Fear in the Forest

by Bernard Knight

  As they trotted along through endless lines of trees and past a legion of strip-fields around the villages on the Winchester road, his thoughts turned to Nesta, whom he had left still pale and fragile in a priory cell.

  She had changed somehow, he reflected. In the weeks since she had announced her pregnancy, she seemed to have shrunk away from him, though since her miscarriage her attitude had slanted a different way, one that his blunt masculine sensibility could not fathom. He felt recently that even Thomas now had more of a rapport with Nesta that he did himself. Though it would be ludicrous to feel any jealousy for the little clerk, he had the impression that there was some secret between them to which he was not privy. He loved Nesta, he decided with some trepidation – and having got used to the idea of becoming father to her child, the sudden ending of that prospect seemed to have left him adrift.

  Was he being punished for his sins? he wondered. Like everyone – with the possible exception of Gwyn – he believed in the Almighty. He had never even contemplated not believing, as faith was an ingrained part of life, like sleeping, eating and making love. It was dinned into everyone from the moment they could crawl – mothers, fathers and the priests built up a solidly tangible milieu of God, Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, the saints and angels, as well as heaven, hell and the Devil. Sin was inescapable: the clerics thundered that every child was born with original sin and you should spend the rest of your life trying to diminish its burden before you died. Most people lost no sleep over this, and though they never dreamt of questioning it most never gave it a thought, except perhaps during the hour spent standing in a cold church being harangued by the parish priest.

  But maybe he had done something so wrong that his burden of sin had increased almost beyond redemption, and now he was being warned to be vigilant before it was too late. As he rode along, he went over all his potential mortal sins during the past forty-one years. He had killed plenty of men, God knew – and, of course, God did know. But they were all slain in battle or self-defence, so surely that was no sin? He had dispatched two in the forest only a few days ago, but it was him or them. He had killed dozens in Palestine, but surely ridding the Holy Land of Mohammedans was the whole point of the Crusades! Did not the Church actively canvas for recruits to liberate Jerusalem? John himself had accompanied Archbishop Baldwin around Wales in ’88 in an intensive recruiting campaign for the Third Crusade. In the Irish and French campaigns, again he had slain countless men, but that was for his King, the anointed of God. No, a soldier’s duty could be no sin.

  He had never raped a woman, though he had had plenty of willing ones. He had never robbed anyone, for looting in war was legitimate. What other transgressions could have been responsible for his present state? Yes, he had been jealous on occasions and covetous of other men’s wives – who hadn’t? If avarice, extortion and embezzlement were heinous sins, then why was his brother-in-law apparently so comfortable with himself? He should be frying in hell by now.

  At the end of it all, John was driven back on his love life to explain his present unease. He had been constantly unfaithful to Matilda all his married life, but he would be hard pressed to think of a man of his acquaintance who was different. In his many years away at the wars, he had lechered and whored like anyone else – and since he had been home, he had dallied with the delicious Hilda of Dawlish whenever he had the chance, as well as their maid Mary and a certain widow in Sidmouth – and a few more he could hardly recall. And, of course, Nesta, sweet Nesta, was the culmination of them all. So that must be the answer, he concluded gloomily – his infidelity had been punished by taking away his first son before it was even born, leaving him in limbo between an absent wife and a mistress whose attitude towards him seemed to have become strange.

  Thankfully, these dismal thoughts were brought to an end by Guy Ferrars yelling up ahead and waving his arm at the village of Ringwood to indicate that this was where they would spend their last night before Winchester.

  With a sigh, he switched his mind from women to the prospect of a good meal, a few quarts of ale and a palliasse in the hall of the manor house.

  Early the next evening they entered the bustling city through the West Gate and the two Ferrars and their steward made their way to an inn which they habitually used on their visits to Winchester. Their men-at-arms were given a few pence and told to fend for themselves until the morning. John de Wolfe and his companions found another tavern which provided straw-filled mattresses in a barn behind the main building, and after a meal in the taproom below, John sat with his officer having a few jars of ale and gossiping with other patrons.

  Thomas had wandered off on a nostalgic tour of the city he knew so well and which had been the scene of his downfall. In truth, he was somewhat apprehensive of being recognised and perhaps reviled by old acquaintances, so he slunk along in the shadows of the approaching dusk, his eyes wary for any familiar face. He went cautiously into the cathedral and knelt in a dark corner, crossing himself and praying. The little clerk’s eyes were full of tears for what might have been, if he could have stayed long enough to gain a prized prebend. He might have become a canon in the place where he had studied, been ordained and taught, until the wiles of women and his own misguided foolishness had brought about the catastrophe that had all but ended his life.

  As the twilight deepened, Thomas made his way back to the inn at the bottom of High Street, and wearily laid himself down on his bag of straw, pulling his thin cloak over him. He was still awake when the other two came to their own pallets, aching after a long day in the saddle, but the old campaigners were snoring within minutes of lying down fully clothed on their thin mattresses.

  The morning came all too quickly for the tired travellers, but an hour after dawn saw them eating thin oatmeal gruel and coarse barley bread in the alehouse. Gwyn grumbled about the quality of the food, but as the price of their penny bed included the morning meal, they ate it on principle, though the Cornishman vowed that he would visit the first pie stall they saw when they went out. He did this on the way up the hill to the castle, where they had arranged to meet the Ferrars in the hall of the keep.

  Winchester Castle was larger than Rougemont and far busier, so they had to push their way through the throngs of people in the vaulted chamber to reach the baron. He was standing with his son and steward, talking to a sombrely-dressed cleric who was one of the Justiciar’s chamberlains.

  ‘We’re fortunate, de Wolfe,’ Ferrars said as they approached. ‘Hubert Walter is here today, but leaves for London in the morning and then goes on to York.’ The itinerant Chief Justiciar combined running the political machinery of England with heading its Church as Archbishop of Canterbury. Hubert was an elusive figure, as he liked to inspect the kingdom at first hand as much as possible and was always on the move.

  The chamberlain promised to expedite their audience with him, but they still had to cool their heels in the great hall for another two hours before they were taken to a chamber on an upper floor to meet the most powerful man in the country. The Justiciar was a down-to-earth man and rarely indulged in the pomp and ceremony that his rank allowed. He rose from his table to greet them, dressed in a plain brown tunic that displayed neither his political eminence nor his supreme ecclesiastical rank. The only token of his religious status was a small silver cross hanging on a chain around his neck.

  He greeted Guy Ferrars first, as befitted his barony, but his arm clasp for John carried an extra warmth for an old friend and battle comrade. Hubert was a tall, strong man with a lean, leathery face tanned by his past campaigns and his constant travelling. He looked far more the soldier-statesman than Prelate of Canterbury. His businesslike manner marked him out as the genius behind England’s survival after the crippling financial crisis that the more feckless of King Richard’s wars and ransom had caused.

  Gwyn and Thomas, together with Ferrars’ steward, retired to the back of the room to stand inconspicuously with several clerks, who hovered anxiously with parchment rolls f
or the Justiciar’s attention, while John, Guy Ferrars and his son were ushered to chairs in front of Hubert’s table. The chamberlain’s snapping fingers brought wine from a side table and then the Justiciar got down to business.

  He listened intently as Ferrars bluntly outlined the problem in the Royal Forest of Devon and the coroner supplied more details of the transgressions of the foresters and the increasing boldness of the outlaws.

  ‘So Richard de Revelle may be up to his old tricks again?’ observed Hubert when they had finished. ‘I thought he might have learned his lesson after that trouble when I was in Exeter last.’

  The archbishop had visited the city the previous autumn, when the coroner and the sheriff were locked in a dispute over jurisdiction and the courts. Both then and a few months later, de Revelle had sailed very close to the wind of treason, and only John’s reluctance to fully expose him – mainly because of Matilda’s pleas for her brother – had saved his shrievalty and possibly his neck. But Hubert Walter was well aware of the doubtful loyalty of the Sheriff of Devonshire.

  ‘Perhaps we should have got rid of him then,’ he observed. ‘Or even earlier, by refusing to confirm him as sheriff last year, when his original appointment was suspended for three months.’

  ‘The man’s been a bloody liability all along!’ rasped Guy Ferrars. ‘Can’t you just dismiss him? Surely you can persuade the Curia to throw him out.’

  The Justiciar steepled his hands to his chin. ‘It’s not so easy. He has influential friends in Prince John’s camp. The Bishop down there supports him, as do some of your fellow barons, like the de Pomeroys.’

  Ferrars made a rude noise, to indicate what he thought of the Pomeroys of Berry Castle. ‘They’re all part of this conspiracy to bring back John,’ he snarled. ‘Even the ringleader, Hugh of Nonant, is still plotting away, even though his fellow bishops dismissed him from Coventry. Now he skulks in Normandy, waiting his chance.’

  ‘So what can be done about this immediate problem in the forest?’ asked de Wolfe, afraid Ferrars would divert the discussion into broader issues.

  Hubert pondered for a moment. ‘The Council wouldn’t back me in removing de Revelle as sheriff without clear proof of his involvement, but I can certainly block any ambitions he might have of becoming Warden of the Forests. In fact, plans are under way to hold a Commission on the Stannaries to unseat him from his position there as Lord Warden.’

  He looked across at the coroner. ‘What about the present Warden, Nicholas de Bosco? We gave him that post almost as a sinecure, a reward for his long service. But is he up to it, in the present unrest?’

  ‘He has little real power, so I think he should stay,’ replied John. ‘It would help if some strong endorsement of his position came from you or the Curia, just to warn off de Revelle. It’s these outlaws that concern us.’

  ‘We don’t have enough men to make a determined sweep of the forest to get rid of them,’ snapped Ferrars. ‘Many of my tenant knights and their men-at-arms have been taken to France to fight with the King.’

  De Wolfe explained how he was sure that they were being financed by Prince John, through a devious route, probably involving the Church.

  ‘It’s a hell of a coincidence that this Father Treipas, who is in a Cistercian house that strongly favours the Prince, came from Coventry, where he was an acolyte of Hugh of Nonant. And then he moved to Devon, via a close connection with our own Bishop Marshal!’

  Guy Ferrars snorted. ‘It’s clearly a conspiracy. Without the help of these bandits, the foresters and verderer could not stir up so much trouble. The object seems to be to dislodge the Warden, as well as increase the forest revenues for John’s benefit, when he attempts another rebellion through the south-west.’

  The Justiciar drummed his fingers restlessly on the edge of the table

  ‘It’s not only the south-west, in fact. Similar things are happening in other forests, like Essex and Savernake, though so far there’s been no outlaw involvement there.’

  He thought again for a moment, staring blankly at a sliver of sky visible through a slit window on the opposite wall.

  ‘This is what I’ll do, de Wolfe. When I established the coroner system last September, the main object was to raise revenue in the royal courts as well as keeping a check on all these rapacious sheriffs. But I also made provision for coroners to be given roving commissions on an ad hoc basis, when some particular problem arose.’

  John waited tensely. This sounded very interesting.

  ‘So I’ll draft you a King’s Commission this very day, which should solve most of the problems. I have every faith in you, John, to carry it out, just as you did your duty in the Holy Land and when you did your best to safeguard the Lionheart in Austria. I know I can depend on you.’

  For an instant de Wolfe felt tears of pride prickling his eyes at this endorsement of his loyalty, and even the self-centred Lord Ferrars looked at him with new respect – this was fulsome praise from a man who was the virtual Regent of England.

  They both leaned forward expectantly, as the Justiciar outlined his proposals.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In which Crowner John goes campaigning once again

  It was Thursday evening before John returned to Exeter, but before entering the city he called at Polsloe, leaving Gwyn to escort the timid clerk the last remaining mile or two. He found Nesta even less well than when he had left. Though she was still deathly pale, there was a flush on her forehead and her eyes appeared slightly suffused.

  ‘She has a slight fever, which gives us some concern,’ said Dame Madge, when she took John aside and insisted on inspecting the healing wound on his hip.

  ‘Is she in any danger?’ asked John anxiously.

  The cadaverous nun shrugged. ‘Not at present, though everything is in the hands of God. Her loss of blood when she miscarried has lowered her resistance to bad humours. She needs good nursing and constant prayer, Crowner. We can supply both, though it would not come amiss if you went on your knees more often yourself on her behalf.’

  When he went back in to Nesta, to softly tell her all his news of the journey to Winchester, she seemed attentive enough, but hardly spoke. Yet he felt that her mood had improved since before he went away, and she seemed slyly amused about something, but would not tell him what it was. He put a hand on her brow and felt the unhealthy warmth and saw a prickle of sweat on her upper lip.

  ‘You are warm, my love, but Dame Madge says you are in no danger,’ he said, diplomatically slanting the infirmarian’s comments. ‘You need the best attention, which I’m sure you get in this blessed place.’

  Again the half-smile as she nodded slightly and reached for his hand.

  ‘I’m glad the long journey went safely, John. The roads can be dangerous places.’

  He avoided telling her that he was soon likely to face considerably more danger in confronting the outlaws and turned the conversation on to more innocent paths, such as Thomas’s nostalgic ramblings around Winchester.

  As he left her little room, he stared down the corridor of the infirmary and thought he just caught sight of a familiar figure stepping quickly into a doorway.

  ‘No change there, Crowner,’ said a voice from behind him, and he turned to meet the prioress.

  ‘She still refuses to talk to me?’

  Dame Margaret nodded sadly. ‘I doubt you’ll ever bring her round, sir. She seems set on staying here, though the time for a decision as to taking her vows is still a long way off. But she has a natural talent for nursing – the infirmary seems to suit her well.’

  John recollected how Matilda had looked after him with such grim efficiency when he had broken his leg earlier in the year.

  ‘I hope she finds happiness here, lady. But I would like to speak with her, just to say how sorry I am that I have brought her to this condition. Please intercede for me, when you get the opportunity.’

  The prioress nodded. ‘I’ll do my best, but she seems firm in her intentions at present.�
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  With that he had to be content and, climbing up on to weary, patient Odin, he set off on the last lap of his journey to Martin’s Lane. Here Mary was pleased to see him home, soon setting out some clean clothes to replace the dust-laden ones that had crossed half of southern England. After he had doused himself with a bucket of cold water in the yard, he dressed and sat down to a good meal hurriedly put together by the faithful maid. Later than evening, he went up to Rougemont and sought out the constable to tell him of recent developments. He found Ralph Morin not in the keep, but closeted with Brother Roger, the castle chaplain. They were in the tiny sacristy of St Mary’s chapel, just inside the inner ward – not engaged in any devotions, but covertly sharing a stone jar of good Anjou wine.

  ‘I’m keeping out of the way of the bloody sheriff,’ complained Ralph. ‘He pesters me ten times a day as to whether you’ve returned from Winchester and what action is to be taken.’

  The amiable Roger produced another earthenware cup and poured John a liberal dose of the rich French wine. ‘This is a better drink than the sips of watered vinegar I’m used to handing out at Mass,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  They waited expectantly for John to regale them with details of his journey. The castellan was entitled to know and, as usual, the chaplain was consumed with curiosity.

  ‘Hubert Walter was very cooperative, thank God,’ he began.

  ‘Is he providing some troops?’ was Ralph’s first question.

  ‘Yes. The two Ferrars and their men left Winchester for Southampton, with authority to collect sixty men-at-arms and archers, who were waiting to cross to Harfleur. The Justiciar said that though they were intended for Richard’s army, they could delay for a few weeks and come down here. He placed them under your command, Ralph, to do whatever you think necessary.’