The Sanctuary Seeker

by Bernard Knight

  The coroner agreed with him. ‘It’s been cool wet weather and a grave is the best place to slow putrefaction. Even if they can’t recognise his face, his build, his hair and, above all, this birthmark on the neck should satisfy them once they’ve seen his clothes and weapon.’

  The clerk looked unconvinced, but no one cared much what he thought.

  Gwyn sank the last of the beer in his jar and wiped the back of his hand across his luxuriant moustache. ‘There’s a lot more truth to be squeezed out of that Alan Fitzhai. He was telling us only half a story.’

  Thomas nodded, like a bird pecking grain. ‘He’s keeping back something that’s to his disadvantage.’

  John shrugged and rose again from his seat. ‘You may both be right, but we must move one step at a time. First thing in the morning, we ride across Dartmoor. You can stop off at Widecombe, Thomas, and organise the digging out of the cadaver. Gwyn and I will ride on to the Tavy valley, break the bad news to the family and bring someone back to identify the body.’

  As the coroner left the chamber, the clerk was uncertain whether to feel relief at being spared the extra mule-ride across the moor or having qualms at seeing the rotting corpse hauled back to the surface at Widecombe.

  CHAPTER TEN

  In which Crowner John crosses Dartmoor

  Sir John’s truce with his wife was short-lived. Though she had co-operated with him in persuading the sheriff to recover Alan Fitzhai from Honiton, her annoyance was still simmering at his continued neglect of her in favour of his duties. When he arrived home in the early afternoon and announced that he would probably be away for the next two days, Matilda’s mood reverted to abrasive sarcasm. Sitting, as usual, in her solar, as the acid-faced Lucille braided her hair, she glowered at her husband from under her heavy eyelids. ‘Yet another excuse to leave me alone while you go jaunting around the countryside! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Why can’t you send that great oaf of a Cornishman in your place or that perverted clergyman?’

  John’s patience, ever parchment-thin, broke. ‘Jaunting about the countryside, you call it! An eight-hour ride across Dartmoor in the mist and rain, to visit an old, sick knight, then five hours back to Widecombe with a grieving family to view a putrefying corpse. Some jaunting, wife!’

  Matilda was unmoved. ‘Alehouses, rough soldier comrades and whores – those are your main interests as I know from years of bitter experience.’

  Her husband stood over her menacingly, a black hawk hovering above a fat pigeon. ‘What would you have me do, woman? Sit and embroider linen like you?’ he snarled.

  ‘Be like other men of substance!’ retorted Matilda. ‘Sit by the fire, have friends among the influential men of the town. Invite them to eat with us and be offered more invitations to their own halls and guild meetings. Play your part in the life of the town.’

  John flung away from her. ‘Oh, yes, talk endlessly about the price of mutton or the latest scandals from Winchester! No, thank you, Matilda. I might do that in my dotage when I’ve lost my hair, my teeth and my wits but not yet, while I can still ride a horse and lift a hunting spear.’

  Matilda threw down her needlework. ‘Riding, hunting, spears and swords! There’s more to life than those, husband. Why do you never go to holy service, except when forced? You never pray, you ignore the scriptures and treat the priests with scorn.’

  John kicked a stool and sent it spinning across the room. ‘Untrue, Matilda! John of Alecon and John of Exeter are good friends of mine, as well as being among the most senior of the cathedral priests.’

  His wife made a rude noise meant to convey her scorn. ‘The Chapter Treasurer and the Archdeacon! A fine pair, well known to everyone always to be at cross purposes with the Bishop and Precentor. Typical that you should ally yourself with the dissidents!’

  In a reverse of logic, Matilda was referring to the fact that the Bishop, the Precentor and her own brother, the sheriff, were sympathisers with the attempt of Prince John to seize power in England when his royal brother was at the Crusades and imprisoned in Germany. True, few expected the King ever to return alive, but John’s rash anticipation of taking the throne was little short of revolt and treason in the eyes of loyalists like John de Wolfe, and the two Johns in the cathedral. When the Lionheart had unexpectedly landed in Kent last March, he had rapidly extinguished the rebellion – and foolishly, as many thought, forgave his younger brother for his treachery.

  With her words ringing in his ears, John lost whatever remained of his temper.

  ‘To hell with it, wife! You do nothing but criticise and scold me. Why in God’s name I ever agreed to marry you, I’ll never fathom.’

  She snapped back, without a second’s hesitation, ‘You married me because your father wanted advantage for you – and a poor way you’ve repaid fulfulling his ambitions for you.’

  ‘At least it wasn’t for love – you’ve spared me that!’

  ‘No, you get what passes for your love at The Bush tavern – and many other places, I suspect!’ spat Matilda. John cast about for some other stone to hurl at her. ‘For all my faults, as you see them, at least I don’t come from a family that’s forever looking to line my purse by whatever means possible – legal or corrupt!’

  ‘And what might you mean by that, sir?’ shrilled his wife. Her face was now almost puce under the layer of powder that Lucille had not long dabbed on her cheeks. The maid was standing back against the wall, trying not to smirk at this hottest episode yet in her employer’s long-standing feud.

  She was a fit companion for her mistress, a gossip with rarely a good word for anyone. A sallow, unattractive woman of about thirty, she had projecting yellow teeth and lank dark hair. Of Frankish origin from the Vexin, north of Paris, she was a refugee from a village desolated by the endless wars between the Normans and the French that had flowed back and forth over that region. She savoured Matilda’s present wrath against Sir John, being as partisan against him as Mary was in supporting him.

  ‘Come, what are you insinuating?’ repeated her mistress belligerently. ‘Is this another slur against my brother?’

  ‘He’s always seeking ways to divert silver into his own pocket at the expense of the King’s Exchequer.’

  Matilda was rocking back and forth on her chair in fury. ‘That’s vile slander with no foundation!’

  John gave the footstool another kick, sending it back across the boards of the solar floor.

  ‘Where did the property of many convicted felons end up during this past year? Where did much of the deodand sale money go before I became coroner? And why was your precious relative ejected from office last Lady Day, eh?’

  Richard de Revelle had been nominated as sheriff the previous year, through his partiality to Prince John and his support for the Bishop, who was brother to the Marshal of England. By the time he had taken office at Christmas 1193, John’s rebellion was already tottering, as his mother, the redoubtable old Queen Eleanor, had set forces against him. Within months, many of the sheriff’s sponsors were in disgrace, and after the King returned in March and massacred the last rebels in Nottingham castle, de Revelle’s number was up. He had been relieved of his duties and Henry Furnellis had become a caretaker sheriff.

  Partly because Henry was even more corrupt than Richard, but also because the Lionheart had pardoned his brother John, Hubert Walter had reinstated Richard de Revelle when John de Wolfe became coroner.

  ‘He was restored at Michaelmas. It was all a misunderstanding,’ said Matilda, defensively.

  ‘Some misunderstanding! If the King wasn’t so lenient, and your brother so supported by the Bishop and his brother William the Marshal, he’d have swung at the end of one of his own ropes.’

  Matilda hissed, ‘Are you accusing my brother of corruption?’

  ‘Corruption! That’s his lesser sin. It’s common knowledge that he was part of Prince John’s treachery. Only powerful voices at Winchester and Rouen keep him in office.’

  John was reckless
now, the breach with his wife having cracked open wider than ever before.

  ‘It’s treason to accuse the King’s officer for this county. You’re a bigger fool than you are a liar, John!’

  ‘Treason be damned!’ he yelled at her. ‘I know what Coeur de Lion thinks of your damned family, supporters of Prince John’s underhand conniving!’

  This was too much for Matilda, who was almost gibbering with rage. She stood up and hurled her embroidery, wooden frame and all, at her towering husband.

  ‘Get out, you blasphemer! Go to your bloody inn and your painted strumpet and ride the moor tomorrow until your arse-bones stick to the saddle!’

  Her uncharacteristic descent into coarseness betrayed the height of her passion, and even through his own anger, John saw that it was time to let her cool off.

  With a last muttered curse, he stamped out and clattered down the outside stairway, to seek his solace and refuge in the Bush tavern.

  Even though he had precipitated the worst quarrel yet with his wife, John decided not to spend the night in Nesta’s bed. Although, after beer, food and sympathy, he spent a couple of consoling hours with her in her bedroom, intuition told him to go back to the house in St Martin’s Lane for the night. When he arrived, the dog greeted him warmly and Matilda ignored him, pointedly leaving the hall for the solar the moment he walked in.

  He had a late supper alone at the long table in the gloomy chamber, Mary fussing over him with cold bacon and hot bread straight from the oven. As she cleared the wooden platters and set a large cup of warm spiced wine before him, she rolled her eyes in the direction of the upper room. Her voice low, as the high window slit could carry voices from below, she said, ‘You’ve really done it this time. Your lady’s lips are as hard and thin as the edge of your sword – and will be as sharp when she opens her mouth!’

  John, whose few hours at the Bush had restored his spirits, winked at her. ‘I can no longer do anything right in her eyes, so I’ve nothing to lose. Matilda and I must go our own ways in future, Mary – but I can take that as long as I’ve still got you to feed me and give me the occasional kind word.’

  She gave him a quick kiss on the back of his neck and took his empty wooden platter and pewter mug back to the kitchen.

  John blew out the solitary candle and crept up to the solar, where he spent the night on the edge of the wide hay-stuffed palliasse, with Matilda, wakeful but silent and studiously ignoring him, on the other side.

  Next morning, she was snoring heavily when he rose before daybreak and left the house after one of Mary’s huge breakfasts. Collecting his massive stallion, Bran, a prematurely retired warhorse, he rode through the West Gate as it was opened at the first glimmer of dawn. Pushing past the crowd of early traders clustered outside with their produce, he met Gwyn outside the city walls, near the ford across the river. The new stone bridge was still under construction by Nicholas Gervase, but money for its completion had again run out and the old narrow wooden bridge was strong enough only for pedestrians and pack-ponies. Carts, wagons and large animals had to splash across the stony river-bed, which was impassable when the Exe was in spate.

  The two men sat side by side on their horses, looking around at the influx of people into the city.

  ‘Where’s that cretinous clerk?’ growled Gwyn.

  The weather was dry now, but had turned colder with the first hints of winter creeping into the November air. Gwyn was enveloped in a huge, tattered brown cloak that had seen service over half the known world. With his wild red hair poking from under a conical leather cap and the fiery whiskers half hiding his face, he looked like one of the mythical beasts often portrayed on the roof bosses of churches.

  John was dressed in his usual black and grey uniform but today sported a light grey capuchin wound around his head, the end trailing over his shoulder. He turned in his saddle to look back through the gate. ‘Here he is, on that miserable mule of his. Maybe I should spend some of the next wealthy felon’s forfeit on a decent pony for him.’

  The little clerk was forcing himself ineffectually between the crowds of peasants jostling through the narrow gate, jamming it with baskets, boxes and squawking live poultry. At last he broke free and trotted up to join them.

  The trio set off westwards across the ford and past the buildings outside the protection of Exeter’s walls. The houses and shacks straggled on for a few hundred yards along the road that led away from the city towards the Cornish lands. The mud from the recent rains had now dried in the cold wind and the going was relatively good. Even Thomas’s much-maligned mule kept up a steady trot and they covered a better than average five miles each hour.

  Although the woods and forests came to the road edge for much of the way, this lowland was fertile and villages were frequent. Soon, whenever there were gaps in the trees, the barer hill-tops of Dartmoor could be seen, some surmounted by tors, the strange outcrops of granite rock.

  They passed the hamlets of Kennford, Little Bovey and Ashburton before they struck north-west to the flanks of the wilderness that, together with Exmoor, covered almost half of Devon.

  Near Buckland, a somewhat apprehensive Thomas was detached from the group to make his way towards Widecombe, while Sir John and Gwyn continued towards Tavistock and Peter Tavy, almost on the border with Cornwall.

  The most direct way was across the moor and along the bleak track between the hills and tors of the bare plateau. The higher slopes were either dotted with scrub or were bare grass, heather and rock.

  The coroner and his guard rode silently for the most part. These two had journeyed together for thousands of miles over the years of their acquaintance and, both being of a taciturn nature, found little left to say, apart from the business of the day. Yet it was not a strained silence: it was a mutual acceptance of each other’s reserved personality. Though they were master and servant, their relationship was one of fraternal comradeship: John stated what needed to be done and Gwyn carried it out, usually without demur. Occasionally, the Cornishman would answer an order with a direct stare when John knew that discussion was needed of an alternative strategy. If the coroner persisted in his demand, Gwyn would carry it out to the letter, but with an almost palpable air of disapproval that usually caused John concern about the wisdom of his decision.

  At noon, under the glint of weak autumn sunlight, they stopped on a patch of coarse grass and winberry bushes to have their meal, using a flat slab of lichen-covered rock as a table. From Gwyn’s saddlebag came a stone bottle of rough cider, which they passed from mouth to mouth, and a loaf of coarse horse-bread made from a mixture of grains. The coroner contributed a small crock of yellow butter and a lump of boiled ham, part of the provisions provided by Mary, as Matilda – never much concerned with domestic issues – was now indifferent to his welfare.

  A long silence was broken as they sat on the mottled rock to eat and drink. Gwyn passed the cider bottle and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘I asked among my neighbours last night, some of them carters often in Tavistock. But about the de Bonnevilles they knew little, except that they held the manor of Peter Tavy from the de Redvers and rent some more pasture from the Abbey of Tavistock’.

  John took a long swig of raw cider and set down the bottle on the stone. ‘I also inquired about them, in the Bush. Nesta seems to know every soul between Dorchester and Bodmin. It seems that the old lord Arnulf is in his seventieth year. He suffered an apoplexy some six months ago and now hovers between his bed and his grave.’

  ‘What of this son who may be your dead man?’

  John cut a thick slice of ham with his dagger and looked at it contemplatively. ‘The sheriff said that the old man has three sons, two still at home to manage the estate – they have another large manor at Lamerton, as well as Peter Tavy.’

  ‘And the eldest?’ demanded Gwyn.

  ‘He went to Palestine two and a half years ago, taking the cross against his father’s wishes.’ He slipped the ham into his mouth and, through his chewing
, continued, ‘Nothing else seems known of them, but that they are prosperous and keep out of trouble and the public eye.’

  There seemed little else to say and, after finishing the food, the two men climbed aboard their horses and trotted off again across the deserted moor. The only persons they saw were shepherds tending the great flocks that were England’s economic strength, providing the wool that was virtually the only fabric used throughout Europe.

  The clouds remained high and the mist held off until twilight. Before dark they dropped down from the moor into the broad valley of the Tavy. This marked the western edge of Dartmoor and separated it from the similar, though smaller, plateau of Bodmin moor in Cornwall. Their tired horses entered the little town of Tavistock and came to rest in the stables of the abbey, where John and his officer claimed the usual traveller’s one-night hospitality from the monks in return for a donation to their funds. After a simple but substantial meal in the guest-hall, John paid a courtesy call on the prior. The abbot was absent, which was usual among senior clerics, who spent far more time elsewhere on administration and politics than in religious duties in their own houses.

  Prior Wulfstan was a benign, rather unworldly fat monk, with a vague manner and speech full of meaningless platitudes. He knew little about the de Bonnevilles, apart from their location and their prosperity. John was beginning to feel that the family was so ordinary as to be almost invisible in the social structure of the county.

  After the meal, John went wearily to his hard pallet in a cubicle of the great dormitory and sank into a deep sleep, oblivious to the midnight perambulations of the monks to matins, and the bells and chanting of their nocturnal routine.

  Both men and horses were refreshed when they saddled up after a simple breakfast and trotted out into the cold November mist. Peter Tavy was a couple of miles up the valley, spread across the slopes on the right that climbed back up to the moor.