Fear in the Forest

by Bernard Knight

  The archdeacon gave his friend a quizzical look, but held his peace.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In which Crowner John attends a woodmote

  The next day began a new week, and it started relatively quietly for the King’s coroner. After he had woken at dawn in an empty bed, Mary brought his solitary breakfast to the gloomy hall. Boiled oatmeal with honey and salt bacon and eggs fortified him enough to go and find Thomas in the nearby Close, where he had a free mattress in the servants’ quarters of a canon’s residence.

  Together they walked to the dismal dungeon beneath the keep of Rougemont, which acted as the prison for those awaiting trial either at the Sheriff’s Court or the infrequent King’s Courts. This morning John had to take confessions and depositions from several ‘approvers’, robbers who were attempting to avoid a hanging by incriminating their accomplices. To achieve that, they would later have to fight these others in legal combat to the death, any vanquished survivors being hanged.

  After he had finished, he came out of the rusted gate leading to the cells to find Osric, one of the city’s two constables, waiting to lead him down to deal with a rape in the mean lanes of Bretayne. By the time they arrived, the culprit had been beaten almost to death by the girl’s outraged relatives and neighbours. It only remained for the coroner to take statements from those who were capable of giving a coherent story and to examine the girl to confirm the ‘issue of blood’ that was necessary to establish a charge of ravishment. Then Osric arranged for the battered perpetrator to be carried to the fetid town gaol in one of the towers of the South Gate. Here, if he failed to die of his injuries, he would probably succumb to the overcrowding and insanitary conditions long before he could be brought to trial.

  Following these diversions, John retreated to his chamber in the gatehouse of Rougemont, to take his usual morning ale, bread and cheese with his assistants. He wanted to know from Thomas how he had found Nesta when he had spoken to her the previous day.

  ‘She was in low spirits, master,’ Thomas said guardedly. ‘She needs constant reassurance and comfort, else I fear she will slip into a decline.’

  Still a priest at heart, Thomas felt that what she had revealed to him about the true father of the child, as well as her thoughts of self-destruction, was as sacrosanct as the confessional, and it was not his place to tell the coroner. However, he wanted to ensure that de Wolfe was aware of her present vulnerable state, as Thomas knew that his master was not the most perceptive of souls when it came to personal relationships.

  John rumbled and nodded and huffed his agreement, promising to go down to the Bush as frequently as possible to bring comfort and cheer to his mistress, but Thomas was not convinced that he was aware of the seriousness of the situation. Later in the day, John walked down to Idle Lane to spend the evening with Nesta – with the expectation of extending his stay overnight. He sat at his favourite table behind a wattled hurdle next to the fireplace and had a hearty meal of spit-roasted duck, onions, turnip and beans, served on a thick trencher of two-day-old bread, with extra crusts to dam in the gravy on the scrubbed boards of the table.

  Nesta came to sit with him as he ate, bobbing up and down to attend to the various crises that frequently occurred between the potman, her two maids and the customers. Each time she came back to de Wolfe, she screwed up her courage to tell him the dread news about the true paternity of her baby, but each time her tongue cleaved to her palate and she was unable to get the words out. To John she appeared quiet and distant all evening, as he had no inkling of her inability to bring down the heavens upon him with her terrible confession.

  After finishing his food, he sat with a quart of her best ale and tried his utmost to be loving and cheerful to his mistress, but had little response.

  Time and again, he reassured her to the point of monotony that he was delighted at her being with child and that he would be the most devoted father. She smiled wanly and nodded and rested her head against his shoulder, but she lacked conviction, and even the insensitive John felt uneasy at her lack of encouraging response to his blandishments. Her strongest reaction was when he talked about Matilda and the impasse at Polsloe.

  ‘It doesn’t seem right, John, a wife hiding away from her husband like that. And it’s all my fault.’ Once again, her eyes became moist.

  ‘She’ll not stay there long, cariad,’ he said, lapsing into the common Celtic speech that they habitually used together.

  ‘I’m not sure of that, John. This is a different situation to any we’ve suffered from her in the past. She always had this leaning to religion. Look how much time she spends in St Olave’s or the cathedral.’

  He squeezed her shoulder.

  ‘Yes, but have you seen her eat and drink? She’s in the same league as Gwyn when it comes to victuals. And she spends a fortune at the cloth dealers and the seamstress. I can’t see her giving all that up for a black habit and the dismal refectory at St Katherine’s.’

  Nesta refused to be convinced. ‘You must go back and talk to her, John. Over and over again, if needs be. It’s all my fault!’

  She became damp eyed again, burying her face in his sleeve. Though he knew all the patrons of the Bush were well aware of the situation, he was glad that they were shielded by the hurdle from their curious gaze.

  As the evening light faded, he thought of his empty house and his barren bed.

  ‘Shall I sleep with you tonight, Nesta?’

  She shook her head. ‘Best not to, John. Now that I am gravid, we should not endanger the babe.’ This was a secret lie, given that she had done everything so far to rid herself of it. But John would have none of her excuse.

  ‘I said sleep and I mean sleep, my love, if that’s what you desire. I’ve seen enough rapine in Bretayne today, anyway. I just want to hold you close and comfort you, rather than stew alone in that empty house.’

  Nesta melted immediately. He sounded like a young boy asking for sweetmeats.

  ‘Very well, John – but only slumber, understand?’

  Later, as they curled in each other’s arms in the big French bed, she lay awake while he snored, still having been unable to say the devastating words that she had promised Thomas that she would utter.

  Tuesday was a hanging day, when John had to go out of the city to the gallows tree along Magdalene Street, to record the executions and tally up the possessions of the felons, which were forfeit to the Crown.

  But before this regular chore, de Wolfe decided to cross the inner ward and have a few strong words with his brother-in-law over recent events. He found him in his chamber, surrounded as usual by rolls of parchment and two agitated clerks.

  Richard de Revelle preferred to administer his county from behind a table, rather than by riding around the broad expanses of the countryside for which he was responsible to his king. In this, he was the complete opposite of the coroner, who wanted always to be out and about, meeting people and getting on top of any problem in the most direct fashion. Their meeting followed the usual pattern of mutual dislike and antagonism, fuelled by Richard’s jealousy of his brother-in-law’s stronger personality and his resentment of the hold John had over him because of his past personal and political misbehaviour. The inevitable quarrel was started off provocatively by the sheriff.

  ‘So now you’ve driven my poor sister to seek refuge in Polsloe!’ he brayed, waving a rolled parchment at him. ‘You’ve betrayed her many times before, but fathering a bastard on a tavern-keeper is the last straw.’

  De Wolfe glared at him, but kept himself under control for his riposte.

  ‘I hope your family is well, Richard,’ he said sarcastically. ‘And I mean all of them, including your son in Okehampton and the other one in Crediton.’

  The sheriff’s face flushed above his neatly trimmed beard, as his clerks gaped at the confrontation. They all knew that de Revelle’s legitimate children lived in Tiverton and Revelstoke.

  ‘That’s none of your business, John.’

  ‘Neither
is it your business to go creeping behind my back with gossip,’ retorted de Wolfe, resting his large fists upon the table to glare straight into Richard’s face.

  ‘It most certainly is my business!’ retorted the sheriff. ‘Matilda is my only sister. You have wronged her often enough with your fornicating and adultery, which the whole county knows about. It was my brotherly duty to let her know about your begetting a bastard upon a Welsh alehouse whore!’

  Enraged, John drew back his arm to knock his brother-in-law clean off his chair, but he managed to restrain himself and stepped back to be out of temptation.

  ‘Then perhaps I should fulfil my duty by telling your Lady Eleanor about the harlots you entertain in there,’ he snapped, pointing to the adjoining chamber, which was the sheriff’s bedroom. ‘And report to her the fact that not many weeks ago I rescued you from a burning brothel in Waterbeer Street.’

  The two clerks were now standing slack jawed at these revelations, until, with a squeal of dismay, their red-faced master sent them hurrying out of the room. John came back to lean on the table and the sheriff flinched back, but relaxed a little when he found that his brother-in-law’s attack was to be verbal rather than physical.

  ‘So just keep your long nose out of my personal affairs, Richard! Matilda has gone off in a fit of pique, but no doubt she’ll soon be back, when she gets tired of a hard bed and miserable food in Polsloe.’

  He slammed a hand on the edge of the table.

  ‘But enough of this! There are other matters between us – this scandal in the Royal Forest.’

  Relieved at any change of subject, but uneasy at the current topic, de Revelle pulled at his beard.

  ‘Are you still interfering in that?’

  ‘It’s long past the time when someone should – and you show mighty little interest in keeping the King’s peace in your own county!’ retorted John.

  The sheriff sighed, rapidly reverting to his favourite pose as a long-suffering adult humouring a naughty child. ‘How often must I tell you that the forest has its own laws – the King’s laws – which are outwith the common law, John,’ he said patronisingly. ‘They go back to Saxon times, though they’ve been improved by us Normans. Let well alone, man.’

  ‘You’re not only a knave, you’re a fool, Richard!’ bellowed de Wolfe. ‘How can I get it through your thick head that the forest laws have jurisdiction only over the venison and the vert, not other crimes. The Manor Courts, the Hundred Courts, your own Shire Court and the Commissioners and Justices of the King’s Courts must deal with everything else. You just don’t want to listen, do you? It suits some hidden purpose of your own to keep up this charade.’

  The sheriff rolled his eyes to the ceiling and pretended to be a martyr.

  ‘What’s brought all this on again?’ he asked testily.

  ‘You know damn well what’s happening,’ retorted the coroner. ‘If your spies are able to report my family affairs to you, they can also tell you that matters are going from bad to worse in the forest, especially in the eastern bailiwick.’

  ‘Such as what?’ asked Richard, with feigned boredom.

  ‘There is a group of outlaws under this damned Robert Winter who are being paid by some outside party to help the foresters foment trouble. I know now where one of their camps is situated – and I know through whom and by what route their payment and instructions enter the forest.’

  This was something of an exaggeration, but de Wolfe wanted to provoke the sheriff. This he did, for De Revelle sat up and took more notice.

  ‘How do you know that? Who pays them and by what means?’

  Given the possibility of de Revelle’s own involvement, John was not prepared to divulge this and possibly ruin his chances of entrapping the couriers, so he hedged the question.

  ‘Never mind that now. What are you going to do about it? You’re the King’s representative in Devon, yet you’re allowing anarchy to reign in his own forests. There’s a small army of rogues out there, wolf’s heads every one, doing the dirty work for corrupt forest officials – yet here you sit on your backside in Exeter, not raising a finger to exterminate them.’

  The wily sheriff seized on one of John’s words as an excuse.

  ‘What would you have me do, John? You say there is an army of these ruffians, spread out over a hundred square miles of forest. I have no similar army to do battle with them, even if they could be found in that wilderness. All I have is a small garrison, intended to defend Rougemont and the city – though God knows if they could do even that, as most are young yokels who have never seen a fight. All they can do is march up and down the bailey, waving pikes about.’

  Although this last was partly true, to the exasperation of Ralph Morin and Sergeant Gabriel, John was well aware that it was an excuse to do nothing. As he moved towards the door, he threw a last shaft at de Revelle.

  ‘I tell you, the barons are becoming increasingly angry about their estates losing revenue and their tenants being harassed. Unless you want men like Guy Ferrars and de Courcy chasing you again, you should take some action. They have powerful voices in the Curia, so your shrievalty might be in jeopardy if you fall foul of them.’

  As he went out, he called over his shoulder.

  ‘And keep your nose out of my personal business in future!’

  Slamming the door, he glared at the two smirking clerks who had been exiled from the chamber, and stalked off.

  The next morning, John went back to Martin’s Lane, where Mary insisted on him having his overdue weekly wash and shave in a bucket of warm water in the back yard. He hacked at his black stubble with a knife kept specially honed for the purpose, rasping it over his skin, through a weak lather of soap made from sheep tallow boiled with powdered beech ash. She took his shirt, hose and tunic for the wash and made him delve in his chest in the deserted solar for clean clothes. Mary was busy at being indispensable, in case the mistress did decide to stay away for ever.

  ‘Any news from Polsloe, Sir Coroner?’ she asked, trying to conceal her anxiety.

  He shook his head. ‘She won’t talk to me, though I’ll try again later today. Perhaps she’d speak to someone else?’

  Mary shrugged. ‘It’s no good me going up there. She can’t stand the sight of me.’ She glared in mock anger at her employer. ‘And that’s your fault! She suspected us from the start. You’re a devil, John de Wolfe, you need to keep your breeches laced up more firmly!’

  De Wolfe grinned and planted an affectionate kiss on the woman’s cheek.

  ‘What about Lucille?’ suggested Mary. ‘Would she talk to her? I wonder.’

  ‘There’s no hurry, good girl. It would be nice to have some peace for a few days or weeks. Matilda will be home soon enough, without forcing the pace, though I’d better go to Polsloe later on, to show willing.’

  This was what he did, a few hours later. After five pathetic felons had been turned off the carts below the long beam of the gallows tree, all for thefts to the value of more than twelve pence, John turned Odin’s great head towards Polsloe. When he arrived at the priory, he was received politely by Dame Margaret, but once again told firmly that his wife did not wish to speak to him – either then or evermore. He remonstrated, albeit rather mildly, but the prioress was adamant. There was nothing more to be said, and after wishing her a good day and receiving God’s blessing in return, he left and made for his horse, tethered inside the outer gate.

  As he walked across the peaceful compound, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he found the figure of a tall, gaunt nun following him. It was Dame Madge, the expert in midwifery and women’s ailments, who was the hospitaller in charge of the small infirmary at St Katherine’s. John had the greatest respect for both her expertise and her strong but ever helpful character. She had been of great assistance to him in several cases involving ravishment and miscarriage.

  They greeted each other civilly – any observer might have been reminded of two large rooks in a field, both being tall, bony, slightly hunched a
nd dressed in black.

  ‘I have met your wife here, Sir John. I am sorry for the discord that has arisen between you.’

  ‘And I, Sister!’ he admitted ruefully. ‘I fear all the fault is on my side.’

  ‘It was ever thus in the world, Crowner. Men are at the root of most evils – but God made them that way, so who are we to dispute it?’

  ‘Matilda stoutly refuses to see me or speak to me. I have no idea how this will resolve itself.’

  Dame Madge tut-tutted under her breath. ‘You have wounded her deeply, sir. She is a devout woman and may well decide she has found peace here. But I will talk to her again and see if she will at least speak to you, even if it is only to recriminate with you for the last time.’

  She raised her hand and made the sign of the Cross.

  ‘May God be with you, Sir John.’

  Turning, she glided away across the compound like a ship under sail.

  Later that afternoon, the parish priest of Manaton was ambling along on his pony back towards the village, on the track that came from Bovey Tracey. He had been to visit the sick wife of an agister, a minor forest officer who regulated the pasture in the forest, collecting the dues from those who sent their pigs to feed on acorns and beech nuts and their sheep and cattle to the lush grass of the large clearings. His wife was in the last stages of phthisis, emaciated and coughing blood, though she was barely twenty-five years of age. The priest knew that the next time he visited it would be to administer the last rites if he arrived in time – or to shrive her corpse if he did not. The husband, a good man who loved his wife, sat with her day and night – it was as well that he had little work for the coming month, as for two weeks each side of Midsummer Day, called the ‘fence month’, agistment was forbidden by forest law, as it was the time for the hinds to give birth and no disturbances were allowed.