Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries)

by Bernard Knight

  ‘You’ll not escape me this time, John de Wolfe,’ she hissed.

  He loosened his hands and tried to wriggle from her limpet-like embrace, though admittedly his efforts were half-hearted.

  ‘By Christ, woman, I’m married and have a lover who’s dear to me!’ he muttered, somewhat illogically. But clinging to him even more tightly, she rolled her eyes around in a parody of searching the surrounding trees.

  ‘I see no wife or mistress, John! There’s just us and the birds – and I’m sure they’ll tell no tales.’

  Then she returned to kissing and massaging the back of his neck, her body squirming against his as they lay side-by-side in the soft grass. John was a sensual man who loved women – almost all women – and his self-control was very thin at the best of times. To be locked in an embrace with one of the most seductive beauties he had ever known was more than his flesh and blood could resist. With a groan of pleasure, rather than remorse, he capitulated and began returning her kisses and pulling her even more firmly against the length of his body.

  In spite of the restrictions of clothing, the inevitable happened. His long tunic was slit front and back for riding his horse and each of his black hose was tied up separately to a thin underbelt. Hawise, perhaps in anticipation of the meeting, wore a flowing gown which was laced from neck to midriff and she showed a remarkable agility in undoing it and casting off the twisted silken rope that acted as her girdle.

  Hawise and John were no strangers to the art of lovemaking and once committed he made the most of the opportunity. Eventually, exhaustion overtook the pair and they lay consummated and satiated, staring up at the paling sky.

  De Wolfe’s fevered mind gradually returned to normal as he found himself still with an arm around the woman, whose head was pillowed against his shoulder. He pulled himself to a sitting position and began restoring his clothing to a more decent arrangement. He looked down at the lady from Blois, wondering what would come of this gross indiscretion. At least her husband had not appeared on the scene, to blackmail him into giving away state secrets, as he once had feared.

  ‘This is a fine situation, madam!’ he growled. ‘The man is supposed to seduce the woman, not the other way around!’

  She smiled lazily up at him. ‘If I were to wait for you, I’d wait for ever, John!’

  She held out a hand for him to pull her up and began re-lacing the bodice of her green silk gown, which thankfully – or perhaps by design – would not show any stains from the lush grass.

  ‘Don’t fret, Sir Crowner, I’ll not petition the Pope to seek an annulment and then insist that you marry me!’ she said archly. ‘We’ve had a pleasant diversion, that’s all – and there’s no reason that we should not have several more, before I’m dragged back to a dull existence as a dutiful wife in Freteval.’

  John had his own ideas about that, but he thought that this was not the time or place to fall out with her. He had enjoyed their ‘diversion’ immensely, but he had no intention of making it a habit, there were too many potential complications for that.

  ‘How did you come to find me here?’ he asked, after they were both dressed decently again.

  ‘I always have my eye set upon you, John,’ she said earnestly. ‘I saw you slip away without that hulking great fellow that guards you like a wet nurse, so I followed.’

  ‘What about your husband and your maid?’

  ‘Renaud is safely drinking with his fellow lords in the guest chamber. I feigned a headache and then got rid of Adele for an hour with a two-penny bribe.’

  John stood up and lifted her to her feet with a strong hand.

  ‘You had best go back alone, but I’ll watch you from the edge of the trees to see you safely to the postern gate,’ he said gallantly. Hawise reached up and as a farewell put her arms around his neck again and kissed him on the lips. Not so passionately this time, but it was a warm and comforting embrace. As she walked off, with a girlish wave of her fingers, he thought that in different circumstances, free from all the other baggage that his life had accumulated, he could love that woman – and certainly enjoy his nights with her.

  When he had seen her safely across the open field to the castle, he returned to his fallen log and looked down at the crumpled grass behind it. Another memory for his old age, if he ever lived to see it!

  He sat and delved into his feelings, to see what remorse and shame were welling up there. He ticked off the positive factors first – the husband did not know about this and Hawise seemed quite relaxed about the adultery. She was not going to scream ‘rape’ or make him marry her. Then Gwyn knew nothing of this escapade, so would not be making reproachful hints about his master’s infidelity. On the down side, his own conscience was the main problem. He had no scruples where Matilda was concerned, as she had made it abundantly clear that her marriage to him was a penance and she wished she had stayed a spinster. Thank God they had had no children, though this would have been a physical impossibility during the past dozen years, unless she managed another virgin birth. Nesta was no longer a factor, as she had taken herself off to be married. It was Hilda who was the problem, and she was the reason for the devilish imp that sat on his shoulder and hissed the mantra of his conscience into his ear.

  Yet even she had not had him exclusively, as when her husband, Thorgils the Boatman, was alive, John had only sporadic access to Hilda when the shipmaster was away on voyages, so he had to vent his amorous energy elsewhere. Even when he was with Nesta, he had occasional flings with Hilda – and the blonde woman knew that he was not faithful to her either, for there had been a sprightly widow in Sidmouth who gave him favours, until she went off to marry a butcher.

  As he sat on his log, he chided himself for his wanton behaviour and vowed that in future he would be faithful to Hilda. He convinced himself that this episode tonight was an aberration, verging on a rape of himself by Hawise. He felt he was hardly to blame, as it was more than any man could have stood, to be wrestled on the ground by such an ardent beauty. He dismissed the devil of conscience with a promise that henceforth he would be a model of fidelity and chasteness except where Hilda was concerned. He had one mental eye on his excursion to Devon in a few days’ time and wanted to appear in Dawlish as pure as the driven snow – so Hawise would henceforth be strictly out of bounds!

  Inadvertently, the Chief Justiciar helped de Wolfe to maintain his celibacy, as John was able to leave the procession early and so remove himself from the temptation offered by Hawise d’Ayncourt. He had originally intended waiting until they reached Bristol before seeking Hubert Walter’s consent to leave for Devon, but on the night after his escapade with Hawise, they stopped at Chippenham, the last stage before Bristol. By chance, the Justiciar turned his horse as soon as they arrived at one of the royal manors and rode back down the line, greeting many he knew and enquiring if all was well after a day on the march. When he came to de Wolfe, the coroner took the opportunity to broach the matter of going to Devon to settle his family affairs, since so far there had not been a single incident that required the attention of the Coroner of the Verge. After some thought, Hubert agreed and suggested that he may as well leave in the morning, rather than go on to Bristol.

  John made sure that he remained invisible to Hawise for the rest of the night and at dawn he set off across country with Gwyn and Thomas de Peyne. The route that led through Shepton Mallet and Ilminster to Honiton and thence to Exeter took them two nights and three long days of hard riding, which taxed Thomas and his rounsey to the utmost. During the journey, John had plenty of time to reflect on many aspects of his present situation and also to revisit the unsolved mysteries in London. They seemed a world away, here in the rural fastnesses of western England, but he knew this was only a respite from the problems that would still confront him when he returned to Westminster. Was there some French subversive seeking to ferret out secrets of Kent’s defences? And had he murdered Basil, a potential threat to his identity, as Robin Byard had claimed?

  And wh
ere was this damned treasure hidden away? Was Simon Basset involved and if not, why should anyone wish to poison him?

  As they rode the last miles towards Exeter, de Wolfe sighed and consigned these problems to the future, knowing that he had other more immediate problems to deal with when he reached the city. Soon the tops of the great twin towers of the cathedral were visible as they trotted along Magdalene Street, the country road to the south of Exeter where the gallows tree stood. They reached the South Gate just before it closed at curfew and turned up through the Serge Market and the Shambles, where in the mornings beasts were slaughtered in the road. At the top was Carfoix, the crossing of the main streets from the four gates which had been there since Roman times. Here they parted, as Gwyn and the clerk were going down to the Bush Inn, where his wife was now landlady, and where Thomas would lodge during their short stay.

  John turned right into High Street and a tired Odin plodded up past the Guildhall, his nostrils twitching as he picked up the old familiar odours of the livery stables where he used to live. This was in Martin’s Lane, a narrow alley that led down into the cathedral precinct and was virtually opposite John’s house.

  Andrew the farrier was happy to see both Sir John and his stallion and when John had seen Odin fed and watered, he crossed the lane to the front door of his tall, narrow house, one of only two in the lane. As always, the door was unbarred and he pushed inside to the vestibule, where boots and cloaks were kept. The door to the hall, the main room of the house, was on his right and to the left a covered way went around the corner of the building to the backyard. The front door had barely slammed behind him when a large brown hound loped around that corner, as fast as his old legs could carry him. With a yelp of pleasure and a great wagging of his tail, Brutus rushed upon John, slobbering a welcome into his hand.

  Close behind him came a handsome, dark-haired woman who gave a less demonstrative, but equally warm welcome. John hugged Mary to him and gave her a long kiss, not passionate, but full of warmth. They had had furtive tumbles in her cook-shed or laundry in the past, but when his wife had taken on a nosey French maid several years earlier, Mary had decided that her job was worth more than tumbles with her master. Now that Matilda was no longer there, matters could have been different, but John’s new state of virtue put that out of his mind.

  ‘This is a surprise, Sir Crowner,’ said Mary, her voice rich with the Devon dialect. ‘I had a message from that shipman, Roger Watts, to say that you hoped to get home some time, but I did not expect you this soon.’

  As he had done for years past when he wanted a gossip and a decent meal, he went around to the yard and sat with Mary in her kitchen hut, where she also lived and slept. Producing good ale and a platter of savoury pastries, she promised him a full meal as soon as she could prepare it. He sat on a milking stool and told her all his news, though avoiding any mention of Hawise d’Ayncourt. While she stoked up her fire and put the makings of a mutton stew into an iron pot hanging on a trivet, Mary told him of events in the city, though there seemed little enough to relate.

  ‘Your brother-in-law still has his town house in North Street and Lucille is still in service with his wife,’ she announced. Lucille had been his wife’s handmaid, but she had been shunted off to Eleanor de Revelle when Matilda took herself to the nunnery. This brought them to the vexed question of his wife.

  ‘Have you heard anything of her, Mary?’

  ‘Nothing, apart from the fact that she is still at Polsloe and presumably is in rude health,’ she answered. ‘I wish to God and all his angels that I knew what was to become of me and this house, for it seems wasteful for it to stand empty with me living here like a hermit.’

  ‘I will go to Polsloe first thing in the morning, good girl,’ he promised. ‘This matter must be settled one way or the other.’

  While Mary finished cooking for him, he stripped to his hose in the yard and with a leather bucket of water from the well, washed the grime of many days travelling from his body. He did not go so far as to shave, but finding a clean tunic still in his chest up in the solar at the back of the house, he felt refreshed and sat to enjoy his meal all the more. Though it was now dusk, he walked down through the lower town to the Bush, savouring the sights and smells of Exeter that were so different from those of London. It was strange to enter the tavern in Idle Lane without Nesta being there to greet him and a wave of sad nostalgia engulfed him for a moment. However, the welcome from Gwyn’s buxom wife and a quart of excellent ale soon restored his spirits, as he greeted many old acquaintances among the patrons. Gwyn was beaming with pleasure at being home, his two small sons clinging to his breeches as he helped his wife to serve the customers. Old Edwin, the one-eyed potman, was still there and cackled a greeting to John as if the coroner had been gone only a couple of days.

  Thomas had vanished down to the cathedral to meet his ecclesiastical friends and no doubt would spend half the night and most of next day at the many services that dominated the clergy’s day. De Wolfe was soon brought up to date on all the local gossip, though nothing of great importance seemed to have happened in the few months since he had left.

  ‘The new coroner is well liked – he seems a fair man,’ said a master mason, who John had known for years. ‘But I hear that he is fretting somewhat at having to spend too much time away from his manor down west.’

  Sir Nicholas de Arundell had been persuaded into taking the coronership when de Wolfe left and John suspected that he had done so mainly out of gratitude for his help in rescuing him from a life as an outlaw on Dartmoor and restoring him to possession of his manor of Hempston Arundell.5

  Gwyn’s wife Martha persuaded him to eat another meal, in spite of having had Mary’s mutton stew; and after a few more quarts of ale, it was growing dark when he finally tore himself away from the familiar and hospitable inn and made his way home to Martin’s Lane. After kissing Mary goodnight, he wearily climbed the outside stairs to the solar, built up against the back wall of the house and gratefully slid into bed, a large mattress on a low plinth on the floor of the bare room, where he had spent so many lonely nights, with Matilda snoring on the other side.

  De Wolfe could only afford to spend a couple of nights in Exeter before setting off again for Gloucester, where he had promised to return to Hubert Walter’s company. He decided that there would be no time for him to go down to Stoke-in-Teignhead to visit his family, as this would take at least an extra day.

  As he had promised Mary, his first task was to try to make some decision about his wife’s future and an hour after dawn he was back in Odin’s saddle and on his way to Polsloe. He had told Gwyn and Thomas to make the most of their time on their own affairs, so he rode alone for the mile or so from the East Gate to the small Benedictine priory. Here seven nuns lived and provided medical care to the women of the area. John knew the prioress well enough, but his main contact there was a formidable nun, Dame Madge. She was a tall gaunt woman, with a specialist knowledge of women’s ailments and the hazards of childbirth. She had been of considerable help to John when he was county coroner, in cases involving rape or miscarriage.

  It was Dame Madge that he sought out when he reached Polsloe and, after leaving his horse with the gatekeeper, a novice took her a message. As men were not particularly welcome inside the building, he waited in the porch of the west range until she arrived. Dressed in her black habit, tall and slightly stooped, she was almost a female counterpart to himself and in spite of her often stern, abrupt manner, they got on well.

  ‘I have come from Westminster, sister, in the hope of seeing my wife and learning of her intentions,’ he began.

  The old nun gave a grim smile and shook her head. ‘We have been over this ground before, have we not, Sir John? This must be the fourth time you have sought to see your wife here.’

  ‘Is it not natural, sister?’ he grunted. ‘For better or worse, we were joined by the Church in matrimony and now she rejects me – or at least, I assume she has, for she refuses to say a
nything, one way or the other. I need to get on with my life.’

  Dame Madge nodded sympathetically and they talked for a while, as he explained how his situation had been so radically altered on the orders of King Richard. For her part, the nun could only repeat that Matilda had given firm instructions that she was not to be contacted by any of her previous friends or relatives, especially her husband.

  ‘But that must have been some time ago, as she cannot know that I was to come here today,’ urged John. ‘Can we not try once more, to see if her resolution has weakened?’

  Dame Madge again shook her head sadly. ‘I very much doubt her opinion has changed, for she is a very strong-willed woman. But we can speak to the prioress, to see what she thinks.’

  They went into the building and upstairs to the prioress’s parlour, a comfortable room where a small, rather plump woman sat behind her table studying the monthly accounts of the little establishment. She received John graciously and given that the hour was too early for wine sent for some damson cordial and pastries. After hearing of the same old problem, she asked Dame Madge to go down and speak to Sister Matilda, to see whether she would receive her husband to speak of the future. When the older nun had left, John asked the prioress how his wife was faring in this solitary life.

  ‘She is very devout, Sir John,’ she answered frankly. ‘Almost too devout in some ways, as she is inflexible and intolerant of any straying from the path of righteousness. I sense that she is saddened by life and constantly angry that she can do little to alter it.’

  De Wolfe was not sure what she meant, but it sounded typical of the old Matilda that he knew all too well.

  ‘I never wished to cause her such discontent and sadness,’ he admitted. ‘But I of necessity was away from her for most of our married life.’