‘I do not think that you are the sole cause of her disillusionment,’ said the prioress thoughtfully. ‘It is her brother’s misbehaviour and fall from grace that is a major factor – but, of course, she blames you for being the instrument of his downfall.’
Dame Madge returned with the not unexpected news that Matilda had flatly refused to see her husband.
‘She is adamant and would not even discuss the reasons with me,’ said the nun. ‘I fear it is hopeless trying to pursue the matter, Sir John.’
He sighed. ‘What am I to do? I have a house in the city and cannot either use it or sell it, in case she decides to return. I have a maid living there, discontented and worried. It is no secret that I have a liaison with another lady, but I cannot do anything about that. Archdeacon John de Alençon has advised me that even if Matilda takes her full vows, that will not dissolve the marriage and leave me free to take another wife.’
He turned up his hands in despair. ‘She has found the most exquisite method of punishing me, worse than the thumbscrews or the torments of the Ordeal!’
The two women were sympathetic, but impotent to help. The prioress pressed more cordial upon him and they began talking about his new life in London. For celibate ladies who had chosen largely to cut themselves off from the outside world, they were intensely curious about Westminster, the court and the personalities that John knew. He regaled them with a description of the palace and the abbey and of the huge city that lay a couple of miles down the Thames. He told them of Queen Eleanor and the pomp of her arrival from Portsmouth with the Archbishop and the Marshal, then the procession of the court across England to meet Prince John. They listened avidly and he guessed that they would have plenty of material to gossip about with the other sisters at the supper table that night.
When he had exhausted his fund of stories about his life as Coroner of the Verge, he took his leave, despondent but not surprised at the complete failure of his mission. As Dame Madge saw him off at the porch, she left him with a sliver of hope for some resolution to his problem.
‘It will be many months yet before she has to decide whether or not to finally take her vows and make her position here irrevocable,’ she said. ‘Perhaps before then, she may again change her mind, as she did before when she came to Polsloe.’
With this tiny crumb of comfort, he rode back to Exeter and went up the familiar hill to the castle, known universally as ‘Rougemont’, from the colour of the local red sandstone from which it had been built by William the Bastard in the northern angle of the old Roman walls. In the keep, built inside the inner bailey, he found his old friend the sheriff, Henry de Furnellis, sitting in his chamber off the main hall, struggling as usual with the documents and accounts that his chief clerk incessantly placed before him. Glad of an excuse to escape the bureaucracy, he called for ale and they sat chatting for an hour. John learned that the new coroner was competent and efficient, but that his heart was not in the job.
‘He’s not like you, John, you were like a terrier, worrying away at a case until you got the answer,’ said Henry, an even older Crusader than John, having been persuaded into taking the shrievalty of Devon when Richard de Revelle fell from grace.
They were joined by Ralph Morin, the castle constable, another old friend and John had to repeat his description of life at Westminster for their benefit. The sheriff’s bushy grey eyebrows rose at some parts of the tale.
‘You lost part of the king’s treasure from the Tower itself!’ he boomed incredulously. ‘And have suffered an attempt on your own life? Trust you, John, you always seem to attract disaster!’
When he left the keep, he called on a few more old friends, including Sergeant Gabriel, who headed the garrison’s men-at-arms, and Brother Roger, the amiable chaplain of Rougemont.
The coroner was away at his manor, so he could not enquire of him how he was coping with his new appointment, but as he left the castle, he felt sad that he had to leave the next day and be deprived of all the comradeship that he had built up here over the past years.
‘But I’ll not be deprived of the company of one particular person today!’ he averred, as he trotted Odin down to the West Gate, where he forded the river and set off at a canter for the ten miles to Dawlish.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In which Crowner John returns to Westminster
John spent an idyllic afternoon, evening and night in Hilda’s house in Dawlish, a small fishing port built around a tidal creek. He arrived in time for dinner and left at dawn next day, spending much of the time in Hilda’s bed, a high French one that her late husband had brought back from St Malo.
Surprised and delighted to see him, the slender blonde woman firmly relegated her maid Alice to the small room she occupied downstairs and kept John almost prisoner in the two spacious chambers on the first floor of the fine stone house.
Though it was not many weeks since Hilda had made her adventurous voyage up to London to visit him, their affection and passion was undimmed. John managed to convince himself that the brief interlude with Madame d’Ayncourt was an aberration forced on him by Hawise and was able to put it out of his mind as he revelled in Hilda’s company. For her part, though she was a devout woman who regularly attended Mass and did much charitable work in the parish, she accepted his adultery as a technical problem due to Matilda’s intransigence in entering a nunnery and leaving the poor man in matrimonial limbo.
During one of the brief periods when they were dressed and in her living chamber, they talked at length about his visit to Polsloe that morning. Hilda had been down to her kitchen shed to order some food, which the part-time cook, a sailor’s widow from the village, prepared and sent upstairs with Alice.
As they sat eating at her table, de Wolfe related Matilda’s continued obdurateness about revealing her intentions.
‘After all these months, John, surely she is now intending to take her final vows and stay on at Polsloe for the rest of her life?’
‘And where does that leave us, my dearest lady?’ he asked despondently. ‘We have been lovers since I first grew stubble on my chin.’
‘It leaves you far away in Westminster, John,’ she reminded him gently. ‘If you were here, then we could be together as often as you would wish.’
‘Can you not come to London, Hilda? There we could live together far more discreetly than in a tongue-wagging place like Exeter – or far worse, your own village of Dawlish.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘Do not ask me to do that, John. I would be like a fish out of water. I am a country girl, I have my fine house and my share of your business. I still have my family a few miles away in Holford, I love the Devon countryside and have so many widows and children dependent upon me since their men died at sea serving Thorgils, God bless his soul.’
John nodded sadly; he had anticipated that this would be her answer. ‘Then let’s make the most of today, my love!’ he said, reviving and seizing her once again in his arms.
The coroner’s trio rode into Gloucester on the last day of July, weary after their long ride from Exeter. Knowing that the court cavalcade would have long left Bristol, they bypassed the city and went up the edge of the Severn to Gloucester. The castle, near the river in the south-western part of the city, was not large and the descent of Queen Eleanor with her large entourage stretched it to its limits. Prince John was staying there, though it did not belong to him, as the king had wisely retained it as a royal possession when he returned his treacherous brother’s lands to him after he foolishly forgave him for his abortive rebellion two years earlier.
Though the most important people were accommodated in the castle, the rest were distributed all over the city and the lower echelons of the Westminster contingent had to camp out in the castle grounds and surrounding fields. The Purveyor and his staff had worked strenuously to find places for the middle ranks, filling every inn, lodging house and even confiscating private houses.
By the time John de Wolfe and his clerk and officer arrive
d some days later, there was no room anywhere within the bulging city. At first, he viewed this with some relief, as lodging at a distance meant that he could avoid Hawise, until he recalled that she and her husband had gone on to visit her relatives in Hereford, a day’s ride away. Thomas de Peyne, using his priestly connections, managed to find a pallet in a corner of the great abbey, but John and Gwyn rode a mile or two to the east where, in the village of Brockworth, they found room in a crowded inn, each sleeping on a bag of hay in the loft.
On the first morning after they arrived, John presented himself at the castle to tell the Justiciar’s clerks that he was back. Thankfully, they informed him that there had been nothing that required his attention during his absence, but that Hubert Walter wished to speak to him. An audience was fixed for the middle of the afternoon and at the appointed time John was called into a chamber in the gatehouse.
He found the Justiciar and William Marshal there, together with Richard fitz Nigel, the Bishop of London. The King’s Treasurer was a florid man in the evening of his life, one of a line of fitz Nigels who had rebuilt the Exchequer after the anarchy of Stephen many years before.
The three men sat easily with goblets of wine around a small table and John was relieved to find that he was not being arraigned before a tribunal. In fact, he was invited to sit in a vacant chair and given wine by a servant, who then withdrew.
‘I am glad to see you back safely, de Wolfe,’ said Hubert. ‘I trust your visit to Devon was satisfactory.’
John thought about Dawlish and considered the visit very satisfactory indeed, but he forbore to trouble Hubert with the continuing problem of his wife and merely thanked him for allowing him to go. What was this all about, he wondered, looking around at the faces of the three great men?
The Justiciar soon enlightened him.
‘The Marshal was recently with the king until he came across the sea with Queen Eleanor. Before he left Rouen, my dispatches, which recorded the theft from the Tower, had arrived.’ He stopped and looked at the long, stern face of William Marshal, then invited him to continue.
‘As was to be expected, King Richard was most concerned,’ rasped the Earl of Pembroke. His long face cracked into a wry smile. ‘You will know from personal experience, de Wolfe, that our beloved Richard is prone to outbursts of extreme temper, like his father before him. He was not amused by this theft of his precious funds, which are so desperately needed for his army.’
John nodded his heartfelt agreement, as he well knew of his volatile moods. But he failed to see where this was leading, until Richard fitz Nigel took up the tale, voice quavering a little.
‘Not to beat about the bush, the king wants his money back and the thieves hanged! No effort is to be spared in achieving this.’
The Marshal came back in a more conciliatory mood. ‘The king realises that no fault attaches to you, de Wolfe. This audacious robbery took place after you had delivered the treasure safely to its destination. But he wants the matter settled quickly and commands that you use every means to effect this. He wishes me to tell you that he has every confidence in your ability to do this.’
There was an undercurrent of meaning in the Marshal’s voice that suggested that old friendships would count for little if he failed. Hubert Walter threw back the rest of his wine in a gesture that said that the interview was almost over. ‘John, I think it best if you go straight back to London and get on with this vital task. The court is returning through Oxford and will not be back at Westminster for at least ten days. There seems little point in your staying on here, given that there seems to be no call upon your services.’
He stood up and de Wolfe hurriedly emptied his own cup and got to his feet, backing towards the door. As he bowed to the others and declared that he would do his very best to solve the mystery and bring the miscreants to justice, the Justiciar reminded him of the authority he had been given.
‘Remember, de Wolfe, you already have the king’s writ, carrying my seal. You may go wherever you wish, interrogate anyone and summon any aid whatsoever. So take no nonsense from those sheriffs in the city. You can put the Mayor of London himself to the torture if you think it will help!’
With these rousing words echoing in his ears, John withdrew and closed the door. He had mixed feelings about what had just been said – on the one hand, he was flattered by the trust that was being put in him, yet daunted by the task which had so far been like kicking uselessly at a stone wall. And the price of failure was not to be contemplated.
Whatever the problems and possible penalties looming over him, de Wolfe saw one immediate advantage in cutting and running from the royal cavalcade – he would not have to dodge the seductive temptations of Hawise d’Ayncourt. Hopefully, she and her husband would be travelling back to France in the queen’s retinue and apart from a night or two when passing through Westminster, he would be safe from her beguiling charms. Though he had admittedly enjoyed his romp with her in Marlborough very much, his day with Hilda had brought it home to him how fond he was of the Saxon woman.
Early on the morning after his ultimatum from the Justiciar, Marshal and Treasurer, de Wolfe and Gwyn were joined by Thomas at Brockworth, the little clerk rather sulky at being so prematurely wrenched from the great abbey of Gloucester, where he could have indulged himself for far longer in the liturgy and offices of such a famous religious house.
They set off for London by the most direct route, across the Cotswolds to Witney and then on to Oxford and Wycombe.
The magic document with Hubert’s seal dangling from it readily got them bed and board at royal castles and manors for the four nights that they were on their journey and at the end of the fifth day’s riding, they arrived in King Street, with the abbey and the irregular outline of the palace looming over the Thames.
Much as John preferred his native Devon, Westminster was a welcome sight after all those weary miles and Osanna’s hurried meal of oatcakes, boiled bacon and eggs was like nectar.
With Thomas safely in the abbey dorter, he and Gwyn crawled to their palliasses and slept like logs until morning.
When their clerk arrived after his early duties in the abbey the next day, the coroner’s team held a council of war, as John had told them of the direct order from the king to bring this crime to a rapid conclusion.
‘He wants his money back and the perpetrators dangling from the elms at Tyburn!’ said de Wolfe. ‘So we had better come up with some ideas or it may be our own necks that get stretched!’
They spent an hour discussing every aspect of the matter, but it seemed an intractable problem. As often happened, it was the nimble brain of Thomas de Peyne that had the first original thought.
‘Crowner, do you still have those two keys that we found amongst the possessions of Simon Basset?’
John stared at his clerk, wondering what tortuous thoughts were going through his mind. ‘I do indeed, but we have stared at them long enough before this. We don’t even know if they were for the locks on that damned chest, as it has gone off to Rouen. What else could be seen upon them?’
‘Perhaps not seen upon them, master,’ answered Thomas cryptically. ‘But could I handle them once more, with your leave?’
De Wolfe groped under his table, where a shelf lay beneath the oaken top. Amongst oddments which included a broken knife, two part-used candles and an old leather belt, he found the two keys, put aside as being of no further use to their investigation.
‘What do you expect to find after all this time?’ he grunted, as he handed them to his clerk. To his surprise, Thomas hardly looked at them, but rubbed them between his fingers, then held them to his thin, pointed nose where he sniffed at them like a hound on the scent.
Gwyn gave one of his booming laughs, laced with derision. ‘What in hell are you doing, man? Are you going to track down the robbers by their smell?’
Unfazed, the little priest nodded. ‘Maybe I will, as something is tickling my memory.’
He handed the keys back to the cor
oner. ‘Feel those again, sire, do they not seem greasy to you? And there is an odour which I have smelt somewhere before.’
John did as he was bid and then handed the keys on to Gwyn, who made a great performance of sticking them under his huge moustache and sniffing loudly.
‘There is something,’ agreed John cautiously. ‘But what use is that to us?’
Thomas stood up. ‘I think that we should go again to that ironmaster’s house in Duck Lane.’
The dwelling and workshop was still empty when they arrived half an hour later. John was prepared to wave his royal warrant at anyone who questioned their right to be there, but it all seemed deserted. Going around to the back, they saw that weeds were already reclaiming the muddied yard, and someone had broken into the house by smashing the temporary repairs that Gwyn had made to the back door. They went in and looked around the gloomy workshop and at the confusion of bits of metal that lay on the dusty benches and earthen floor.
‘If there was anything useful here, it’s been stolen by now,’ Gwyn growled. ‘Good job that the son took away all the tools.’
‘What are we looking for, Thomas?’ demanded de Wolfe.
The clerk scanned the rough shelves above the workplaces and then looked on the floor under the benches. He bent down and picked up something, then reached up to a shelf and took down a rusty metal pot. He sniffed both these unprepossessing objects, then handed them to the coroner.
‘How do these compare with those keys, Crowner?’
John obediently put his nose to them, then passed them to Gwyn.
‘It’s the same smell, like beeswax and turpentine, at a guess.’
The Cornishman grudgingly agreed. ‘So what does it mean?’ he asked.
The clerk held out the object from the floor. ‘I think you noticed this last time we were here, Crowner. A little wooden box, half-filled with the stuff from this pot. It’s a soft wax, that could be used for taking impressions, so that a metal copy could be made by a competent craftsman.’
Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 29
