The master of the St Radegund was sitting on a bench in the window, whose shutters were flung wide to give a view of the sea over the roofs of the low buildings in the main street. Roger Watts was a short, burly man of forty, with a red weather-beaten face. He rose as soon as his employer came in and touched a finger to his forehead in salute. 'A welcome surprise, Sir John!' he exclaimed. 'I was just about to leave to see how my repairs are coming along,' he added tactfully, glancing at Hilda.
The widow sat in a leather-backed chair facing the window, but she also rose as de Wolfe came in. Dressed in a pale blue kirtle of fine wool, she was tall and slim, a blonde beauty looking much younger than her thirty-five years. In the house, she wore no head veil and her waist-length hair was braided into two honey-coloured plaits that hung down over her bosom, the ends encased in silver tubes. A silken rope was wound twice around her waist, with tassels dangling from the long free ends. She glided across the room, her hands held out in welcome. John took them briefly and looked longingly into her blue eyes, but in deference to the presence of the sea-captain he did not hold her close and kiss her, as he would have done if they were alone - though on previous visits since she lost Thorgils, the little maid had crouched determinedly in a corner to act as chaperone.
'John, I am so happy to see you! Sit yourself down, please. Alice, get wine and pastries for us all.'
Roger Watts edged towards the doorway and prepared to say his farewells, but John stopped him with an upraised hand.
'Though I am always delighted to see Mistress Hilda, it is you that I really came to see, Roger.' He managed to give a covert wink to Hilda as he said this, before parking his tender backside on the padded bench and motioning Watts to be seated again.
There was a short interlude of pleasantries about each other's health, in which John avoided mentioning his present embarrassing disability. Then the maid returned with cups, a wine flask and a platter of thin pasties filled with chopped meat. As they ate and sipped the red wine, John explained his mission.
'I have had to deal with an unusual murder in Axmouth. The victim was a young shipman, strangled and buried outside the village. We have no idea who is responsible, but the whole affair is mysterious and the Keeper of the Peace over there thinks that there is some evil business afoot.'
He explained that the lad had been a crew member of The Tiger, but the cog had sailed away and until she came back he had no means of pursuing the investigation. 'You are one of the most experienced shipmasters along this coast, Roger. Is there anything you can tell me about Axmouth or this vessel that might help me?'
Watts drank some of his wine, frowning in concentration. 'Axmouth! A strange place, that!' he said ruminatively. 'I rarely moor in that river, as Exeter, Topsham and Dartmouth are my main ports of call. But sometimes I do pick up cargo there.'
De Wolfe fixed him with a steely glare. 'Why a strange place?'
'It's run by the bailiff and his lapdog, Elias the reeve. That Edward Northcote is an arrogant dictator, running everything in the name of the priory that owns the manor, but I think he has a major stake in it himself.'
This was in complete accord with what John had observed.
'Is there anything illegal going on there, d'you know?' he asked bluntly.
Roger Watts shrugged. 'I'd wager my own anchor that more goods get smuggled in than those on which the king's Customs are paid,' he said. 'There's a fellow there supposed to keep tally, John Capie by name, but he can't cope with the volume of ships that come in and out - and, anyway, every tally-man I've ever known was wide open to bribes.'
Hilda had kept silent all the while, feeling that she had no call to interrupt men's business even if she was a ship owner herself. But now she spoke up.
'It's common knowledge that everyone tries to avoid these harsh taxes if they can. I realise that you are a loyal officer of the king, John, but you must know that people increasingly resent these crushing dues, just to finance wars which they feel are none of their business.'
De Wolfe felt uncomfortable at this turn in the conversation. His own appointment as coroner was mainly to raise money for the Lionheart's treasury, in order to pay for the huge ransom that Henry of Germany demanded for his release over two years earlier. The fines, amercements, surrendered bail money, the seized property of hanged felons and fees for cases that he swept into the royal courts were all grist to the Exchequer's mill in Winchester. King Richard was now engaged in an apparently endless war against Philip of France and was squeezing all he could from England to pay for it. The Church had been bled dry, their silver plate and chalices taken and some of their huge wool output from the larger monasteries confiscated. Along with tin, wool was the staple product of the country and every bale exported was supposed to be taxed for the benefit of the Crown.
Another reason for John's discomfort was the knowledge that undoubtedly some of his own wool sent across to the Continent evaded the Customs duty by various means. No doubt Roger Watts was well aware of this and so was Hugh de Relaga. John steadfastly did not want to know what went on and depended on Hugh not to tell him! He tried to steer the conversation into another channel.
'What about this vessel The Tiger?' he asked. 'I gather her master is Martin Rof. Tell me about him and the ship's owner.'
Under this interrogation, Roger Watts was beginning to wish that he had not chosen this morning to call upon Mistress Hilda, but the coroner's expression told him that he could not prevaricate.
'Martin Rof is a rough diamond, sure enough!' he began, nervously studying his wine cup. 'A good seaman, but a hard master to his crew. Like most of us, he sails from all the ports along this coast, but mainly Axmouth, where he lives. His cog The Tiger is well known on both sides of the Channel.'
This told de Wolfe nothing he wanted to know. 'But what about the man himself? Is he honest and to be trusted?'
Roger Watts gave a hollow laugh. 'Who can tell that, Sir John? I hope I am honest, though I admit I do not shed tears if the tally-man happens to forget a few casks or bales now and then. Martin Rof has a reputation for being even more forgetful about paying his Customs dues, but few would hold that against him.'
Aware of his own vulnerability in that regard, John did not pursue the issue. 'Is anything else known about him? This lad who was slain was a member of his crew, though admittedly the killing occurred after the cog berthed in Axmouth.'
Roger shrugged. 'Knowing nothing of the matter, I can't venture to say. But why would he be involved in the death of one of his own men? I admit I've sometimes wanted to slay some useless sod in my crew, but I've never actually done it!'
He tried to inject some levity into the talk, but it fell flat with de Wolfe.
'The Keeper mentioned piracy along these coasts,' growled the coroner. 'What do you know of that?'
Again Roger Watts looked uncomfortable, not that he had any fear of being branded a pirate himself, but seafarers - like tinners - stuck together and were reluctant to tell tales to law officers.
'There is no doubt that attacks and pillaging and killing go on out at sea,' he admitted, squirming a little on his bench. 'But these are almost all down to bastards from either Brittany or the French coast, some of whom claim to be at war with England.'
Hilda, who had been listening attentively, broke in again. 'I recall Thorgils saying that vessels from the far south - Spain and even the Middle Sea - used to come ravaging into the Channel and as far as the Severn Sea. He told me how he had once outsailed an oared galley that must have come from the Barbary Coast.'
John nodded. 'I remember that story of his,' he said gently. 'He was always one for a good tale. You must miss his company, Hilda.'
She inclined her head but smiled sadly. 'He was a good and kind man. He did not deserve the fate that took him from me. Like all wives of shipmen, I always expected to hear of his loss from storm and shipwreck, but not murder!'
'That was piracy, by foreign devils,' agreed de Wolfe. 'But I have heard of some home-grown pirat
es in these waters. Is that so, Roger?'
The shipmaster decided he could stall no longer. 'It is, unfortunately. The men from Lyme have the worst reputation, but Dorset was always a barbarous place. Though most of us are concerned only with the safe delivery of our cargoes, some vessels prey on others, may God rot their souls on Judgment Day!'
'Is it known who indulge themselves in this murderous business?' demanded the coroner.
Roger Watts shook his head. 'Who is to know what goes on once out of sight of land?' he said warily. 'It is legal and indeed to be commended if an English ship attacks a Frenchie, given that there is a state of war between us most of the time. Those bastards are quick enough to pillage our vessels.'
'Yet there are widows and fatherless children in this port for whom English shipmen are said to be responsible!' cut in Hilda, her lovely face set with concern. She was well known for her generosity to the families of men lost at sea.
'We certainly hear tales that suggest that is true,' answered Watts. 'But how can it be proven? A pirate must kill every crewman on the stricken ship if he is to avoid retribution. And the vessel must be scuttled after the cargo is seized, to remove all traces of the crime.'
De Wolfe scowled at this apparent impasse. 'Do the rumours of piracy involve Axmouth?' he snapped. 'And does this Martin Rof's name ever crop up in discussion of the problem?'
Roger shrugged hopelessly. This was a conversation in which he would rather not take part. 'I've heard nothing, Crowner - but any man who bandies about the name of a supposed pirate is asking for a sudden death!'
John fixed him with his brooding eyes. 'And a sudden death is exactly what I am concerned about in Axmouth!' he growled.
After the master of the St Radegund had thankfully made his escape from the coroner's interrogation, John was left alone with Hilda. The little maid Alice had hung about the doorway but was sent packing by her mistress, who felt she needed no chaperone now, especially with a man with whom she had lain intermittently since they were youngsters rolling in the hayloft in Holcombe.
As soon as Alice had gone downstairs, he took Hilda into his arms and kissed her languorously, somehow being able to assure himself that this was merely brotherly affection. Eventually, she managed to draw breath and pushed him away gently, sitting down again on her chair and pointing him to the bench.
'And how is Nesta?' she asked pointedly, though with a smile that told him she was teasing. Mentally throwing the little devil of temptation from his shoulder, John said she was very well, though in fact he had seen little of his Welsh mistress these past few weeks, as a succession of deaths and court cases had kept him out of Exeter more than usual.
Evading the subject, though Hilda and Nesta had met a number of times and enjoyed each other's company, he made solicitous enquiries about Hilda's health and happiness.
Though he had cuckolded Thorgils for years, he had been very discreet about it and came to Hilda only when the older man was away on his voyages. He wondered now what the blonde beauty would do, as she was still comparatively young and, having inherited her husband's house, treasure chest and his three ships, was a rich enough widow to attract many suitors. Though her origins were humble enough, as the daughter of a manor-reeve, her marriage to a well-known and affluent ship owner now lifted her many rungs up the social ladder.
'I have no plans, John. I am content for now to live in this fine house. I attend the church diligently and spend much time with the families of those shipmen who died with Thorgils in the Mary and Child Jesus.'
The ship had been repaired after being wrecked and now formed part of the trio of vessels that Hilda had brought to John and Hugh de Relaga's partnership. De Wolfe was curiously relieved to hear that she was in no hurry to find a new husband, even though he had no thoughts of taking up with her again. At least, he firmly suppressed such thoughts, even though the nearness of such an attractive woman gnawed away at his self-control. They talked away pleasantly for some time, finishing the wine and pastries, until John reluctantly felt that he should drag Gwyn from the alehouse and make their way down to see his mother at Stoke-in-Teignhead. With a final hug and a long kiss, he broke away and, with a promise to see her again soon, left in a slight daze of amorous longing. As he loped back to the tavern, he had a rare moment of introspection, wondering how such a hard bastard as himself, veteran of years of campaigning, could become so soft and sentimental over women - or, to be more exact, two particular women.
CHAPTER FOUR
In which the coroner visits the Bush
John de Wolfe did not in fact get to see his family at their home manor that day. When he reached the alehouse, he found - wonder of wonders - Gwyn standing outside, staring at the small estuary where the stream poured out across the beach into the sea. The tide was now right out and the vessels were high and dry, tilted over slightly on their flat keels. He realised from the low water that he had been with Hilda much longer than he had anticipated.
'We could easily get across the ford at Teignmouth,' said his officer. 'But we'll not get back again! By the time you reach Stoke and have a decent talk to your kin there, the tide will be in full flood on the return journey. We'd never reach Exeter before curfew.'
There was no argument with this, as it would take too long to go up the Teign on the other bank to the first bridge and then find the inland road back to the city. Resignedly, John went with Gwyn to get their horses and soon they were back on the road. This time they avoided Kenton and went over the marshes to the ferry, where they and their horses were carried across the Exe to Topsham on what was little better than a large raft. They reached Exeter's South Gate much earlier than John had expected, and rode straight up to the castle, where de Wolfe decided to call on the sheriff and bring him up to date on events.
Henry de Furnellis was a veteran of even more wars than de Wolfe, a big man of sixty with a face like a sad hound, jowls hanging below his chin. He had been sheriff previously, as when Richard de Revelle was suspended two years earlier he had been appointed for a short time as a stopgap, until de Revelle was reinstated. After Richard's second dismissal, de Furnellis was again wheeled in, but he fervently hoped that it would be for a short time, as he wished to return to retirement at his manor near Crediton. Most of his time was occupied with sorting out the finances of the county, which was one of the sheriff's main responsibilities on behalf of the king. During his predecessor's shrievalty, de Revelle had deliberately obscured the true accounts, as part of his methodical embezzlement. The other prime task, the maintenance of law and order in Devon, Henry was content to leave to the coroner, even though it was not strictly his duty.
John found the grizzled knight in his chamber at the side of the large hall that occupied most of the lower floor of the keep. Below was the dismal undercroft, which was both the castle prison, storehouse and quarters for Stigand, the obese gaoler and torturer. Above the hall were various rooms for clerks and living accommodation for Ralph Morin, the garrison commander, for Rougemont had been a royal castle ever since it was built by William the Bastard after the 1068 rebellion.
Henry de Furnellis was listening to a long and boring explanation by his chief clerk Elphin about evasion of taxes by a manor-lord near Okehampton. He greeted John's arrival with relief and waved the sour-faced Elphin away to obtain a respite from the accounts. Inevitably, the wine flask and cups were produced and parchments pushed aside on the sheriff's large table to make room for them.
When John had lowered himself into a sling-backed leather chair opposite Henry, they chatted for a while, then he told him of the events of the past couple of days, concentrating on the strange goings-on along the River Axe.
'It's not only this murder, but the rumours of corrupt practices there,' concluded de Wolfe. 'Doubtless there's much evasion of the king's Customs, but the possibility of piracy is more serious.'
The sheriff ran a hand through his wiry grey hair and glanced shrewdly at the coroner. 'They're a strange lot over there, right on the ed
ge of the county. A mile or two further and they'd be Dorset men, and you know what that means!'
It was a hoary old joke that those in the next county were all rogues and villains, most of them being not quite right in the head. It arose from the bad reputation of the shipmen of Lyme, who had often preyed upon both fishermen and ships from Devon.
'Who suggested that there might be piracy involved?' asked Henry, refilling their pewter wine cups.
'This new Keeper of the Peace, Luke de Casewold. He's a pain in the arse!' added John, suddenly aware that the phrase had personal relevance to himself, though thankfully his backside seemed to be improving by the hour.
The sheriff nodded, leaning back in his chair. 'Luke de Casewold, eh? I installed him in the post some months ago, on the strength of an Article of Eyre that came from the royal justices at the last session in Taunton. There are half a dozen of them now scattered around the county. There should be more, but no one wants to take on the job. Like you coroners, they are forbidden to take any salary, though I suspect they make up for it in other ways!'
'I doubt this fellow is corrupt; he's too keen to make his mark,' grunted John. 'Wants to chase every neer-do-well in Devon but has no one to back him up. The bailiffs and serjeants in those Hundreds over there don't seem keen to give him much help in keeping the peace.'
'What do you intend doing about it?' This confirmed John's impression that the sheriff had no inclination to stir himself out of his chamber to keep law and order, when he had a coroner stupid enough to do the job for him.
'Nothing can be done, unless some new information comes to hand,' he growled. 'I'm waiting for this cog The Tiger to return to Axmouth, so that I can talk to the shipmaster about the dead youth. I've not much hope of anything useful coming from it; these sailors will hardly give you a good morning, let alone confess to a murder.'
The Manor of Death Page 9