The Tinner's Corpse (13 page)

‘The first to be told should be me!’ snapped de Revelle, reacting to the snub from Knapman. ‘I am both your Lord Warden
and
the sheriff of this county.’

Without so much as looking behind him, Knapman ignored the interruption and carried on. ‘I can only think that this slaying of one of my most valued workers was meant to be a direct threat to my tinning interests – and I can only assume that someone is trying to destroy my business. I have had stream-works damaged before and now one of my best men is beheaded!’

He was answered by another growl from the crowd, many of whom had known and respected the dead Henry.

But another reaction came from closer at hand. Stephen Acland, his face red with anger, pushed nearer to Knapman, though the latter’s supporters still formed a barrier. ‘Are you accusing me yet again, damn you?’ he yelled.

Walter looked stonily at the younger man. ‘Did I accuse anyone?’

‘We all know what you’re insinuating! You did at the crowner’s inquest, now you’re repeating it.’

‘If the cap fits, Acland, wear it!’ roared Knapman, his anger getting the better of his tongue.

One of Knapman’s jurates made an obscene sign to the Acland supporter in front of him and received a violent push in the chest for his trouble. Immediately, an affray developed between the rival jurates, with pushing and fists flying. The spectators in the outer ring surged forward ready to join in.

Gabriel leapt down from the stony ledge, waving his men to follow, and set about the fighting tinners with his stave. The men-at-arms had not come to Crockern Tor in battle array, so wore leather jerkins rather than chain-mail hauberks. Though swords hung from their baldrics, they had exchanged their lances for stout sticks, and with these they laid about the dozen jurates who were fighting. Within minutes, the squabble had subsided, and Gabriel and his men had pushed apart the warring factions, who stood nursing their bruises and muttering abuse at their rivals and the soldiers.

All through the skirmish Richard de Revelle had been yelling ineffectually for order and now admonished the jurates for their unseemly behaviour. It seemed to de Wolfe that the tough band of tinners found nothing unusual about a brawl during the Great Court and it had subsided as rapidly as it had arisen – though Knapman and Acland continued to glower at each other over the heads of their supporters. Before the proceedings started again, de Wolfe took advantage of the lull to stride out to the spot from which Knapman had addressed the throng and barked at the assembly in commanding tones. ‘You have heard Walter Knapman offer a reward for information about the death of his man, and that he recommends anyone to bring such information to me – or to the sheriff,’ he added, as a conciliatory afterthought. ‘But I have no reward for you, save that of reminding you that you help to keep the peace of our sovereign King Richard. One suspect is said to be the madman of the moors, this Aethelfrith. He cannot be found, so if anyone knows of his whereabouts, let him speak, now or later.’

Suddenly, as the tall, hunched figure in black was casting his baleful glare over the congregated tinners, a smaller figure advanced towards him from the outer ring of men. ‘Crowner, I have something you may wish to see.’

A wiry man, poorly dressed in a hessian tunic and coarse breeches, skirted the group of jurates and advanced to where the coroner stood. He carried a bundle wrapped in a sack, which he placed at John’s feet.

‘Why should I want to bother with you now, fellow?’ snapped de Wolfe, annoyed at being interrupted in mid-flow. ‘Who are you? Do you know anything of this killing?’

‘I have just arrived, sir. I am Simon, I work at one of Walter Knapman’s blowing-houses near Chagford. As to Henry’s death, Crowner, maybe you should see this.’ Bending, he took the bottom corners of the old sack in each hand and up-ended it.

Out rolled what John took to be a large ball – until he saw the blood-soaked grey hair and pallid face above the ragged stump of a severed neck.

Much against his will, Thomas de Peyne had been dispatched on his pony to Chagford, with the sack containing the head of Henry of Tunnaford bumping against the other side of his saddle. He had orders from the coroner to deliver it to the vicar of the church of St Michael and have the sexton reunite it with the rest of the body in the recently dug grave.

After the shocked uproar caused by the production of Henry’s head had subsided, Richard de Revelle called another interval. Those who had the stomach for it – and there were many among the hardy tinners – began again to eat and drink, with plenty to talk about during their unexpected break.

Meanwhile, the sheriff, the coroner and the two manorial lords gathered around the craggy throne. The soldiers, clerks and the coroner’s officer were in close attendance and the jurates, still divided into their two factions, hovered nearby, just out of earshot.

The man Simon stood before them, Sergeant Gabriel’s horny hand firmly gripping his shoulder. ‘I found it last evening, hidden under a slate slab behind the blowing-house,’ he explained nervously. ‘I was coming to the Great Court anyway, so I thought it best to bring it and give it to someone in authority.’

De Wolfe stared down at the man, a stringy fellow of some thirty years, who looked ill. A hacking cough suggested that his life expectancy was not great, probably from phthisis of the lungs, the coroner decided.

‘You said Walter Knapman was your master, so which of his blowing-houses was this?’ demanded de Revelle, in his best Shire Court manner.

Simon shook his head. ‘It wasn’t ours, sir. I called at another to collect a friend, who was also walking here to Crockern Tor. Before he arrived, I went behind the hut to relieve my bowels. As I crouched, I saw blood on some weeds alongside a flat stone. When I moved it aside, that awful thing was there.’

‘So whose blowing-house was it?’ asked Geoffrey Fitz-Peters harshly.

‘It was one near Shapley, on the way from Chagford to the track over the moor that comes to here. It belongs to Stephen Acland.’

The eyes of all those in authority flicked briefly at each other to test their reactions. The sheriff was first to react. ‘Acland! Come here – and you, Walter Knapman!’

‘Don’t be too hasty, Richard,’ grunted John quietly, as the men advanced. ‘You’re too fond of jumping to convenient conclusions.’

His brother-in-law ignored his advice and glowered at Stephen Acland. ‘What have you to say about this, both of you?’

Knapman looked shaken, as might be expected after the face of an old acquaintance had been produced in such a macabre manner. ‘I have nothing but revulsion for this foul act – and sorrow for my man,’ he said. ‘I have known Henry of Tunnaford for most of my life. He worked for my father years ago, when we only had two stream-works.’

The sheriff turned his haughty face towards the other tin-master. ‘And you? This relict was found on your property, so what do you say?’’

Stephen Acland reddened with anger – an emotion that John observed was easily aroused in the man. ‘What should I say? This fellow says he found it behind one of my blowing-houses, but that means nothing at all. It had to be somewhere! It might as easily have been behind any cowshed or barn.’ He glowered at Knapman, who stared stonily back at him. ‘Again I’m being put in the wrong,’ roared Acland. ‘Walter of Chagford thinks he owns the whole industry. Any challenge he takes as a personal insult.’

The coroner looked from one man to the other. ‘What’s going on between you two? Why are you at loggerheads all the time?’

Acland stayed sullenly silent, but Walter Knapman was only too willing to explain. ‘This upstart is jealous of my position in the Stannaries. Because I have more than twice the number of stream-works and far more tinners labouring for me, his avarice wishes to deny me what my family has built up over these past thirty years.’

Richard de Revelle stroked his pointed beard ruminatively. ‘Why should that make such a violent feud between you?’

‘Because he wants to displace me as the chief tin-master,’ snapped Knapman. ‘He’s bought out a couple of the small independent workings and has tried to persuade me to sell him some of mine. When I refused, he became vicious and abusive.’

Red-faced, Acland denied this hotly and began to push forward towards Knapman, but was restrained by the sergeant. ‘What’s wrong with a fair offer by way of trade?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing – apart from the way you made it,’ snarled Walter, pushing his face aggressively towards the other man’s. ‘And when I refused, no less than three times, maybe you thought to intimidate me, by smashing my sluices and killing one of my best men!’

This started another shouting match between the two tin-masters, and the sheriff motioned the soldiers to pull them apart and lead them back to the main group of jurates, where they stood surrounded by their supporters.

‘This is a waste of time,’ grated de Wolfe. ‘Their petty squabble is none of our concern. I fail to believe that Acland would have a man beheaded just to further his chances of buying another stream-works.’

William de Wrotham, a rather corpulent man in middle age, with a classic Norman haircut – trimmed up to a shelf all round his head – uttered a caution: ‘Don’t underestimate these tinners, Crowner. Passions run high amongst them. They are all jealous of their independence and their status in the Stannary community.’

Geoffrey Fitz-Peters nodded agreement. ‘Competition between them is a matter of honour rather than commerce. If it were not for their belligerence and quick tempers, my new gaol at Lydford would be empty.’

De Wolfe was still unconvinced that a decapitation could be laid at the door of a frustrated business deal. He was quite prepared to include Stephen Acland in any list of suspects, but that applied to most of the population of Devon.

The court clerk was whispering into de Revelle’s ear and pointing up at the sun, seen erratically through gaps in the heavy cloud. ‘It’s long past noon, we must finish our business, as most will want to get on their road home,’ the sheriff announced, and led the way back to their places along the craggy ridge.

De Wolfe and Gwyn went back to the outer line to listen to the final items. After a dispute about labourers’ rates of pay, Walter Knapman again stepped forward and raised the most controversial issue of the day. In an eloquent and increasingly passionate manner, he demanded a halt to the increasing taxes on the tin they produced and, linked to this, repeated their desire for a warden elected by the tinners themselves and not one who was automatically the King’s own representative in the county, the sheriff. With no attempt to defer to Richard de Revelle, who sat as chairman behind him, he pointed out the conflict of interests. ‘How can we press for a stay or even lowering in the crippling coinage we pay to the Crown when the leader of this assembly is the very man who must collect it?’ he demanded in strident tones.

De Revelle glared down at the back of Walter’s head, but the leading tin-master was in full flow, to the accompaniment of shouts of support for him and jeers at the sheriff.

‘Each year, the coinage increases, the cost of wresting tin from the streams increases – but our profit shrinks! We need a strong leader, an advocate to protest to the Royal Council, to the chief ministers, to the King himself. The sheriff cannot continue to have a foot in both camps. He has a divided loyalty. We need someone who knows about tinning, who knows our problems and knows how to solve them.’

The shouting from the back grew louder and the name ‘Knapman, Knapman’ began to be chanted, but then came the first challenge to Walter’s words.

‘And this new leader, the tinner Messiah, no doubt that’s going to be you, Knapman!’

It came from the throat of Stephen Acland, and the half-dozen men around him began yelling for him. This provoked the more numerous Knapman supporters and the yells rose to a crescendo. De Wolfe saw a ground-surge of movement and the tinners thrust reddened faces towards their opponents and began to shove at each other.

As the wily old soldier Gabriel motioned to his few men to move into the crowd, Richard de Revelle stood up in front of his granite throne and threw up his arms, fists clenched. ‘Be still, all of you!’ he screamed.

The sudden shout echoed down the slope and the unruly tinners subsided as quickly as they had become inflamed, turning away from their quarrels to see who had spoken.

As the sheriff glowered around the assembly, John felt a twinge of admiration for him, a sensation foreign to him as his usual feelings for de Revelle were of dislike, distaste and contempt. But now, the little jutting beard and cold eyes had imposed his will on a hundred and more tough men, who fell silent to listen to him.

‘Have a care as to what you say, Knapman!’ the sheriff carried on. ‘I am appointed Lord Warden of the Stannaries by order of the King and his Council. To claim that I should be removed from this office comes dangerously near treason.’

Knapman was not intimidated by this open threat. ‘Sheriff, how do we know what coinage has been fixed by that Council – if any has been fixed at all? You pay a large sum to Winchester as part of the county farm and much of that comes from the tin taxes. But how do we know how much that should be?’

‘And how much of it actually reaches Winchester?’ yelled a voice from the crowd, wisely letting his voice come from behind the shelter of another’s back.

‘Am I being accused of embezzlement, damn you?’ shouted back an infuriated de Revelle.

There were several calls of ‘Yes, yes’, but again the owners of the voices could not be identified, and Gabriel certainly made no effort to grab any culprits.

De Wolfe’s momentary spasm of admiration for the sheriff had faded and his face cracked into a rare grin as the bolder tinners gave vent to their opinion of the sheriff’s honesty.

Then Acland’s voice rose above the cat-calls and shouts. ‘Treason be damned! We tinners equal the woolmen in bringing wealth to Devon and taxes into the King’s coffers. I agree that we need a Warden who will speak for us, fight for us. But it doesn’t have to mean yet more fawning to Walter Knapman. It must be a free election, the choice of a majority of all tinners, through their jurates.’