The Manor of Death

by Bernard Knight

  He growled imprecations under his breath at these troublesome diversions from the need to carry out his coroner's duties and tried to work out a plan of action. Though his first impulse was to ride the short distance to the Priory of St Katherine at Polsloe, as his mind cooled down while he walked through the lanes back to Rougemont he decided to let Matilda stew for a day. If she could walk out on him without a word or so much as a message left behind, then to hell with the woman - why should he scuttle after her like some pageboy or house-lackey? Instead, he directed his feet towards Rougemont and clattered up the wooden stairs into the keep to see the sheriff. He decided not to mention the problem with his wife for the time being, but to try to work out something in relation to the 'Axmouth problem', as he now called it in his mind.

  A few moments later, with the inevitable cup of wine in his hand, he sprawled in a leather-backed chair in Henry's chamber, facing the sheriff who sat behind his cluttered table.

  'I will have to see Hubert Waiter again, face to face,' he rumbled. 'These outrages have gone on long enough. We cannot have our law officers slain with impunity under our very noses! That way lies anarchy, just as it was years ago in the time of Stephen and Matilda.'

  The mention of the last name made him wonder if all Matildas were awkward, aggressive women like his wife, for the old Empress was certainly cast in that mould.

  De Furnellis's doleful face, lined and drooping like that of an aged hound, stared at the coroner over the brim of his cup. 'The Justiciar? You'll have to go a long way to find him, John, if you need to confront him quickly.'

  'How do you know?' asked de Wolfe suspiciously.

  'I had a royal herald here yesterday, dropping off dispatches about the new rate for the county farm for the next half-year.' Henry sounded sour, so John guessed that the Exchequer were again increasing the tax revenue to satisfy the Curia Regis's demand for yet more money to support the king's campaign against Philip of France. 'The herald mentioned that Hubert Walter had sailed from Portsmouth last week for Honfleur and was not expected back in Winchester or London for a month. It seems he has gone to attend Richard at Rouen - perhaps to tell him that he has squeezed all the money out of England that she possesses! '

  John banged his empty cup down on the table in annoyance. 'I can't wait another bloody month just to be able to talk to him! I'll have to go there myself and speak to the king if necessary.'

  Henry smiled benignly at his friend's impatience. 'You do that, John. The king is beholden to you for your long and faithful service to him - and encouraging you to hang a few tax-dodging bastards will help his budget, so he should be eager to listen to you!'

  John was not so sure about his faithful service, as his conscience still plagued him about his failure to prevent the Lionheart's capture in Austria. But perhaps a visit to Rouen might be the chance to exorcise this particular demon. As he contemplated crossing the Channel, a different demon crept back on to his shoulder. If he was to sail for Normandy, then it made sense to use one of his own ships in which to travel, as the three vessels of their wool partnership made frequent crossings. And to arrange this, he would need to go down to Dawlish again to confer with the shipmasters - and as a matter of courtesy to call upon Hilda for her agreement, as three of the vessels had belonged to her, after Thorgils had died. This of course was a blatant fabrication of his mind, as legally the ships were as much his as Hilda's or de Relaga's, but it suited him to manufacture a semi-legitimate excuse for him to visit the blonde beauty once again.

  De Furnellis leant back in his chair and fixed John with his blue eyes.

  'Why don't you try sterner tactics with these fellows down in Axmouth? Do it on my behalf - take Ralph Morin and a troop of soldiers from the garrison with you. Demand to see what's in those barns, and if anyone tries to stop you arrest them and drag' em back here in chains!'

  The coroner was mildly surprised at the sheriff's sudden change of attitude, so different from his usual inertia at doing anything active. Perhaps the murder of one of his Keepers of the Peace had hardened his attitude.

  'Do you think that would do any good?' he asked doubtfully.

  Henry shrugged. 'What's to lose, apart from another few hours in the saddle? Put the fear of God into the sods, make them show you all they have hidden away and demand to see the tallies of what they are supposed to have. Take your Thomas with you; he can check any documents they may produce.'

  He took another swig of his wine and wiped his moustache with his fingers. 'See if that creepy little fellow Capie is as corrupt as most of the Customs clerks. After all, I pay his salary from the county funds; I've got every right to check up on him. Take Sergeant Gabriel and as many men as you need.'

  They discussed more details of this pre-emptive raid, and after emptying the wine jug de Wolfe went on his way, now more content that he at least had some sort of plan of campaign about the Axmouth problem.

  He was less sure about a plan of campaign in relation to his tangled personal affairs, but philosophically decided to allow fate to take its course.

  That evening John was at his customary place in the Bush with Gwyn sitting across the table, each enjoying a restful quart of Nesta's best ale. As usual, Thomas was off at his literary tasks in the scriptorium of the cathedral. Nesta had been seeing to some kitchen crisis but was now sitting alongside John to hear his story about the murdered Keeper of the Peace and the outlaws' ambush on the Honiton road. Once again, he had decided to keep the news about Matilda to himself until he had a better idea of her intentions.

  'A Welshman, you say?' she asked, when he related the tale of the stonemason's wound. 'Then he's almost a neighbour to my family, if he's from Cas-Gwent!' This was the Welsh name for Chepstow, a Saxon title meaning a market town, though the Norman owners now called it Striguil.

  'He's now under the tender care of Brother Saulf in St John's,' said de Wolfe. This was a small priory just inside the East Gate, which had a few sick beds that were all Exeter could offer in the way of a hospital. 'He says that the spear wound is not deep arid hasn't damaged anything vital, as long as the flesh doesn't turn rotten.'

  Nesta, ever sympathetic to people's misfortunes, especially if they were Welsh, began worrying about the man even though she had never met him nor even heard of him until ten minutes earlier.

  'So far from home and no doubt concerned about his livelihood, if that's his working arm,' she fretted. 'How long will he be in St John's?'

  'If he does well, no more than a few days, according to the monk,' said Gwyn. 'I'll call in tomorrow and see him. He may like to hear a word of his own language, though he speaks English well enough, after working so much in Gloucester.'

  The landlady nodded her auburn head. 'I'll slip up there, too. He may not understand your uncouth Cornish accent!' she teased. 'I'll take him something decent to eat, too.'

  The conversation drifted to other matters, and John related how he had been to see the sheriff earlier that day, to tell him of the death of Luke de Casewold, who was one of de Furnellis's law officers, though even Henry seemed vague about what the functions of these peacekeepers were supposed to be.

  'I told him that he must report this killing as soon as he can to Winchester or London. The Chief Justiciar appointed these men, so he must be told that one has been slain, even if only to replace him.'

  'And seek out those who did it,' grunted Gwyn. 'Otherwise the swine will think they can get away with anything.'

  'What's this all about, anyway?' demanded Nesta. 'Is it connected with these misdoings in Axmouth?'

  John nodded, waving his pot at Edwin for a refill.

  'I'm sure it is. There's organised corruption going on from that port, but so far it's been impossible to get any proof. Everyone clams up like a limpet when you try to talk to them. I sometimes think the whole village is part of a big conspiracy.'

  'Is this bailiff at the root of it, d'you think?'

  John shrugged. 'He's a nasty, overbearing bully, but I can't bring him back i
n chains for that. There's nothing to show he had anything to do with the Keeper's death - neither is there for the portreeve, Elias Palmer, though he's such a poor apology for a man that I can't see him slaying so much as a cat, let alone killing de Casewold.'

  'So what do we do next, Crowner? ' asked Gwyn in his slow Cornish voice.

  John sighed and held up his palms. 'The sheriff is all for sending us down there with Ralph Morin, Gabriel and a bunch of their men-at-arms. We are to shake the place up and see what falls out, but I suspect that those bastards are too clever to leave any loose ends.'

  'And if that doesn't work?' asked Nesta.

  'Then all I can think of is acting like a mole-catcher.

  If you can't see anything on the surface, you set a trap!'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In which Crowner John goes to a nunnery

  Soon after dawn next day, John borrowed a rounsey from the livery stables opposite, not wanting to saddle up his big destrier Odin for such a brief journey. On the lighter horse, he covered the mile or two to Polsloe in a short time and soon arrived at the small gatehouse in the long wall that enclosed the compound. The porter emerged from his hut at the side and grudgingly agreed to inform the prioress of his desire to speak to her. John had been here several times before and accepted that casual male callers were not easily admitted to this nest of women. He waited just inside the gate, allowing his horse to crop the grass that extended around the wide compound, the priory itself being little more than a few stone buildings set in the centre.

  A few moments later the stocky gatekeeper returned, shaking his head. 'The prioress says that the lady has left instructions that she does not want to see anyone, especially you!'

  De Wolfe glared at him, almost speechless. 'What the hell d'you mean, man? She's my wife, for God's sake!'

  With the smug expression of a man who knows he has the whip hand, the porter shrugged. 'I'm only passing on the message, sir. There's no point in waiting here.'

  'I demand to speak to the prioress,' fumed John. 'Do you want me to go in there waving a sword?'

  The servant began to look apprehensive, as this fearsome dark man, almost a foot taller than himself, looked as if he was quite capable of carrying out his threat. Thankfully, the tension was broken by the appearance of someone else on the front steps of the building as another tall dark figure hurried down the path towards them. It was Dame Madge, the most senior of the nine sisters, skilled in the ailments of women, who had helped the coroner several times in the past over matters of ravishment and miscarriage. She dismissed the gatekeeper with a flick of her hand as she came up to de Wolfe.

  'Sir John, no doubt you have come to seek news of Matilda?' she asked.

  'I was away at my duties and returned home to find her gone, with no explanation whatsoever.'

  The gaunt Benedictine fixed him with her deep-set eyes. 'She is in a very disturbed state, sir. Your wife requires peace and tranquillity for a time, to restore her humours. She wishes to cut herself off from the turmoil of the world until she decides what she wishes to do with the remainder of her life.'

  John always felt slightly intimidated by this formidable woman, and his anger evaporated quickly. 'But we went through all this last year, sister!' he pleaded. 'Matilda came here intending to take her vows but soon decided against it. Is this just another fit of pique, directed against me?'

  Dame Madge looked at him sorrowfully. 'Not only against you, sir, but from my conversations with her it seems that this time her brother is also a major offender. I cannot tell you what she will eventually decide, but she is certainly greatly troubled in her spirit and soul. We cannot do other than to offer her sanctuary for a time.'

  John knew that his wife was a generous benefactor to the religious establishments that she patronised - and having a significant personal income from rents and other interests bequeathed to her by her father, she was able to encourage places like Polsloe to give her shelter when required. He sighed as he accepted the delays that seemed inevitable in getting this matter settled. 'So what shall I do, ma'am? Just wait until she deigns to speak to me?'

  'Perhaps she never will,' replied the dame dispassionately. 'In the mood she is in at present, she may never again show her face to the outside world.' She bowed her head and, with a final benediction for God to preserve him, wished him good morning, then walked slowly back to the priory.

  John retrieved his horse and trotted away, once again weighing up the chances of this setting him free from seventeen years of loveless marriage. He soon covered the short distance along a tree-lined track to the village of St Sidwell's, just outside the East Gate, where Gwyn lived in a miserable rented hut with his wife and two children. Having just left one priory with a healing mission, he now made his way to the other, a small establishment of the Benedictine Black Monks, who catered for the sick poor of the city. It lay in a side lane behind the gate, a simple range of rooms, the 'hospital' being a single large chamber with whitewashed walls. A row of five straw-stuffed mattresses lay along each side of the room, with a few open window-slits high above. On the blank end wall hung a large wooden cross in full view of every patient, emphasising that the main healer here was the Almighty, aided a little by the devoted staff. The most senior of these was Brother Saulf, a tall Saxon whose fair hair was shaved into a circular tonsure. He had been an apothecary's apprentice in London before entering holy orders and, together with his fellow monks, dispensed simple medical care to those who could not afford to pay one of the three professional apothecaries in the city. As with Dame Madge, de Wolfe had built up a good working relationship with Brother Saulf, after a number of incidents when he had had to call upon his expertise.

  Though perhaps the Welsh stone carver was not that impoverished, the urgency of the situation and the monks' inability ever to turn away the suffering allowed him to be cared for - and John would quietly ensure that a generous donation would be made to the priory funds from his own purse.

  When he entered the sick chamber, he was surprised to see a group of figures hovering over the pallet where Owain ap Gronow lay. One was Saulf, but the others were Archdeacon John de Alençon, Gwyn and Nesta, the last with a basket over her arm. When he walked past the half-dozen other patients to reach them, he found the Welshman beaming up at him, apparently in good spirits. He had one arm swathed in linen, supported by a leather thong around his neck, but apart from one bloodshot eye and some bruises on his face and neck Owain seemed alert and lively.

  'I came to see the poor fellow as I feel a little responsible for his condition,' said the archdeacon, his bright eyes twinkling under the wiry grey hair that surrounded his bald crown. 'After all, it was I who prevailed upon my fellow archdeacon in Gloucester to send us the best craftsman they had to work on some of the statues on the cathedral shrines.'

  'And that I'll start doing as soon as I can use this arm, sir,' promised the mason, smiling up at the Good Samaritans who had rescued him. 'No doubt my return to health will be greatly hastened by the good food that this kind lady has brought!' He tapped Nesta's basket with his free hand and she smiled down at him and almost clucked like a hen with a lame chick.

  The archdeacon soon took his leave and walked out accompanied by Brother Saulf, leaving the others to revert to speaking in the Celtic tongue, though Owain's English was excellent, albeit with a strong Gwent accent like Nesta's.

  'Are you recovering-well, lad?' asked John, calling him that though Owain was probably thirty years of age. He was a good-looking fellow, with dark curly hair and a pleasant face, in spite of the battering it had received.

  'I am, sir, and have to thank you for my life,' replied the craftsman humbly. 'I will always be indebted to you and Gwyn here for that - and for sending me this beautiful Welshwoman who comes from within five miles of my own home!'

  A little warning bell sounded in John's head. Was this new fellow, though amiable and respectful, going to be another threat like the man last year who had seduced her while working in
the Bush? Certainly, by the look on her pretty face she was hugely enjoying compliments from a good-looking fellow countryman who came from her own doorstep.

  Gwyn, who was hardly a sensitive soul, missed any such nuances and stood grinning down at the stonemason, a jar of rough cider in his hand as his own gift to aid Owain's convelascence. 'Get this down you, boy, it will strengthen your arm when you have to chisel a new nose on to St Boniface!'

  Nesta launched into some typically Welsh genealogical enquiries, discovering that her second cousin was married to a brother-in-law of Owain's uncle. When they had finished the first round of exploring their relations, John broke in to ask the injured man where he would be staying when he was discharged from the hospital.

  'I had no plans, Sir John, not having been to Exeter before this,' replied Owain. 'If it had not been for this affair putting me on my back here, I suppose I would have just taken a bed in the first inn that I came upon.'

  Inevitably, both Gwyn and Nesta hastened to recommend the Bush, somewhat to John's discomfiture.

  'Perhaps the archdeacon has already somewhere arranged in the cathedral precinct,' he offered rather lamely, as John de Alençon had not mentioned anything of the sort.

  'Nonsense, John, he must stay in Idle Lane!' said Nesta firmly. 'It is convenient for the cathedral, and I can offer Owain a comfortable mattress in the loft.'

  The thought sprang into de Wolfe's mind that it should be laid as far as possible from her bedroom, then he chided himself for such uncharitable thoughts about a man who was probably a paragon of virtue and good behaviour.

  'Best bed and board in Exeter - in all Devon, come to that!' boomed Gwyn. 'The cleanest tavern in the city and she brews better ale than they make in heaven!'