Crowner's Crusade

by Bernard Knight

  De Wolfe looked aghast at this proposition. ‘That would be a disaster! He’d never stir himself from his chamber, where he counts the taxes and takes his own tithes from them. I had heard such a suggestion, as the prince has already got him counting his coins. But as a fearless law officer, he would be worse than useless.’

  ‘I tend to agree, John. But they are set upon it and as you know, some have the ear of the prince. I thought I would warn you what is afoot.’

  ‘But appointing a sheriff is not within his gift!’ objected de Wolfe. ‘I tell you now, the Chief Justiciar will not agree and I doubt the king would either, except that he is far away in captivity.’

  De Alencon shrugged. ‘I suspect that the prince will just go ahead without such approval. After all, he is virtually the absolute ruler of six counties and has appointed his own chancellor, exchequer and other officers, independent of Winchester or London.’

  De Wolfe shook his head in despair. ‘It will be a fiasco, John. Mark my words, when Hubert Walter gets to hear of this, he will forbid it. He has already spoken to me about his concerns that the prince is once again planning to challenge the Lionheart’s right to the throne. Look how places are covertly being fortified and garrisoned, places like St Michael’s Mount and Berry Peverel.’

  They spoke further about the ominous signs of revolt and de Alencon told him that when a new bishop was installed in a few months time, the likely incumbent would be Henry Marshal, the Dean of York, who was another keen supporter of the prince.

  John came away from Canon’s Row with an even stronger presentiment of trouble, but the prospect of his brother-in-law becoming sheriff was the worst part. His arrogant pomposity would be intolerable – and no doubt Matilda’s pride in becoming sister of a sheriff would be even more insufferable.

  He collected his horse from the stables opposite his house and rode first to the tiny hospital at St John’s Priory, just inside the East Gate. This had but six monks offering the only medical care in the city, apart from a few apothecaries who dispensed medicines. Outside the city, there was nothing at all and the villagers depended on ‘wise women’ and helpful neighbours for their only hope of treatment.

  At St John’s, the small infirmary was run by Brother Saulf, a tall, gaunt man who had once attended the famous medical school of Montpellier in southern France. He told John that Richard de Beltona was still in a bad state, but his deep unconsciousness had lightened in the last few hours.

  ‘I trust in God that he will not die, but it may be days before he has recovered enough of his wits to speak, if he ever does,’ said Saulf, in his deep, sonorous voice. ‘And even if he does, he probably will not remember the events that caused his injury.’

  John went into the single ward of the little hospital, a high chamber with a row of pallets down each side and a huge wooden crucifix on the end wall, indicating that most of the healing here was done by God. The hall was full of sick and injured and Beltona was lying immobile in one of those nearest to the door. He lay breathing heavily, his eyes closed, one swollen with blood that had seeped down into his eyelids from the swelling above, reminding John of the ache in his own cranium.

  There was nothing to be done except to thank Saulf and hand him a few coins towards the hospital funds. Then John mounted Bran again and went the mile or so to Polsloe Priory, to enquire after the well-being of Mistress Clarice. The small Benedictine house was surrounded by a high wall and the gatekeeper was not disposed to admit an unknown man, even though he called himself Sir John de Wolfe. Evidently his reputation had not percolated to this outpost in the woods outside the city.

  However, after he had firmly closed the gate on John, he went across to the modest buildings of the priory and soon returned with the forbidding figure of Dame Madge. She was almost as tall as John, though slightly stooped. A long face, with a large hairy mole on one cheek, was usually set in a grim expression, except when dealing with her sick and often frightened patients, who she treated with a gentleness that contrasted markedly with her usual manner.

  They stood in the open gateway until John had explained who he was and that he had only called to enquire after the stricken lady’s condition. The old nun thawed immediately and invited John to the refectory for a meal, which he gracefully declined.

  ‘I’m sure your time can be better spent healing the sick, than in talking to an old soldier like me,’ he said with a grin. ‘I have a score to settle with whoever did these evil deeds.’ He pointed a finger at his coif, still bulging over Nesta’s bandage.

  ‘I wondered if the lady had said anything about who might have assaulted her so grievously?’

  Dame Madge shook her head, her veil swaying over the white linen wimple around her craggy face. ‘It is a difficult and sensitive business, asking questions so soon after a woman has been ravished,’ she said gravely. ‘All I have learned from her is that the man was large and strong, which I’m sure applies to most of the men in Devon!’

  De Wolfe thanked her and told her of the husband’s condition in St John’s before taking his leave, but just as he was putting his foot in Bran’s stirrup, she called after him.

  ‘Sir John, I’ve just recalled that the lady did murmur that he smelt of tar, but again that is probably not of much use to you.’

  But it gave him something to ponder over on his short ride back to the city.

  Mary had served up an excellent dinner in the house in St Martin’s Lane, which even the grumbling Matilda could not fault. At noon, they sated themselves on fried eels with onions, followed by roast pork, cabbage and carrots, then crystallized ginger, bread and cheese. Later that afternoon, John was digesting this with the aid of ale and cider, sitting in the hall of Rougemont with his usual companions. Gwyn, Gabriel and Ralph Morin were discussing the events of the previous night and John’s news about the bishop’s bid for a sheriff.

  ‘We need a sensible man to enforce law and order in the county, but not that crafty bastard de Revelle,’ said Gwyn.

  ‘I don’t see how he can be made sheriff,’ growled Ralph. ‘The post is nominated by the king, then the county court has to formerly elect him. John Lackland can’t do that?’

  De Wolfe nodded his agreement. ‘The problem is that the prince’s old nickname no longer applies, as he certainly lacks no land these days. But I agree, as a sheriff is the king’s man in each county, only the king or his representative like the Chief Justiciar, can put one in place.’

  ‘And who’s going to tell Prince John that?’ asked Morin.

  De Wolfe shrugged. ‘When Hubert Walter finds out, he’ll tell the king, wherever he is. We’ll see some action then, I’ll warrant!’

  Gwyn took a gargantuan swallow of his ale, then rubbed a hand over his damped moustaches. ‘I wish the king would get back home and sort out his kingdom,’ he said mournfully. ‘We hear these rumours of the ransom being paid and of him being released, but nothing ever happens.’

  It was true that there had been several false reports of the Lionheart’s return, just as there had been claims that Philip of France had succeeded in buying the king from Emperor Henry.

  ‘The latest I heard from the last herald that came through from Winchester was that there was still a way to go to collect the full one hundred and fifty thousand marks,’ reported Morin, who was in the best position to get the latest news, albeit usually several weeks old. ‘The old queen is poised to go over to the Rhine herself to fetch her son, when the moment comes,’ he added.

  The talk then turned to the brutal assault in Sun Lane the previous night. After John had told them about the state of the two victims – no one seemed to be bothered about his own injury – the problem of catching the villain was discussed.

  ‘He’s probably miles away by now, as there was nothing to stop him walking out through one of the city gates today,’ said Gabriel. ‘No one knows what he looks like.’

  ‘All we know is that he’s big and strong and that he smelled of tar!’ said John. This reminded him of the
piece of cloth and he fished in his scrip to bring out the piece of breeches-leg that Brutus has ripped off the man in the backyard. It was an unremarkable scrap of coarse cloth about the size of his hand, brownish in colour, with a bluish thread in the weft of the weave.

  ‘Looks foreign to me’, said Gabriel. ‘But then, so much cloth is brought in from the Low Countries, much of it in your ships, Sir John.’

  ‘Your partner, Hugh de Relaga, must know a lot about foreign fabrics, John,’ suggested Ralph. ‘Why not show it to him? He might recognize where it came from.’

  John nodded, but was not excited about the possible clue. ‘I’ll do that, but of course where it was made has little to do with who now owns it. My cloak is from Bavaria and my belt from Spain!’ Another thought occurred to him and he held the rag to his long nose and sniffed. ‘That poor woman was right, it does smell of tar.’

  He handed it round and they all agreed that there was a faint stink of the black residue that came from burning coals, though Gwyn, with his nautical pretensions, said he thought it more like pitch or bitumen.

  ‘Does it tell us anything about this swine?’ growled Morin.

  ‘They sometimes use it on shingle roofs to stop them leaking,’ ventured Gabriel. ‘Perhaps he’s a builder?’

  ‘Or a seaman,’ contradicted Gwyn. ‘Stuff like that is used for caulking the seams in ship’s planks.’

  John tossed the piece of cloth on to the table and they all stared at it for a long moment, as if waiting for it to speak to them.

  ‘What about that old hound of yours, John?’ asked Ralph. ‘He tore that cloth off and you say he bit him in the leg.’

  ‘Yes, but it can’t have been a deep injury, for the fellow ran away like the wind.’

  The castellan shook his head. ‘No, I meant he must have got a good scent of the fellow – and you’ve still got that bit of cloth to show the dog. Maybe he can track a scent, just as the lymers do in hunting.’

  Lymers were hounds who tracked by smell, as opposed to those like the greyhound who chased by sight.

  ‘I could try him, I suppose,’ said John, dubiously.

  ‘Best do it before the trail gets any colder,’ suggested Gwyn. ‘I’ll come with you now, before it gets dark.’

  They went back to St Martin’s Lane and collected an enthusiastic Brutus and took him down to the back of the now-silent house in Sun Lane. In the yard at the back, John held the piece of torn fabric to the dog’s nose, then opened the gate at the back through which the assailant had escaped.

  ‘Go on, boy, find him!’ encouraged Gwyn and sure enough, Brutus went off with his nose to the ground, zigzagging back and forth, then moving off rapidly into the alley and then into a wider lane that angled up towards Southgate Street. They followed the dog down the street towards the gate, ignoring the curious stares of stallholders and their customers as they jogged behind. Brutus turned off again to the right and went down Rock Lane towards the Watergate that stood at the lowest point of the city walls. This had been built in recent years to allow direct access to the wharf along the river, as Exeter became much more active in trading. Though the larger seagoing vessels had to moor down at Topsham, smaller ones could berth at the quayside, which dried out at low tide.

  ‘He’s going out on to the wharf!’ shouted Gwyn triumphantly, as they approached the gate. ‘I said that pitch was used to caulk ship’s planking!’

  They went through the arch of the Watergate and out on to the flat expanse of dockside. There was a length of stone wharf along the river bank, beyond which it lapsed into bushes and grass.

  Brutus ran on to the wharf and began circling around. For the first time, he seemed uncertain of himself, as the trail was confused by various odours from the coils of tarry rope and bales of merchandise awaiting shipment.

  Two small cogs were moored at the quayside, riding high and upright, as it was the peak of the flood tide. In fact, one was just preparing to leave, its single sail hoisted and the bow hawser about to be cast off by a man standing at a bollard on the edge of the wharf.

  ‘Hey there, hold it!’ yelled Gwyn in a voice that could be heard half a mile away. He began running to the bemused fellow, John close behind him, with an excited Brutus adding his loud barks to the sudden confusion. The shipmaster, standing at the stern of the cog alongside the steersman, also began yelling at this interference with his vessel’s departure.

  John left Gwyn to stop them casting off and went to the edge of the wharf nearest the shipmaster, who was almost level with him at this state of the tide. ‘I need to look at your crew before you sail,’ he shouted.

  The captain of the ship, a hard-faced man with a black beard, swore a few choice oaths at him and told him to clear off, but John was in no mood to be intimidated.

  ‘I am a king’s officer,’ he yelled, stretching the terms of Hubert Walter’s commission a little. ‘Are these all your crew?’ He waved an arm to encompass the four other men scattered around the deck of the little ship.

  Before he could get a reply, the problem was solved as Brutus went right to the edge of the wharf and began barking and snarling furiously at a man standing within a couple of arm’s lengths of him. Though now in a short brown tunic and breeches, he was tall and heavily built. John had no way of recognizing him as the man who had cut his head last night, but the man’s actions now put it beyond doubt. Pulling a long knife from his belt, he ran to the shipmaster and grabbed him from behind, holding the dagger to his neck.

  ‘Cast off, I say!’ he shouted. ‘Throw off the ropes, or I’ll cut his throat.’

  The other sailors looked bemused, but as the villain repeated his threat, one began moving towards the stern mooring rope, intending to unlash it. John drew his sword, which he had picked up when he had collected Brutus from his house. Though the gangplank had been pulled inboard, he made a running jump and landed on the deck, followed by Gwyn, who had his dagger ready in his hand. Not to be outdone, Brutus also made a flying leap up on to the deck and made straight for the man who had given him a kick the previous night.

  John was instantly afraid that his dog would be stabbed, but the canny animal ran around behind the man and jumped up, sinking his teeth into his back, out of reach of the blade. In seconds it was all over, as with a yell, the attacker had to release the shipmaster, who promptly gave him a vicious elbowing in the belly, by which time John had smashed the knife from his hand with a blow from the flat of his sword. Gwyn now floored the rapist with a blow from his ham-sized fist and kept him down on the deck by standing on the back of his neck.

  John called Brutus away and slowly order was restored. The shipmaster, grateful for their intervention, even though it was their presence that started it all, said the man’s name was Joel of Calais, a ruffian who was a good shipman, but an evil man to cross. As the shipmaster was anxious to catch the flood tide, John did not delay them any longer and after lashing Joel’s wrists with rope, he was pushed ashore and jostled through the city with Gwyn leading him like a cow to slaughter – which was what would happen to him eventually. The inhabitants rapidly learned who he was and by the time they had dragged him up Southgate Street as far as the Carfoix crossing, a jeering crowd was following, some spitting at him, gesturing angrily and soon throwing missiles of all sorts at this black-hearted ruffian who broke into decent folk’s houses at night to beat and ravish them. They delivered him to Stigand’s care in the castle undercroft and went to report to Ralph Morin that he now had yet another guest in his castle gaol.

  ‘That must be the quickest investigation and arrest in Exeter’s history!’ said the castellan. ‘What with catching Arnulf of Devizes and then letting Walter Hamelin break his neck, you’re single-handedly clearing Devon of all its villains!’

  ‘The credit for catching this shipman is all down to the hound,’ admitted John, feeling rightly proud of his old dog.

  ‘But what do we do with the swine now?’ demanded Ralph. ‘Just hang him and be done with it?’

  Joh
n shook his head. ‘He should be either tried before the sheriff’s court or committed to the next Eyre of Assize or when the Commissioners come . . . but we don’t have a bloody sheriff!’

  ‘Let the bastard rot downstairs then,’ decided Ralph. ‘With a bit of luck, he’ll die of dog-bite fever, thanks to Brutus!’

  Even Matilda was mildly impressed by the acclaim that her husband and his hound had generated by that evening. She had been to St Olave’s for one of her twice daily conversations with the Almighty, where her women friends, all wives of affluent merchants, had been enthusing about the capture of the evil ravisher, as well as her husband’s success in his other recent exploits.

  After their early supper of cold meat, bread and cheese, she was almost civil to John as he recounted the events of the afternoon. She even desisted from complaining about Brutus lying near the hearth, a change from her usual caustic remarks about ‘that stinking dog’.

  The same accolades were voiced far more robustly when he took ‘the stinking dog’ down to the Bush, after Matilda had retired to the solar for Lucille to help her to bed. At the inn, a larger crowd than usual had gathered to congratulate de Wolfe and Gwyn – and Brutus had a large and meaty bone given him by Nesta and Molly.

  Another convivial evening followed, though this time they stopped short of music and dancing. After it was over, John made his way back home without being diverted by rape and robbery with violence. After a final cup of cider with Mary in her warm cook shed, he climbed the stairs to the solar and for the first time, slid into bed in his own house, oblivious to the heavy breathing and occasional grunts from the other side of the mattress.

  As he lay staring at the new rafters just visible in the glow from a tiny rushlight set on a shelf, his mind went back to a year ago, when he would have been somewhere on a small ship, being tossed about in the Adriatic. So much had happened since then, yet twelve months had passed and his sovereign lord was still a prisoner of his enemies.

  John never prayed, as since his youth he had felt that it was talking to an empty void, but if he had even a remnant of belief, he would petition God to release Richard Coeur de Lion from his incarceration – and certainly prevent him falling into the hands of Philip Augustus of France, who would find some excuse to have him killed. With the memory of the Balkan bora whistling in his ears, he turned over and slid into blessed sleep.