The Archdeacon looked askance at his brother canon. ‘Yes, Eric Langton! He will have to answer to the Consistory Court over this affair. But that’s another matter. What came next?’
‘Giles Fulford came to see me privately. He is distantly related to the Fulfords who come from near Dunsford, but that was a mere coincidence. We agreed that for recovering the hoard he would receive a tenth part of its value. This seemed appropriate as it is the same share as our tithes, if the wealth was to go to the Church.’
The stony silence that greeted this repeated assertion of his virtue spoke eloquently of the scepticism of his listeners.
‘Surely you were not so naïve as to believe that a mercenary recruited in a tavern would play honestly by you?’ De Wolfe had a scathing lack of belief in de Limesi’s truthfulness. ‘What was to stop Fulford recovering the treasure and making off with the whole lot?’
‘I promised him excommunication and to be damned to eternal hell if he betrayed the Church in that way,’ answered Roger earnestly.
John snorted in derision. ‘Then you must be a bigger fool than you are a rogue, sir, if you believe that a man like that would care more for his soul than even a handful of silver. But carry on with your unlikely tale.’
De Limesi showed the first signs of defiance. ‘Not so, Coroner! I intended going with him myself, to make sure he handed over what we agreed.’
‘And I suppose you were going to make him submit by disarming his sword with your walking-stick!’ retorted the coroner.
The Archdeacon raised a hand to stop the squabble. ‘Let’s hear the rest of your story.’
‘Two weeks ago, we met outside the city and rode to Dunsford together. If we had met the parish priest I would have said that I was interested in church history – I had enough knowledge of Canon Robert’s work to make it sound convincing. But in the event it was not needed. We saw no one but local peasants who were of no account.’
This dismissive attitude to those of the lower orders in his pastoral flock also registered in the minds of his audience.
‘We surveyed the churchyard, and the field and wood beyond it. The directions pointed to a patch of wasteground just over the hedge. Fulford said it was an impossible task for one man, due to this overgrowing of vegetation. It’s well over a century since Saewulf buried his treasure and the place has changed.’ The canon mopped his face before continuing. ‘Fulford said that he would need two strong men to help him, and that made a discreet operation all the more difficult. He demanded a quarter of the proceeds instead of a tenth, and I had to agree.’
‘You could have dismissed him and sought the ample help of the chapter,’ said the Archdeacon, with a steely look at his colleague. ‘We have more than enough strong servants in the close here.’
De Wolfe was less reticent. ‘You fool, he could as easily have said he would do it for free, for he had no intention of giving you anything at all – except perhaps a few blows from the flat of his sword.’
‘Let him have his say, John,’ advised de Alencon.
‘Fulford then forbade me to accompany him on the next visit, to keep his accomplices unidentified. He said that he would bring whatever he found to my house at night, when he and his friends had finished their digging.’
‘What about the parish priest at Dunsford – and, indeed, the lord of the manor? How was he to avoid their attention?’
‘This didn’t seem to worry him. When I had first told him the place was Dunsford, he had laughed and said there would be no problem. Maybe because he claimed kinship with his namesakes there.’
‘And did he turn up at your dwelling with a sack of gold?’ asked John sarcastically.
‘He did, in a manner of speaking. A week ago, he came slyly to Canons’ Row in the evening, bearing an earthenware jar.’
De Wolfe’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but his cynicism was soon restored.
‘He was in a high temper, for after many difficulties, he said, all he and his men had unearthed was this pot. On opening it, he had by no means found the expected treasure.’
‘What was in it?’ cried Jordan de Brent, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.
‘A single brooch – admittedly a very fine one, of Saxon workmanship, made of gold with inset jewels. It was of some considerable value, but hardly a treasure hoard as expected.’
‘Anything else?’ asked the Archdeacon.
‘A slip of parchment, much faded and covered with mould, even though the jar had been tightly stoppered and sealed with wax. Fulford could not read so he had to bring it me. It was just about legible when I unfolded it, a short message to the effect that the brooch had been overlooked “when his treasure was hid”, so that it could not be buried in the same spot as described “in the other document”.’
John de Alencon exhaled softly. ‘So there must have been another parchment giving directions to the main hoard?’
De Limesi nodded, his face a picture of misery. ‘Undoubtedly! But search as I did, all last week, I could find no trace of it.’
‘Where is this brooch now?’ demanded de Wolfe. ‘And the parchment?’
The canon scrabbled inside his cloak and produced a soft leather pouch. ‘The brooch was kept by Fulford, in spite of my protestations. He never even let me touch it. I had to study it gripped in his fingers. But he gave me the parchment from the pot.’
He opened the pouch and took out a scrap of vellum, faded and discoloured. He unfolded it and held it out to the coroner, who passed it quickly to Thomas.
‘It is covered in grey rings of dried mould,’ observed the clerk with distaste. ‘The writing is faint, but just readable.’ He paused a moment, screwing up his eyes to decipher the words. ‘It is as the canon says, telling that the brooch was buried afterwards, not where the first message described hiding the main treasure.’
‘Are you sure this man had not found the main cache as well and was not just fobbing you off with this story?’ suggested de Wolfe fiercely.
De Limesi turned up his hands in supplication. ‘That message tells the truth – there was only the brooch. And Fulford was in a rage, threatening me for wasting his time. He demanded that I search again for the missing parchment, but there was no sign of it. Meanwhile, he said that he would keep the brooch and sell it to defray his own costs. He gave me two days to find the missing parchment. A few days before Christ Mass, I had to send him a message that I needed more time. I would try to get Robert de Hane to tell me if he had the original map and maybe go half-shares with him.’
‘What’s this about half-shares?’ snapped John de Alencon. ‘I thought you were retrieving this treasure for the glory of God in the cathedral church of Exeter?’
‘Of course, brother – I meant each sharing equally in the honour of presenting it to the Bishop,’ stammered de Limesi unconvincingly.
‘What next?’ ventured de Brent.
‘Three days ago, Robert de Hane went off on his last pony ride, obviously to Dunsford again. He came back early and when I saw him in the library he was most agitated. I tried to talk to him, in the hope that he might tell me the whole story and even reveal if he had the other document. But he refused to say what was wrong and would only ask repeatedly when Bishop Marshal was due back from Gloucester as he had the most urgent news for him.’
‘So what do you think had occurred?’ asked de Alencon.
De Limesi’s small eyes flickered from the senior priest to the coroner and back again. ‘He must have seen the signs of digging among the trees and bushes on the spot described by his parchment. Disturbed earth and broken vegetation would have told him straight away that someone must have discovered his secret.’
John mused on this for a moment. ‘So we still don’t know if de Hane had discovered the directions to the main hoard?’
They all looked back to de Limesi for enlightenment, but he only shrugged. ‘How can I tell what he knew? But I sent a message through Eric to Fulford to let him know that Robert de Hane now knew that his trea
sure site had been looted. I assumed that he was eager to tell the Bishop, to unburden himself so that an official search could be made, either to recover the newly stolen brooch from Fulford or to excavate for the main hoard, depending on what he already knew.’
‘And that message undoubtedly led to his death!’ snarled de Wolfe. ‘This man and his accomplices would immediately have to silence de Hane before he gave away his secret to the cathedral authorities – and also to kill two birds with one stone, by forcing the poor canon to divulge whether he had the original parchment with the directions to the main hoard.’
‘That explains the bruises on his face and arms,’ exclaimed Thomas.
De Limesi buried his face in his hands. ‘May the Holy Trinity forgive me! I have tried hard to convince myself that his death was either by his own hand for the shame of trying to conceal his discovery from the chapter or that it was a coincidence, a robbery and a murder unconnected with this affair. But now I see that I have been deluding myself.’
‘What is to be done, John?’ asked the Archdeacon. ‘Are we to set the sheriff upon this young brigand right away?’
De Wolfe pondered for a moment. ‘We have no proof to connect Fulford with the corpse in the privy. Indeed, we have only the story from this sorry prebendary’s mouth that there is any substance in the whole affair. However, Richard de Revelle, I know, would be happy to hang Fulford, as he is less concerned with natural justice than most of us. But if Giles Fulford did get the missing parchment from the dead canon, then subterfuge, rather than execution, might be a better way of killing two different birds with one stone.’
It was late afternoon when three riders galloped along the track from Berry Pomeroy village towards the castle, set lonely on its cliff above the fishponds and mill below. There was thick forest between the village and the fortress, but a wide area had been cleared of trees around the bailey to aid defence, and the horsemen emerged from the woods well before they reached the dry ditch around the castle. The drawbridge was always down these days and they cantered across it into the bailey to draw rein before the entrance to the donjon. They did not dismount and the leader, a thin, erect man in late middle age, called imperiously to a servant leaning over the railing at the top of the wooden stairs: ‘Tell your master that William Fitzhamon wants words with him – at once!’
The man scurried inside like a frightened rabbit, leaving the lord of Dartington, whose honour included Loventor and many other manors in Devon and Somerset, sitting immobile on his large stallion. He had a long chin and a high-bridged nose, giving him a haughty appearance that well suited his manner. A shock of crinkled, prematurely white hair was visible under the rim of his thick leather helmet. An equally thick leather jerkin protected his chest, over which flowed a voluminous brown riding cloak. The two horsemen behind him were his son Robert, a thirteen-year-old edition of his father, and a squire, a burly fellow from the Somerset Levels.
In a moment, the servant reappeared with the Pomeroys’ seneschal, a mature man who had served the old lord for many years and was now steward and general factotum to his son. He had been expecting a visit from Fitzhamon since the rout of the Loventor men that morning and had been primed as to what to do. First, he attempted to soothe the irate neighbour with an invitation to enter the hall to take some wine, but Fitzhamon was in no mood for social niceties. ‘Tell Henry de la Pomeroy to come out here and speak to me, face to face!’ he snapped. ‘You know full well what brings me here.’
The old seneschal, who dealt with most of Pomeroy’s business, knew the score exactly, but feigned ignorance. ‘I regret, Sir William, that I have no knowledge of what you mean. My master is not here. He left this morning for Exeter and then he is riding on to Tiverton.’
This was a bare-faced lie, as Henry was upstairs in his bedchamber with one of the serving-girls, his wife having left that morning to visit her sister in Okehampton. But Fitzhamon, whatever he might have suspected, had no way of challenging what the steward said and had to be content with leaving a threatening message. ‘When he returns, tell him that I have had enough of his thieving ways. If so much as another twig is cut from my forests, I shall ride to Winchester – or London, if need be – to seek out the Chief Justiciar and put the matter before him. Is that understood?’
The seneschal blandly played the innocent. ‘I have no notion as to what you mean, sir, but I will certainly carry those words to my lord.’
Impatiently Fitzhamon pulled round his horse’s head to aim it at the gate, but then relaxed the reins to launch another tirade at Pomeroy’s right-hand man. ‘You can also tell him that those two men murdered by his mercenary thugs today will be investigated by Sir John de Wolfe, the King’s crowner, to whom I have already sent a messenger. He also may have a thing or two to tell Hubert Walter about how they came to their deaths!’
As he dragged on the stallion’s bit again, Fitzhamon made one last parting shot. ‘And tell Pomeroy that I can give the Justiciar some other damning news about him and his treacherous friends!’
With that, he dug his prick-spurs into the horse’s belly and hammered across the bailey, his silent companions close behind.
As they vanished over the drawbridge and into the gloom of the trees, the old steward leaned on the rail and rubbed his wispy beard thoughtfully. If he had ever heard a direct threat, this was it. And it was a dangerous one for quite a few nobles in this part of England.
CHAPTER FIVE
In which Crowner John visits a lady
In the late afternoon of the day after Christ Mass, a lone rider came through the West Gate and made his way up to Rougemont. He was unfamiliar with Exeter, having been to the city only once before. Unsure of where he should deliver his message, he dismounted at the drawbridge to the inner bailey and asked the guard for directions to someone in authority. The man-at-arms stuck his head into the door at the foot of the gatehouse, and Gabriel, the sergeant of the castle guard, soon appeared.
‘My name is Ulf, bailiff to Sir William Fitzhamon at Dartington, near Totnes, come to report two dead bodies in Loventor,’ declared the man. ‘Who should I speak to about them?’
Gabriel, a rugged old veteran of many campaigns, was glad of an excuse to visit his friends on the top floor and led the bailiff up the narrow stairs to the small upper chamber. Here, John de Wolfe was silently mouthing the Latin phrases set by his tutor for tomorrow’s lesson. Gwyn was squatting on his window-ledge, peeling an apple with his dagger, and missing the opportunity to bait Thomas, who was still in the Chapter House, searching for the missing parchment.
Gabriel announced Ulf as one of Fitzhamon’s bailiffs, then subsided on to Thomas’s vacant stool to eavesdrop on any news. The bailiff told his story about the sudden descent of the avengers upon Loventor’s attempt to repulse the assart-cutters. ‘Those men were professional soldiers, Crowner. They were well armed and cut down two of our men without warning. Though we wished to teach de la Pomeroy’s woodsmen a lesson, we only intended to cause some sore heads and a few bruises – but these men slew two of ours as you would swat flies.’
‘When did this happen? And what have you done with the bodies?’ demanded de Wolfe.
‘This very morning, sir,’ replied Ulf, a heavily built Saxon with a hoarse voice. ‘Sir William’s steward knew that we have to report such violent deaths to the crowner so he sent me in haste to tell you.’
‘You’ve not buried them?’ growled Gwyn, knowing that the disposal of embarrassing bodies was usually a first priority of villages.
‘Indeed not!’ replied Ulf virtuously. ‘We have put hurdles around them to keep off the dogs, who showed a great interest in the smell of blood.’
‘Do you know who attacked your men?’ asked de Wolfe.
‘I was not there myself, but two reliable men who were leading the outlaws we hired said that one man was Giles Fulford, though the leader was a fellow with red hair, a darker shade than your man here. They did not know his name.’
The coroner looked at Gwy
n enquiringly, then back at the bailiff. ‘Does the name Jocelin de Braose mean anything to you?’
Ulf looked blank. ‘No, never heard of him. Our men may have, but not me.’
After a few more questions, John arranged to meet the man early next morning to ride to Loventor, and Gabriel took him away, with the advice to seek a penny bed and meal at the Bush, the best inn in the city.
When they had gone, the coroner pondered the reappearance of Fulford in this incident, but felt it was impossible to relate it to the death of the canon.
‘This red-headed leader, Gwyn,’ he demanded of his officer. ‘We must discover if this man is Jocelin de Braose. Who would know if he has the same coloured thatch?’
The Cornishman lifted a hand to his own unruly ginger hair. ‘There are plenty of us about! But I’ll ask at the Saracen tonight to see if anyone knows him – his squire seems to visit the place often enough.’
As it was getting dusk, before long John trudged home to Martin’s Lane, to spend an evening of sullen silence with his wife, relieved only by mulled wine and dozing by the fire until it was time to stumble to bed.
In the grey light of dawn next day, the coroner rode his great stallion Bran down Fore Street to the West Gate, with Gwyn close behind on a big brown mare. The usual chill wind was blowing from the east, but there was no fresh snow. Both men wore heavy woollen tunics down to mid-calf, divided front and back to allow them to sit in the saddle. De Wolfe had a black leather hood, pointed at the back, over his long riding cloak, while Gwyn had a hessian sack wrapped around his head, the ends tucked into the frayed collar of his thick leather jerkin.
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