Crowner's Quest

by Bernard Knight

  He dragged his attention back to what she was showing him. Down both sides of her long white neck were red scratches, obviously from fingernails, and above her collarbone, partly obscured by the edges of her dress, were recent blue bruises.

  ‘I have been bady used, Crowner, and this is only the half of it! I know I have a reputation but I still deserve the protection of the law.’ She gave him a look of supplication from her large eyes, which glistened from under half-lowered lids. Her lashes were darkened with soot and her lips reddened with rouge.

  De Wolfe moved closer to her, partly to study her injuries but also in a spontaneous gesture of sympathy. ‘Who did this to you, girl?’ he demanded.

  ‘Jocelin de Braose, the swine! You must know that I am the woman of his squire, Giles Fulford. His master decided that he wanted to bed me too, and when Giles was away today he forced himself on me – look here!’

  Her hand had been on her right shoulder and now she pulled it away to show that the green silk had been ripped from the back of the neck to the seam of the long bell-shaped sleeve. As she took her fingers down, a large flap of the bodice fell forward to expose most of her right breast. ‘The other is the same, Crowner,’ she said, in her low voice, pointing with a slim finger to the group of penny-sized bruises on her bosom and around the large brown nipple.

  Interested though he was in wounds and injuries, the details of these bruises were not foremost in de Wolfe’s mind as he gazed down at her seductive body – especially as her face and lips were within inches of his own. He swallowed and dragged his mind back to this unique situation. ‘Where is de Braose now?’ he rumbled. If the renegade was inside the city, maybe he had a chance to trap him, even though Gwyn was locked outside the walls until morning.

  But Rosamunde did not reply and, suddenly, alarm bells began pealing in his head. Before he could step back, she put an arm around his neck and kissed him full on the lips, her bare breast pressed to his chest.

  The next moment, she threw herself on the floor at his feet and screamed, ‘Rape, rape!’ at the top of her voice. As she did so, she was busy pulling down the other side of her kirtle top and dragging up her skirt so that she was naked to the waist. For some seconds, which seemed like minutes, de Wolfe was paralysed with surprise. Though in battle his reflexes were instantaneous, this had been so unexpected, so outrageously bizarre, that he stood gaping at her performance in that empty house.

  Except that it proved not to be empty: the hall door crashed open, four men burst into the hall and ran across to seize him. He struggled, but he had nothing, not even a dagger, with which to defend himself, his weapons being in their usual resting place in the vestibule. His old hound jumped snarling against the first intruder, but a heavy kick in the ribs sent him yelping into a corner.

  Two ruffians grabbed his arms from behind and held him in a vicelike grip, while the other two men came to stand before him. They were Jocelin de Braose and Giles Fulford, who came up close and sneered in his face. De Braose gave him a heavy punch in the stomach, which would have doubled him up, had he not been held by the men behind. ‘That’s part payment for Dunsford, blast you,’ he snarled. He was followed by Fulford, who gave de Wolfe a double slap on either side of his face, which almost knocked his head off. ‘And that’s for near-drowning me, Crowner. I’ll pay you for the rest later!’

  For a moment, de Wolfe thought that they were going to kill him there and then, but when his head cleared after the blows, reason told him that if this was a simple assassination, there would have been no need for Rosamunde’s play-acting.

  She picked herself up from the floor, the two men making no attempt to help her. Calmly, she dropped the hem of her skirt and pulled up the top of her kirtle to cover her bosom, pinning it back in place with a small brooch she produced from a pocket in her cloak, which she picked up and threw around her shoulders. De Wolfe found his tongue at last, though his lips were swelling from the blows he had taken. After a stream of oaths, which aroused the admiration of the two thugs holding him, he muttered thickly, ‘What do you bastards want of me? You’ve already committed two murders, which will bring you a hanging – and you tried to steal the King’s treasure! Are you asking to be hanged three times?’

  De Braose thrust his round face with its rim of red whiskers close to him. ‘What’s the penalty for ravishing this poor girl, Crowner? One hanging will be enough to stretch your neck.’ He gave de Wolfe another prod in the belly as he spoke.

  The coroner shouted back, with a voice like a bull, ‘And who is going to try me on this laughable load of perjury that two criminals and a painted whore will trot out?’

  ‘Painted whore? Yes, Crowner, that’s paint from her lips that’s on your own, you dirty old bastard!’ sneered Fulford, his thin, fair face contorted with hate.

  ‘You ask who will try you?’ replied de Braose. ‘The sheriff in his court, of course. This was partly his idea, as his stupid first idea to shame you with your mistresses had no chance of success. Everyone knows what a randy old goat you are, even your pig-faced wife.’

  ‘Don’t speak of my wife like that! She’s worth a thousand like you, you putrid bucket of shite!’ roared de Wolfe, adamantly determined that he was the only one entitled to insult Matilda.

  De Braose lifted his hand to strike John again, but thought better of it and turned to the woman. ‘You’ve got your story straight, have you?’ he demanded. ‘We’re all going up to the castle now to throw this stubborn fool into the cells, unless de Revelle can talk some sense into him.’

  Rosamunde, her mantle now wrapped around her, said nonchalantly, ‘Don’t worry about me. My acting’s better than yours. And if we ever do this again, don’t be so enthusiastic with your fists and your nails, you sadistic bastard! You nearly pulled my dugs off, making those bruises!’

  Ignoring her complaints, the squat de Braose turned back to the coroner. ‘I’m to give you a last chance, de Wolfe, though I truly hope you won’t take it as I want to see you hang.’

  The Coroner glared at him, wishing he could get his hands around that thick neck. ‘And exactly who says you’re to offer me this last chance, whatever that is?’

  ‘Henry de la Pomeroy, though surely you know that already. I am to tell you that if you agree not to cause any more problems for the rightful campaign to put a better king on the throne of England, we’ll not even take you from this house to Rougemont. You can remain as coroner and continue that post under the new King.’

  He stopped to see if De Wolfe had anything to say, but the coroner waited in silence and de Braose finished his ultimatum. ‘But the complaint of this woman will remain hanging over you, backed up by four men’s sworn testimony, in case you get any ideas about backing out of the bargain in the next month or so. After that it won’t matter – John will be on the throne anyway.’ He waited for an answer and got it straight away.

  ‘Of course I’ll not keep quiet, you fools,’ de Wolfe shouted. ‘Why are you going through this ridiculous charade of a ravishment? Why not kill me now and then run away, as you did with the old canon and William Fitzhamon? That would stop me taking the news to the Justiciar, without all this mummery.’

  De Braose shrugged indifferently. ‘I agree – but Pomeroy and de Revelle think that a murdered coroner might raise some eyebrows in Winchester or London. The next thing we know, some of the King’s Justices might be sent down here to snoop around. But the quick trial and disposal of a lecherous ravisher would attract little attention.’

  Fulford motioned to the two roughly dressed mercenaries, who had been recruited probably from outlaws. ‘Come on, he’s said no, let’s take him to the sheriff.’

  Jocelin made one last appeal to de Wolfe. ‘You realise that, once outside that door, you are accused and damned in the eyes of the city and county as a rapist? There’s no going back!’

  For answer, de Wolfe spat accurately into his face and received another crippling blow in the belly, followed by a punch to his face that split his upper lip.
Then he was dragged, struggling, towards the door and into the lane, followed by the soulful eyes of his hound, who still hid in the furthest corner.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In which Crowner John goes to gaol

  At least de Wolfe was spared the ignominy of being marched as a prisoner through the streets of Exeter in daylight. It was approaching midnight as they climbed the slope to Rougemont, and as the rain and wind had returned, there were few to see or care about a tight knot of men hurrying to the castle.

  The two surly ruffians had released de Wolfe’s arms after one had lashed together his wrists with a length of rope. Using the free end as a leash, he allowed him to walk closely in front of him, with Fulford, de Braose and the woman going ahead, the other man behind.

  Apart from an astounded guard at the gatehouse, who had been earlier told by de Revelle that de Braose was to be admitted, they saw virtually no one on their journey. De Wolfe, although he felt as though he was acting out some awful dream, realised that he had to bide his time: it would be pointless to call for help to any casual citizen they passed. The sheriff was the power in this county and all law enforcement, such as it was, drained back to him, which was why the rebels needed him on their side. Aid for John de Wolfe would have to come from outside Exeter, and tonight was not the time to find it.

  They reached the undercroft of the keep and clattered down the steps into the almost pitch black interior. On the further side was a faint light, where Stigand had a small banked-down fire. He had his living space in one of the arched vaults, which he had blocked off with a crude wooden partition. Behind it was a filthy mattress and some cooking pots. Fulford kicked him awake and, when the grotesquely fat gaoler had come to his senses, he grudgingly lit some horn-lanterns and stumbled ahead to the iron gate closing the cell passageway. With a clatter of keys and mumbled curses, the gate squealed open and Stigand led the way to the first cell on the left, the door of which was open. De Wolfe was thrust inside and the rope taken from his wrists before the door was slammed and locked. There was a barred grille in the wooden panel, and de Braose’s face peered in.

  ‘You won’t be alone for long, Crowner. The sheriff wants a word with you – about arrangements for the hanging!’ Pleased with his wit, he walked off laughing.

  De Wolfe knew every cell in this prison: he came here several times a week to record Ordeals and mutilations. He felt his way in the dark to a thick slate shelf built into one wall of the tiny room and sat down, ignoring the protests of the rats he disturbed in the dirty straw on the floor. His belly ached from the blows he had received and his bruised face and torn lip stung, but otherwise he was unbroken and unbowed. He had been imprisoned several times before, in worse places than this, both in France and England, but then he had been a prisoner-of-war rather than an alleged criminal ravisher. He cursed his own lack of suspicion of the woman on his doorstep, but on reflection he could see no way of anticipating such a devious plot. He had thought that someone might try to stick a knife in his back, but not to trap him in this way. It could only work, of course, because of the sheriff’s monopoly of power, and he tried to think of some way in which this could be frustrated – but no inspiration came. A few minutes later, he heard voices, and lights bobbed towards the passageway. He heard the outer gate creak open and close on its rusted hinges. Then his cell door was opened.

  Richard de Revelle stood in the entrance and behind him de Wolfe could see the other three conspirators. The two strong-arm men had gone, and Stigand had been sent out of earshot.

  ‘This is a sorry state of affairs, John,’ said his brother-in-law unctuously. ‘I always knew you were overfond of the lusts of the flesh, but never thought you’d be driven to rapine!’

  ‘Spare me your nonsense, Richard. I doubt this was your idea, you don’t have the brains for it.’

  The sheriff smiled sardonically at him. ‘This hasn’t been your day, has it, John? Your wife leaves you for good, because of your shameless adultery with God knows how many women – and within hours, you indecently assault this poor girl. I suppose her undoubted attractions were too much for you.’

  ‘It’s not so long since I caught you in bed with a whore, Richard, but I was foolish enough not to arrange for perjured witnesses to be present.’

  The sheriff stiffened with annoyance, but no one there cared a whit for his morals. ‘This is your last chance, John. You are still my relative-in-law, more’s the pity, so I regret this situation for the sake of my sister. But, as you are too stubborn to join us, my reputation and my life are at risk if you are allowed to ride off to London with your misplaced loyalties.’ He looked over his shoulder as if seeking support for his final words.

  ‘You know what my answer will be to that!’ The coroner shouted his reply as loudly as he could, so that anyone nearby could hear it, even if it was only the few other miserable prisoners further along the passage. ‘I denounce you, Richard de Revelle, as a traitor to the King you have sworn to serve and a rebel against the Crown of England! You will be hanged for that – though you may be blinded, castrated and gutted first. That’s my answer!’

  Though de Braose, standing just outside the door, guffawed at this, the sheriff did not take it so lightly. De Wolfe could see his Adam’s apple rise and fall beneath his small beard as he swallowed nervously. ‘Nonsense, man, you have no proof – not a single witness to implicate me. Even if you were able to blab to someone, where could you go now with these wild tales? Winchester and London are far away for a man imprisoned for rape.’

  ‘So what do you intend to do with me, brother-in-law? Get Stigand to poison me tonight – or cut out my tongue tomorrow to silence me? That would be effective, as you know I couldn’t write my denunciation of you!’ He even used his private longing to be literate to goad the sheriff.

  De Revelle was becoming more rattled as he realised the enormity of the path he was being forced to take. Getting rid of a king’s coroner was not as easy as getting rid of a common criminal. Coroners did not just vanish from the face of the earth without questions being asked at the highest level. He was now irrevocably launched on this escapade, but the further he went the less he relished it.

  John sensed this, and deliberately provoked his brother-in-law with mockery. He raised his long chin and pointed to the black stubble on his neck. ‘When you hang me, before all those good burgesses and churchmen, do you think the knot should be on the left or right, eh?’

  Jocelin de Braose could see what was happening and stepped forward angrily. ‘Come on, Sheriff, leave him, he’s trying to make fools of us!’

  ‘Too late, God did that years ago!’ sneered de Wolfe. De Braose raised his arm to strike the coroner, but then realised that he was not being held or tied. He stepped back hastily and pulled his dagger from its scabbard.

  ‘That’s it, hack the crowner to death,’ invited de Wolfe. ‘That really would intrigue the Chief Justiciar and the Lord Marshal.’

  Richard de Revelle was almost at the end of his tether at this taunting mention of the most powerful members of the royal court. ‘Stop this, de Braose! Remember your place. You are nothing but a hired sword and you have no say in these matters.’ He turned back to the prisoner with a final entreaty. ‘I beg you, John, consider your position through the night. Otherwise this woman will Appeal you for ravishing her at the County Court tomorrow. We have four witnesses to your indecent assault – and have an apothecary who will say that he examined her and found her grievously bruised about the private parts. Within days you will be accused, convicted and hanged. I am powerless to stop this once you set foot in the Shire Hall tomorrow morning.’ Then, as if afraid to hear any more than would unnerve him, the sheriff stepped back, slammed the door, and yelled for Stigand to lock up.

  With plenty to occupy his thoughts, de Wolfe lay back on the cold slate slab, wondering if the inside of a tomb was as hard and as dark as this bare stone.

  Though Richard de Revelle had enjoyed same malicious delight in telling his sister abo
ut her husband’s infidelities, he had not anticipated the consequences. He had thought that she would give de Wolfe hell on a grander scale than usual, but not that she would leave home immediately and saddle herself on him. Matilda had always idolised her elder brother, but in spite of his outward show of affection for her, he had from childhood thought her a plain and sulky girl, whose sourness had grown as she got older. To have her ensconced, bag and baggage, in his already cramped living quarters at Rougemont was too much – especially at a critical time like this. And to have that evil-eyed, buck-toothed French maid there too was intolerable. He had had to evict his steward from his outer chamber to sleep there himself, give his bed to Matilda and have a pallet brought in for the maid. Thank God he could get rid of them in a few days’ time when he took them down to Revelstoke – though his spirit quailed at the prospect of telling his wife, Eleanor, that she was to have permanent lodgers. Perhaps one of them would move out to his other manor near Tavistock, but de Revelle could foresee serious domestic trouble stretching into the infinite future.

  But was there going to be an infinite future for him – or even much future at all?

  As he lay sleepless on his steward’s lumpy mattress in the early hours of the morning, de Revelle felt increasing apprehension at what the coming day – and weeks – would bring. He felt that he was launched on a slippery slope over which he had no control. The grand idea of rebellion had seemed excitingly attractive in the planning stages, when conspirators had gathered over jugs of wine to change the face of England. But now that he was in danger of being forced to hang his own brother-in-law, who was a king’s officer, a friend of the Justiciar and the monarch himself, that impersonal plotting seemed far removed from less palatable reality.

  De Revelle had come near to disaster before, less than a year ago. He had always craved the status of high office, and being sheriff of a far western county so remote from the centre of power had not satisfied his ambition. He had never found favour at the court of either Henry the Second or his son Richard. Every effort he had made to gain a post in Winchester or Westminster had been frustrated. Perhaps he had become paranoid about it, but he sensed personal snubs and rejection from every quarter, especially since the old King had died in ’eighty-nine. Two years ago, when he heard rumours of the Count of Mortaigne’s aspirations to seize the throne in the absence of his brother Richard, he had seen a chance to nail his colours to a different mast and hopefully be repaid for his new allegiance with preferment under a new sovereign.