De Wolfe nodded sagely, pleased that his forecast about this site was correct. 'It is certainly a perfect place to dominate the Seine and the surrounding countryside,' he said admiringly.
The Justiciar smiled wryly. 'The problem is that we do not own the land here. It is part of a manor belonging to the Archbishop of Rouen, who has taken great exception to Richard's plans. He has placed Normandy under a religious interdict over the issue and appealed to the Pope, but no doubt we can buy him off, if only we can raise the money.'
'But you are not actually fighting at the moment?' asked John.
'No. Both sides are having a respite after a treaty signed at Louviers in January, in which Richard ceded the Vexin to Philip but recovered other lands previously lost. But it can't last and that's why I'm here, God help me! The king summoned me from Winchester to demand more money and troops, as he intends to break the treaty before long and recover the Vexin. In fact, building a castle here is in direct defiance of that treaty, and I'm sure our royal master is doing it to provoke Philip back into conflict.' The Vexin was a small county north-west of Paris, over which the two kings had long been wrangling like a pair of dogs with a bone.
They talked for a while longer, but de Wolfe was getting the sense that, though Hubert Walter was sympathetic to his problems, he was already too overstretched financially to be able to do much to help him. They continued talking about ways to police the Devon ports more effectively, but there was no way in which Hubert could commit more troops to that far west province, given the desperate need for every available man to rally to the royal standard in France. Neither did there seem much hope of diverting part of the small navy to patrol the coast to discourage piracy.
He was beginning to despair at the largely wasted journey they had made when a diversion occurred, one that was of great significance to the coroner's trio - and one that was to change the life of the coroner himself. There was a trumpet blast and then a commotion outside. A moment later a tall figure marched into Hubert's pavilion, followed by a trio of barons and scurrying pages and squires. Over six feet in height with broad shoulders and perhaps a little too much weight around his chest and belly for a man of thirty-eight, Richard Coeur de Lion had a mane of reddish-gold hair, which though shaved up at the back and sides was thick and wavy. Dressed in most un-kingly garments - a white linen shirt open at the neck and a pair of thick woollen hose pushed into riding boots - he radiated a regal presence that was like a blast of hot wind gusting into the tent. Supremely confident to the point of arrogance, he exuded energy, enthusiasm and impatience in equal degrees. He marched into the centre of the space and stood with his long arms akimbo, his big fists jammed on to his broad leather belt.
'By God's guts, it's true! I had heard that Black John was here!'
A startled de Wolfe dropped to one knee and bowed his head before his king, as did Gwyn and Thomas behind him, but Richard bellowed for them to rise and then, as John clambered to his feet, grabbed him and briefly hugged him to his chest. 'And Gwyn, you old rogue, still drinking and wenching, no doubt!' He gave the beaming Cornishman an affectionate punch on the arm. Loyally, the coroner dragged the bemused little priest forward. 'And this is my clerk, Thomas de Peyne, who has done great service in your name, sire. He reads and writes like Aristotle. I would be lost without him.'
The Lionheart, who unusually for a king was highly literate himself, rested a hand on the speechless clerk's shoulder. 'You must be either an angel or a martyr, Thomas, to endure the moods of this terrible master!'
Hubert Walter came around his table and joined the group in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the deferential circle of retainers, one of whom was William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, another of John's old campaign comrades.
'Sire, de Wolfe has travelled from Devon with various tidings, seeking help about various transgressions of the law. One of the new Keepers of the Peace which you suggested we appointed in the counties has been murdered, amongst other problems.'
He briefly outlined what de Wolfe had told him, and Richard listened intently, with the concentration of a man who could hold a dozen problems in his mind at a time and deliver almost instant solutions with supreme confidence.
'He must have more help, Hubert! More men-at-arms in Exeter, more Keepers, and this piracy must be combated by my new navy.'
The Justiciar was used to Richard's snap judgements, which were often not backed up by resources. There was no point in arguing about it and pointing out that if the king was willing to dispatch soldiers and ships - and the money to pay for them - from Normandy to distant Devonshire, then his wishes could be carried out.
Hubert nodded blandly. 'I will see what can be done, sire. Meanwhile, we have much to discuss concerning the state of your Exchequer.'
His broad hint that he needed to clear the tent to get down again to the reasons for his being here was interrupted by two breathless pages hurrying in with trays of wine. One bent his knee to the king and offered a large silver chalice, then passed around to give the barons and senior clerics pewter goblets. One of these came to de Wolfe, though the lesser mortals were ignored until Richard yelled at a page to give wine to Gwyn and Thomas.
'These are our guests, who have braved the seas to visit me,' he boomed in his deep voice. 'They serve Sir John here, who did his best to save me from those bastards in Austria a few years back!'
De Wolfe' s conscience forced him to speak, his voice hoarse with rare emotion. He dropped again to one knee before his king. 'I failed you then, sire, and the memory has plagued me ever since. I ask for your forgiveness, as I should have been there to prevent you from being taken.'
Richard put a hand under the coroner's armpit and hauled him to his feet. 'For Christ's sake, John, you have nothing with which to reproach yourself! If anyone was at fault, it was me! Fool that I was, I should not have flashed my coins so freely in that bloody tavern and should have hidden those gold rings from my fingers - no wonder it was obvious that I was no ordinary traveller!'
'But I should have stayed at your side and fought for you, not left you alone, sire!'
The king gave him a playful but heavy punch on the shoulder. 'What could you have done, except shed your blood uselessly on the ground? That pox-ridden mayor burst in with a score of soldiers - even I was not going to take on that many.'
Hubert Walter was becoming restive at the thought of all the work that needed to be done, and with a heavy sigh of resignation the king abandoned his reminiscences.
'Get you gone, John de Wolfe, and rest your mind easy! You have always been a staunch and loyal support to me and you have nothing whatsoever to regret. I wish that every man in my service was as steadfast as you.'
With this tribute ringing in his ears, the coroner and everyone else bowed their heads as the Lionheart stalked out to return to his own pavilion, followed by the Justiciar, his clerks and the whole retinue of major players.
His conscience cleared for the first time in four years, John felt light-headed at the praise that Christendom's greatest monarch had just laid upon him. As they walked back to the mess tent, his feet hardly seemed to touch the ground and even the imperturbable Gwyn was grinning from ear to ear at the reflected glory that he had shared. As for Thomas, he felt drunk with elation, a sensation he had never experienced before. To actually be in the presence of Richard Coeur de Lion was awesome in itself, but for the great man to speak directly to him in such an amiable fashion was like a dream. Once again he felt a deep affection for the coroner for so pointedly bringing him and his talents to the notice of both the archbishop and the king.
In the mess tent, where some were still breaking their fast and others just quenching their thirsts, Gwyn collected a couple of jars of ale and a mug of cider for Thomas. Both beverages were there in abundance, as an army marching on its stomach needs more than just solid food.
'So what do you think of that, young Thomas?' asked his master as they squatted on the straw-strewn ground.
'I can die
content, Crowner, after having met our king and the archbishop. Thank you, sir, for your kind words that brought me to their attention.'
'You were damned fortunate to catch Richard in a good mood, Thomas!' cackled Gwyn. 'He can be terrifying when he is out of sorts or in a temper!'
Inquisitive as ever, the clerk wanted to know more about the dramatic capture of the Lionheart on the way home from the Crusade. 'Is it true that you and Gwyn were part of his bodyguard?' he prompted.
'We were almost all that was left of it at the end!' grunted Gwyn, but it was de Wolfe who took up the tale, his recent euphoria making him unusually talkative.
'As Richard had fallen out with almost every monarch in Europe, it was difficult to find a safe way back to England from Palestine. Philip, Henry and Count Raymond blocked any chance of getting through France, Italy or Germany, and the ocean beyond the Pillars of Hercules was too dangerous in winter. So he decided to sail up the Adriatic and head for the lands of his brother-in-law, Henry the Lion, in north-east Germany or perhaps visit King Bela in Hungary.'
De Wolfe stopped to drink some ale, his mind far away in the winter at the end of December 1192. 'At Corfu we left the great ship that had brought us from Jaffa and took two galleys up the coast of Dalmatia and Istria, taking only a few of the knights and nobles with us. A storm drove us ashore in the wrong place, near Aquileia, but we bought horses and began riding through hostile country. Some bastard spy of Count Meinhard of Gotz spotted us and a host pursued us and captured eight of our knights, but the rest of us eluded them and we eventually reached Friesach in the Bishopric of Salzburg, where another six of our company were seized.'
He shook his head sadly at the memory. 'Now only three of us were left with the king, myself, Gwyn and a knight, William L'Etang.'
Gwyn leant forward and added more to the tale. 'But we rode like hell, hoping to get across into the safe territory of Hungary. But not knowing exactly where we were, we strayed into Austria and when cold and hunger drove us each night to seek shelter we ended up in the early evening at an inn at a village called Erdberg.'
De Wolfe waved his empty pot at a page and while waiting for a refill continued Gwyn's account.
'It was snowing and we couldn't understand a bloody word of their lingo, but it seemed the alehouse had no food for us. We needed fresh horses for next day, as ours were exhausted with the pace we kept up in the mountains, so L'Etang went out seeking food in the village, and Gwyn and I scoured the place trying to buy three decent mounts.'
Thomas was agog with the excitement of this royal drama. 'And the king was left alone in the tavern?'
John nodded as the servant brought a jug to fill his tankard. 'We heard later that he was unwise enough to offer the landlord too much money if he would find victuals for us - and probably let him see the gold in his purse. That, with the heavy gold rings that Richard wore, made the bastard suspicious, as this was the land of Leopold of Austria and the village was actually within the city limits of Vienna. The mayor turned up with a heavy guard and seized the king. We got back just in time to see him being hustled away. They took him to a castle on a crag above the Danube - Durnstein, I think it was called - where he was shut in a cell for months.'
'So what happened to you?' asked Thomas, his mouth agape with fascination at this saga.
'There was nothing we could do, so we melted away into the countryside and within a few days managed to ride the few miles east into Hungary, where we told our story and were received sympathetically. We were taken down to Zara on the Adriatic and eventually back to Corfu, where we met up with a Templar ship that took us to Malta and then back to Plymouth, when the sailing season began again in the spring.'
The story told, each man fell into a reverie, John and Gwyn thinking back to those momentous days and Thomas's fertile imagination reconstructing the adventure in his mind.
Eventually, Gwyn stirred himself to get some bread, cheese and more ale and when he returned asked what they were going to do next.
'There seems little that Hubert Walter will or can do for us,' he muttered. 'But at least we have made the position clear to him. The king has ordered him to put anything we need at our disposal, but that is an empty command if there is nothing to back it up.'
'Maybe one or two ships from Portsmouth may be told to keep an eye out for piracy,' said Thomas hopefully.
'The chances of one such vessel coming across an attack in progress along several hundred miles of coastline are about as likely as you getting married, little man!' scoffed Gwyn.
'Gwyn is right about that,' agreed de Wolfe. 'But there may be a way of reducing the odds, and I intend to put it into practice as soon as we get home.' He rose to his feet as he spoke. 'And get home we must, as soon as possible. The Mary and Child Jesus is due back in Honfleur in three days from now, God and the weather willing, which will give us time for an easy ride back there if we leave today.'
They agreed to saddle up after noontime dinner and ride back to Rouen to spend the night in the citadel. Until the food was ready, John and Gwyn went off for a walk around the rocky promontory to see where the Lionheart was intending to build his massive fortress to defy Philip Augustus. John had learnt from his old friend the marshal that the king intended to add insult to injury by calling it 'Chateau Gaillard', which roughly meant 'Saucy Castle'.
Thomas had gone off to a pavilion set up by the camp chaplains as a place of worship where Mass was celebrated twice each day, so the coroner and his officer were surprised to see him hurrying after them only a few minutes after they had parted. The clerk panted up to them as they stood in the coarse grass on a ledge high above the Seine.
'Crowner, you are wanted back in the camp at once,' he gasped. 'The Justiciar's clerk came looking for you and told me to find you. You must go to the king's pavilion at once!'
'Did he say for what reason?' demanded John, already moving towards the camp.
With Gwyn trundling along in the rear, Thomas was fairly dancing with excitement. 'He said the archbishop and the king wished to speak to you, master! Maybe they have come to some decision about our problems in Axmouth?'
But for once the clever little priest was wrong. When de Wolfe emerged from the royal tent half an hour later, his long, usually sallow face was flushed and his mind was racing to encompass the significance of what he had been told when in the royal presence.
CHAPTER TEN
In which Crowner John imparts momentous news
Though Gwyn was phlegmatically patient about learning whatever had been discussed or commanded in the king's quarters, Thomas was almost bursting with curiosity, for the coroner's grave demeanour since he had returned was such that obviously something of great significance had occurred. He could hardly ask his master outright what had taken place, and his hints were ignored by a very silent and thoughtful de Wolfe as they packed their few belongings into their saddlebags and set off back down the hill to Andeli and then along the river track towards Rouen.
After an hour's trotting, during which time the coroner had not said a word, he slowed his rounsey to a walking pace and motioned to the others to come up alongside him.
'This is something which concerns you both - or may well do, for it will be your choice as to how you wish to act.'
The clerk felt a chill run up his spine, for his devotion to the coroner was profound and this sounded ominously like the possibility of the end of their association. 'Is it bad news, Crowner?' he asked tremulously.
De Wolfe stared blankly at the dusty track ahead of them. 'It depends on how you look at it, Thomas. The king wishes me to leave Exeter and go to London, certainly for a year and possibly longer.'
This stirred Gwyn into speech. 'But you are the coroner for Devon!, Why does he want you to give that up? What will you do in London?'
'The same task, but in a different guise. It would mean travelling all over England, though London would be the base.'
'I don't understand, sir!' said Thomas, miserable at the thought
of losing his master and his job.
John took pity on the sadness in the faithful little clerk's voice and began to explain. 'Coroners have jurisdiction over fixed areas, which are the counties of England - and Normandy, come to that. A problem has arisen in that the king's court is always on the move and if some untoward event occurs, such as a murder, then before the local coroner and sheriff have a chance to sort it out, the whole entourage has moved on out of their jurisdiction. '
Gwyn looked at him blankly. 'What has that got to do with us - or, rather, you, Crowner?'
'Here in Normandy, the king has appointed a knight as his own coroner, to deal with all cases amongst the hundreds of people who cluster around him to form his court. When he moves, as he does incessantly, the coroner moves with him, as does 'the Verge' a twelve mile zone around the court within which the coroner's power is paramount. Now the king and Hubert Waiter want to set up the same system in England.'
'But the king is not in England,' objected Thomas reasonably.
'Not at the moment, but he will be one day. And in any case there is a large court based on London and Winchester consisting of his barons, judges, clerks and God knows how many hangers-on that perambulate up and down the country. Hubert Walter is at the head of it, but there is a flock of bishops and earls and dukes, all with their chaplains and knights and squires and pages, to say nothing of the scores of lesser servants they gather around them. Add to that the foreign emissaries and ambassadors that plague them, then you have a crowd the size of a small town.'
The Manor of Death Page 22