The Manor of Death (14 page)

'The mistress is in the kitchen-shed, cap'n!' he croaked. 'Screaming at a new cook-maid who can't boil a bloody egg.'

Edwin was easily the most inquisitive man in the city of Exeter and had often fed John useful titbits of information gleaned from the hundreds of travellers who passed through the Bush. The coroner thought it might be worth trying to tap his store of gossip.

'Know anything about Axmouth, Edwin? I've got to deal with a killing over there.'

The haggard old man rubbed his chin, his dead eye rolling horribly.

'God's guts, Crowner, they're funny buggers over that side of the county!' he said, falling in with most people's opinion of the inhabitants of the Axe valley. 'Busy place, though, a lot of trade passing in and out of that river. I left from there in '73 on a voyage to St-Malo when we went to fight in Brittany for old King Henry.'

John was more interested in present problems than in ancient history.

'You must get shipmen in here sometimes. Have you heard of any ill-doings in that port, such as piracy or smuggling?'

Edwin gave a toothless grin as he gathered up empty ale-pots.

'Smuggling? Of course, who doesn't dodge the tallyman when he can? Goes against the grain to pay for something, then have to pay the bloody Exchequer as well. Begging your pardon, Crowner,' he added hurriedly as he realised that he was speaking to a senior officer sworn to uphold the law.

As this seemed an almost universal sentiment amongst the citizens, John let it pass. 'What about piracy?' he demanded.

Edwin considered this for a moment. 'Well, cap'n, there are rumours, but you get them from any port along the western coast. A few drunken shipmen have occasionally boasted how they outran some privateer - and there are whispered tales of ships never being heard of again and of corpses washed up with their throats cut.'

'But Axmouth in particular?' persisted the coroner.
 

The old man shrugged. 'Never recall anyone mentioning it, sir. As I said, they are a rough lot over there; they don't seem to have much to do with us here in the city.' He heard the back door bang and saw the landlady bustling towards them, so he made a show of wiping John's table with a rag to mop up the spilt ale. 'Here's the missus coming,' he muttered and moved away.

'What's that old rascal been gossiping about, John?' she asked briskly, then slid along the bench towards him and grasped his arm. 'And where have you been this past week, Sir Crowner?'

This was Nesta's half-bantering, half-sarcastic mode of addressing him when he had annoyed or neglected her. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a kiss, looking down at this pretty, auburn-haired woman of twenty-nine, his mistress for the past two years.

'I've been dealing with the villains of this county, of whom there are far too many,' he said lightly, for he knew that he had failed to visit her often enough lately. Cases seemed to come one after the other and, though they took little time to settle, the travelling around the second-largest county in England swallowed up the days and left him weary by the time he got back home. Thank God, recently they had managed to replace the coroner for the north of Devon, the first one having killed himself after a fall from his horse. For a long time, de Wolfe had had to deal with deaths and other incidents as far away as Barnstaple and Clovelly, the round trip taking several days.

'Have you eaten, John?' asked Nesta in a more conciliatory tone.

They spoke in Welsh, her native tongue and one that John had learnt at his mother's knee, as Enid de Wolfe was the daughter of a Cornish knight and a mother from Gwent, the same part of south-east Wales from which Nesta came. Even Gwyn could converse with them in that language, being a Cornishman from Polruan - a fact that annoyed Thomas when he was with them, as he was a dyed-in-the-wool English Norman, his father being a minor knight from Hampshire.

John assured Nesta that he had not long eaten, having been filled to capacity by Mary, who had boiled a whole pike and served it with turnips, onions and beans. As tomorrow was Friday, no doubt they would have the rest of the large coarse fish then, in some guise or other.

As the hazel eyes in the heart-shaped face looked up at him while he recounted his tales of visits to Axmouth and Kenton, he tried to erase the images of Hilda from his mind. A mildly guilty conscience made him omit any mention of the extension of his trip down to Dawlish, though he knew that Nesta had sufficient knowledge of geography to know that Kenton was almost within spitting distance of Hilda's village.

'That was what I was asking old Edwin,' he said, adroitly turning the conversation. 'He hears all the gossip, and I wondered if he knew anything sinister about Axmouth, for it seems an odd place.'

Nesta's high forehead, framed by the band of her white cover-chief, creased in thought and she pursed her rosebud lips. 'Wasn't there some scandal there a couple of years ago, about a bailiff beating a man to death? I seem to remember gossip about him being judged innocent.'

John shook his head. 'I recall nothing about that. It must have been before I was made coroner, surely?'

'Indeed, my Meredydd was still with me then, God rest his poor soul.'

This was Nesta's husband, an archer from Gwent. He had been with de Wolfe in several campaigns, and when he had ended his fighting days he had taken John's advice and spent his war booty in buying the Bush, bringing his wife down to Exeter from Wales. For a year or so they had worked hard to improve the tavern, then Meredydd died of a fever and left Nesta with serious debts. John had come to her rescue with a loan, and their friendship had blossomed into romance.

'Do you remember the name of this bailiff?' he asked, but Nesta had no more information and even Edwin, when he was asked later, could throw no more light on the matter. 'I'll have to make enquiries with the court clerks. Maybe they have records, unless this was in another county like Dorset.'

Their talk drifted on to other things, but de Wolfe had the feeling that his mistress was rather sad and preoccupied this evening. They had settled into a routine these past few months, where John came down to the alehouse several times a week and often they retired up the broad ladder at the back of the taproom. Here, Nesta had her little chamber, partitioned off from the large loft where rows of straw-filled hessian pallets provided accommodation for those who wanted a penny lodging for the night, which included ale and breakfast. In this small room they would make love in the comfort of her goose-feather bed, though it was rare that he could ever manage to stay all night, unless Matilda was staying with her cousin in Fore Street or, in former times, with her brother at one of his manors. This routine had slowed lately, mainly because of John's increased workload.

Tonight, she seemed listless and made no move to suggest that they went up to the loft, claiming that she must keep going out to the yard to keep an eye on the new girl in the kitchen, who could not be trusted for long on her own. The food, and especially the ale, in the Bush was famed throughout the city, and much of Nesta's skill in making the business a success after her husband died was due to her reputation in this direction. Several times, she rose and left John at his table, returning after some time to complain about the stupidity of her new skivvy. Nesta was usually more tolerant than this, and eventually John pulled her to his shoulder and asked her if she was quite well.

'You seem out of sorts tonight,
cariad
,' he said affectionately. 'Is something bothering you?'

She sighed and reached out to take a sip from his ale-jar, which Edwin had recently refilled. 'Nothing new, John. I just feel that things are so hopeless for us. The weeks and months go by and nothing changes. Nothing can change, can it?'

John knew what she meant, for they had been through this many times before. He was a Norman knight, married to the sister of another Norman knight and a former sheriff. In addition, he was a senior law officer in the service of the king, who had personally nominated him. By contrast, she was a lowly ale-wife and a Welsh foreigner to boot. What chance could they ever have together, short of running away to Flanders or Scotland?

As always, de Wolfe had no answer for her. He squeezed her to him in a futile attempt at comfort and reassurance. 'We can go on as we are, my love,' he murmured. 'Nothing has changed, as you say. But we have managed like this for two years and more.'

'Yes, we have managed,' she said bitterly. 'But can we ever do more than just 'manage'? You have to skulk down here in the evenings, pretending to take your hound for a walk. We can never be in public together like other folk. People nudge each other when they see us, with a sneer or a knowing look.'

This was a little unfair, as though every patron in the Bush knew of their landlady's liaison with the county coroner they all approved, and their prime feeling about it was one of mild jealousy at his luck in having such an attractive mistress.

'Do you want me to go, Nesta?' he asked, baffled at the situation. John de Wolfe and any sort of emotional crisis mixed as well as oil and water.

The offer instantly softened Nesta's mood. 'Of course not, you great oaf!' She snuggled closer, and several nearby patrons tactfully found some other direction in which to stare. 'I'm sorry, dear John. Maybe it's the time of the month. I get so sad sometimes, but take no notice.'

After her next foray to the kitchen-shed, de Wolfe decided that he had better make for home, as Nesta's remarks probably indicated that the loft would be out of bounds that evening. Finishing his ale, he went with her to the door, where a final good-night kiss saw him on his way to Martin's Lane.

The next day, Friday, was taken up with the county court, held in the Shire Hall, inside the inner ward of Rougemont. The central area of the castle, ringed with its defensive wall, held three buildings, the keep at the far side from the gatehouse, the small garrison church of St Mary and the courthouse. This was a bare stone box with a slated roof, as thatch would be vulnerable to fire arrows in the event of a siege. However, there had been no fighting here for over half a century, since the castle had held out for the Empress Matilda for three months in the civil war against King Stephen.

The coroner was required for a number of duties at the shire court, held frequently to settle a variety of criminal and civil cases. He had to call upon 'attached' persons to answer to their bail and, if they failed to appear for four successive courts, declare them outlaw. This particular day, he also had to present various other matters, including several appeals of felony and two criminals who wished to turn 'approver'. There were several forfeitures of the property of hanged felons to register and a number of other administrative tasks, some of which would have to be handed on to the higher court, the Eyre, when it eventually delivered four king's judges to Exeter to try the most serious cases.

The day passed, with Thomas de Peyne doing sterling work in producing documents and rolls and scribing new material for eventual presentation to the Justices in Eyre. At the end of it, John was content to go home to eat the rest of Mary's large pike for supper and doze with a jug of Loire wine. When his wife vanished to her devotions and her bed, he did not even have the will to get up and go down to the Bush. Ignoring Brutus's accusing eye, he slumped in his chair before the fire and let his mind wander over all his problems, professional and personal, until he finally fell asleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

In which Crowner John rides to Honiton

Next morning it was almost a replay of the previous Tuesday, as Hugh Bogge, the Keeper's clerk, again turned up at Rougemont soon after the eighth hour, having left Honiton as dawn lightened the eastern sky. His message was also similar, in that he came to summon the coroner to the scene of a violent death.

'Not a strangled young shipman this time,' he announced with morbid relish. 'A packman with his head stove in! But Sir Luke thinks there might be a connection between them.'

In spite of his three-hour ride, Bogge was quite willing to travel back with them after a bite to eat and a change of horse. By noon they had retraced the fourteen miles of relatively good road back to Honiton, even Thomas keeping up a decent pace on his new rounsey. De Wolfe and Gwyn had become so frustrated by his tardiness on the old broken-winded pony that John had dipped into the sheriff's expense fund and bought a dappled palfrey for the clerk.

They rode into the large village along its straight main street that was part of the Fosse Way, until Hugh Bogge led them down a side track that joined the road to Wilmington and Axminster, where the Keeper of the Peace lived. The cottages and shacks of Honiton petered out after a few hundred paces and, beyond a few strip-fields on either side, trees began again, patches of woodland at first, then denser forest beyond. Just where the last length of ploughed land gave way to a copse of beech and ash, John saw a cluster of people about twenty yards off the road.

'That's the place, Crowner,' said Hugh, his fat face almost glowing with excitement. He obviously relished being a Keeper's clerk, savouring the minor dramas that went with the job.

As they rode up and dismounted, they could see that Luke de Casewold was holding court amongst a handful of villagers. Some held a rake or hoe in their hands and seemed to have been working in the adjacent fields, where early oats and barley were showing green, as well as young bean and pea plants. After tying their horses' reins to convenient saplings, the four newcomers went along the edge of the trees to the group, and de Wolfe pushed his way past the yokels to confront the Keeper.