The Manor of Death

by Bernard Knight

  The tally-man folded his arms and glowered back obstinately. 'I do my best, but I can't be expected to watch every crate and keg that is landed or loaded! This wharf extends for almost three furlongs, and you can see for yourself how many vessels might be here at any one time.'

  He flung up an arm to encompass the line of cogs leaning against the river bank. 'If the king or his damned ministers want to collect every half-penny of Customs dues, then they had better employ a couple more tally-men, for I can't cope with it all!'

  His aggrieved tone sounded more than a little false to Luke, as Capie had never complained to him or the sheriff about getting additional help. However, the Keeper was craftily working around to a more sinister problem than Customs evasion and adopted a more conciliatory approach.

  'That may well be true, Capie, so tell me how you go about your work. That ship there, for instance: how would you deal with that when she arrives?' He pointed to the nearest cog, which seemed deserted at the moment.

  Mollified, John Capie explained that as soon as a new arrival moored herself to the stout tree-trunks buried along the bank, he would question the shipmaster as to the name of the vessel, where she had come from and what the nature of the cargo was. Being unable to read or write, he would remember this and hasten up to the portreeve's house to tell him of the new arrival, while the ship prepared to unload her contents on to the quayside. Capie would then return and, with a selection of knotted strings and hazel rods that he notched with a knife, would keep count of the items that were carried down the gangplank.

  'But how do you know which goods belong to which string or tally-stick?' demanded Hugh Bogge.

  'The cords are of different colours and the tops of the sticks are marked with my own code,' snapped Capie. 'A notch for cloth bales, half a ring for wine kegs and so on. I go back to Elias Palmer as soon as the hold is empty and he writes it all down on his parchments.'

  'What if there are two or more cogs unloading at the same time?' objected Luke. 'You can't keep all that in your head.'

  'Mother of God, isn't that what I just complained about?' exclaimed the tally-man. 'I try to keep them separate by forbidding the shipmaster to start unloading until I've dealt with the previous vessel, but half the time they take no notice, as they either want to get to the nearest alehouse or catch the next tide to get back out to sea.'

  The clerk pushed himself back into the discussion. 'What about goods that are being taken out of the port?' he asked.

  John Capie shrugged. 'Not so important, as far as I'm concerned. Wool is the main problem, since our beloved king put a tax on its export. We don't get much tin through here these days; all the refined metal goes out through Exeter or Topsham, as the second smeltings and the assays are done there.'

  The Keeper came back into the dialogue. 'So you tally up the bales of wool and report the number to the portreeve, is that how it works?'

  'Yes. Elias is the linchpin of the system, being the only one who can write; other than the priests.'

  Luke noticed his use of the plural. 'Priests? Is there more than one, then?'

  The Customs man stared at him. 'Only old Henry of Cumba actually lives here - but the cellarer's man from the priory is here every week, keeping a very close eye on what's due to Loders.' The priory was just beyond Bridport, some ten miles over the border in Dorset.

  'And what is due to them?' demanded de Casewold. John Capie looked at him as if he was a backward child. 'What's due? Jesus, they own the bloody manor, don't they! They claim a fifth of everything that is collected for the king, to go into the coffers of the prior.'

  'Are you saying that they rob the royal Exchequer of a fifth of the king's dues?' squawked the Keeper indignantly.

  Again Capie gave him a look that he usually reserved for the village idiot. 'Of course not! The king's tax is used as a measure - and then a fifth of that is added on for Loders.'

  Hugh Bogge muttered something under his breath, which his master failed to catch. It was just as well, as it was a seditious comment about government and ecclesiastical extortion.

  'So how is this money collected?' Luke wished to know.

  The tally-man shrugged again. 'Don't know; nothing to do with me! I think Elias sends a list up to the sheriff, who collects it as part of the county farm from all the merchants who import and export.'

  The 'farm' was the six-monthly accumulation of taxes from every part of Devon, which the sheriff had to take to Winchester in person, in bags of coin in the panniers of packhorses. Here it was paid into the Exchequer, which got its name from the chequered cloth on the treasury clerks' table that was used to facilitate counting the silver pennies that were the only form of currency. The size of the farm was set annually by the Curia Regis for each county - and if the sheriff could collect more than that, he was entitled to keep the difference, which made the post of sheriff so much sought after by barons and even bishops. Some even held multiple shrievalties in several counties at once. However, after the depredations of his predecessor, Richard de Revelle, old Henry de Furnellis was hard pressed to collect the minimum required.

  'So it's all down to Elias Palmer as to how much he enters in his accounts,' said the Keeper, cynicism oozing from his voice. 'You can't read, so you've no idea what he's writing down in his accounts.'

  'Not my problem, sir! I'm paid a pittance to record as much as I can manage - what happens after that is none of my business, and I don't want it to be.'

  De Casewold changed the subject somewhat, waving a hand at the locked doors behind the tally-man. 'So what exactly is kept in these sheds?' he demanded.

  Capie moved away from the doors and looked at the barn-like structures as if he had never noticed them before. 'In here? Why, the goods that have either been unloaded and not yet been delivered to the owners - or the stuff that is waiting for the cog that is to carry them abroad.'

  Luke de Casewold looked dubious at the explanation. 'A complicated task, sorting all that. Who is responsible for it?'

  'The portreeve, of course. No one else can check the goods against the manifest lists, for only he can read them. Tally-sticks and knotted cords are no good for identifying a pile of kegs or bales.'

  The Keeper felt that Elias Palmer was in a position to make or break the administration of Axmouth, as he seemed in a position to control every aspect of the trade there.

  'I want to have a look in there, so open them up for me!' he snapped.

  Capie shook his head obstinately. 'Can't be done, Keeper. I don't have a key. Only the portreeve and the bailiff can unlock them.'

  Luke puffed out his cheeks and blew in annoyance, feeling that he was being deliberately frustrated in his search for the truth.

  'Then I'll go up and get them to show me what's in there,' he promised, but turned the subject once again. 'Now then, Capie, I want an honest answer and be sure that if I find you are lying, you'll end up in chains before the courts. Do you know anything about goods coming in here as the spoils of piracy out at sea?' He glared at the tally-man and rattled his sword in its scabbard to emphasise his threat.

  John Capie stared sullenly into the middle distance and shuffled his dirty shoes on the ground. 'I know nothing of such things!' he protested. 'How could I know? I just count items of cargo as they get carried off the cogs. Where they came from is not within my knowledge. '

  His words and demeanour were totally unconvincing, and de Casewold leant towards the man and breathed his foul breath into his face as he spoke. 'Come, Capie, you are the man most involved with these ships and their crews! If anyone heard any gossip about certain vessels pillaging others, it would be you!'

  The tally-man suddenly backed away, holding up his palms as if warding off the devil himself. 'I know nothing of such matters, Keeper! Don't ask me. I don't want to get involved in any gossip. I'm a simple man who does a job and just wants to live quietly with my family!'

  'You sound afraid, John Capie!' exclaimed Luke. 'Has someone been threatening you if you speak out?' />
  The tally-man stumbled back even further. 'I don't know what goes on out at sea - and I don't want to know! Go and ask someone else, if you must, but leave me out of it, d'you hear!' The last words had risen into a screech as Capie turned and lurched back to his cottage without so much as a backward glance.

  'There's a man with something to hide,' observed Hugh Bogge as they watched him hurry into his cottage and quickly shut the door, which screeched as the wood scraped the uneven threshold.

  'I'll have him eventually,' crowed de Casewold vindictively. 'But I want to see what's in these storehouses, so we'll tackle the bailiff and Elias next.'

  Entering the harbour gate, they passed the church, where a bell was tolling mournfully for some service, a trickle of villagers gravitating to it through the churchyard. Further up the main street they entered the garden of the bailiff's house and through a wideopen shutter saw him and the portreeve bent over a table. The Keeper went to it and called through the window-opening.

  'Edward Northcote! I need to talk to you - and to your portreeve.'

  The two men inside swung around and groaned when they saw who it was. 'What in God's name do you want, Casewold?' bellowed the bailiff.

  'To ask you some questions - and to inspect those warehouses on the wharf.'

  'Go to hell, you interfering busybody!' roared Northcote, coming across to the window-opening and thrusting his large, flushed face right into that of the Keeper. 'It's Easter and we have better things to do than waste time with you.'

  Behind him, the portreeve nodded nervous agreement but said nothing.

  'Have a care, Northcote. I am a king's officer!' threatened Luke. 'I can have you attached to the next county court - or have you dragged off to Axminster gaol.'

  'Indeed! And who is going to do that?' sneered the bailiff, his anger rapidly coming to the boil. 'Is that fat clerk of yours going to haul me off by the scruff of the neck? Or are you' going to prod me with your little sword all the way to Axminster?'

  'Perhaps not - but a sheriff's posse might!' retorted the indignant Keeper.

  'Don't talk such bloody nonsense, man!' was the scathing reply. 'You are a damned nuisance, but what is it you want to ask?'

  Slightly mollified by Northcote's grudging agreement, Luke leant his hands on the sill of the window. 'Several matters, bailiff. Do you know when The Tiger is due to return?'

  'No, I don't. What about you, Elias - you're the harbour master?'

  The skinny portreeve shook his grey head. 'Shouldn't be too long; it was supposed to be a quick voyage over to Normandy. But I can't tell when she's due; she may have sunk for all I know!'

  'Or been scuttled by pirates!' snapped de Casewold. 'That was the other thing I need to know. I suspect that goods seized with the blood of innocent shipmen have passed through this port. Do you know anything of that, eh?'

  Edward Northcote prodded the Keeper in the chest with a large forefinger, hard enough to make him step back a pace. 'Oh yes, I forgot. We had a few bloodstained casks in last week! And the portreeve here saw several bales of Flemish cloth smeared with gore, didn't you, Elias?'

  The heavy sarcasm served only to inflame de Casewold's own temper, and he banged his fist angrily on one of the shutters hinged back against the wall.

  'Don't you mock me, damn you! I am charged with keeping the king's peace, and murder, theft and piracy rank high amongst felonies! I want to see what's inside those sheds on the wharf and to check the contents with the lists that I am told the portreeve holds. My clerk is quite capable of verifying that all is in order - or if it is not!'

  The bailiff's florid face, with its rim of black beard stretching from ear to ear, again jutted towards the Keeper. 'I open those doors only for the merchants to whom the goods belong - and to the shipmen and porters who have to load and unload them.'

  'Or the prior's emissary, the cellarer's man from Loders,' added Elias Palmer. 'He has a legitimate right to check that the priory is getting its full commission in return for the ships and merchants having the use of its port.'

  'Well, I have even more of a legitimate right,' shouted Luke. 'The right of a king to send his officers to investigate the activities of his subjects!'

  For answer, Edward Northcote leant out of his window and seized a shutter in each of his large hands. As he began pulling them shut, forcing the Keeper to stand back to avoid being crushed, he made a final suggestion.

  'Come back next week, when the quayside is working again - and maybe we'll let you have a glimpse inside.' With that, he slammed the hinged boards shut and dropped an iron bar across the inside, leaving a fuming de Casewold isolated outside.

  As he moved back to the table with Elias, he muttered to him in angry tones. 'We'll have to keep a close eye on that nosy bastard!'

  The Easter period passed, with John de Wolfe making several duty visits to both the cathedral and St Olaves Church, accompanying Matilda in her ceaseless devotional perambulations. The Monday was a holiday, celebrated more in the rural areas than in the city, though apprentices and many servants were given a day's respite from their usual work.

  The following day there was an unusual call for the coroner's services, which took him at an early hour down to Topsham, the small port fives miles downstream on the estuary of the Exe. He left Thomas behind to say his Masses in the cathedral and, with Gwyn, followed the bailiff of the Exminster Hundred who had called them out. John knew him quite well, as that hundred included his brother's other manor of Holcombe, where Hilda's father was the reeve, as well as Dawlish itself.

  They crossed with their horses on the small rope ferry and landed on the marshy area on the other side of the Exe. Riding down alongside the river, they came to the tiny fishing hamlet of Starcross, where they climbed aboard a small fishing boat that went down with the ebbing tide the last half-mile towards the mouth of the river. Here a long tongue of sand stuck out eastwards from the huge area of dunes and scrubland that was Dawlish Warren.

  On the wide beach in the lee of this tongue, they saw a group of men standing around a large grey object, and when they came close enough to jump out and wade ashore they saw it was a small whale.

  'It was still alive last night, moving its fins a little,' said the bailiff.

  As they reached the scene, Gwyn, a former fisherman from Polruan in Cornwall, shook his head sadly. 'Poor thing's stone dead now. Once they get beached, they've not much chance.'

  A whale was one of the two 'royal fish', the other being the sturgeon, which by right belonged to the Crown, and one of the coroner's duties was investigating catches and strandings, so that the fish - or more usually its monetary value - could be seized for the king. Half a dozen men and a couple of women and children were standing around, fascinated by the dead animal. About twenty feet long, it lay motionless on the sand, left high and dry by the receding tide.

  'It's been swimming up and down for two days,' volunteered one of the younger fishermen. 'Seemed too stupid to know how to get back out to sea around the sand-spit.'

  An older one shook his head. 'I've seen a few strandings in my time. Reckon they are usually sick and come close inshore, then are too weak to find their way out again.'

  'What's to be done about it, Crowner?' asked the bailiff, a practical man. A whale, even a small one like this, was worth a considerable sum, as the fat rendered down from the blubber was first-class lamp oil, as well as being used for other purposes. If taken fresh, the meat was palatable enough for hungry villagers, and even parts of the skeleton could be used for various purposes.

  'It belongs to King Richard,' said de Wolfe. 'Though I doubt we could get it to him in Normandy before it stinks!' he added with an attempt at levity.

  'I heard tell that the head goes to the king and the tail to the queen,' countered the bailiff. 'But it sounds a fairy tale to me.'

  De Wolfe shrugged. 'I've never heard that before,' he admitted. 'But true or false, I have to dispose of all this beast as soon as possible, before it starts to become foul.' />
  He looked at the dozen or so people gathered around, some staring expectantly at the dead monster. 'Can you deal with it here? Remove the flesh and the grease?'

  The bailiff called over an elderly man, still powerful in the limbs. It was the reeve from Dawlish, whom John knew by sight. After greeting him, the man said that he could soon organise a party to flesh the whale and boil the blubber in pans over fires lit on the beach, taking as much of the meat as they could back to the nearby villages. After discussing the details, the coroner came to a rapid decision.

  'In that case, I declare that the whale is seized as the king's property, but that the beast is released to the hundred in the sum of three marks. That will have to be confirmed - or even altered - when presented to the judges at the next Eyre.'

  The bailiff nodded his agreement, as though three marks was four hundred and eighty silver pennies, the value of a large quantity of whale oil, plus the meat and whalebone, made it a worthwhile bargain, especially as the money did not have to be paid until demanded at the next Eyre in Exeter, which might be many months away - or even a year or two, if the judges were delayed.

  The business being rapidly concluded, John and his officer declined the offer to be rowed back upstream and walked along the beach to fetch their horses. Gwyn knew only too well what was coming next.

  'As we are so near Dawlish, it seems a pity not to call there and see if our shipmasters have any news.' John almost convinced himself that this was his only motive. Grinning under his luxuriant moustache, Gwyn hoisted himself on to his brown mare and they trotted off across the sandy scrubland towards the port, only two miles distant.

  Almost as if fate was conspiring to assist John's conscience, when they arrived at the small town Gwyn saw at once that another of the cogs belonging to de Wolfe's partnership was beached in the inlet. This was the St Peter, whose shipmaster was Angerus de Wile. When they hailed a young lad sitting alone on the tilted deck, they learnt that his captain was in the nearest tavern with the ship's mate.