Fear in the Forest

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Though I wonder how much of this extra profit ever gets to the treasure chest in Winchester,’ added Nicholas de Molis, with a look over his shoulder at the woman listening avidly across the room. For once, Matilda took the hint, murmured something about fetching more wine and left the hall. A few moments later, John’s keen ears heard the solar door open and close, and guessed that she was listening through the slit high up on one side of the chimney breast.

  By now, the three visitors were in full flow, their indignation more potent than the wine in loosening their tongues. ‘More and more of the breweries, forges and tanneries in the forest are being taken over by the bloody foresters,’ ranted Guy Ferrars. ‘I’m losing revenue hand over fist – and when my men protest, they are told that the forest law allows this and there is nothing that we can do to stop it.’

  Nicholas de Molis took up the complaint. ‘They are enforcing the rules of venison and vert even more strictly than before. I make no complaint about punishing a man who hunts down a stag or wild boar, but for years many a blind eye has been turned to some peasant who traps a coney or puts an arrow in a fox that’s been stealing his chickens. Now they treat them as if they are murderers and the families are thrown on the parish for us to support.’

  De Wolfe looked from one to the other, as de Courcy completed their protests.

  ‘The Warden seems unwilling or unable to do anything – perhaps we need a different man. Though when I put this to de Bosco, he said that neither he nor any other successor who was appointed could control the foresters.’

  Guy Ferrars swallowed some wine, then glared at the coroner.

  ‘What do you read into all this, de Wolfe? The damned sheriff seems indifferent to the problem, but with his history I suspect that he may be involved.’

  John, wondering what his wife was making of all this upstairs, gave a guarded reply. ‘Something is certainly going on in the forest, but I can’t yet make out what it is – or who is behind it. There seems to be a plot to unseat the Warden and I suspect that whoever wants to take his place is fostering trouble to prove that de Bosco is incompetent.’

  De Courcy nodded his shiny, hairless head in agreement. ‘That crossed my mind, de Wolfe. But who in hell wants a lousy, thankless job like that?’

  The four men looked at each other, then Ferrars spoke.

  ‘The same man who hung on to the wardenship of the Stannaries when everyone tried to unseat him … Richard de Revelle. But why?’

  The other three knew all about the sheriff’s dalliance with Prince John’s cause and his close brush with accusations of treachery the previous year.

  ‘De Revelle is an expert at embezzlement himself,’ said de Wolfe. ‘But I fail to see what he could gain from the forests – the foresters have a monopoly on extortion there.’

  No one had any better suggestions, but they worried away at the worsening situation for some time, cataloguing the misdeeds of the foresters and their loutish servants.

  ‘This man William Lupus seems to be the most active and obnoxious of them all,’ said John, relating the scene at Manaton that very morning.

  ‘Yet I can’t see him putting an arrow into the back of a verderer,’ objected de Courcy. ‘That seems more the style of one of these bands of outlaws. We all know the edge of Dartmoor is infested with them, as well as farther afield in the east of the county.’

  ‘Loyal as I am to our King, I wish he would devote more attention to what goes on in England,’ muttered Guy Ferrars, which was the nearest he would ever get to treason, thought de Wolfe.

  ‘Yet Hubert Walter speaks for him in most matters. Is he aware of what is going on?’ asked Nicholas de Molis.

  ‘He’s in a difficult position,’ replied Ferrars, who was nearest to the levers of power in the land and often visited London and Winchester. ‘I have spoken to him about this and he says that every penny is needed for Richard’s undoubtedly expensive campaigns against the French, so it would be difficult to curb powers in the forest, which means revenue.’

  ‘But that revenue never reaches Winchester,’ snapped de Courcy. ‘Filling the pockets of foresters is not what we need here.’

  Eventually they ran out of new grievances and fell silent. John rounded off the meeting with a question about how to proceed.

  ‘If it gets any worse, then some action must be taken. I have the ear of the Chief Justiciar, as I knew him well in Palestine. If necessary, I will travel to meet him, be it in Canterbury, London or Winchester, and place the case squarely before him. If we can show that these outlaws are colluding with the forest officers, then he must be persuaded to send troops against them.’

  ‘The sheriff will never do that of his own volition,’ grumbled Guy Ferrars. ‘But I agree that we arouse Hubert Walter’s interest if things do not improve.’

  The meeting broke up and the three barons left, with John promising to speak sternly to the sheriff about their misgivings. When the heavy oak door had swung shut behind them, John went back to his chair and waited for Matilda to appear. He heard the solar door close and soon she came back into the hall. He wondered whether she would be angered at hearing the remarks about her brother – or chastened by the knowledge that the powerful men she admired were contemptuous of him. For a moment, he was uncertain which it would be, as she walked silently to her chair opposite him and sat down.

  ‘Is he going to be in trouble again, John?’ she asked in a low voice.

  There had been times when John had relished any opportunity to denigrate his brother-in-law’s reputation, but the grief that overcame his wife at the several falls from grace that Richard had suffered had taken away any potential pleasure in repeating the process.

  ‘I don’t know, wife,’ he replied sadly. ‘He seems to have replaced the dead verderer with remarkable haste and his obstinate refusal to take any action against these misdeeds in the forest is suspicious.’

  ‘Is it the John affair all over again?’ she asked dully, meaning the Count of Mortain, not her husband.

  De Wolfe shrugged, turning up his hands in mystification. ‘Again, I don’t know. I can’t see the connection, so let’s hope it’s just one of Richard’s schemes to fill his purse – and nothing more sinister.’

  But privately he doubted it, and as much as living with Matilda irked him he had no wish to make her life more miserable as regarded her brother’s transgressions.

  After their supper, at which Matilda was markedly subdued, she announced that she was going over to the nearby cathedral. The day’s offices were over until midnight matins, so John presumed she was going to spend time on her knees, probably praying that her brother would keep out of further trouble.

  After the complaints that the county barons had brought to him, de Wolfe felt that he had better make the effort to get some sense from his brother-in-law, so in the warmth of the evening he strode up to Rougemont. The continued dry weather had turned the mud of the streets into dust, except where the effluent ran down the central gutters – but the downside was the increase in the stink from the ubiquitous refuse. The burgesses had recently invested in an extra soil-cart, which trundled around the city picking up the larger piles of garbage, dead dogs and putrefying offal, but several weeks of heat had so increased the stench of the city that even John’s insensitive nose began to notice it.

  He wondered whether it might not be a good idea to take himself off out of the city for a few days, down to the healthier air of his family home at Stoke-in-Teignhead near the coast. But Matilda would never come, being flagrantly disdainful of his widowed mother, who was part Welsh, part Cornish. In his wife’s eyes, Celts were worse than Saxons, almost on a level with Moors and Barbary apes. John thought that if she had fully realised he had so much native blood, she would never have married him – and now he wished he had impressed this on her before they went to the altar. Ruefully, these thoughts passed through his mind as he climbed the slope to the castle gate – if he had stayed unmarried, this present crisis that loomed over Nesta�
��s pregnancy would never have arisen.

  He called in at his room high above the guard chamber, but neither Thomas nor Gwyn was there. The clerk often stayed late, labouring over the rolls needed for inquests or making copies for the King’s justices – and Gwyn sometimes slept there when late drinking or gaming prevented him from going home to St Sidwell’s after the city gates closed at curfew. Coming down again, John crossed the inner ward, the red stone of the battlements glowing almost gold in the rays of the setting sun. It was quiet there, only a few off-duty soldiers squatting to play dice or sprawled on their backs fast asleep. Some children played outside the huts against the far wall, their mothers gossiping at the doors or preparing food for a late meal.

  He loped across to the steps to the keep, his long grey tunic flapping around his calves and his thick black hair bobbing against the back of his neck. Inside, the main hall was noisy with squires, captains and clerks either finishing their evening meal or lounging at the trestle tables with jars of ale and cider. De Wolfe looked around to see if Ralph Morin, the castle constable, was there, or his sergeant Gabriel, but there was no sign of them. A few other men waved or called out a greeting, some inviting him to join them for a drink, but he made for the side of the hall where a bored man-at-arms lounged at the sheriff’s door.

  John sometimes wondered why Richard insisted on having a full-time guard deep inside his own castle, but knowing of the multitude of people who had cause to dislike or even detest de Revelle, he admitted that it was probably a wise precaution. The sentinel pulled himself up sharply when he saw the coroner approach and raised a hand to his basin-shaped helmet in salute.

  ‘Sheriff’s got a visitor, Crowner,’ he advised.

  John scowled. He had wanted to get Richard alone, to avoid too much embarrassment about his possible dubious dealings in the forest – though there were other possible reasons for embarrassment when walking in on the sheriff unannounced, as he had discovered several times before.

  ‘Is it a man or a woman?’ he demanded, with these last thoughts in mind.

  ‘It’s the new verderer, Sir John. Don’t recall his name.’

  John grunted and turned the heavy iron ring on the door. Inside, his brother-in-law was seated behind his wide work-table, dressed for the warm weather in his usual dandified fashion, with an open surcoat of blue velvet over a long shirt of white linen, cinched at the waist with a wide belt of fine leather. Under the table, John could see fine cream hose ending in shoes with ridiculously curved, pointed toes, a recent fad imported from France, enemies of England though they might be.

  A pewter wine cup stood next to his hand and, on the other side of the table, the new verderer sat on a stool with similar refreshment.

  Philip de Strete was known only by sight to the coroner, being a rather plump man of average build, nearing thirty years of age. He had ginger hair and a matching moustache of the same colour as Gwyn’s, but of much more modest proportions. All that John knew about him was that he had a small manor near Plymouth, had not been to the Crusades, but had fought in some of the French campaigns without any particular distinction.

  Richard looked up in annoyance, his usual expression when de Wolfe appeared. De Strete jumped to his feet as the sheriff somewhat reluctantly introduced him and made considerable play of expressing his honour and delight at meeting the coroner. De Wolfe felt that he was insincere and distrusted him from the start, especially as Philip’s eyes always seemed to evade direct contact with his.

  ‘De Strete’s appointment is to be confirmed at the Shire Court tomorrow,’ announced de Revelle.

  ‘How can that be? The time has been far too short to get approval from the King or his Justiciar,’ objected John.

  The sheriff shrugged impatiently. ‘Then it is to be made conditional on that consent being granted. It’s a mere formality. Hubert Walter will approve on the King’s behalf. I’m sure the Lionheart has not the slightest interest in who is appointed a verderer in a remote county.’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ demanded John.

  ‘The next Attachment Court is to be held in a week’s time. There are cases to be heard. We can’t wait weeks or months for messengers to go scurrying around the country or even to France.’

  De Wolfe sat heavily on the corner of Richard’s table, to the owner’s annoyance.

  ‘As most of the cases will merely be referred to the Forest Eyre, there can be no urgency. That court sits only every third year!’

  Whenever something became awkward, the sheriff managed to change the subject.

  ‘Was there something you wanted, John?’ he said pointedly.

  ‘It’s about this very matter. You had a deputation today from some of the most influential barons in this area.’

  De Revelle’s narrow face became wary and his eyes flicked between John and the new verderer. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Because they came to see me directly afterwards, to express their dissatisfaction. They want some explanations – and some action.’

  Richard suddenly stood up to dismiss the new verderer.

  ‘I’ll see you at the Shire Hall tomorrow morning, Philip. There are matters I need to discuss with the coroner.’

  He almost hustled de Strete from the chamber, thrusting him out into the hall and closing the door behind him.

  ‘That was indiscreet, John, in front of a new forest official,’ he snapped.

  De Wolfe sat unbidden on the stool that the verderer had so abruptly vacated. He took up the half-full wine cup, threw the dregs into the rushes on the floor and refilled it from the jug that stood on Richard’s table.

  ‘Why? Is there something he shouldn’t hear about?’ he asked with sarcastic innocence. ‘Or might he have said something you didn’t wish me to hear?’

  ‘Of course not!’ blustered Richard. ‘Now, what is you want to say to me?’

  ‘Something’s going on in the forest and I want to get to the bottom of it. Guy Ferrars and his friends are becoming restive – they’re losing money and they don’t like it. And when Lord Ferrars is unhappy, people in his vicinity are apt to become equally miserable. That might include you, brother-in-law.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said de Revelle. ‘Why should you think I have any interest in the matter?’

  ‘I know you of old, Richard! You’ve sailed very near the wind more than once and you can’t afford another whiff of scandal. Why are you so insistent that I should not investigate these problems in the Royal Forest?’

  ‘Because you have no authority there, in spite of what you say. The whole point of the forest laws is that they are outwith the common law.’

  ‘Only for misdeeds that affect forest matters, Richard. How often do I need to tell you? You don’t seem to want to listen and that makes me suspicious.’

  The sheriff’s face reddened, whether with anger or guilt John couldn’t decide. ‘You’re a soldier, not a lawyer! Don’t take it upon yourself to interpret the law. The forest laws have been in place since Saxon times, whilst your new-fangled coroner’s play-acting is not yet a year old.’

  John put down his empty cup with a bang.

  ‘Very well, if you want to dispute my authority, I’ll ride to Winchester and see the Justiciar. I’ll bring back a document confirming my authority to investigate deaths, injury, fires and the rest of it, anywhere I please – or rather where the King pleases.’

  He stood up and towered over the seated sheriff like a bird of prey.

  ‘And whilst I’m there, I’ll ask him for a Commission to investigate the state of the Royal Forest of Dartmoor. A coroner can be commissioned to undertake any task in the kingdom, if the monarch or his ministers so desire.’

  Under direct threat, de Revelle held up a placatory hand.

  ‘Sit down, John, sit down! Let’s not fight over this. You’re making such an issue of a few coincidences.’

  ‘Coincidences? A verderer shot in the back, the Warden half killed, a tanner burned to death and foresters u
p to even more of their tricks than usual?’

  Richard reached over to pour more wine for the coroner, as if this would solve the problem.

  ‘Calm down, John! These issues amount to very little in the great scheme of things. There are more important problems every day.’

  ‘Tell that to the widow of the dead tanner – or the murdered verderer! Convince me that you have no part in this, Richard. Why have you so rapidly forced this de Strete fellow into the verderer’s post – he’s a close neighbour of yours at Revelstoke, is he not?’

  He threw down his drink and continued his tirade unabated.

  ‘And who is trying to unseat the Warden of the Forests – either by anonymous notes or clubbing him on the head? And why does rumour say that you would like to be the Warden in his stead? You have enough responsibilities now, being sheriff, Warden of the Stannaries and God knows what else. Why seek another unpaid job? It’s not like you, is it?’

  He thumped the table with his fist. ‘There’s a common factor in all this and I’m going to find it, Richard. And God help you if I discover that you’re involved in some underhand scheming once again. I thought you would have learned your lesson by now!’

  He stalked out, leaving his brother-in-law torn between anger and anxiety.

  The next morning, John sat glumly in the Shire Hall waiting for the start of the regular County Court, a forum where a mixture of criminal and civil cases were mixed with petitions and a whole range of administrative affairs related to the running of the county of Devon.

  Unable to sleep well, he had arrived too early and now sat contemplating the seemingly intractable problems in his personal life. The previous evening, after leaving the sheriff, he had gone down to the Bush, but it was not a successful visit. Nesta had been quiet and withdrawn and all his efforts to cheer her had failed. When he had asked her casually whether she had been out that day, Nesta had suddenly burst into tears and scrambled up to her room in the loft, intriguing many of the patrons, especially when they saw the King’s coroner follow her up the ladder. Her door was barred, and, in spite of his hissed demands to be let in, she continued to sob quietly on the other side. Defeated, he went back down, finished his ale and eventually, in gloomy confusion, trudged home, where he found Matilda back from her devotions. She was equally silent, though he sensed that for once her disgruntlement was not directed at him.