Crowner's Crusade (20 page)

Eventually Matilda came in and he gave her an abbreviated account of his trip. Predictably, the fact that he had had two meetings with the Head of the English Church and seemed almost on gossiping terms with him, fuelled Matilda's fascination for anything ecclesiastical and gave her more ammunition to fire at her social rivals in the town.

‘Have you thought any more about seeking a house for us?' he asked in a tone that would have better suited an enquiry about his own funeral arrangements.

‘I have heard of several in the city,' she replied. ‘But none would have been good enough for us. You are a knight of the realm and we can't live in some dreary dwelling more suited to a candle maker or apothecary.'

John decided to grasp the nettle and go along with her ambitions. Much as he liked staying in the Bush, especially with Nesta there, he knew that it could not be a long-term solution. ‘Andrew the farrier, where I stable my horse, told me today that one of the houses in St Martin's Lane is vacant. The old lawyer who lived there has gone to Plympton to live with his daughter.'

Matilda's square face showed even more interest than when he was talking about the Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘That was the house of Adam of Lyme,' she replied. ‘It's in a good position, I could walk to the cathedral from there in two minutes!' The ease with which she could attend her endless devotions seemed a major criterion for her.

‘The farrier says that it is old and has been neglected by the occupant since his wife died five years ago,' said John cautiously. ‘It would need a lot of work done on it.'

They agreed to go and inspect it as soon as John could discover who held the lease.

Leaving an unusually placid Matilda behind him, he went wearily back to the Bush and after a pleasant hour talking to Nesta between her attending to her other patrons, climbed the steps and fell gratefully on to his bed and was asleep inside five minutes.

Next day, he walked with Gwyn and the hound up to the Cathedral Close, the large area around the huge church of St Peter and St Paul, whose two great towers dominated the whole of Exeter. Building work was still going on, though it was now nearing completion, as the original Norman cathedral, built on the site of a small Saxon abbey, had been almost totally rebuilt during the past sixty years. The Close, which was an ecclesiastical enclave independent of the city authorities, was also the burial ground for all Exeter and the surrounding area. Only in exceptional circumstances could burials take place anywhere else, as the cathedral jealously guarded the fees that came from disposing of the dead.

One of these graves was that of the courier John had found on the river bank. He enquired of a sexton and was shown a heap of fresh earth near the north tower. The whole Close was more like an excavation site than a peaceful cemetery, with newly dug graves mixed with old ones covered with weeds. The place was ill-kept, piles of rubbish abounding and beggars, drunks and noisy urchins competing for space with a few goats and even a rooting pig.

They stood over the lonely heap of red Devon soil and John took out the signet ring and looked at it. ‘We know the poor fellow's name now, it's Roger Smale,' said John. ‘I'll ask the archdeacon to come and offer a prayer over the grave and say a Mass for him at one of the cathedral shrines.'

Ignoring the yells of children racing around with their mangy dogs and kicking balls of tied-up rags, the two men stood there for a moment, one each side of the mound. John, in his long grey tunic clinched around his waist with his sword-belt, stared pensively down, his black hair blowing in the breeze above his dark, hawklike face. His squire looked as immovable as an oak tree, broad-shouldered in his scuffed jerkin, the ginger hair and moustaches framing his big, ruddy features.

‘Are we going to seek his killers, Sir John?' he rumbled.

‘He served the king as much as we did, in his way, Gwyn. So he deserves avenging, but where do we start looking?'

The Cornishman ran his hand through his tangled locks. ‘We have a name now – and we think he must have come down the river. I can't really see him being washed up from the sea. So can we not ride up the Exe and the Yeo for a few miles and ask if anyone had seen him?'

They began walking slowly away before de Wolfe answered. ‘No harm done in that. We have little else to occupy us at the moment. We'll try it tomorrow, though I have no great hope of success.'

John wanted to check on Bran in Andrew's stables, so they crossed the northern corner of the Close to the little church of St Martin, which stood at the end of the lane bearing the same name.

‘I told my wife last night that this house was vacant – perhaps unwisely, for she seemed quite taken with the idea.'

He stopped outside a tall, narrow building, the first on the left side. Beyond it, set back a little, was a similar house, as there were only two in the alley. At each end were the backs of houses in either the Close or the High Street. Opposite was the farrier's establishment between the rear of a tavern in the main street and another house in a lane alongside the church.

Gwyn looked at it critically. ‘A big old place for just two of you! Needs a lot of work done on it, too. Just look at that roof.'

Standing back, they looked up and saw that some of the thin wooden shingles of the steeply sloping roof were missing and others warped and cracked.

‘Good front door, though,' said Gwyn, pointing at the stout boards of blackened oak, with rusty iron hinges and studded nails. Between the door and the farther end of the house, there was one window at chest level. It was firmly shuttered, and nothing else broke the high frontage of heavy oak frames which supported panels of cob, covered with discoloured whitewash.

‘The price should be lower, given the state it's in,' muttered John.

When they crossed to the stables, John asked the farrier if he knew who was offering the house for sale or rent.

‘It's the old man's partner, a lawyer in Northgate Street,' replied Andrew. ‘The place has been empty for more than a year, so maybe he'll be anxious to get rid of it.'

After reassuring his old stallion that he had not been forgotten, John told the stableman to get him ready for early next morning, when Gwyn and he would ride up the valley of the Exe seeking any clue as to the way in which Roger Smale met his death.

Their next stop was Rougemont, where de Wolfe sought out the constable, while Gwyn went in search of a few soldiers willing to start a game of dice. Gabriel was drilling some young recruits in the inner ward, avoiding the ox-carts that rumbled in with supplies and the chickens and pigs that rooted about in the muddy earth churned up by the incessant activity of a busy castle. Ralph Morin was in his chamber, checking the number and quality of newly delivered arrows from a local fletcher, but gladly took a break when John arrived. Broaching a skin of wine, they sat and drank while John told him of his visit to London and the information that the Justiciar had given him.

‘So they don't trust Prince John, even after the so-called truce,' observed Ralph. ‘It's a wonder that they don't deprive him of those six counties, but I suppose as the king gave them to him, only he can take them away.'

‘And I'm appointed by Hubert Walter as a kind of unofficial watcher in the West Country, to warn of any signs that a new rebellion is fomenting,' added de Wolfe. ‘In other words, a royal spy, not that I like the idea. I'd rather come out and confront the bastards, with sword and shield.'

‘It may come to that, John. The barons took away many of his castles earlier in the year, but he still has Windsor, Tickhill and Nottingham. Also, some of his covert supporters have their own castles dotted around, which he could rely on if it came to civil war.'

John nodded gloomily. ‘Unfortunately, there's a lot of people he could rely on. Thank God his mother, sensible woman, keeps her own stern eye on him while our king is locked up abroad.'

‘We may be sharpening our swords again before long if King Richard doesn't come home soon,' said the castellan.

‘Or even if he does!' added John. ‘If the prince persists in defying his brother and starting an insurrection, Richard will have to crush him. The danger is that John is cultivating his alliance with Philip of France, who has greedy eyes not only on Normandy, but England itself.'

The talk turned to more immediate matters.

‘What can be done to find the killers of this Roger Smale?' asked de Wolfe. ‘With no effective sheriff, no one seems to care about the king's peace any longer.'

‘I can see your brother-in-law eventually being elected as acting sheriff by the prince, in the absence of anyone else,' declared Ralph. ‘God help us, he's only good for a tax-collector, I doubt his sword has been out of its scabbard these past ten years. You should be given the job, John, but the prince knows you are a staunch king's man.'

‘No chance of that, Ralph. But Gwyn and I are going to try to learn something about Smale's last days, if only to satisfy ourselves.'

When he left the castle, he went down to find the lawyer in North Street and discuss the vacant house with him. The advocate, a middle-aged fellow who seemed quite sensible and cooperative, told him that the owner, now fragile in mind and body, was willing to dispose of the house on a ten-year lease for twenty-five pounds. He gave John a large key and said he was welcome to take his wife to inspect the dwelling at any time, so John's next stop was Fore Street, where he managed to attract Matilda's attention away from the heavily pregnant niece for long enough to tell her about the house in St Martin's Lane. She still seemed moderately interested and John arranged to walk up with her that evening to inspect it.

Back at the Bush, he ate a midday meal provided by Nesta and her new cook, a bowl of mutton potage followed by grilled sea bream with beans and cabbage. Fresh bread and cheese followed and after the privations of the past few months, John felt that he had entered a culinary heaven. Afterwards, Nesta came to sit with him and he told her about the house in St Martin's Lane.

‘Why don't you walk up with me now and have a look?' he asked, when he saw how interested she was in seeing inside a town house.

‘Won't your wife be annoyed at you taking a strange woman there, even before she's seen it herself?' asked Nesta, anxiously.

He couldn't resist slipping an arm around her waist and briefly squeezing her. ‘You're not a strange woman, you're my landlady! And she will never know, anyway, Matilda is too besotted with the prospect of soon having a new baby to croon over.'

Nesta pulled a light hooded cloak over her kirtle and walked with him to Southgate Street and across into one of the entrances to the cathedral precinct. As they crossed the rugged ground, he pointed out the new grave mound of Roger Smale.

‘I'm going out with Gwyn tomorrow to see if we can find some trace of the poor fellow in the days before he was so foully killed. I promised the Justiciar that I would try to discover if any active plot was being hatched by Prince John down here in the west.'

The Welshwoman looked at him in concern. ‘Be careful, John, I've heard that he and his men can be ruthless. We don't want you coming to any harm, after surviving all you've gone through these past few years.'

He warmed to her worrying about him, so different to Matilda's usual indifference. ‘I'll manage, dear Nesta. Compared to Saladin's army, I doubt the Count of Mortain's rabble will prove much of a challenge.'

She still looked uneasy, but in a couple of minutes they were outside the heavy door of the house in St Martin's Lane. De Wolfe produced the key and with a squeak of rusty metal, turned it and shoved the door open. They found themselves in a narrow vestibule partitioned off from the main room. It was bare apart from a bench against the opposite wall, under which were a few old shoes. Above it was a row of wooden clothes pegs stuck into the wall. On the right was a door leading into the main hall and on the left, an opening leading to a covered passage that ran along the side of the house to reach the backyard.

‘A bit grim, but nothing wrong so far,' observed Nesta. ‘Let's see the hall.'

She went to the inner door and pushed it open to reveal panelled draught screens just inside. Beyond these was the only room in the house, apart from the vestibule. They stood by the screens and gazed around. It was very high but spacious, in spite of the narrow frontage.

‘That roof must be twenty feet high!' said John, craning his neck to look up at the dusty beams far above, supporting the rafters that carried the wooden tiles. Here and there, they could see daylight where some were missing and a couple of small birds fluttered out, disturbed by these rare visitors.

At ground level, the floor was of beaten earth, rock hard from a century of treading feet. A thin scattering of mouldy rushes covered it, apart from the central firepit, which was ringed with stones. An iron trivet and a pair of roasting dogs sat forlornly over the long-dead ashes. The walls were all timber, the inner side of the frame-and-cob walls being planked for warmth A few faded tapestries hung on them in an effort to relieve the spartan appearance of the chamber.

‘I've seen more cheerful barrack rooms than this,' grunted John. ‘But it seems sound enough in its structure.'

Nesta had at first been disappointed by the bare, gloomy dwelling, but she could imagine what could be done to improve it. ‘Given time and money, John, it could be made into a fine house. Of course, it will depend on what your wife thinks of it.' There was a tinge of jealousy in her voice as she felt herself excluded from the domesticity that she had lost with Meredydd's death.

‘Let's have a look at the yard,' suggested John and led them back through the vestibule and down the side passage. Here there was a fairly large area, bounded by the back of the houses in the Cathedral Close on one side and a high fence between them and a similar yard next door.