The Noble Outlaw

by Bernard Knight

  'What are they doing?' demanded de Wolfe, as they walked across the empty yard. 'Singing their lessons or what?'

  Henry gave a lopsided grin. 'No, sir, that's their morning prayers. The master starts the day with a service, them being all clerics of one sort or another.' Henry led them towards the old forge, where work had ceased on pulling the floor down until such time as the cadaver would be removed. 'Magister James has been in a proper state, having the builders sent away because of this body,' the servant said with ill-concealed delight 'He's got eight more students arriving next week and nowhere to put them until this place is finished.' It looked as if de Revelle's venture into education might pay off after all, thought John. More scholars meant more fees, which would be music to his mercenary brother-in-law's soul.

  'The deceased is just where you said he was to be left, Crowner,' said Henry. 'I'll not come in with you, if you don't mind. He's not a pretty sight.'

  This was hardly encouraging to Walter Pole, who already looked anxious, but at that early hour de Wolfe was in no mood to pander to sensibilities.

  'Come on, this will take but a moment. Just one look at him - and especially at his clothing.'

  He stamped on ahead into the forge and Gwyn urged the harness maker to follow him. A moment later, Gwyn pulled off the old canvas that had been thrown over the body.

  Walter peered at it, nervously at first, then curiosity got the better of his revulsion and he bent to get a closer look. 'Looks more like the cheapest leather I have to deal with, rather than a man,' he observed.

  'But do you recognise him?' growled the coroner.

  Walter scratched his head and thought for a moment.

  'He's about the right height for Matthew and a thin fellow with it, which tallies. But that face - more like a dried monkey, I can't swear to it being him.'

  'What about the clothing?' prompted Gwyn.

  The leatherworker stared again, then bent down and tugged at the edge of the tunic. 'It's very much like what he used to wear. But so many other folk favour the same sort of garments. I couldn't be sure.' John ground his teeth in frustration. 'Is there nothing else you might recognise?'

  Walter looked abashed at being unable to please this intimidating man. He rubbed his forehead in a desperate attempt to think of something useful. 'What about his arm?' he ventured.

  De Wolfe glared at him. 'Well, what about his damned arm? He's got two of them, hasn't he?'

  'He broke one a few years ago, falling off his pony. It never healed properly, there was always a lump under the skin.'

  Gwyn seized upon this at once, as he had used a similar ploy once before. 'Which arm was it, left or right?' he demanded, already bending down to the corpse.

  Walter Pole thought for a moment, muttering under his breath and looking at his own arms as he twisted them at the wrists to help him remember.

  'The left.., yes, it was the left, as he said it wouldn't stop him having full use of his right when he was pushing his needle through the leather.'

  John stooped to look as Gwyn pushed up the left sleeve of the tunic almost to the shoulder. 'Where was the damage, Walter?' he boomed.

  'Just below the elbow. He would rub it sometimes, as he said it. ached.'

  Gwyn lifted up the hand, the brown, wrinkled skin of the arm looking like old parchment against the almost black claws of the fingernails. He felt all along the forearm from wrist to elbow and then gave a loud exclamation.

  'Ha! There's a hard lump here. Would this be it?' Hesitantly, the harness maker stretched out his own hand and tentatively felt the area that Gwyn indicated.

  He nodded vigorously. 'That's it. This must be poor Matthew. No one else would have a lump like that in that very spot.' He looked sadly at the withered corpse.

  'His staggering sickness must have got the better of him in the end.'

  John de Wolfe shook his head. 'Not so, Walter. He was murdered!'

  * * *

  An hour later, the coroner strode across Rougemont's inner ward to the keep and shared a pot of ale with the sheriff. Henry de Furnellis was fond of men's company and, unlike his haughty predecessor, the old soldier was happy to forsake the sheriff's chamber for the noisy, bustling halt outside.

  They sat at a table near the firepit and ignoring the attempts of clerks, merchants and others to seek an audience with him, Henry listened to the latest news about the mummified corpse.

  'God's teeth, how did a master craftsman like that get himself slain in such a bizarre fashion?' he asked, his grizzled old face displaying his surprise.

  'There's some meaning to it, I'm sure,' replied John grimly. 'But what it signifies is beyond me at present.

  As far as we can make out, the fellow had been an ordinary tradesman with nothing to mark him out as a victim.'

  The sheriff nodded over his mug. 'A saddler seems an unlikely target for an assassination. Too old to have ravished the wife of some ill-tempered husband. And if he owed money, this was no way to set about repayment.' De Wolfe stared for a moment into the fire, watching the flames flicker around the pile of oak logs. 'This body was found on de Revelle's property and he has some fanciful tale about it being dumped there to discredit him.'

  Henry groaned and rolled up his eyes. 'Bloody de Revelle! I might have guessed that he would turn up again before long. I thought his experiences last month might have encouraged him to lay low for a while.'

  'He claims that this corpse was planted in his school by some outlaw bent on revenge,' said de Wolfe. 'What do you know of this Nicholas de Arundell, the one they call 'Nick o' the Moor'? All I've learned about him was from the one-eyed potman at the Bush.'

  De Furnellis cradled his chin in a hand as he dug intohis memory. 'Nicholas de Arundell? There was a scandal concerning him about three years back, before I was made sheriff for the first time. The county was in the hands of that bastard John Lackland then, so although theoretically he was sheriff, the prince left all the work to the serjeants and bailiffs of the hundreds.' This obscure complaint told de Wolfe nothing and he waited for further explanation.

  'De Arundell went off to the Crusade as soon as our king called for recruits, and I seem to recall that on the way he stayed to fight for the Lionheart in the Sicilian war. Anyway, when more than two years had gone by without word from him, it was claimed that he was dead and the Count of Mortain, who had been given Devon and Cornwall by the king at his coronation, declared his estates to be escheated.'

  'And who put that claim about?' growled de Wolfe, 'The de la Pomeroys of Berry Castle, which stands next to Hempston, said that a monk returning from Palestine had told them this, as he was passing through.

  Of course, no one could ever produce this monk to confirm it, but as you know only too well, Henry de la Pomeroy was one of Prince bloody John's most ardent supporters in these parts.'

  'And then this Nicholas causes a big problem when he turns up very much alive?' suggested the coroner.

  'Indeed he did! It seems he arrived with a couple of his men and finds his wife gone back to Cornwall and a strange bailiff running his manor. Unfortunately, in his anger, he went about fighting the situation in the wrong way.'

  'So what happened to get him outlawed?' asked John.

  'This Nicholas is a man of very short temper and he and his retainers, together with some villagers who were loyal to him, tried to throw out the bailiff and Pomeroy's men. 'There was a fight and in the mélée, one of the local men got a crack on the head which killed him.

  Someone got a warning to Berry Castle and a large force rushed over to arrest Nicholas, but he and his men escaped.'

  By now, a few people had gathered behind the sheriff and were listening to his tale with interest. Any tales of conflict and violence were a welcome diversion in these peaceful times in Devon. One of the older men was Gabriel, the sergeant of the garrison's men-at-arms and a close friend of Gwyn. He broke in with his own memories of the affair.

  'I don't know the details, but I heard that somehow he and some
of his men vanished into the moor, where they've been ever since. He knew it was no use seeking justice from the sheriff, for there wasn't one worth speaking of, as it was the Count of Mortain who nominally held the shrievalty.'

  'But why could he not get justice from someone?' demanded John. There were some derisory noises from the men gathered around. It was clear where their sympathies lay, and one man, a clerk to Ralph Morin, the castle constable, put them into words.

  'Who could he appeal to, Crowner? He was declared outlaw in the county court a few weeks later, so he ceased to exist as far as the law was concerned. He couldn't bring any legal action for restitution of his estate - he couldn't even show his face anywhere for fear of being beheaded or hanged on sight.'

  De Wolfe nodded his understanding at the fearful significance of being declared an outlaw, and the sheriff's next words confirmed de Arundell's plight.

  'He was a relatively insignificant knight with no powerful friends, even though he had been on Crusade. Then he made matters worse by starting a vendetta against de Revelle and the Pomeroys, father and son. He and his men hid themselves on Dartmoor and struck at various farms belonging to their adversaries.' Henry grinned at the memory of de Revelle's anger at the time. 'They burned a few barns, stole sheep and cattle and poached deer from their lands. They even kidnapped a few of de Revelle's servants and tried to hold them to ransom, but he wouldn't pay so much as a bent penny, so they had to let them free.'

  Eventually, the sheriff had to succumb to the pleas of his chief clerk and reluctantly go back to his chamber to give audience to the many people who were waiting impatiently to see him. John strode back to the gatehouse and sat behind his table, watching Thomas carefully scribing away at his manuscripts. The little clerk's tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth as he hunched over his quill pen, concentrating on forming the excellent script that would be put before, the royal justices when they next came to hold the Eyre of Assize.

  One of the main functions of the coroner system was to record all legal events in each county for presentation either to the judges on their infrequent visits or to the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery, lesser officials who came more often to clear the endless backlog of cases, whose alleged perpetrators languished in the prisons.

  Though juries of men from every hundred had to present their local cases to the courts, anything in which the coroner was involved had to be documented on his rolls for examination by the justices. It was Thomas's pride that ensured that his yards of parchment were the neatest and most legible of all the documents presented.

  De Wolfe had been trying to learn to read and write, taught both by a vicar from the cathedral and by Thomas, but his lack of patience made him a poor student and he had hardly progressed beyond being able to read a few simple sentences and sign his name. Now he looked with wonder, rather than envy, at his clerk's dextrous fingers forming the regular lines of Latin script on the creamy parchment before him.

  After a few minutes, boredom began to overtake him.

  He missed Gwyn's boisterous company, as the officer was still down in Smythen Street organising the inquest which John would hold just before noon. At this time of morning, the three of them would usually have a second breakfast, but with Gwyn away, there was no bread and cheese and the large jug of cider on the floor was empty.

  De Wolfe drummed his fingers on the table and shivered as a cold blast of air whistled through the slit-shaped windows. The snow had held off, but it was frosty and the wind was rising from the east.

  Thomas looked up, his pointed nose bright red with cold, the beginnings of a dewdrop forming at its tip.

  He sensed that his impatient master wanted some diversion.

  'How will you pursue this killing, sir?' he asked.

  'Start by discovering more about this saddler,' replied John. 'Search his dwelling for a start, then question those who knew him in life, I suppose.'

  'He seems to have been a stalwart guild member,' offered Thomas. 'I heard Walter Pole mention that this Matthew had once been the treasurer of the Cordwainers, which includes all kinds of leatherworkers.' The coroner had learned over the sixteen months since he had taken office that his clerk was both intelligent and perceptive, so that anything he suggested was usually worth considering.

  'The guilds! We must follow that aspect. I'll speak to Hugh de Relaga about it, he has his finger in every scheme the merchants devise in Exeter.' De Relaga was the garishly dressed portreeve, one of the two leaders of the city council, as well as being John's business associate in their wool-exporting business. When de Wolfe returned home from Palestine, he had invested his booty wisely and had become a sleeping partner in this enterprise with Hugh. They bought fleeces from all over the Southwest and shipped them across to Normandy, Flanders and even as far as Cologne. Recently, they had invested in three ships so that henceforth, instead of the partners paying freight, their own crews would sail the Channel when the new season began in the Spring and come back with finished cloth as well as wine and fruit, to make a steady profit on the transaction.

  'The present warden of that guild might be worth questioning, Crowner,' suggested Thomas. 'I took the liberty this morning of finding out who it was. He's Archibald Wasteper, a master cordwainer. He sells his footwear from a shop in North Gate Street.' John nodded. 'I know of the place, my wife has bought shoes there - and damned expensive they were,' he added, with feeling.

  The clerk sensed that the coroner still wanted some distraction until Gwyn returned, so he kept the dialogue going.

  'Sir, do you think that there is anything in this claim of Sir Richard, that this outlaw has some part in the death?'

  John scratched his head; a flea was irritating him. 'I don't rule out anything, but it's a pretty unlikely story.' Thomas nodded his agreement. 'And there is the problem of a Dartmoor outlaw getting into the city.'

  Here de Wolfe declined to agree with his clerk. 'Not as difficult as you might think, Thomas. With the many hundreds of folk in and out of the gates each day, it's impossible to check everyone, even if those idle porters on the gates made an effort to do so - which they don't.' He gave a lop-sided grin. 'Outlaws not uncommonly squirm their way back into society. I've heard of several who rose to become respected pillars of society again, under new names and in a different city.' The sounds of heavy feet on the stairway heralded Gwyn's return and a moment later his large figure pushed its way through the doorway curtain. He was clutching a gallon jar of cider and three hot mutton pasties, bought from a stall outside the castle gate.

  As they ate and drank, Gwyn reported that the inquest was set up and a jury had been impounded from all the neighbours in Smythen Street, as well as the occupants of the school.

  'Properly put out, was that magister fellow,' he chortled. 'Said it would disturb his lecture on Homer, whatever the hell that is!'

  Thomas pursed his lips in academic disapproval. 'You ignorant Cornish savage. Homer was probably the most famous writer in history.'

  Gwyn leered at the little priest. 'Well, he wasn't too well-known down in Polruan, I can tell you!'

  John raised a hand imperiously. 'That's enough, you two. After dinner, we'll talk to some people about this Morcok fellow. Surely someone should know what he did to get himself killed.'

  The inquest was a low-key event, with few people present apart from the jury whose members had been reluctantly dragged in from the surrounding area. Though in the countryside, all males over twelve from the four nearest villages were supposed to attend an inquest in case anyone had any information about the death, this was impossible in the more populous towns and cities.

  Here, it was only practicable to round up a score or so of those from the immediate neighbourhood to act as jurors. Their duty was not only to consider a verdict, but also to act as witnesses, as local people were most likely to have knowledge of what went on in their street.

  Gwyn had been around all the nearby houses and workshops to order their attendance, on pain of fines if they
failed to turn up, and now a couple of dozen men and older boys had shuffled into the yard of the smithy. They stood in a ragged half-circle outside the open doors of the outbuilding, looking sheepish and uncertain of their role in this legal ritual. The coroner's system was little more than a year old and few people understood it - though anything connected with the law was always to be avoided wherever possible, as fines and even imprisonment were an inevitable result of falling to abide by the tortuous rules.

  At the end of the line of men stood Magister James Anglicus and his pompous acolyte Henry Wotri. Behind them lurked a dozen students, ranging from fresh-faced boys of fifteen to some serious young men of twenty, all dressed in black clerical habits similar to that of Thomas de Peyne, who was seated on a box just inside the doors.

  He had an empty cask in front of him to support his parchments and ink bottle, which he always carried in a leather pouch slung over his shoulder.

  A few curious spectators clustered inside, the gate, mostly old men with nothing else to occupy their time, plus a sprinkling of goodwives and some cheeky urchins.

  John spotted old Edwin from the Bush, who obviously could not resist nosing into anything that took place within a few hundred paces of the tavern.

  Gwyn bellowed out the official summoning of the inquest, exhorting 'all who have anything to do before the king's coroner for the county of Devon' to 'come forth and give their attendance'. Then he walked to stand behind John, who glowered around at the jurors, looking like a big crow in his wolfskin cloak of mottled grey over a long black tunic. The cold breeze swirled his swept-back hair over his collar as he harshly instructed the men as to their functions.

  'This is an inquest held to investigate a breach of the peace of our sovereign lord, King Richard,' he began.