so. And the dealer was Stephen Cruch, a fellow of dubious reputation from the company he keeps.’
The abbot waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. ‘I know nothing of the tradesmen who deal with the abbey,’ he said sharply. ‘In fact, that is why Edmund came to us, as he had a reputation for worldly expertise and seemed capable of managing the outside affairs of the abbey.’
‘How was it that he did come to Buckfast?’
‘My friend in God, Bishop Henry, arranged it. I understand that Father Edmund was beneficial in restoring the fortunes of the See of Coventry and had in fact been a merchant in that city before he gave up the worship of Mammon for the cloth and later the cloister.’
He fixed de Wolfe with a steely eye. ‘I fail to see what gain you expected by coming to Buckfast, Crowner. I can assure you that this abbey has no interest whatsoever in fomenting trouble in the Royal Forest. What exactly is it you think has been going on?’
John decided that it would be best to be quite frank with this perceptive old man.
‘There are coincidences that need explanation. Undoubtedly forces are at work stirring up trouble in the forest, the object of which is not clear at the moment. But money is changing hands towards that end and this horse-dealer seems to be one of the channels through which it passes. Your cellarer, Edmund Treipas, is in regular contact with the man – and that good father came via Bishop Henry Marshal from his previous master, the Bishop of Coventry. It is common knowledge where their sympathies lie.’
Abbot William stared at de Wolfe for a long moment.
‘Ah, I see how your mind is working, Sir John! You suspect the common factor is the Count of Mortain, don’t you?’
His voice was level and controlled, but John sensed the anger beneath.
‘You are well known as a staunch King’s man and I applaud you for that. And I am no traitor either, though my allegiance must be to God first and to men second.’
He paused to choose his words carefully. ‘Yet you must understand that many people, especially in this abbey, have mixed feelings about who would make the best king. We can hardly feel unstinting devotion to Richard Coeur-de-Lion, who openly expresses his dislike of the Cistercians.’
William slapped his hands on the edge of his table.
‘And what of his actions two years ago, when he stripped us of every penny of our wool revenues for a whole year, to help pay for his ransom? We almost fell into financial ruin through that punitive act – our brethren ate poorly that winter, I can assure you! And before that, we had to forfeit some of our treasured silver chalices from the very altar itself, to fund his wars!’
De Wolfe always took poorly to any criticism of his monarch.
‘Buckfast was not alone in that, Abbot. The whole country had to make sacrifices at the times of the wars, the Crusade and the King’s capture.’
‘But why should we? We have a king who thinks of nothing but fighting abroad. He spends no time in England, he bleeds the country dry and yet expects unswerving allegiance! Is it any surprise that some wonder if his brother John might make a better sovereign? He certainly has promised we monastic orders some preferment when he comes to the throne, as come he must before long. It’s only a matter of time before our foolhardy Richard gets himself killed in some rash combat.’
John testily thought that anyone other than a senior cleric could be arraigned for sedition for uttering such sentiments, yet an abbot could get away with it.
‘Are you saying that you condone any activities such as I suspect your cellarer might be engaged in?’
‘Of course not!’ snapped William. ‘And I am confident that Edmund is not involved in anything illegal or unchristian. Frankly, I think your suspicions are based on nothing but rumour and supposition.’
He stood up abruptly and, picking a small handbell from his table, rang it for his secretary. The young monk appeared with such alacrity that de Wolfe suspected that he had been listening with his ear to the door.
‘The coroner is leaving now. See them to the court and ensure they have refreshment in the guest hall before they ride back to Exeter,’ he commanded. He offered them a courteous but cold farewell, and soon de Wolfe and his officer were outside, feeling somewhat chastened by the peremptory manner of the elderly monk.
‘We’ll learn nothing more here today,’ grumbled Gwyn. ‘Our only chance would be to catch this Edmund red handed, passing a purse of silver to Stephen Cruch.’
‘Little chance of that now. They’ll have been warned both by the knowledge of someone stalking their meeting in the forest – and now by us coming here.’
There was nothing for it but to collect Thomas from the church and set off for home. When they reached Rougemont, it was still only early afternoon, as their seven-hour expedition to Buckfast had begun soon after dawn and these midsummer days were long. A messenger was waiting for John, a man in the service of Guy Ferrars, who requested his presence at his son’s town house in Goldsmith Street. The baron himself lived at several of his manors, as the fancy took him, often at Tiverton, where he had an estate which dwarfed that of his neighbour, Richard de Revelle.
His son Hugh was a rather stupid young man, fond of hunting, gaming and drinking. The previous autumn, the coroner had been involved in investigating the death of Hugh’s fiancée, a tragedy that had led to murder. Since then, the son had added wenching to his list of pastimes, much to his father’s displeasure, and it was rumoured that Lord Ferrars was now actively involved in finding a wife for his son, in an attempt to bring him to heel.
John mulled over these memories as he walked behind the servant the short distance to Goldsmith Street, which was off High Street behind the Guildhall. The house belonged to a friend of Reginald de Courcy, and the Ferrars rented the two rooms on the ground floor, where Hugh lived with a squire when he was in the city. Today, his father was there in his stead, sitting in the small hall adjacent to the street door, with a flask of best Loire wine by his side.
His servant poured one for John, who sat on a bench facing the baron.
‘De Wolfe, since we last spoke I’ve been thinking about this servant of mine who vanished in that ambush. You’re right – if he’s dead, he should be found and the villain who killed him brought to justice.’
John nodded gravely. ‘I agree wholeheartedly, my lord. If he is dead, then it is my duty as a law officer to hold an inquest. But I thought you had failed to find any trace of him?’
The florid-faced baron, a large, beefy man with a permanently pugnacious expression, glowered at his wine cup.
‘So my men told me. But I have had a thought that we could return to the scene and use some hounds to track him. His wife can provide some remnant of his clothing that will have his scent, so surely a good dog could find him?’
John knew that there were three types of dog used in hunting: the big liam hound for starting the quarry from its lair, then the ‘leparii’, the lean greyhounds which hunted by sight, but mainly the ordinary hound, the ‘brachetti’, which hunted by scent. It seemed a good idea of Ferrars’, if the brachetti would accept the human smell from clothing.
‘I’m damned if I’m going to let these forest bastards get away with this,’ snarled Guy. ‘Trying to steal game from my chase is bad enough, but then to kill one of my own men is beyond reason.’
John told him of his visit earlier that day to Buckfast and the abbot’s admission that many favoured Prince John, especially those to whom he had promised favours, such as the monasteries.
‘The King is the King!’ roared Ferrars, spilling some of his wine in his passion. ‘If Richard was to die, which God forbid, then I would be equally loyal to the next monarch – though I view the prospect of John Lackland on the throne with dismay and contempt.’
Though Ferrars was an overbearing bigot and a harsh, unforgiving landlord and master to his subjects, he was totally devoted to Richard the Lionheart, having fought alongside him many times. De Wolfe could forgive him his rough nature because of his loyalty, even though he could never generate any affection for the man.
‘So what’s to be done about the matter?’ he asked, partly to cool the baron’s rising temperature, already fuelled by too much wine.
‘Can you join us tomorrow morning, Crowner, if I get a search party and some hounds? I’d give much to find this corpse, for my own satisfaction, though no doubt his family would like to see him given a Christian burial.’
They arranged to meet at one of his manors near Lustleigh the following morning, John groaning inwardly at the thought of yet another two-hour ride soon after dawn. As he was leaving, Guy Ferrars followed him to the door.
‘I’ll bring that bumpkin of a son of mine, too. He’s not the brightest of men, but he’s big and fit and can wield a sword after a fashion.’
John went from Goldsmith Street to his house, where he collapsed into his fireside chair to rest his aching limbs. Though he was well used to spending much of his time in the saddle, these past few days had put a strain on him, having to ride long distances following his head injury and the still-painful slash across his hip. The thought came to him as Mary bustled about getting him a meal that he was getting old. He was now forty-one, and though he knew of men eighty years of age, relatively few survived past fifty or sixty. True, the upper classes fared better, though being killed in battle was an ever-present hazard. The villeins and serfs had a far lower life expectancy, threatened by pestilence, starvation and accidents, many being fortunate to reach thirty.
As he sat in his gloomy hall, hung with faded tapestries to hide the timber walls, he thought about death and how it would come. He hoped it would be sudden, unexpected and bloody, rather than a slow wasting from a seizure or a long fever or some variety of pox. If it were not for Gwyn and the tavern hound, he could have died this week, slumped bemused in that forest, fading in and out of consciousness and with a bleeding wound.
He shook himself free of these morbid thoughts as Mary brought in his dinner. At the table he found that she had fried him three trout, which rested invitingly on a large trencher of barley bread, with turnips and leeks on a side platter. Wild berries, white bread and cheese followed, with a quart of best ale to wash it down.
‘I went down to the Bush for a gallon, just to cheer you up, Sir Crowner!’ she announced, in her part-mocking, part-affectionate way.
‘I thought you might have forgotten the place, now that your lady friend is no longer in residence.’
Then, becoming serious, she enquired after Nesta’s health. ‘I heard that she is still very weak, poor girl. Maybe I can walk up to Polsloe some time to see her and take her a decent morsel of food. I doubt they get anything very tasty in that place.’
John slipped an arm around her waist as she stood near him at the table.
‘Your heart is in the right place, Mary, apart from being in a very shapely chest!’ he said. ‘Soon I will have to be away for at least a week, travelling to Winchester, so it would be good if you could visit her when I’m gone.’
His meal finished, he crawled to his bed for a few hours’ rest to ease his aching side, but in the evening he borrowed a mare from the farrier and rode gently up to Polsloe. Nesta was much the same, though perhaps even more pale and wan. Her face was so white that her cheeks seemed almost green below the eyes. When she rested her hand in his as he sat at the bedside, he saw that her nail-beds were the colour of milk, without a vestige of pink. She spoke little, as if the effort of talking was too much, but seemed somehow more content, even in her exhausted state.
John attempted to make largely one-sided conversation, no mean feat for such a taciturn man. Nesta lay listening, savouring the thought that she would no longer have to screw up the courage to respond to Thomas’s plea to tell John that the child w
as not his. Her feelings about losing the babe were strange, and she was almost frightened by her own lack of emotion about the miscarriage. There was a natural element of deep shock and sorrow that was inevitable in any woman, but overlying this was the feeling of relief that she had escaped from an intolerable situation – one that had almost driven her to take the life of both herself and the baby she carried.
As John faltered to the end of his stock of small talk, which mainly concerned his problems in the forest and the day’s excursion to Buckfast, she lay sleepily under the influence of Dame Madge’s infusion of gentian. As he fell silent, she squeezed his hand and remembered something to tell him.
‘Dear Thomas came to visit me this afternoon, while you were snoring in your bed,’ she said softly. ‘He is a good little man – he has been kinder to me than you would ever imagine.’
‘Is he another fellow for me to be jealous of, a rival for your affections, madam?’ he said jocularly. ‘Will I have to fight him with broadswords for your favours?’
‘I can’t see little Thomas fighting anyone. He is a true man of peace – and one who has the greatest devotion and affection for you, too. He has promised to teach me to read and write when I am recovered, so that I can keep accounts in the inn.’
‘Then you can write me love letters – and I will speed up my own learning so that I can read them!’
Their tender flirting was interrupted by the forbidding figure of Dame Madge coming into the room. She looked impassively at the sight of the county coroner holding hands with an innkeeper, while his noble wife was hardly a dozen yards away under the same roof.
The angular nun advanced on the bed with some brown potion for Nesta. ‘She needs to build back the blood she lost, Sir John. There’s no more I can do for her, except keep watch against a fever and give her the best nourishment.’
John expressed his deep appreciation of the treatment she was receiving. ‘I have to go to Winchester in a few days and will be away a week or more. Can she stay here until I return? Her maids at the inn are diligent, but I would be more content if she was cared for here.’
Fear in the Forest Page 31
