The Manor of Death

by Bernard Knight

John grunted in appreciation of his clerk's kind thoughts, but privately doubted that Thomas's prayers would improve Matilda's temper.

  They stood for a while as they passed the small Priory of St James, with the poles of fish-traps protruding from the water. John remembered being called out the previous year, when a sturgeon was caught there and he had to confiscate its value for the king. The weather was holding well, and Roger Watts called to them from his steering position to forecast a rapid voyage.

  'There's a fresh westerly wind which will blow us briskly up-Channel once we get out past Dawlish Warren,' he hollered. 'As long as it doesn't turn into a gale, that is!' he added, to Thomas's horror.

  The mention of Dawlish once again set the wheels of John's mind in motion. The memory of that recent kiss and what might have come of it, had not Hilda exercised enough self-control for both of them, was branded into his soul and clashed with his guilt over Nesta, which in turn led paradoxically to his jealous concerns about leaving her for a couple of weeks in the company of the Welsh stonemason. As they glided down the river towards Topsham, his wandering mind was also triggered by the shipmaster's mention of Dawlish to the fact that this very ship under his feet was the scene of Thorgils' violent death and hence the cause of Hilda's widowhood. Though the vessel had been extensively refitted since then, his ready guilt sent his eyes searching the deck planking for non-existent bloodstains.

  Shaking the mood off, he forced himself to watch the passing landscape, and when the busy little port of Topsham had slid by he waited for Exmouth to appear on the port side, just as they entered the open sea. On the opposite bow, he recalled the spot where he had come down to see the beached whale, and beyond it in the distance lie could just make out the village of Dawlish, where the delectable Hilda was no doubt spending her lonely life in her solar in Thorgils' fine house.

  Moments later he felt the first lurch as the cog crossed the sand bar at the narrow mouth of the estuary and rose to the first wave of the western ocean as it swept along the coast into Lyme Bay. Immediately, there was a groan from Thomas and a guffaw of merriment from the unsympathetic Gwyn, who stood on the deck with feet planted apart, like a rock glued to the planks. 'Time for some food, little fellow!' he cackled. 'No doubt the ship's boy can fry you some fat pork on that fire he has in the forecastle.'

  The poor clerk tottered to the side and, with one hand clutching his floppy broad-brimmed hat and the other clamped to the rail, endlessly began reciting his Hail Marys, with frequent pleas to God Almighty and all His assorted saints to deliver him from the perils of the sea.

  Someone in heaven must have paid attention to the clerk's supplications, for Thomas's ordeal was shorter than he feared, due to the unfailingly favourable wind. Also, after the first of the three-day voyage, he discovered that he did not feel so bad as he expected and was even able to keep down some food and drink, though not in the quantities that the five-man crew and the two other passengers seemed to consume with such obscene gusto. The cooking was done on a small woodfire, safely walled in with stones on a large slab of slate in a cubbyhole under the rising bow, where the crew slept in turns when not on watch. The passengers had a low hutch near the stern, large enough for them to squat in or lie down on straw-filled mattresses laid on the deck-boards.

  De Wolfe and his officer spent much of the time on the afterdeck with Roger Watts or whoever was manning the steering oar. John wondered many times if they might be attacked by the pirates they sought, but for three days they never glimpsed so much as a distant sail, until they were within a few miles of the coast of Normandy. He was somewhat disappointed, but also recognised that two men and a timid priest would have been of little use in supporting the small crew against a gang of determined pillagers.

  Their shipmaster, with twenty years of familiarity with these waters, made landfall within a dozen miles of Honfleur, a port on the southern side of the mouth of the Seine, encircled by low hills. When they sailed into the small harbour at the entrance of a stream, he put them ashore in the curragh, a small boat shaped like an elongated coracle, made from hides stretched over a light wicker framework that was kept lashed upside down over the hatch. Promising to be back at the same spot in seven days' time, unless the weather was against him, Roger Watts left straight away to catch the wind and tide for his onward journey.

  As it was now late afternoon, the coroner decided to spend the night in Honfleur and, equipped with a parchment carrying the sheriff's seal which declared the king's coroner to be on official business, claimed a night's lodging for them in the small castle which protected the port. Advice from the commander led them next morning to requisition horses to take them to Rouen, rather than attempt to be ferried up the winding loops of the Seine on a small boat, as beyond the reach of the tides, progress would be slow and subject to the vagaries of the wind and current. The journey was about forty miles and obviously could not be covered within a day, especially given Thomas's poor horsemanship. They set off on an overcast morning and plodded the well-beaten track all day until they reached the village of Bourg-Achard, slightly over halfway. An uncomfortable night was spent in the only tavern, which housed a particularly savage species of bedbug, and they were only too ready to leave at dawn for the second leg of the journey. By afternoon they had reached the Seine opposite the city of Rouen, which was on the northern bank, but as there was no bridge over the wide river they had to wait for a ferry to take them and their horses across.

  A disappointment awaited them at the castle when they reached the imposing structure at the centre of the bustling city, the capital of Normandy and effectively the seat of the King of England more than London or Winchester. After negotiating his way past several clerks and secretaries by the exhibition of Henry de Furnellis's warrant, de Wolfe reached one senior enough to tell him that the Chief Justiciar was not in the city but had left two days before to be with the king at some outpost about twenty miles up the Seine, at a place called Andeli. Again they were too late to set off that day but enjoyed better hospitality than the previous night, John having a bed in the knights' quarters, while Gwyn was happy to eat, drink and play dice in the garrison barracks. Thomas, ever keen to savour the religious life of new places, went to pray at the ancient church of St-Oeun and was invited by fellow priests to eat and sleep in their dorter, though much of his night was taken up with attendance at Matins and Prime.

  The horses they had borrowed at Honfleur had also rested and fed well, and by the eighth hour they were again on the road running along the north bank of the Seine. The whole area showed the intense military activity that was now almost permanent, since King Richard had sailed from Portsmouth with his army and fleet of a hundred ships almost two years earlier.

  Obsessed with regaining the territory that he had lost to Philip of France, largely through the treachery and incompetence of his brother John, the Lionheart had ranged up and down the length of France, steadily pushing back Philip's borders.

  There had been some reversals, such as the attack on Dieppe, where Philip himself had led three hundred of his knights to ransack the town and burn ships in the harbour, but generally Richard's unceasing efforts were succeeding. As the coroner's trio rode southwards, they passed wagons full of equipment and supplies, much of it paid for by the taxes extorted from England. Troops of soldiers marched in both directions, many of them Welsh mercenaries who were the mainstay of the army, especially the archers. Others were foreigners, including some dreaded 'Brabancons', little better than bandits - and John had heard that the king had even employed some Saracens, so impressed had he been with their wild courage in Palestine.

  'Where are we going to find Hubert Walter?' asked Gwyn when they were a dozen miles out of Rouen. 'If I remember him aright from the Holy Land, he may well be huddled in some tent with the common men-at-arms.'

  'They said in Rouen that this place Andeli is little more than a village, so someone there will surely direct us to the King of England.'

  And so it proved to be,
when they reached a picturesque hamlet at the apex of a huge bend in the river, where white chalk cliffs broke through dense trees along the north bank. Men-at-arms were camping out at various spots, sitting around cooking fires or tending to their equipment. Mounted heralds and knights rode past between the village and a high eminence to the south, where a craggy ridge of cliff stood high above the river.

  'That's where he'll be,' announced John confidently, and as they climbed a track busy with military traffic his guess was soon confirmed. Along a neck of land three hundred feet. above the water below, they saw a collection of tents and pavilions bedecked with flags and banners and surrounded by the more mundane paraphernalia of an army camp. Sentries were posted at intervals along the approaches, but John's impressive appearance, aided by a display of the heavy red seal dangling from the sheriff's parchment, got them waved through each checkpoint. Several older men even recognised him as 'Black John' from the years he had spent campaigning under the Lionheart and his father, the equally fearsome King Henry. At the centre of the circle of canvas pavilions, the largest flew a red banner with three golden lions, and nearby was another with the episcopal flag of Canterbury.

  'Best leave our mounts over there,' suggested Gwyn as they approached, pointing at makeshift stables of hurdles and poles, where a score of tethered horses were being fed and watered. Alongside, two farriers were shoeing other horses, and another pair of armourers were sharpening weapons on grinds tones being turned by young boys. Though a truce with the French had been in force since January, it was a fragile peace, and the activity in the camp was a reminder that the potential front line was only a few miles down the road to the Vexin and Paris.

  De Wolfe sought out the camp marshal, who turned out to be a grizzled old knight from Sussex, with whom he had campaigned in Ireland years before. After a few nostalgic reminders, the marshal, who was responsible for the organisation of the camp, arranged for the care of their horses, then took them to a mess tent, where to Gwyn's delight food and ale were in abundance. When they had eaten and John and the old campaigner had indulged in a few more reminiscences, the coroner explained why they had come chasing Hubert Waiter across the Channel. 'I need to speak to him urgently, before he goes rushing off somewhere else. I don't have the time to go chasing him down to Aquitaine or Gascony!'

  The marshal promised to send one of the clerks from the archbishop's ménage over to see him, and then stamped away to find a page who would guide de Wolfe to one of the larger tents where a number of knights were billeted.

  'Your officer here can find a place with the sergeants,' he added, but then looked doubtfully at Thomas. 'I'm not sure what to do with a priest. Perhaps the archbishop's clerk can fix him up with the other shaven pates!'

  Both John and Gwyn felt totally at home in this busy place, so redolent of the atmosphere and memories of the two decades in which they had fought their way around much of the known world. It was less attractive to the timid Thomas, though he relished the thought of being attached, albeit temporarily, to the retinue of the Primate of England, even though this particular archbishop was more of an administrator and soldier than a Vicar of God. As they waited for someone to fetch them, Gwyn stared around him with a frown. 'What in hell is our king doing here, camped on a bloody cliff miles from anywhere?'

  De Wolfe looked into the distance with a practised military eye, scanning the great curve of the river as it flowed past the foot of the cliffs.

  'Richard does nothing without a purpose, Gwyn. He's the best soldier the world has known since Alexander, so they say. I'll wager he's going to fortify this place to block the Seine against Philip Augustus.'

  Eventually, a fat clerk came from the archbishop's tent and settled the three visitors in their various lodgings for the coming night. When John explained that he needed to see Hubert Waiter about the murder of one of his new law officers, the cleric, who was a canon from St Albans, took the matter with the seriousness that it deserved.

  'His Grace is fully occupied this evening, Sir John. He has many matters of grave importance concerning the financing of the campaign to discuss with the king and several of his major barons. But I am sure he will see you in the morning.'

  Thankful for the prospect of a good night's rest after their continuous journeying for almost a week, John had another good meal in the early evening. Then he spent an hour or two spinning yarns of days gone by with several older warriors in the knights' quarters, before wrapping himself in his cloak and sleeping soundly on a hessian bag of hay purloined by a page from the stables. Gwyn had a similar orgy of reminiscence with the more senior men-at-arms, several of whom he had met in previous campaigns. As for Thomas, he was delighted to curl up in a comer of the administrator's marquee and eavesdrop on the conversations of several canons and archdeacons from Normandy and Poitou.

  The morning was blasted alive by trumpets soon after dawn, and there was an hour of sleepy activity as fires were revived, food cooked and animals fed by the couple of hundred occupants of the cliff top camp. The fat canon, reluctantly seconded from the main court at Rouen, appeared at about the seventh hour and summoned de Wolfe to Hubert Waiter's accommodation, a trio of connected tents and a circular canvas pavilion. He took Gwyn and Thomas with him, ignoring the disapproving expression of the canon at the sight of the big untidy Cornishman with wild red hair and drooping moustaches.

  The Chief Justiciar was sitting in a folding chair behind a trestle table piled with parchments. A thin chaplain stood protectively behind him, and two clerks worked at a longer table on the far side of the tent. Hubert was a wiry man of medium height, his face lined and leathery, though he had not been on a field of battle since leaving Palestine several years earlier. Only his shaven tonsure betrayed him as a priest, as he wore a leather jerkin over a brown tunic, beneath which protruded legs encased in serge breeches, like any other fighting man. The sole token of his ecclesiastical rank was a small gold cross on a chain around his neck and the large ring of office on his finger.

  When John entered, he rose with a smile of genuine pleasure and gestured to a clerk to bring the coroner a stool, which was set for him on the other side of the table. Gwyn and Thomas stood discreetly a few paces behind him, in respectful silence in the presence of this powerful man who virtually ruled England in the king's absence. It was conventional for all those who approached the Primate to kiss his ring, but in these military surroundings he made no move to offer his hand.

  'Well, Black John, what brings you all this way? You only visit me when you want something!'

  The tone was amiable, almost affectionate, as the two men had known and respected each other for some years, especially during the last Crusade. As John's shadow, Gwyn was also well known to Hubert, but de Wolfe went out of his way to introduce Thomas as his invaluable clerk, which made the little priest squirm with embarrassed pleasure to be noticed by the head of the English Church.

  'How is that damned brother-in-law of yours behaving himself?' demanded Hubert, for the last time John had petitioned him was in relation to Richard de Revelle's latest misdemeanours and subsequent disgrace, which had been the cause of Matilda's final lapse into depression.

  'He seems to have run out of escapades at the moment, as Prince John also seems to be keeping a low profile these days,' replied the coroner. 'For once, I have come to seek your advice and help on other matters - and indeed to bring you news of a disturbing breach of the law.'

  For the next few minutes de Wolfe set out in his blunt fashion a catalogue of the events in east Devon, including the probability of Customs evasion and piracy, culminating in the murder of one of the Justiciar's new Keepers of the Peace.

  'The man was one of your appointees, my lord, and, though a rather rash and impetuous fellow, did not deserve such a death, when he was only doing his duty on behalf of our king.'

  Even with all the cares and responsibilities that were heaped upon him daily, Hubert Walter looked genuinely concerned at John's news. 'I never met de Casewo
ld, though I recall his name amongst the lists of knights appointed to be Keepers last year,' he said grimly. 'He must be the first to be killed in the course of his duty. They were not intended to be physical enforcers of the law but rather to ensure that crimes were not ignored or tolerated, but always brought to justice.'

  For a while they spoke of the significance of the death and the need to appoint a successor, as well as to increase the number of Keepers. The original plan was to install four in each county, but so far the total was far short of that target.

  'And you think his killing was linked to this business in Axmouth?' The Justiciar sat with his hands planted firmly on the table, looking intently at de Wolfe.

  'I do indeed, as he told me he was intent on tracking illicit goods coming out of that port,' answered John. 'Though we have so far failed to prove it, as I am sure they falsify their records, I'm convinced that they both evade the Customs duty on a large scale and also dispose of loot gained by piracy in the Channel, which is my main concern.

  He recounted the disappearance of a number of merchant vessels and the conviction of local shipmen that at least some of these were being deliberately pillaged, then sunk with all their crew.

  'I have heard that the king has begun to build up a navy, based on his new harbour at Portsmouth. Surely one vital task for them would be to rid the seas of these murderous swine who prey on their fellow seamen?'

  Hubert nodded slowly. 'It is true that King Richard has a great interest in creating a seaborne army and has already commissioned a number of ships. They are really merchant cogs with built-up castles at bow and stern and manned by fighting men and archers. But they are meant to be a support to his army, fighting the French both at sea and in attacks on their ports.'

  'But surely some could patrol the south coast to discourage these vultures who prey on our ships?' growled de Wolfe.

  Hubert lifted his hands in supplication. 'Money, John, it is always money! Each month our monarch demands more and expects me to find it every time. Ships are expensive, and to build more at present is beyond our means.' He waved an arm to encompass everything around them. 'Why do you think we are camped on this bloody hill, when we could be more comfortable back in Rouen's citadel? Because the king has now decided to build the strongest fortress in Europe here, mainly to spite Philip Augustus!' He shook his head in mock despair. 'And where am I going to get the money? By squeezing the barons and bishops even harder, on both sides of the Channel - and by grinding more taxes from every family in Richard's possessions. No wonder I am the most unpopular man in England!'