The Sanctuary Seeker

by Bernard Knight

CHAPTER SEVEN

  In which Thomas de Peyne rides to Honiton

  The mule was a game little animal, which kept up a steady trot. Though punishing to the clerk’s backside, it covered four miles each hour. This respectable speed was helped by a good road, as Thomas’s route took him along the main track to the east, the most frequented out of Exeter.

  A day without rain had dried up all but the largest puddles, so the bare surface was, for once, neither a morass nor a dust bowl. Part of the road was still paved, as it followed the old Roman road, still in use after almost a thousand years.

  Well before the November daylight faded, the former priest had reached Honiton, where the road branched to the old Roman towns of Ilchester and Dorchester. Accustomed to travellers, the village had several inns, which provided food and lodging for those who journeyed between Exeter, Cornwall, Southampton and the fleshpots of Winchester and London. One of these was the Plough, in a dip of the road near the centre of the village. It was a single storeyed, wide building with a high thatched roof, an untidy ramble of stables and huts lying on each side and at the rear. A crude model of a wooden plough hung on a bracket over the central front door.

  The clerk jogged on his steed to the inn yard and slid off. He handed the bridle to a ten-year-old stable-boy, then took his saddlebag inside and negotiated a penny bed for the night, which included a meal.

  By the time he had finished some fat mutton, bread and cheese and was sitting by the fire with a pot of cider, his earlier annoyance at having been sent out of Exeter had subsided. As his master had, at the Bush the previous evening, Thomas sank into a warm reverie, full of food and cider. With luck, he thought, if he avoided the cost of breaking his fast next morning, he might be twopence better off, thanks to Sir John’s unthinking generosity. For the moment, he forgot this errand, preferring to sit on his corner of the bench and enjoy his drink and the atmosphere around him.

  After an hour or so, he moved reluctantly from the roaring log fire and went to the back of the main room. Here the innkeeper was knocking the plug out of a new barrel of beer, then pushing in a wooden spigot before more than a few cupfuls gushed away into the leather bucket held underneath. Thinking it best not to reveal his official interest, the clerk began to ask about the dead man, as if he had been a friend.

  It was in vain, as the burly landlord, more intent on not spilling his ale, seemed to have no recollection of his former guest. ‘This is the busiest inn between Exeter and Bridport. I can’t recall a quarter of the folk who call here,’ he replied, with conviction.

  ‘Not even a man with a curious Saracen sword, curved within its sheath? And a dappled grey horse with a black ring around its eye?’

  The man thought for a moment, holding the barrel firmly on its chocks. Then he shook his head. ‘No, I’ve seen a few like that in my time, swords and horses, but can’t recollect one lately. Best ask the lads in the stables – they see more of the guests and their beasts than I do.’

  With that, Thomas had to be content. With a sigh, and resisting the urge to cross himself, he went to the door and stood on the threshold. It was pitch dark, and though there were no cathedral bells here to toll the hours, he guessed it must be a few hours before midnight. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could make out a flickering glow around the right-hand corner of the building, from a bundle of tarred rushes burning in a bracket in the stable-yard. He decided to take the innkeeper’s advice and set off for the yard.

  Other men would have been more wary of walking alone around highroad inns at night, but the years of sheltered life in a cathedral close had left Thomas oblivious of the risks. The moment he turned the corner, an arm came from nowhere to hook itself around his neck and simultaneously he suffered such a punch into the belly that most of the cider and his dinner shot from his mouth like an arrow from a bow. Though dazed, shocked and terrified, he realised from the cursing that his stomach contents had scored a direct hit on one of his assailants, but any triumph was short-lived.

  ‘You dirty little bastard,’ snarled a voice in English, and retribution came swiftly by way of a punch in the face, which split Thomas’s lip and made his nose gush blood like the innkeeper’s spigot.

  Disoriented, but aware that he was about to be killed, the little clerk would have slumped to the ground but for the arm that was still half throttling him. Then he felt another hand tearing away the scrip at his belt, which held several quills, a lucky stone and all his worldly wealth, which amounted to three whole pence and several clipped halves and quarters. The man tipped the contents of the scrip into his palm and squinted at it in the poor light of the flaming torch across the yard. He gave Thomas another buffet, this time across the side of the head. ‘Three bloody pence! Why d’you always pick paupers to rob, you great fool?’ he yelled at his accomplice.

  Before the villain who held Thomas could reply, the situation suddenly and dramatically changed.

  There was a roar from a different voice and through the haze of pain and fear, the clerk heard the metallic scrape of a sword being pulled from a scabbard and a vague flash as the blade shone in the dim light. Then there was a howl of pain from the robber with his purse, the arm around his neck was abruptly removed and Thomas slid to the ground.

  ‘Stand and fight, you scabs!’ came a harsh bellow from the wielder of the sword, but the footpads had vanished into the night.

  As his sight and hearing slowly returned, Thomas was aware of a large shadow standing over him. Another scrape told him that the sword had been slammed back into its sheath.

  ‘Bloodied one of the swine, at least. If he’d stayed, I’d have cut his head off!’ said the shadow, with some regret. He bent down and pulled Thomas none too gently to his feet. ‘Let’s have a look at you – nothing broken or missing by the looks of it. But we’ll get you into the better light inside. We could both do with a pot of something to drink.’

  A quarter of an hour later, when the clerk’s teeth had stopped chattering with fright and he had swilled the blood and filth from his face, he sat at a rough table opposite his saviour, who was unconcernedly champing his way through a meal. He was a broad, muscular man of about thirty, tanned from the Levantine sun. A rim of brown beard surrounded his face, surmounted by a thick moustache like Gwyn’s. He wore a conical leather cap with earflaps and a thick leather cuirass, the outfit midway between ordinary clothing and armour. A huge broadsword clanked at his belt, as well as a formidable dagger. On his feet, Thomas was intrigued to see, were a pair of patterned boots similar to those on the mysterious Widecombe corpse. As he watched the other man eat, he was puzzled by the nonchalant way in which he had dismissed the violent robbery.

  Indeed, the landlord of the Plough seemed equally unconcerned about such crimes being perpetrated in his backyard. ‘What d’you expect me to do?’ he had retorted. ‘The forest is full of outlaws, who live by murder and theft. I have an inn to run. I can’t be going out every five minutes to chase off criminals.’

  Though the shaken clerk tried to thank his champion, the other seemed unconcerned. As the gratitude of one with only threepence in his purse seemed inadequate, Thomas disclosed that he was the agent of the King’s coroner, from whom appreciation might be of more substance. At this, Alan Fitzhai, for that was the name he gave, seemed more interested. ‘Sir John de Wolfe, you say? He who was with the King at Acre and on the march to Jerusalem?’ He whistled through his teeth. ‘I arrived there later, just before the Lionheart left for home, but I remember seeing de Wolfe several times. He was much thought of in Palestine, especially by Hubert Walter, who commanded the English army after the King sailed away.’

  As Thomas had suspected, Fitzhai was another returned Crusader and, as such, might have news of their anonymous corpse. He plunged into the story of why he had come to Honiton and the Plough.

  In the middle of hacking off the leg of a roast fowl with his dagger, Fitzhai stopped to stare at Thomas. ‘A fair man with a green jacket and a Mussulman sword?’

&nb
sp; The clerk nodded. ‘He had a grey horse with a black ring around one eye. He stayed here at this inn.’

  ‘Ten days or so since?’

  ‘About two days short of a fortnight, yes.’

  Fitzhai took the chicken leg almost to his lips, then paused. ‘I know him. And you say he’s dead?’

  ‘Stabbed in the back during a sword fight.’

  Thomas sensed that the other’s attitude had changed. From being careless and self-confident, he was now cautious, looking warily at the clerk over his meat.

  ‘You say you knew him?’ Thomas persisted.

  Fitzhai threw the stripped bone onto the table. ‘Well, I might have seen him somewhere,’ he replied evasively. ‘Your description makes him a Crusader, like myself – no doubt about that. There are hundreds like us.’

  ‘But you know his name?’

  ‘Not at all! How am I to tell one knight from another among all those coming home in dribs and drabs ever since the King left three years ago.’

  Thomas knew that Fitzhai was avoiding the truth.

  ‘When did you come back yourself?’ he asked.

  The broad man seemed on firmer ground here. ‘Five weeks back. I sailed into Southampton from Harfleur in early October. Took two months to get across France from Marseille.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Long before your man got himself killed,’ he added.

  The clerk wondered why he had seen fit to add that. He tried further questions, hinting that maybe Fitzhai had known the dead man either in the Holy Land or on the long journey home, but Fitzhai became surely, and even annoyed.

  Eventually, he threw down the last of his ale and stood up so abruptly that his bench fell over with a clatter. ‘Look, I saved your hide out there, but that’s the end of it. I want nothing to do with any affair of the law or to waste my time as juryman or witness. I want to keep clear of sheriffs and crowners and the like. So I’ll say goodnight to you, and advise you to stay indoors on dark nights.’ He grabbed his sword belt from the end of the table and buckled it on as he pushed his way to the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In which Crowner John disputes with the sheriff

  By noon next day, John had been told of the events at Honiton. He had been to one of his reading lessons in the cathedral cloisters and, on his return at mid-morning, had found Thomas and Gwyn waiting for him in the gatehouse chamber.

  The clerk, who had timorously waited for full daylight before setting foot outside the door of the inn, had examined the scene of his ordeal before leaving Honiton. To his joy, he had discovered his pathetically few coins trodden into the mud alongside an ominous patch of blood from the wound Fitzhai’s sword had inflicted on the arm of one of the attackers.

  John sat silently behind his trestle table while Thomas related his story, in which he made much of his assault and the valiant resistance he had put up against at least four desperadoes. He ended his tale with the sign of the cross and waited expectantly, hoping for some expression of concern.

  The dark, hawkish figure behind the table glared at him. ‘And you let this fellow get away knowing nothing but his name?’

  Thomas tried to look hurt, but his wry neck and squint spoiled the effect. ‘He got up and left as soon as I questioned him. Said he wanted nothing to do with the law. But I’m certain he knew the dead man – he had said so at the outset.’

  Crouched on a box across the small room, Gwyn gave one of his meaningful grunts. ‘I should have gone to Honiton, not him. But I remember there was a Fitzhai at Ascalon, in the last weeks before we left Palestine, though I can’t recall what he looked like.’

  John rose impatiently and walked to the slit in the boarded window to peer down at the inner ward of the castle.

  ‘Why was this Fitzhai in Honiton? Was he staying at the inn?’ The clerk fidgeted on his stool. ‘I asked that of the innkeeper. He was loath to tell me anything, except that every man’s business is his own.’

  John came across the room and towered over the diminutive Thomas. ‘So we have lost him, have we? Our only witness and he walks out of the door.’ He swung round to Gwyn, whose red hair was glinting in a rare ray of sunshine. ‘Are there any Fitzhais in that area?’

  Gwyn shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Don’t know of any hereabouts. But I’m no expert on Norman families.’ His slight emphasis on ‘Norman’ was a subtle token of the resentment that still lingered among the native population, Saxon and Celt alike.

  John rested his buttocks on the edge of the table, which creaked ominously. ‘Then I’ll have to ask the sheriff for help. He should know all the manorial holders in his own county. I thought I did too, but Fitzhai is new to me.’ He jerked away from the protesting trestle and stalked to the door. ‘I’ve given you those names from yesterday’s inquest, Thomas. Get them down on a roll, with the usual style of words. Tostig is committed to prison to await trial and Eadred of Dawlish is placed in the care of his assailant, once the holy sister says he can be moved.’

  At the head of the stairs, he turned with an afterthought. ‘And record that the innkeeper, Willem of Bruges, can distrain on the family to get his board and lodging for the wounded man. Now I’m off to see Richard de Revelle.’

  John was tempted to divert to the Bush to see Nesta and take an hour’s ease with some beer and a meal. Yet the prospect of having to negotiate again with his brother-in-law, who would be sure to put every difficulty in his path, decided him on a less inviting diversion. On his way down the high street, he turned into St Martin’s Lane and entered his own front door.

  At least he had slept in his wife’s bed the previous night and attended his reading lesson – which had been her idea to improve his mind and social status – so their recent frigidity had warmed slightly. He walked through the entry passage and out through the back door into the yard, where Mary was throwing washing over some bushes to dry. He tickled Brutus’s ear and pecked the girl’s cheek before he climbed the outside wooden staircase at the back of the house to the solar. At the top, a heavy door led into the square room supported on timber stilts.

  Inside, Matilda was working at her embroidery, the usual pastime for a woman of her standing. She was sitting near the window, which was the only one in the house to have glass in it – a useless luxury, John thought, as the distorted view it gave through its thick, curved surface was merely that of their back yard and the roofs of nearby houses. A large low bed, a table and two chairs completed the furnishings. Sombre tapestries hid most of the timbered walls except where, on the wall opposite the window, a shuttered opening looked down into the hall below.

  After some strained but civil words of greeting, John lowered himself on to the other chair. ‘I need your advice,’ he began lamely.

  Matilda’s eyebrows rose and she looked up from her needle. ‘Since when have you needed my opinion? You’ve gone your own way these sixteen years.’

  Swallowing both a retort and his pride, he tried to look conciliatory. ‘About your brother, Matilda. We have to work together, for the sake of the King’s peace, if nothing else.’

  ‘And for the sake of family peace, I should hope,’ she snapped, conscious that, for once, she had the upper hand over her husband.

  ‘I don’t enjoy these futile squabbles with the sheriff,’ he lied. ‘It’s a question of jurisdiction between us, you see.’

  Matilda stared at him suspiciously, her needlework forgotten. ‘What d’you mean, jurisdiction?’

  John stretched out his long legs, the back flap of the grey surcoat falling to the floorboards. ‘The new Articles say that all violent and uncommon deaths be investigated by the coroners.’ She grudgingly nodded agreement. ‘And, furthermore, we are strictly to record all such happenings – and many more besides – to present to the King’s justices when they visit.’

  ‘Of course. Everyone knows that.’

  He silently disagreed with her, but kept his peace. ‘Your brother seems to think that the new law is a personal intrusion into his powers.’ And into his purse, th
ought John, but kept that to himself too.

  His wife put her needle to the linen and fiddled with the thread. She was in something of a dilemma, as although she was devoted to her brother she had ardently supported her husband’s elevation to the coronership. But both she and the sheriff had assumed that his appointment had been to a sinecure and had never dreamed that John was going to pursue his duties with such unrelenting zeal.

  ‘So what advice do you want from me?’ she asked uncertainly. He leaned back and locked his hands behind his head, his fingers buried in his thick black hair. As he told her the story of the dead Crusader and the trail that led to Honiton, she listened and watched him covertly.

  What did she feel for this hawk-like man, who had been joined to her for almost half her lifetime? Love was for the young and for illicit dalliance after marriage, and the purpose of marriage was to weld together family lands and fortunes, to produce sons, to gain political advantage. Love was the last consideration. She and John had been joined by their parents for mutual links between two Norman families – even though John’s mother was Cornish, which still rankled with Matilda.

  The de Revelles were a well-known, moderately wealthy clan, and Simon de Wolfe, John’s father, had had the best part of the marriage bargain when he had arranged to join his son to Matilda. True, the de Wolfes had two manors at Stoke-in-Teignhead but they were far from notable county figures. As for getting him sons, she had failed miserably – unless the fault lay with him. Their sporadic and unenthusiastic coupling in the first years of marriage had produced no offspring and had declined from lack of interest to their current celibacy. She was well aware that he satisfied his appetites elsewhere, as did most men, and she herself had had several liaisons when John was away at either the Irish wars or in the Levant, but it had been several years since she had bothered to trail her skirt at anyone.

  And here he was now, her tall, dark man, telling her some interminable tale about a rotting corpse in a Dartmoor brook. ‘Matilda, I need de Revelle’s help to find Fitzhai.’