Eventually, he went back home, anxious to confirm that his wife's improvement was continuing. He was experiencing a nagging mental conflict, for though his conscience was clear in that nothing he had done had brought this calamity upon her - and he was safely asleep in their bed when it happened - his long-lasting infidelity and his endless disgruntlement with their hopeless marriage preyed upon him, as if these sins might have called down misfortune upon Matilda.
He found her still sitting by the hearth, a good fire blazing beneath the stone canopy that took the fumes out through the roof. She was swaddled in a heavy serge mantle, with a bearskin draped across her knees.
Lucille squatted on a cushion to one side and a cup of his best Anjou red stood on a stool on the other.
The French maid, who seemed perpetually afraid of this tall, dark man, scuttled out of the room as he came in and took the other chair, pushing Brutus gently aside to get his feet on the stone surround of the firepit.
'I have had several callers, John,' announced Matilda with some satisfaction in her voice. 'Four of my friends from St Olave's came to enquire after my condition and pray for my speedy recovery. And Lady Joan de Whiteford also called, she was most anxious about me, bless her.' John made appropriate rumbles in his throat and made his own enquiries about her progress.
'My throat is almost recovered, but this pain in my side troubles, me, especially when I breathe,' she complained. 'But I shall be up and about as usual very soon. I do not wish to miss the Feast of Holy Innocents in the cathedral.'
She was referring to the light-hearted - even raucous - celebrations which began on the feast of St John, the third day of Christmas, when the choristers took over the cathedral for a day one of them being chosen as the 'boy-bishop, complete with mitre and staff.
Sometimes the jollity, in which most of the clergy took part, got out of hand: more than once the archdeacons had had to send in the cathedral proctors with their staffs to curb the excesses, which on occasion even spilled over into the city streets.
John listened patiently as at great length she recounted the conversation of her recent visitors, especially those of Joan de Whiteford. Despite the frightening experience Matilda must have suffered, he suspected that she welcomed this episode, and especially the fawning attention of her matronly friends, as a break in the dull routine of her life. When she had exhausted her account, he turned to more serious matters.
'The guild masters and their members could throw no light upon this attack - or upon the deaths of three of their fellows,' he said grimly. 'There seems to be no connection between Hempston and the killing of the guildsmen. I will have to travel to that manor as soon as I am able, to begin my enquiries.'
He hesitated and then continued in a more subdued voice. 'It may be that your brother's conduct in the way that he and Henry de la Pomeroy acquired Hempston Arundell may give rise to some problems, but I will not judge the issue until I have learned a great deal more. It was before my time as coroner when that occurred.' Not wishing to upset his wife any more, he left it at that. Matilda was silent when he finished speaking. She had come to realise that her brother seemed incapable of keeping out of trouble, most of which he brought upon himself by his greed and his search for advancement.
'You cannot go in this snow, John,' she said eventually.
CHAPTER NINE
In which Crowner John rides into the country
Matilda was right about the weather and it was another two days before he could set out for Hempston Arundell with Gwyn. The sky cleared, and though the weather remained very cold, a weak sun dispersed most of the snow, leaving only patches here and there in the shadows.
Thomas was left behind, much to his relief, as he was a reluctant horseman who would only slow them down as they rode along the frozen ruts of the country tracks.
Also, he was anxious to take part in the cathedral's remaining Maletide festivities.
With unusual solicitude for his wife's welfare while he was away, John made sure that Mary and Lucille would attend to her every need, though he knew there would be a constant stream of well-wishers coming to the house from amongst her friends at St Olave's.
With the Cornishman close alongside, as Gwyn still seemed determined not to let him out of sight for fear of some ambush, de Wolfe rode out of the city early in the morning and crossed the ford beyond the West Gate to reach the southern road to the west of the county.
The track was in better condition than John had expected and the weather had improved, so they made good time. They stopped at a tavern in Kingsteignton to feed and water their horses and themselves, then carried on in the direction of Totnes until, about noon, they reached Berry Pomeroy. The castle there was a forbidding pile, built on the edge of a cliff amongst dense woodland, almost within arrow-shot of Hempston Arundell. Rebuilt in stone after the original timber stockade became out-dated, the castle had sufficient clearance around it for defence, though this had never been needed. Its main strength was the precipice that fell from its walls down to the gorge beneath, The twin towers of the gatehouse were guarded by a sentinel who grudgingly allowed them into the bailey, where John growled at a servant to take him to his lord.
They were shown into a hall built against the curtain wall of the inner ward. Here Gwyn soon managed to find some more food and drink, while, a steward conducted John to a chamber on an upper floor, where Henry de la Pomeroy received him with more than a little suspicion. The thick-set, stocky knight had not yet heard from Richard de Revelle about the attacker in Exeter, and when de Wolfe tersely related that the assailant had threatened the pair of them, Henry thawed somewhat and sent for wine, inviting the coroner to sit with him before the hearth of the draughty room, where wind moaned through two slit windows high up in the bleak walls.
'This man connected his killings with Hempston ArundeU,' said John bluntly. 'It sounded like an act of revenge, with more to follow, which is why I have come here today. I intend to go over to Hempston after leaving here.'
'What did de Revelle have to say about this?' asked Henry. Unlike John's brother-in-law, the burly manor lord seemed unperturbed by the possibility of a direct threat to himself.
'He was mainly concerned for his own safety, but had no suggestions as to who might be the perpetrator. Whoever he is, when I get my hands on him, I'll strangle the bastard for what he did to my wife.'
Henry's head nodded on his thick neck. He was still wary of this dark man, who exactly a year earlier had been instrumental in defeating his efforts to revive a rebellion on behalf of Prince John. Both he and de Revelle had wriggled out of serious trouble over that, but he knew they were both marked men in the eyes of the king's loyalists, and that the Chief Justiciar had appointed de Wolfe partly to keep an eye on them.
'If he tries any tricks here, he'll get short shrift,' promised Henry. 'I've had a new gallows erected in the village and I'd be happy to let him try it out.'
'Have you any notion of who this might be?' demanded de Wolfe. 'The obvious choice is one of the outlaw gang that left Hempston when you took it from its lawful owner.' He had no compunction about being direct and possibly offensive towards Henry, as he knew that he, like Richard, still had ambitions to further himself within Prince John's camp.
De la Pomeroy glowered at this, but managed to turn the other cheek. 'It could be Nicholas himself,' he answered, his face reddening. 'He and his gang have stolen from our bartons, poached endlessly from my deer park, and generally made damned nuisances of themselves. This might just be a new departure for him in his attempts to discomfit me.'
The coroner shook his head. 'I can't believe a knight and a Crusader would attack a lone woman in a churchyard, especially one he knew was the wife of a fellow Crusader.'
'But he knew she was a sister to de Revelle, or he wouldn't have left that message with her,' objected Henry stubbornly.
'It's far more likely that it was one of his men, one of those who was ejected by you and Richard from Hempston. Have you no suggestio
n as to which of them it might be?'
Pomeroy made a rude noise. 'How the hell do I know who ran off with the bloody man? I don't know the names of villagers in the next manor. I only recall that the old steward was called Hereward or some such.' De Wolfe found the manners and company of the lord not much to his liking and, swallowing the rest of his wine, he stood up and made to leave.
'I really wanted to discover how we could track these outlaws down. Have you any idea where they might be?' Henry lumbered to his feet and stood with his fists aggressively planted on his hips. 'We chased them off a few times when they came raiding down to Berry or Hempston, but they are like quicksilver on a tray. God knows where on the moor they live, no doubt they have several hideouts.' He marched to the door and opened it, ready to hand John over to the servant waiting outside. 'You'll never find them, especially in this weather. I don't know how they survive out in that wilderness.'
John turned as he went to the head of the stairs. 'I'm off to Hempston now, to see if anyone there has better memories than you. There may be questions at the next Eyre about how the place came into your possession!' With this veiled threat, he stumped down to collect Gwyn and soon they were back in the saddle. After enquiring of the surly guard at the gate, they went back along the track and turned off on a narrow lane through dense trees until they reached the Gatcombe brook, which they followed down to the little River Hems which flowed through a shallow valley that contained the hamlet. Hempston was built on the opposite bank, a cluster of cottages on a rise of ground with a wooden church fight against the small manor house. A bank, ditch and stockade surrounded both buildings, which were obviously old and in need of repair.
'Not much of a place,' grunted Gwyn as they walked their horses up the hill from the small wooden bridge over the Hems, which was little more than a large stream.
'Good fertile soil, by the look of it. Plenty of water and shelter from the winds in this valley,' countered John, who liked the look of the village.
A few villeins were digging out turnips in the strip fields on each side of the track, looking as if they were muffled up in every garment they possessed against the bitter weather. They cast wary eyes over the two strangers and watched uneasily as they entered the open gates in the fence around the manor house. Here again there were signs of neglect: the compound was unkempt, with weeds growing in the paths, loose shingles on the roof, and tattered thatch on the various outbuildings.
Two men were shoeing a mare at one side, and they also looked suspiciously at the visitors.
'Don't seem a very happy place, this,' grunted Gwyn. 'Reminds me of Sampford Peverel, where we had all that trouble a few months back.'
As they dismounted, one of the men, a short fellow of about twenty with a crop of pustules under his chin, came across. 'And who might you be?' he asked rudely.
John towered over him and glared down into his face.
'I might be the Pope, but in fact I'm the king's coroner for this county. Where's your master, whoever he is?'
Suddenly servile, the septic young man tugged at his dirty forelock. 'Begging your pardon, sir. The bailiff is beside the house there.' He pointed to the open door, where a couple of chickens were exploring across the threshold. John and his officer thrust the reins of their steeds into his hands and walked across to the front of the manor house, a rectangular block made of heavy timbers and surrounded by another ditch, over which a few planks led to the door.
Inside, there was one large hall and several small rooms partitioned off at the back. A central firepit was ringed with whitewashed stones, inside which a glowing heap of logs cast some warmth on those sitting nearby.
A few trestle tables, some benches and stools completed the furniture. Half a dozen men were sitting there, an old woman and a young girl waiting on them with jugs of ale and bowls of potage brought in through a back entrance from the cook-shed behind.
'Which one of you is in charge?' snapped de Wolfe.
A heavily built man of about forty, with an acne-scarred face, rose from a bench. 'That's me, sir. Ogerus Coffin, the bailiff.' His tone was cautiously respectful, as he recognised John for a Norman knight by his manner and by the quality of the sword hilt that was visible under his open mantle.
Several of the men rose from the table and stood aside as the bailiff waved the visitors to a seat and then sat down himself.
'What can I do for you, sir?' asked Ogerus. 'You'll have some meat and drink, no doubt?'
As another man gestured to the old woman to bring more ale, mugs and food, John brusquely introduced himself and his officer.
'We have several murders and an assault in or near Exeter, which may have been committed by someone connected with this manor. I am seeking out any information, especially about the outlaws who left here with the former manor lord, Sir Nicholas de Arundell.' Ogerus Coffin gave a guttural laugh, but several of the other men looked uneasy at this news.
'Nick o' the Moor and his gang of ruffians? That's ancient history, that is. Must be better part of three years since he ran off.'
The crone poured ale for John and Gwyn, and a platter of cold pork and thick slabs of coarse bread was bumped on the table before them.
'Have they been around here lately?'
The bailiff's small eyes roved around, surveilling his companions. 'Haven't seen much of them lately, have we, lads? Last time must have been three months back, when they came by night and stole half a dozen chickens and a couple of suckling pigs.'
'How do you know it was them?' asked Gwyn.
'They scratched a sign on the door of the tithe barn, like they did a couple of times before.'
'What sort of sign?' demanded John.
One of the older men pointed up at the wall above the door, where a crude shield had been painted on the timbers. Though faded and deliberately defaced, six white swallows on a black ground were still visible.
'They left that Arundell device on the barn door, cut with the point of a dagger. That one up there has been here since his father, old Roger, built the house.'
'The place is looking pretty shabby now,' observed Gwyn. 'Does no one care for it any longer?'
Ogerus shrugged. 'It's only the land that interests Sir Henry and Sir Richard. They share the income, but don't need the house. I live here most of the time, though I'm really bailiff of Berry Pomeroy. My lord has put me here as caretaker, to supervise the working of the fields.'
John decided they were wandering off the subject.
'Do you know of any among them who might descend to murdering?'
One of the others, the one who had pointed out the shield, broke in ahead of the bailiff, apparently anxious to defend the former lord.
'They get up to some thieving, that's for sure, but they have to live and only steal food or money. They've never killed anyone nor even grievously harmed a soul.'
Ogerus scowled at the man. 'I know where your sympathies lie, Alfred Gooch! You should have gone off and joined them. Didn't they kill that man from Berry when the first squabble started?'
'That was an accident,' mumbled Alfred, sitting down and shutting his mouth.
'And you can think of no one who might have a particular grudge against Sir Henry or Sir Richard?' persisted de Wolfe.
There were a few muffled sniggers. 'I can't say as to that, Crowner,' grunted the bailiff. 'It's not my place to relate tittle-tattle. But no doubt Arundell and all his tribe up on the moor would gladly see them both dead.'
John seized on part of what the man had said. 'Up on the moor. Where up on the moor might they be?' Again there were snorts and chuckles of derision from the others.
'Like bloody will-o'-the-wisps, they are,' said another fellow, who had a hunting horn at his belt. 'They got half a dozen places they can hide, and can flit from one to the other at the drop of a hat. Not that they're alone up there, there's plenty of outlaws besides them. Dartmoor is big enough to hide a couple of armies.'
Having no help on that score, de Wolfe turned to anot
her aspect of his investigation. 'What exactly happened when Sir Nicholas was turned out of this place? I've heard different tales from different people.'
Alfred spoke up again, braving the bailiff's obvious displeasure. 'It was a bloody scandal, sir! First they threw out his wife with some yarn about him being dead in foreign parts, then when he shows up at that very door there, hale and hearty, he gets set upon and sent packing.'
Ogerus Coffin glared at him again. 'Watch your mouth, Alfred Gooch. That's not how it was at all.'
'I was there, for Christ's sake,' retorted Alfred, defiantly.
'And so was I - and got two broken ribs for my trouble,' shouted the bailiff. 'De Arundell set upon us, calling on some of the men who were here before we took over to join him. They killed Walter Frome and were only defeated when we sent to the castle for help.' There were some subdued grumbles of disagreement from a couple of the men, but they seemed afraid to defy their bailiff openly.
John decided he would only get a censored version of the truth from Ogerus Coffin and turned the discussion into questions about the geography of the manor and how men would get there from Dartmoor. It seemed that the obvious way would be to come down the Dart Valley, into which the little Hems stream joined only a mile away. The valley ran inland to reach Buckfast and, beyond it, Ponsworthy and Widecombe which were at the southern edge of the high moor.
'I reckon wherever they are, they keep mostly to the eastern part of the moor,' said another fellow. 'I doubt they dwell over towards Lydford or Tavistock way, for there are other big gangs of outlaws in that direction who wouldn't take kindly to too much competition.' Even this opinion was of little use in tracking down Nick o' the Moor, as the areas involved were still enormous, a rugged terrain of heathland, bogs, stony ground and tors, all subject to dense cloud, gales, horizontal rain and deep snow, according to the season.
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