Crowner's Crusade

by Bernard Knight

  John rasped a finger over his black stubble. ‘Yes, he deserves a rope around his neck, too. That Arnulf says he visits Crediton openly, so maybe one of these days we can spare a few hours to flush him out!’

  The murder of Roger Smale preyed on John’s mind, especially now that they knew the name of his killer, as well as a strong suspicion that it was done at the behest of Prince John.

  He thought about it during that night as he lay in bed, with Matilda snoring a few feet away under the heavy coverlet. What was the point of hanging little rogues, when those higher in the chain went unpunished? Hubert Walter had asked him to keep his ear to the ground in the West Country, but when something happened, there was no one in authority to take any action. John turned over restlessly and decided that Roger Smale must not rot away unavenged under his mound of damp earth outside the cathedral.

  Next morning, he went back to the undercroft at Rougemont and ordered Stigand to let him into the cells. Grumbling at being interrupted while frying his breakfast of eggs and bread on a skillet over the branding brazier, the gaoler opened the outer gate for him and went back to his crude cooking. The half-dozen rusty cages inside the prison area were empty apart from Arnulf’s and John strode down to glare in at the solitary occupant. The outlaw was sitting dejectedly on the slate slab that served as his bed, his feet in the sodden, filthy straw that covered the floor, watching a pair of rats squabbling over some refuse in the corner. It was dark, cold and stinking and although John was hardened to misery, he felt that a man’s last days in a condemned cell need not be as cruel as this.

  The man looked up listlessly as he became aware of someone outside his cell. ‘What do you want now?’ he rasped. ‘Have you come to gloat over me?’

  De Wolfe folded his arms and stared at the prisoner. ‘I need some more information about this man you spoke of, this Walter Hamelin.’

  This seemed to spur Arnulf out of his apathy and he scowled angrily at the tall man in the long grey tunic, a broadsword slung at his waist. ‘Why should I? What’s in it for me? You’re going to gibbet me whatever happens.’

  ‘Listen to me! Only God knows when the justices will come to try you, it may be months yet,’ growled John. ‘Do you want to stay as filthy as this for all that time?’ He gestured at the dirty pan of drinking water, in which floated soiled straw and rat droppings – and at the slop bucket, overturned under the slate slab.

  ‘What choice do I have?’ snarled Arnulf. ‘I’d like to kill myself, but there’s no way of managing that in here.’

  ‘Tell me what I want to know and I’ll get that evil bastard out there to give you clean straw and a blanket. I’ll even bribe the swine to get you some food that would at least be fit for dogs.’

  The outlaw looked suspiciously at his visitor, then decided that he had nothing to lose and possibly something to gain. ‘What do you want to know?’ he muttered.

  ‘Where can I find this Walter? I need to talk to him, to discover who wanted Roger Smale killed – and why?’ snapped de Wolfe.

  ‘Talk to him? You mean kill him, I suppose,’ sneered Arnulf.

  ‘That would be up to the justices – unless he tried to kill me first, when I would certainly slay him!’ said John calmly.

  ‘You’d have your work cut out! Walter’s never been bested by anyone yet.’

  John became impatient with this verbal fencing. ‘You said that though outlawed, he sometimes went back into town. D’you mean Crediton?’

  ‘Yes, most often. Though he has been into Moretonhampstead and Tiverton, even came once here to Exeter.’ The man was almost boastful about his former leader’s boldness.

  ‘Why does his risk that?’ demanded John.

  The man leered up at him. ‘Walter’s fond of a tavern – and even fonder of a woman now and then. And he does a bit of business, selling venison and other game we poached from the forest. There’s little risk, with no sheriff’s men to bother him. If the town bailiff or the forest officers get too nosy, he either bribes them or makes a run for it.’

  John thought about this for a moment. ‘How often does he go there? Does he have a favourite tavern in Crediton?’

  Arnulf shrugged. ‘Depends which part of the forest we were in. It was rare for him to go a week without wanting to ride some doxy. And as for an inn, the Bell was his usual haunt, for he had some arrangement with the landlord. Walter took me there once to help him take a deer we’d killed.’

  John tried the man with a few more questions, but there was nothing useful that he could squeeze from him. On the way out of the undercroft, he grabbed Stigand by the throat and threatened him with violence if he failed to clean up the prisoner’s cell and treat him more humanely. Thrusting a few pence at him, he promised to send Gwyn in regularly to check that Arnulf received some edible food at least once a day.

  As he walked across the muddy inner ward, he wondered why he had suddenly been struck by this attack of compassion for a murderous outlaw, when he had seen scores of other men die in equally foul circumstances. Perhaps age was turning him soft, but then he decided it was just an honest bargain, exchanging a favour for information, scanty though it was.

  In the guardroom of the gatehouse, he found Gwyn at his usual game of dice and after waiting to see him win a ha’penny from Sergeant Gabriel, told them of his visit to Stigand’s captive.

  ‘Are you thinking of laying an ambush for this Walter fellow?’ asked Gabriel. ‘He must be a pretty slippery chap to come and go into Crediton as he pleases.’

  ‘Half these towns turn a blind eye to outlaws,’ declared Gwyn, as he dropped his winnings into his scrip. ‘They buy illegal game from them and then sell them food and drink to keep them happy in the forest. It all helps to keep the wheels of trade turning – and why should the townsfolk put themselves out to get them arrested?’

  Gabriel nodded his agreement. ‘I have heard tell of outlaws slipping back to live full-time in towns well away from where they came from. Some have started businesses and even become respectable burgesses!’

  ‘Well this bastard isn’t respectable and I’m going to do my damnedest to catch him!’ declared de Wolfe. ‘We need to get some idea of his habits up around Crediton. I’m too well known to go snooping, so I think it’s a job for you, Gwyn. Investigating alehouses should suit you well!’

  His henchman agreed, as the prospect of legitimately drinking a great deal appealed to him, especially as John gave him four pence to fund the investigation, enough to buy sufficient ale to float a rowing boat.

  The Cornishman went to collect his mare from the castle stables and, within the hour, had set off on the few miles to Crediton.

  ‘That rogue in the cells was right. Walter Hamelin does patronize the Bell quite often.’ Late that evening, Gwyn was reporting to John on his spying mission, as they sat in the Bush enjoying mutton pasties and a jug of Nesta’s best ale.

  ‘How did you come to discover that?’ asked de Wolfe, wondering if his friend had threatened some hapless patron of the alehouse in Crediton.

  Gwyn grinned through his ginger moustache. ‘Easy! I claimed that I was looking to buy some illegal venison for my master and had heard that Walter Hamelin sometimes had a haunch or two for sale.’

  ‘Who told you? The landlord himself?’

  ‘Indeed it was! It looks as if he acts as a middleman for Walter. A risky business, poaching deer from the forest – a capital offence, but I suppose if you’re already an outlaw, you can’t be hanged twice.’

  John was distracted for a moment, as Nesta came across from talking to other customers and slid on to the bench alongside him. He told her what Gwyn had been up to that day and she was intrigued to know what they were going to do next.

  Gwyn swallowed almost a pint of ale before answering her. ‘I’ve already done it,’ he said. ‘The landlord told me that Hamelin was due in on Friday with two brace of pheasants and a couple of hares that another customer had ordered. If I wanted to talk to him about venison, he said I should come and
bargain a price with him.’

  Nesta’s arched eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘They seem very casual about outlawry in Crediton. Have they no fear of the law there?’

  John scowled, his bushy black brows meeting in the middle. ‘That’s the problem, there is no law worth speaking of! That scab in the castle gaol said that the local officers can easily be bought off, with no proper sheriff to police the county.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about this Hamelin fellow?’ persisted Nesta.

  Gwyn looked at de Wolfe for approval. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go and talk to him on Friday, see if I can lure him outside where we can seize him?’

  John ran his fingers through his hair, pulling the thick dark locks back towards the nape of his neck. ‘He’ll be wary, meeting a complete stranger. You told the landlord that you wanted the venison for your master – did he ask who that was?’

  Gwyn nodded. ‘He did, but I told him my master wanted to keep his name well away from any illegal dealings, which seemed to satisfy him.’

  John pondered this for a moment. ‘We need to ambush him, but no doubt he’ll be cautious, for all that Crediton seems a safe haven for rogues. If we gallop into the town with a posse, he’ll vanish through the back door, that’s for sure.’

  Gwyn nodded, as he slurped some more ale. ‘We don’t even know what he looks like, so I’ll have to keep that meeting, just to clap eyes on the man. I’ll make a date to collect the haunch of meat, then somehow we can nab him when he leaves, for he has to go back into the forest afterwards.’

  But Nesta, always mindful of their safety, had thought of a danger they had not mentioned. ‘What if he recognizes you, Gwyn? He was the leader of that gang that attacked the nuns. You were there too and you’re not exactly inconspicuous!’

  The Cornishman was unconcerned. ‘They vanished into the trees like greased lightning as soon as they saw us coming. Only Arnulf was left in the road, fending off one of the escort – and he’s locked in the cells.’

  Nesta was not totally convinced, but the two men seemed set on this escapade and John partly mollified her by promising to take Gabriel and a few men-at-arms with them.

  When Friday afternoon came, six men set off on the eight miles to Crediton, which they reached at twilight. All except Gwyn took cover in a wood just outside the town, the others tethering their horses there and waiting for half an hour to allow Gwyn to reach the Bell tavern. They had brought an extra horse from the castle stables, in the hope of having a captive to take back with them.

  Leaving the youngest soldier to look after their mounts, the remaining four set off separately to follow Gwyn into the town. All wore nondescript clothing, John covering his long black hair under a pilgrim’s hat, the wide brim shadowing his face in the approaching dusk. Though he was well known in Exeter, having been abroad for three years made it unlikely that he would be easily recognized in Crediton, but to add to the image of a pilgrim, he had a long cloak to conceal his sword and carried a staff in his hand. Pilgrims were often seen in the town, as its main claim to fame was as the birthplace of the great St Boniface, who centuries earlier had taken Christianity to Germany and become its patron saint.

  There were several small alehouses in the town, apart from the Bell, and John sent the two men-at-arms into one with a penny for their ale. They could hardly linger in the street for any length of time and there was no way of telling when Walter Hamelin would appear, if at all.

  John walked on up the High Street with Gabriel, who had entered into the spirit of the adventure and disguised himself as a tanner, even to the extent of borrowing a leather apron from a friend in Exeter, which stank of the noxious animal substances that were used in treating hides. They passed the Bell on the other side of the main street, but there was no sign of the Cornishman outside the low thatched building.

  ‘We’d best go into the churchyard and wait,’ muttered John, as they came level with the large parish church. Slipping through the lychgate, the two men lurked behind the stone wall, trying to look unobtrusive, while still keeping an eye on the door of the Bell. John was afraid that they might waste a whole evening waiting for Walter, the deepening darkness making it more difficult to see who was coming and going.

  But almost immediately, Gabriel hissed a warning. ‘There’s Gwyn on the doorstep, looking up and down the street. There’s no one with him.’

  Going back into the roadway, they waved at him and he came across.

  ‘He’s been and gone again,’ he reported. ‘The landlord says he’ll be back later, but God alone knows when.’

  ‘Does he know where the bloody man has gone?’ demanded de Wolfe.

  ‘He’s gone to visit a doxy, so it depends on his stamina as to when he’ll be back,’ replied Gwyn, with a broad grin.

  ‘Maybe a good time to nab him, with his breeches down – if we knew where he was,’ suggested Gabriel.

  ‘He’s gone to see his regular whore, according to the landlord,’ said Gwyn. ‘A hussy called Alys, who plies her trade from a cottage next to the slaughterhouse at the end of the road.’ He pointed in the opposite direction to that which they had come and immediately, John began striding off, already loosening his cloak so that he could get at his sword.

  The High Street soon petered out and beyond the last straggle of cottages the position of the slaughterhouse was easily apparent by the stench of rotten entrails piled outside. Beyond it, a dim light flickered behind the shutters of a solitary window in a cob-and-thatch hovel, too small to be called a cottage.

  ‘That must be the place,’ growled Gabriel. ‘It’s got a lighted candle, perhaps he likes to see what he’s doing!’

  There was no gate or fence around the hut and John stepped quietly up to the window and put an eye to a crack in the ill-fitting shutter. Then backing away, he went back to the other two and spoke in a whisper. ‘It’s him all right – unless someone else is enjoying the delights of Alys.’

  ‘Shall I go back and fetch the other two lads?’ suggested Gabriel.

  ‘No, if three of us old warriors can’t grab one man, we ought to go home and sit by the fire for the rest of our days!’

  Gwyn nodded in the gloom. ‘Yes, let’s jump him now, but we’ll need the others to drag him safely back to Exeter.’

  They moved quietly up to the door, a rickety collection of planks with leather hinges, but no handle or latch. John opened it by simply raising his foot and smashing it against the flimsy barrier, which flew back with a crash. With his sword drawn, he charged inside, closely followed by his two companions. The light from the candle was dim, but he had no difficulty in seeing a man straddling a woman on a grubby mattress placed on the floor in one corner. His roar of challenge was matched by a strident bellow from the man, who leapt up dressed only in an undershirt, the pandemonium being added to by piercing shrieks from the woman who lay naked on the palliasse. She had good reason to be frightened, as three large men appeared around her bed, all brandishing large swords.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ yelled the man, staring wildly at these apparitions, as he pulled his shirt down to cover his pubes. He was a tall, well-built man, fair-haired with coarsely handsome features.

  ‘Are you Walter Hamelin?’ roared de Wolfe. ‘If you are, then we’re arresting you!’

  ‘Arresting me? God’s teeth, what are you talking about, damn you?’ He sounded indignant, as well as shocked.

  ‘We are king’s officers!’ shouted John, stretching the truth a little. At least Gabriel was part of Exeter’s royal garrison and John’s warrant from the Justiciar effectively made him a king’s agent. ‘We are seizing you as an outlaw and also as a murderer,’ he added.

  Walter virtually danced on the bed in desperation as he looked wildly around to see if he could reach his clothes piled on the floor, where his long dagger sat on his belt. It was a futile gesture, with three long sword-blades pointing steadily at him. Alys had given up screaming and had grabbed a woollen blanket and pulled it over herself, covering her
head.

  ‘We are entitled to kill you now!’ boomed John. ‘But we’re taking you back to Exeter to question you, so get your breeches on. This is the last time you’ll ever soil a woman, whore though she may be!’

  Gabriel bent to remove the dagger from Walter’s clothing and threw the serge trousers at him.

  Still standing on the bed, the outlaw sullenly pulled them on as he snarled at John. ‘Who are you and how did you find me?’

  ‘I’m Sir John de Wolfe, a knight and a servant of King Richard. These men are my squire and the sergeant of the garrison at Rougemont. We were the ones who broke up your murderous attack on a priest and those nuns on the road to Honiton. That’s all you need to know, so get these on!’ He kicked a pair of boots towards the mattress, where the harlot still cowered under her blanket.

  As soon as Walter had dragged them on, Gabriel sheathed his sword and stepped forward with a length of thin rope, which he had brought wrapped around his waist. As his two companions held their swords at the ready, he lashed Hamelin’s wrists together behind his back. With the outlaw’s own dagger in his hand, he used it to prod the captive in the back and urge him towards the door, keeping hold of the loose end of the rope.

  As they left the miserable shack, Gwyn cackled at Walter. ‘At least you didn’t have to pay her this time, you’ve had your fun for free!’

  In return, the outlaw spat a string of foul blasphemies at the Cornishman and received a clout across the ear for his trouble.

  Hamelin continued to curse as they marched him back down the High Street, the moon giving them light enough from a clear sky.

  Before they reached the alehouse where they had left the other soldiers, Walter ran out of abuse and managed to speak rationally again. ‘What are these bloody questions you want to ask me? You’re not sheriff’s men. Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?’

  De Wolfe stopped their progress in the middle of the street and held the tip of his sword to the man’s throat. ‘Maybe I will, just as you callously slashed the throat of Roger Smale and threw him into the river!’ he growled.