The Manor of Death

by Bernard Knight

  It was true that the wanderings of a king or even a prominent baron or bishop was a massive and cumbersome operation, with carts and wagons to transport their wives and families, their arms, documents and even furniture, as they moved from city to city or manor to manor. The descent of a monarch or baron upon a local lord could be a financial disaster for him, as he would be expected to house and feed his unwanted guests for as long as they deigned to stay.

  'And now King Richard wants you to be the first court coroner,' said the perceptive Thomas.

  'I was the first Devon coroner and it seems he and the Justiciar have been content with my performance of my duties, so they wish me to move to London.' John modestly omitted the fulsome praise that the king had heaped upon him, partly to soften the command, for that was what it amounted to, rather than a request.

  'And you agreed?' asked Gwyn bluntly. He was very unsure where this left him and Thomas.

  De Wolfe grinned wryly. 'One does not agree or disagree with a king, especially when that king is Richard Coeur de Lion!' he replied. 'I swore fealty to his father when I was knighted and that allegiance applies equally to the son. If he says I must go to London, then to London I will go.'

  There was silence for another score of hoof-beats on the hard earth until Thomas ventured the big question. 'And what of us, Sir John?'

  That question was not fully answered until The Mary and Child Jesus was once more gliding up on the flood tide of the River Exe towards the quayside she had left over two weeks earlier.

  'We have a month yet before I ride for London,' said John as they watched the twin towers of the cathedral slowly rise above the high banks. 'Hubert wants this Axmouth problem dealt with before I leave.'

  'This whole idea' was the Justiciar's, I suspect,' growled Gwyn.

  John nodded. 'The king is usually led by him in matters concerning the government of England, for Richard is too absorbed by his problems across the Channel. This idea of a 'Coroner of the Verge' is but an experiment of Hubert's. If it proves to be unnecessary, he will abandon it after a year and I'll come back to Devon.'

  During the long journey back from Rouen, they had agreed that Gwyn and Thomas would accompany him to his new appointment. Gwyn was married with two children, but as he had spent much of the past twenty years away on campaigns with de Wolfe, being absent in London would be no great hardship, especially as John had promised that he could ride home every three months for a visit. Thomas, who was Hampshire born, had no ties to the West Country and was quite content to go to the great city, especially as there would be frequent opportunities to visit the twin capital of Winchester, where he had been a minor canon until his fall from grace several years earlier. His concern had been that he would lose his ecclesiastical sinecure in Exeter, but Hubert Waiter had assured John that he would find some similar post for him in London.

  With his officer and clerk, if not exactly enthusiastic, at least resigned to the move, it was John himself who faced the greatest dilemma. He had a house, a wife, a partnership, a maid, a dog and a mistress in Exeter, not to mention the attractions of a beautiful former lover in Dawlish. There was no question of his refusing the king's command, but what in hell was he to do about his private life?

  As Roger Watts coaxed the prow of the cog around to put the larboard side to the bank, the crew broke into an unmelodious version of the hymn 'Praise to the Good Christ and the Kind Virgin', the traditional seaman's chant sung all over Europe in thanks for a safe end to a voyage. Soon, the coroner's trio felt the strange sensation of solid ground under their feet, and with an agreement with Gwyn to meet in the Bush at dusk they parted at the Watergate to go their various ways. John walked up through the town, quieter at this time in the mid-afternoon, but to him still bustling compared with the solitude of the ship, which with unhelpful winds had taken five days to get from Honfleur. He reached his house in Martin's Lane, and as he pushed open the heavy street door he wondered if he would miss its dour familiarity when he left Exeter. Inside, he listened for voices, but there was only silence. Raising the latch of the inner door to the hall, he peered around the draught screens and saw that it was empty and that the fire was unlit. Even though it was now late April, Mary usually kept logs burning for another month.

  John went back into the vestibule and was rewarded by the sound of padding feet as Brutus came around the corner from the passage at the side of the house and advanced on him, tail swishing and head low to the ground in affectionate greeting.

  Fondling his big head, he looked up and saw Mary standing at the corner, regarding him with a mixture of relief and anxiety. 'You're back from your gallivanting, then?' she said pertly, then came nearer and planted a kiss on his cheek. 'There's food and drink in my kitchen. You look as if you need it - and a good wash and a shave!'

  She fried him onions with 'chitterlings' – sausages made from a pig's intestine stuffed with chopped pork and offal - followed by bread slathered in beef dripping. Washed down with rough cider, it was a welcome change from the endless thin stew boiled in a cauldron on the rolling ship. As he ate, seated on a stool in her hut, she stood against the doorpost watching him with concern.'

  'Well, woman, tell me all about it,' he said eventually. 'I can see she's not here. Is there any news of her yet?'

  Mary shook her thick dark hair, free of the headscarf she wore outside the house. 'Not a word from her directly, no! But her cousin in Fore Street sent a servant to collect all her clothes, which it seems your wife has said she can have. They are much of a size, so she can get them altered to fit.'

  The cook-maid said this with an air of defiance, as if it proved her own conviction that her mistress would never return. 'And a groom from Polsloe came with orders to take her chest from the solar back to the priory.

  This was Matilda's strongbox, in which she kept her brooches and rings, as well as the money which arrived each quarter-day from the lawyer who doled out instalments of the bequest from her dead father. It certainly looked as if his wife was taking this escape into a nunnery more seriously than she had last time.

  Suddenly, Mary's bravado evaporated and she came to kneel at John's side, her hand gripping his arm.

  'What's to become of me, John? I've been alone in this house for over two weeks. The mistress will never come home now, and that Lucille has gone to serve her brother's wife. Am I to be thrown out into the street if you sell this house and go elsewhere?'

  Strong woman though she was, she was near to tears and de Wolfe slid a comforting arm around her. 'You'll never want for a place, Mary! There are big changes coming in my life, but you must never fear for your future. For now, keep on as you are, feeding me and my old hound. In a month or so I may be going up to London for a long while. But Thomas and Gwyn will be with me, and it may be that you too might follow us there, if you so wished.'

  He explained what had gone on in Normandy, and she listened in wonderment at the possibility of going to the country's new capital, having hardly been outside Exeter in her life.

  'But what of the mistress?' she asked, concerned even though Matilda had always treated her with near contempt.

  John shrugged. 'It's up to her. She's my wife, but if she prefers to spend the rest of her life on her knees in that dismal priory, the choice is hers.'

  When he had finished eating he took Mary's advice, and in a leather bucket of warm water that she heated for him he washed his face and upper half, using a lump of soap made from goat tallow, soda and beech-ash. Then he scraped his black stubble with a small knife he kept honed to the best edge he could manage and put on a clean grey tunic that the maid had washed for him while he was away.

  Feeling uncomfortably clean, he made his way up to the castle, where he went straight to tell his tale to Henry de Furnellis. The old sheriff was most concerned at the prospect of losing de Wolfe to London, and John suspected that part of his anxiety was that he might have to exert himself more if his active colleague went away.

  'So who is going to take your
place?' he demanded. 'Was Hubert as quick to suggest a replacement as he was to snatch you away?'

  'He did mention Sir Richard de Revelle as a possibility,' said John with a straight face.

  The sheriff looked apoplectic for a moment until he realised that his friend was being facetious. 'Don't make that sort of joke, John, please!' he growled. 'Many a word spoken in jest has a nasty habit of coming true!'

  De Wolfe grinned' and shook his head. 'Don't fret, Henry, the Justiciar would cut out his own tongue rather than recommend my dear brother-in-law for any position other than hanging from a gallows-tree! But he did have a suggestion which is worth considering.'

  De Furnellis looked at John suspiciously. 'Who would that be, then?'

  'Someone we both admire for his courage. Sir Nicholas de Arundell, who we helped not long ago.' The sheriff's bushy eyebrows rose. 'Nick o' the Moors? Yes, I suppose he'd do well, a brave knight and a Crusader like yourself. That's if he wants the job?'

  De Arundell was lord of the small manor of Hempston Arundell near Totnes, and John had been instrumental in restoring him to his lands at the same time that Matilda's brother fell into worse disgrace than usual.

  'Well, you'll soon find out if he'll take it, Henry, for the Justiciar wants you to approach him about it. And if it fails, find someone else suitable, for I'll be off in a few weeks, as soon as we get this Axmouth problem settled.'

  This led him to describe his talks with Hubert Walter and the king himself, which prompted the sheriff to offer an opinion similar to his own.

  'Plenty of good wishes, but damn-all action! Typical of politicians - all wind and no water.'

  John felt himself trying to defend the archbishop. 'He's desperate for money; the king's French campaigns take every penny Hubert can raise. I doubt they could afford to divert even a single ship from the Portsmouth fleet to run up and down the coast to seek pirates.'

  De Furnellis nodded his reluctant acceptance of the realities of life 'I suppose it would be a hell of a coincidence if a naval ship happened upon a pirate in the act of pillaging another vessel. So what do we do about it?'

  John leant across the table and began to outline the plan that he had in mind.

  That evening, just as the sun was setting on a fine late-April day, the coroner strode down Smythen Street and turned into Idle Lane. The Bush Inn stood before him, its new thatch glowing in the evening light, but he viewed it with some foreboding. More than a fortnight had passed since he had seen Nesta, and, as with his wife, his frequent and often prolonged absences were always a source of irritation and recrimination to his mistress. This time there was the added spectre of a handsome young Welshman to be reckoned with. John had no doubt that Nesta would have imported Owain from St John's Hospital to stay at the Bush, as she had promised.

  He pushed open the door and ducked his head under the lintel to enter the room, which occupied the whole ground floor. The atmosphere was clearer than usual, as in this weather only a small fire glowed in the central pit and there was little eye-stinging smoke to filter out under the eaves. The remaining odour was the usual mixture of spilt ale, cooking and sweat, as Nesta forbade the usual pissing into the rushes that covered the floor but drove her patrons out to perform against the fence in the back yard.

  Gwyn was already seated at the table near the firepit and John settled on the bench opposite, where Edwin immediately brought him a jar of ale. Even allowing for his ghastly blind eye, the old potman looked more shifty than usual and hurried away without waiting to gossip.

  'What's wrong with him tonight?' grunted de Wolfe. 'And where's Nesta?'

  The Cornishman' looked slightly uncomfortable. 'Edwin says they are in the brew-shed, seeing to the latest tub of mash.'

  John looked at him suspiciously. 'What d'you mean they?'.

  Gwyn stared down into his half-empty quart pot. 'Seems young Owain is making himself helpful, now that his wound is all but healed.' He looked up and saw with relief that the back door had opened. 'Here they are now, coming back in.'

  Nesta made her way across the crowded bar-room and stood at the end of the trestle table, looking down at de Wolfe. Her face was slightly flushed, but he thought she looked prettier than ever.

  'J ohn, welcome back! How is Cathay or Egypt or wherever kept you away for so long?'

  Her tone was light and accompanied by a smile, but he caught its undercurrent of sarcasm. Reaching up, he grasped her arm and pulled her down on the bench alongside him. Was it his fancy or did he sense a certain resistance to this familiar act? He slipped an arm around her shoulders and bent to kiss her. Nesta offered her cheek willingly enough, but not her lips.

  'Two weeks and she's forgotten me already?' he said in a semi-bantering fashion to Gwyn. 'Maybe she doesn't recognise me with this fresh shave and a clean tunic?'

  His officer grinned weakly, for old Edwin had been whispering in his ear before John had arrived and he was uneasy. History seemed to be repeating itself, he thought.

  De Wolfe was conscious of someone hovering at the side of him and looked up to see Owain ap Gronow standing there, looking far too handsome for his liking. He wore a sleeveless leather tunic belted over a shirt and on his bare right arm there was a linen bandage. The craftsman flexed this arm before John's eyes and beamed guilelessly at the coroner.

  'Sir John, welcome back! I am almost healed and have been carving stone for almost a week now. I give thanks to God every night for you rescuing me from those villians on the high road.'

  Nesta waved him down to sit alongside Gwyn, though John would have preferred to have had Nesta to himself, as he knew that his officer would soon take the hint and leave. 'I am glad to hear that there were no ill effects upon your work with a hammer and chisel,' he said rather grudgingly. 'So when will your labours be finished, so that you can return home?'

  The open-faced Welshman seem to read no hidden meaning in John's words.

  'It will be a number of weeks yet, for there is much to do. Though the present cathedral was begun only eighty years ago, some of the carvings have already suffered badly from weather, wear and tear.'

  He looked across at Nesta with a smile. 'Yet I am so comfortable in this lodging that I feel no longing yet to return to Wales. Everyone is so kind and hospitable to me, I feel quite at home here.'

  This was not what de Wolfe wanted to hear and he looked down at Nesta and gave her a proprietary hug to emphasise their relationship.

  Gwyn, looking increasingly uneasy, clambered to his feet and tapped Owain on the shoulder. 'Let's leave these lovebirds to themselves. We'll go up to the Crown Inn in Fore Street and I'll buy you a quart or two. It's poor ale, but afterwards you'll appreciate the brew in the Bush all the more.'

  Though the stonemason seemed reluctant to leave, Gwyn hauled him out.

  When they had vanished, John turned again to his mistress. 'And what have you been doing while I've been risking my life on the high seas?' His manner was bantering, but she sensed the suspicion in his voice .

  'What I always do, John. Chase my servants, cook a little, clean a little and worry about where you are, if you are alive, dead or in some other woman's arms!'

  She, too, strained to be light-hearted, but they both knew they were trying to disguise their real concerns, feeling more like two swordsmen feinting and parrying before the fight began in earnest.

  'What of this Welshman - he seems to have settled in very well?' He just managed to stop himself say 'too well'.

  'He is a nice man, John. Pleasant and honest and full of gratitude for what we have done for him – especially you and Gwyn.'

  De Wolfe gave one of his grunts, his stock response when he could think of nothing useful to say.

  'But you, John! Tell me all your news. Did you see the Justiciar?'

  His tale was greatly enhanced in her ears when he described meeting not only Hubert Walter but King Richard himself. Nesta seemed delighted when he told her of the absolution that the Lionheart had given him over the Vienna fiasco, a
s she had long known of John's recriminations about his failure to protect his sovereign. He also recounted the weak promises that he had received about helping to rid the coast of piracy and the crimes in and around Axmouth, but something made him delay telling Nesta about the royal command to leave Devon for London. Intuitively, he knew that this was not the right moment to break the news, and he reminded himself to warn Gwyn and Thomas to keep quiet about it for the time being.

  Inevitably, the next question was about Matilda, but it transpired that Nesta knew just as much - or as little - as John did himself.

  'I met your maid Mary at the butcher's stall some days ago and she told me that there was little news of Matilda, apart from the fact that she had removed her clothes and money chest from the house,' she said. 'Your wife seems really serious about withdrawing from the world, John. What have you done to her this time?'

  Like Mary, there was a censorious edge to her voice.

  All these women stuck together like glue, he thought sourly.

  'Nothing new, cariad,' he said aloud. 'You know well enough that she's known of our affair for several years, so there was no novelty there to drive her away. It was her brother's behaviour that tipped her over the edge, just as it did a year ago. She thought so highly of him for so long that to find yet again that he was a grasping, cheating villain and then a coward into the bargain was the straw that broke the camel's back.'

  She pressed herself a little more closely against his side and put a hand on his arm. 'So what's to become of you, John? And what's to become of us?'

  He sighed and held up his hands, palms upward. 'I still need to talk to my good friend John de Alençon about the possibility of an annulment if Matilda does indeed stay in that priory. But I am not hopeful that the marriage bonds can be broken.'