All this took no more than a few seconds, but when de Wolfe sensed de Braose trying to pull his sword from under his foot, he swung out with his other leg and caught the man under the chin. De Braose staggered back, gurgling, and the coroner stooped to grab the lost weapon and hurl it away into the nearest bramble thicket.
In spite of the bleeding flesh-wound in his arm, Fulford still grasped the knife and, though Gwyn was holding him by the arms, the crack the officer had received on his head had halved his fighting abilities, especially as blood was pouring down from a cut over his right eye, almost blinding him.
Afraid that Fulford might still slide the dagger between Gwyn’s ribs, John grabbed him from behind and put an arm-lock across his throat, doing all he could to crush his Adam’s apple. He was only too well aware that his back was to de Braose who, like every man, carried a lethal dagger on his belt. He screwed his neck around to look out for the danger but, to his surprise, Jocelin had vanished.
Afraid to release Fulford until Gwyn had recovered, he had no means of pursuing the leader and the trio staggered back and forth in stale-mate for another half-minute, with Fulford beginning to go blue in the face from de Wolfe’s grip on his throat. Gwyn resolved the situation by recovering enough wit to bring up his massive knee into Fulford’s crotch with a blow that almost crushed his genitals. Unable to scream because of the arm-lock, Fulford’s eyes bulged and he went limp. Afraid of some trick, John hung on for a little longer, but almost simultaneously he and Gwyn released their hold and stepped back. Fulford fell in a heap on the ground, gasping and groaning.
De Wolfe picked up the dagger, then turned to Gwyn, who subsided slowly to sit alongside Fulford, wiping the blood from his face with his fingers and holding his head with the other hand.
‘Are you all right, man?’ said the coroner, who had been in tighter scrapes than this one with his officer, but who was still concerned for his head injury.
Gwyn shook his head like a dog coming from water. ‘Yes, I wasn’t fated to be killed over a poxy treasure hunt. But that was a fair whack he gave me with that shovel handle.’ He looked around him, blinking the last of the blood from his eyelids. ‘What happened to de Braose?’
The sound of hoofs on the road was enough answer.
‘He thought escape better than heroism, leaving his squire behind,’ said the coroner, ‘though he was good with a sword, I’ll grant him that.’
Gwyn struggled to his feet and looked down at Fulford. ‘This one will live until he’s hanged, but what about the others?’
They looked round at the mayhem in the area of crushed grass. The groom from the Close was now sitting up, holding his head in his hands, a large blue bruise rapidly appearing around his left ear. ‘I’ll be fine in a while,’ he mumbled. ‘But where’s Wichin?’ The other cathedral servant, who had been wounded in the arm, was found lying on his side behind the nearest large bush. He had lost a lot of blood, but when de Wolfe cut away his jacket, he saw that the wound was now full of clot and that the haemorrhage had stopped.
‘I’ll get him taken to the parish priest,’ said a timid voice. Looking round, de Wolfe saw that Eric Langton, who had kept a safe distance during the fighting, had returned. He went off to find the priest and some help to carry Wichin to a nearby house to recover. David said that he would stay with him until the Archdeacon could send out a leech to see him and bring him back to the cathedral infirmary.
‘What do we do with this fellow?’ asked Gwyn, whose iron head had suffered no lasting ill-effects from the blow.
They looked down at Fulford, who was also recovering from the throttling and the scrotal insult. He had small red blotches in the whites of his eyes and his face was still slightly blue and swollen from de Wolfe’s attempts to strangle him. He sat on the ground, one hand over the small cut in his arm, the other over his aching testicles, but his defiance was returning. ‘Who in Satan’s name are you?’ he croaked. ‘And what right have you to attack us? Don’t you know that that was Sir Jocelin de Braose whom you assaulted and drove away?’
De Wolfe’s black and grey figure was hunched above him like a great crow. ‘You ask us that, Fulford? I am Sir John de Wolfe, if we are bandying titles. You obviously don’t know the King’s coroner when you see him – and his officer.’
The man’s confidence seemed to increase as the pain in his groin diminished. ‘Coroner? What is this to do with corpses – except those you seem to produce yourself?’ He pointed across at the bloody body lying on the other side of the hole.
Gwyn prodded him none too gently with his foot. ‘Enough of your lip, man. The crowner will ask the questions.’
De Wolfe motioned to his officer to pull the man to his feet. ‘You are a prisoner now. You will be taken back to Rougemont and lodged in the gaol there.’
‘On what charge? You will regret this, Crowner, you are meddling in matters you don’t understand.’
De Wolfe gave him a buffet on the ear. ‘You impertinent devil! You forget your station in life, young man. A squire to some shiftless mercenary is of little account to me. As for dead bodies, you should know that another part of a coroner’s duties is to safeguard finds of treasure trove, to keep them safe for the King from thieves like you.’
At this Giles Fulford remained silent, and Gwyn frogmarched him to the horses that were tied up some distance away at the edge of the little wood.
David had virtually recovered now from his bang on the head, and helped the coroner’s officer to tie Fulford’s hands to the saddle-horn with a spare thong.
‘What about the corpse? Another outlaw, by the looks of his clothing,’ said Gwyn.
Sullenly, the squire confirmed that the dead man was indeed another anonymous ruffian hired for the occasion, though from the quality of his fighting he must once have been a soldier.
‘Let the village bury him here,’ said de Wolfe. ‘This time, I’ll interpret the rules to accept that an outlaw is also outside the crowner’s law and we’ll do without an inquest.’
‘What about the treasure hoard?’ muttered Fulford. ‘Are you going to leave that half-dug hole there for the village to steal whatever is hidden in it?’
At this, de Wolfe took a perverse delight in holding up the parchment, which Eric Langton had returned to him a few minutes ago. Holding it up before the man tied on the horse, he slowly ripped it in half and then in quarters. ‘Written by my clerk the other night, especially for your benefit. There is no treasure, my lad – at least not in that hole!’
Fuming at the deception, and not a little uneasy at what the immediate future might hold, Fulford was led alongside Gwyn’s mare and the cavalcade set off for Exeter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In which Crowner John goes into the forest
They delivered their prisoner to Rougemont by late afternoon, giving him into the charge of Stigand, the obese and repulsive gaoler who reigned in the undercroft of the keep. Protesting violently, and promising retribution from on high, Giles Fulford was thrust into a filthy cell that lay off the passage that ran from an iron gate in the basement of the building.
This undercroft was partly below ground, reached by a short flight of steps from the inner bailey. It was divided in half by a dank, fungoid stone wall, the outer cavern being an open space, used for storage and as a torture chamber. There, ordeals, mutilations and the peine et forte dure were carried out. The rusted, barred gate was set in the centre of the wall, beyond which lay a dozen small cells and one larger cage.
De Wolfe gave no explanation to Stigand as to the reason why Fulford was to enjoy the sheriff’s hospitality, and the gaoler showed no interest as he pushed a dirty jug of water, half a loaf and a leather bucket for sanitation into the cell with the new prisoner. When Giles demanded the attentions of an apothecary for the wound on his arm, Stigand took a casual look at it, shrugged and walked away.
De Wolfe had already discovered that Richard de Revelle was out of the city until next day, so his intention to discuss the arrest of F
ulford and the escape of de Braose was frustrated. Tired from a day in the saddle and the exertions of a fight, John was ready for a good meal, some ale and bed. He walked back across the inner ward of the castle with Gwyn, advising his old henchman to do the same, especially as he had a wide graze and cut on his forehead and was suffering a headache from the blow he had taken.
‘Where will you get a bed tonight?’ he asked, as the gates were shut and the Cornishman could not get back to St Sidwell’s.
‘Gabriel will find me a place in the barracks. I often sleep there if I can’t get home,’ Gwyn answered. ‘I’ll go down to the Bush to eat. I don’t fancy the Saracen after today’s performance.’
De Wolfe had the same desire for the tavern in Idle Lane, mainly to consolidate the healing of the tiff with Nesta, but he felt obliged to go home first, to see how the land lay as regards his wife’s mood. But he and Gwyn were delayed again as they passed the wooden staircase to the keep entrance. A servant came to the rail on the landing above and called down, ‘Sir John, the constable asked me to look out for you. He has an urgent message for you.’
Though the sheriff was the King’s representative in the county, the castle had been Crown property since it was built by the Conqueror and its constable was appointed by the King. This was meant to avoid it being used as a base for revolt by the barons, who owned most of the other castles. De Wolfe and his henchman climbed the steps in search of Ralph Morin, and went into the main hall, where people were eating, drinking and making a general hubbub after the day’s work.
As soon as he saw them, Morin got up from one of the tables and came across. He was a big man, almost the size of Gwyn, and his massive face was crowned with crinkled grey hair. He had a bushy grey beard with a fork in it that gave him the look of one of the Viking ancestors of his Norman race. He was an old friend of de Wolfe and they shared a dislike of Richard de Revelle, although Morin had to keep that well hidden as the sheriff was his immediate superior.
The constable invited them to sit with him and have a jar of ale as they talked. ‘I saw you bringing in a man lashed to his saddle just now,’ he began. ‘Have you lodged him with that filthy old pig down below?’
De Wolfe told the story of the day’s ambush in Dunsford and its connection with the death of Canon de Hane. Morin made a sucking noise through his teeth. ‘De Revelle will have problems with that. He’s quite thick with some of de Braose’s friends out in the county.’
The coroner stared hard at him. ‘Is something going on that I don’t know about, Ralph?’ he asked.
The constable refused to elaborate, saying he had heard only rumours, and he changed the subject by passing on his own news. ‘While you were out jousting in the countryside today, a messenger rode in from Henri de Nonant’s place at Totnes. It seems we have another high-class death, for during a hunting party there yesterday Sir William Fitzhamon fell from his horse and was killed.’
The coroner stared at him again. ‘Just what in hell’s name is going on, Ralph? Only three days ago I was sought out by Fitzhamon, who complained about a violent dispute over land with Henry de la Pomeroy – and now he’s dead!’
The constable shrugged his great shoulders. ‘Hunting is a dangerous pastime, John. Men often fall from their horses and break either their legs or their necks.’
The coroner scowled in disbelief. ‘Mother of God, these coincidences are becoming more than I care to accept!’ He drained his mug and stood up. ‘I suppose I have to ride down there in the morning to settle this new death – my backside is raw from the saddle with all these corpses about Devon.’
Morin rose to see him off. ‘At least there’s no reason to think that your favourite culprits Fulford and de Braose are involved in this one.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that, Ralph. I’ve heard – and you’ve just hinted at it – that Jocelin de Braose is a creature of some of those barons down in deepest Devon. I’m keeping an open mind on this.’
‘Well, that’ll be more than Richard de Revelle will be doing,’ murmured the constable, as he walked de Wolfe to the door.
With that cryptic comment in his ear, the coroner went thoughtfully back to Martin’s Lane.
Riding out in the early morning from the West Gate seemed to be developing into a routine, thought de Wolfe, as he and Gwyn trotted out once again in the grey dawn light of New Year’s Day. This time, there was no messenger with them, as he had turned tail the previous afternoon and started back for Totnes, probably buying a pennyworth of food and lodging at some village on the way.
As they jogged westward along the tracks, John pondered on the differences between women. Last night, Matilda had kept up her unrelenting sullenness, glowering at him whenever he had tried to make conversation to heal the breach between them. Even her habitual fascination with tales of the county aristocracy, which was usually grist to the mills of her snobbery, seemed to have evaporated: his news of the death of William Fitzhamon and the extraordinary behaviour of Jocelin de Braose, who had tried to kill her husband that day, failed to stir her from her sulks. By contrast, when he had given up the effort and gone to the Bush Inn, he had found Nesta her normally affectionate self, quite recovered from her passing fit of jealousy. In fact, she was even able to tease him about his infidelities, poking fun at his sexual stamina and hoping, for her sake, that his rutting abilities would not be overtaxed.
He smiled ruefully to himself as Bran’s great legs ate up the miles to Totnes. He was stuck with Matilda, he had to accept that, but he was damned if he was going to spend the rest of his life worrying about it and enduring decades of domestic torture when women like Nesta and Hilda were able to offer him such amiable company and delightful passion.
Gwyn trotted alongside him in companionable silence, aware after twenty years with de Wolfe that this unfathomable man often needed to be left well alone, when he wished to churn something over in his mind. What it was, he didn’t know, nor did he much care: he was content to do what his master asked of him, even follow him into the jaws of hell. Gwyn’s domestic life was simple: he had a pleasant wife, who fed him, bedded him and had given him two boisterous children, never caring where he had been, whether it was to Dartmoor or Damascus.
This time, though, it was to Totnes Castle, twenty miles from Exeter, which took them three hours’ riding. They were met in the bailey below the great stockade by Henri de Nonant, who gave Gwyn into the care of his steward and brought de Wolfe into the hall, a substantial wooden building at the foot of the high mound. The lord of Totnes conducted him to the fireside, where he was fed and wined after the cold rigours of the journey.
‘We have the unfortunate lord’s body in the bedchamber next door,’ he said. ‘His son is here, waiting to claim it and take it back to Dartington for burial, but I know that your new crowner’s rules insist on some formalities before that can be done.’
His tone reminded de Wolfe of Richard de Revelle’s dismissive attitude towards coroners. ‘What happened to him?’ he asked tersely.
‘He didn’t return with the others from the hunt, so his reeve went looking for him and found him dead on the ground in the forest. His horse and hounds were wandering nearby.’
‘Any injuries on him?’
‘An obvious wound on the head, and I am told his neck seems broken. The ground is as hard as flint from the frost, as you know yourself.’
‘Anything else?’
‘When a number of the hunters went out there to retrieve the body, some noticed blood on an overhanging branch within a few yards of where he had fallen. It seems that he must have misjudged the height and struck his head on a bough. Naturally he was not wearing a helmet for hunting, only a cap.’
De Wolfe grunted, a favourite form of response he had picked up from Gwyn. Experienced riders had a sixth sense for overhanging trees and an old hunter like Fitzhamon would be unlikely to have been so careless – but the coroner had to admit that it could have happened that way.
After his refreshment, de Wolfe
beckoned to Gwyn and they followed de Nonant into a small chamber off the hall. A still figure lay on a palliasse on the floor, covered by a linen sheet. A youth stood brooding by its side, his head bowed until they came in. ‘This is Robert, Fitzhamon’s only son,’ explained de Nonant. ‘We all feel for him in his loss.’
De Wolfe murmured something about having met the lad recently and expressed his own sympathy, none the less genuine for its brevity. Fitzhamon’s heir nodded grimly to the coroner, but said nothing.
John advanced to the bed and Gwyn pulled back the sheet to chest level. The dead man looked much the same as he had in life, apart from his eyes which were closed as if in natural sleep. A white cloth was draped over his forehead and when de Wolfe pulled it away, they could see dried blood matting the white hair at the crown of the head. The coroner and his officer crouched down one on each side of the bed and de Wolfe parted the hair with his fingers. ‘A deep tear in his scalp, running back to front, with bruised edges,’ he commented aloud, motioning to Gwyn to lift the corpse from the bed.
Robert Fitzhamon turned away to look through the window-slit, as his father came up into an almost lifelike sitting position. But as de Wolfe took his hands away from the corpse’s head, it rolled sideways in a most unlifelike fashion, lolling at an unnatural angle. Gwyn gave one of his grunts and the coroner placed his hands alongside the ears, to waggle the head on the neck.
‘Broken, as you suggested,’ he said, looking up at de Nonant. The baron assumed a knowledgeable expression. ‘Being hurled from a large horse after a blow against a tree is enough to snap a neck.’
De Wolfe pulled down the sheet and examined the rest of the body, arms, legs and trunk, dragging up the undershirt to see the chest and belly. ‘Not another mark on him,’ he muttered. As he was doing this, Gwyn supported the corpse with one hand and prodded about in the head wound with the fingers of the other. ‘Let him down. We can cover him again and leave him in peace,’ commanded the coroner, rising to his feet. He turned to the boy. ‘You wish to take him home for burial, I presume. I will have to hold a short inquest for the sake of formality but I can do that within the hour.’ He turned to de Nonant. ‘What happened to the First Finders? We need them, and anyone else who has any knowledge of this affair.’
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