Crowner's Quest (25 page)

At the top of the stairs in the gatehouse, he pushed aside the sacking door and went in to the usual scene of Thomas writing at the trestle table and Gwyn perched on the window-ledge, eating and drinking. The little clerk, his thin nose red with cold, held up a parchment. ‘I recorded all that Fulford said last night, Crowner. It’s written here, as you ordered. I’ve even got that savage over there to make his mark on it where I’ve written his name. You can sign it here, if you want to take it to the Justiciar.’ He offered his quill to de Wolfe, who, with some pride, carefully inscribed his name at the bottom of the document, the only words he was able to write.

He threw down the pen with studied carelessness. ‘What’s this about fish, Thomas?’ he demanded.

‘A sturgeon, Crowner, a big one! Stuck in a pool on the ebb tide near St James’s Priory, where there are salmon traps. The prior sent a message with one of the fish-sellers early this morning.’

De Wolfe was intrigued: this was the first time he had been called upon to carry out one of the oddest tasks of a coroner. As well as looking into treasure trove and fires, he had to investigate catches of the so-called ‘royal fish’, which were sturgeons and whales. If they were found within the realm of England, these became the property of the Crown. Both were prized and valuable, the sturgeon for its flesh and roe and the whale mainly for the oil it provided for lamps, as well as its flesh, if it was fresh enough.

Gwyn looked up from his loaf and cheese. ‘Very strange to have a sturgeon come up-river in winter. They usually arrive from the ocean to spawn in the spring.’ The Cornishman came from Polruan, where his father had been a fisherman, and he considered himself an authority on anything that had sails, rudder or fins.

‘Maybe this fish is an ignoramus like you, who can’t tell January from March,’ suggested Thomas, always quick to insult his partner. De Wolfe held up a hand to quell the inevitable squabble. ‘That’s enough! Let’s get down there and see this beast. The rest of the day may be busier.’

As they went out, he muttered to his henchman, ‘Gwyn, keep your eyes open and your hand on your sword. After our encounter with Fulford last night, there are people who would gladly see us dead.’

The ride was quite short down to the banks of the river Exe where the sturgeon was trapped. Between Exeter and the port of Topsham was the small priory dedicated to St James, founded over fifty years earlier by Earl Baldwin de Redvers, sheriff of Devon, who had held Rougemont against a siege by King Stephen for three months. Though he could never have met him, de Wolfe didn’t like the sound of Baldwin, possibly because he had fought against his king – for the Empress Matilda, the namesake of John’s wife. The coroner’s team trotted down the mile and a half to the priory, following the track to Topsham, parallel to the river. A small place, it housed only a prior and four monks. Near it was the sluice to a mill-stream and a palisade of stakes in the river for catching salmon.

When they arrived, a couple of monks and their prior were waiting outside, the latter an amiable, fat man with a fiery red face that matched the bare skin of his tonsured head. St James’s was a Cluniac house, so they wore the black habits of the Benedictine order. The finding of a sturgeon was a welcome break even on the Sabbath from the routine of their day, and they walked with de Wolfe down to the riverbank, where three fishermen were standing around a large muddy pool alongside the salmon trap.

The prior offered the obvious explanation. ‘It was stranded by the falling tide. On the next flood, it will just swim away.’

The fishermen were scowling at the prior, whose honest meddling in calling the coroner had deprived them of a valuable catch. As a fisherman’s son, Gwyn typically sided with them against the Church. He went over to them as they stood barefoot in the mud, their rough smocks girded up to their thighs, to discuss the strange phenomenon of a sturgeon trying to force its way up-river at the wrong time of year.

The fish was at least six feet long, its bony tube-like snout projecting in front of it like a sword. The pool was small and was draining away even more as the tide dropped, so that the fish had to swim in a tight figure-of-eight in the shallowing water.

‘What’s to be done about it, Crowner?’ asked one of the fishermen.

John considered the matter sympathetically. He was well aware that, especially at this time of year, fishermen had a hard time, hovering on the brink of survival with the sale of fish the only means of buying bread. But the law of the land said that these fish were the property of the King.

‘Who found it?’ he asked.

One of the men claimed that he had discovered it when he came down at the start of the ebb tide to see what was in the fish traps. He was a sickly, middle-aged man, thin and undernourished. De Wolfe knew that whatever the fish fetched would go to the Royal Treasury, undoubtedly to be put towards more warhorses, arrows and armour for the distant battles in France. He came to a decision and turned to the prior. ‘Although by law the whole value of the fish should go to the King, I realise that the labour of landing, gutting, butchering and selling must be recompensed. Therefore I decree that it be given to these three fishermen, who must get the best price for it. They must divide the proceeds in half, keeping one half for themselves and the other for the Crown.’

He glared at the three men, whose faces had lit up: they had had no expectations of getting anything at all from this valuable catch. They readily agreed and de Wolfe ordered them to give half the sale price to the prior, to be kept by him until it was collected when the Justices next came to Exeter. They would pay it in to the royal treasure chest kept in Winchester or the new Exchequer treasury at Westminster.

Gwyn was as pleased as the other men at de Wolfe’s generosity and helped them to haul out the great fish, struggling and thrashing in its death throes. The coroner accepted the prior’s invitation to meet his monks over a cup of wine in St James’s, to which gathering Thomas managed to get himself included, much to his delight.

The air was still and icy when the four horsemen reached Berry Pomeroy castle at about noon. The smoke from the kitchen fires rose straight up to a pale blue sky that had a few high mackerel clouds. As the two soldiers of the escort walked all the horses to the stables in the bailey, they assured each other that there would be no snow to prevent them getting back to Exeter by nightfall.

Richard de Revelle and Canon de Boterellis were received at the door of the donjon by Henry de la Pomeroy and conducted to his private chamber off the hall, where first they warmed themselves by a good fire after their frigid journey, then were fortified with hot food and wine. The sheriff’s visit had been arranged days before, though his bringing the Precentor was an emergency move triggered by the events of the night. Henri de Nonant and Bernard Cheevers were there too, as previously arranged, to talk to de Revelle, and the five men stood around the hearth as soon as the travellers were refreshed.

‘I brought de Boterellis to report on what Bishop Henry learned in Gloucester and Coventry last week,’ began the sheriff. ‘But what happened last night is of more immediate importance to us – and to all who support the just cause, if my damned brother-in-law goes whining to Hubert Walter.’

De Nonant, the big-boned lord of Totnes, waved a hand towards the bailey outside. ‘We know what happened. Giles Fulford rode in here just before you, as he left Exeter the moment the gates opened. He’s still wheezing from dung-water in his lungs from that horse trough.’ He spat noisily into the fire, perhaps a comment on Fulford’s inability to keep out of trouble.

De Revelle was put on the defensive, feeling blamed for his inability to control the Exeter end of this conspiracy. ‘How in hell could I foresee that this idiot squire would go straight to his favourite ale-house when I released him from gaol? He should have kept in hiding until he could leave the city, not lay himself open to kidnap. Though that was something no one could have dreamed of – only my devious brother-in-law could have thought up a move like that!’

Pomeroy’s sour face regarded him with distaste, his drooping moustache following the downturned corners of his flabby lips. ‘For Jesus Christ’s sake, de Revelle, can’t you control that man? You’re the sheriff! Why don’t you lock the bastard up or hang him?’

Bernard Cheever, ever the conciliator, came to de Revelle’s aid. ‘Come on, Henry, de Wolfe’s the King’s crowner – and he’s married to Richard’s sister! This has to be done with subtlety.’

The blunt lord of Totnes brought them back to the main issues. ‘The damage is done – no use crying over spilt milk. John de Wolfe guesses there is another rebellion in the wind and that some of us are involved. He has no proof, unless the sheriff here has admitted anything, so we have to make sure that the coroner doesn’t find any further evidence and that he won’t go running to the Justiciar or the King about it.’

‘He’s well in with both of them, more’s the pity, since they were all in Palestine,’ muttered Richard. ‘When Hubert Walter was here last month, they had their heads together a great deal – though, thank God, that was before any of our plans were known to de Wolfe.’

Henri de Nonant turned to the priest, who had been silent until now. ‘What news did the Bishop bring from Gloucester, Precentor?’

Thomas de Boterellis considered his answer carefully, his small dark eyes peering gimlet-like from the folds of his fat face. ‘Things are moving, but slowly. Your kinsman, Hugh de Nonant, who was deprived of his bishopric in Coventry, is being allowed by the King to purchase a pardon for the sum of two thousand marks.’

Pomeroy laughed cynically. ‘The Lionheart would sell his grandmother for the price of a quiver of arrows.’

‘But not his mother!’ quipped Cheever, and bitterly they all agreed. The old Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, was the only person who could control her wayward sons. It was largely due to her rapid return to England, when Richard had been locked up in Germany, that the Prince’s attempt to seize the throne from his elder brother had been demolished.

The Precentor carried on with his news. ‘Hugh de Nonant thinks it politic to stay in Normandy for the time being, so we lack a strong leader at present.’

‘What about another bishop?’ asked Cheever. ‘Henry Marshal of Exeter, for example.’

Boterellis shook his big head. ‘He’s too timid. If it falls flat again, he doesn’t want to follow the Bishop of Coventry. And he’s in an awkward position as brother to William Marshal, who has always been a King’s man – whichever king it is.’

Pomeroy glared around at the others. ‘So where are we now? Are we having a rebellion or not?’

‘A number of barons about England are once more sympathetic to the Prince’s cause,’ replied the lard-faced priest. ‘We have probably the strongest group here in the south-west. But it is so soon after the fiasco of last winter that many are treading softly. I’m sure that enough will rally eventually to the Count of Mortaigne, but it is too soon to declare openly yet.’

De Nonant brought them back to the current problem. ‘All the more reason not to let this wayward crowner let the badger out of the bag! What’s to be done?’

The lord of Berry Pomeroy took the initiative. ‘He must be silenced, either by threats or violence. Why are we so concerned about some piddling pensioned-off ex-Crusader?’

Richard de Revelle was less sanguine about the county coroner. ‘Much as I dislike the bloody man, I have to admit that he is able enough – tenacious, stubborn and cunning! And with that hairy Cornish savage watching his back, he can outfight any two men that I know.’

‘Then we’ll send five against him,’ snapped Pomeroy. ‘If he’s a danger to us, get rid of him.’

‘Can’t we blackmail him somehow?’ suggested the less bloodthirsty Bernard Cheever. ‘Murdering a coroner, especially one who’s a personal friend of the Archbishop of Canterbury and of the King, is a sure way of calling attention to ourselves.’

The sheriff responded quickly, anxious to avoid being involved in the assassination of Matilda’s husband. ‘I agree – and there may be a way of keeping his mouth shut. His Achilles’ heel is his fondness for women. I’ve a plan which might just work! I’ll put it into action as soon as I get back to Exeter tonight.’

Henry de Nonant was scornful of de Revelle’s confidence. ‘This de Wolfe sounds too hard a nut to crack that easily. We must have an absolutely foolproof strategem to keep him silent. What about those two adventurers we hired to recruit and train our mercenaries? De Braose did a good job on Fitzhamon, even if his squire let us down.’

Pomeroy went round with a flask to refill their wine cups. ‘They’re too fond of private enterprise for my liking. Their foolery with buried treasure led to the killing of that canon of yours, Boterellis, and hence to the crowner dousing Fulford in a trough last night to make him talk. If it wasn’t for that, we wouldn’t have this trouble now.’

Cheever, a smaller version of Hugh de Relaga in that he was dressed in bright-coloured tunic and mantle, acted as middle man once again. ‘If it was their fault that we have a problem, let’s see if they have any suggestions to put it right.’

A servant was dispatched to fetch the pair from the hall, and soon they appeared. Jocelin de Braose’s curly russet hair contrasted with the dark green cape he wore over his brown woollen tunic. Thomas de Boterellis, who knew the whole story of the treasure hunt, noticed that his cape was secured at his shoulder with a fine gold brooch of Saxon design.

Behind him stood Giles Fulford, slimmer and fairer than his master, dressed in a uniform-like leather jerkin and serge breeches. He looked flushed and constantly had to suppress an irritable cough that came from deep in his chest.

Henry de la Pomeroy had recruited de Braose to find and train a small army of mercenaries for the anticipated revolt, but had not seen him lately. Pomeroy had instigated the murder of Fitzhamon to prevent him telling tales to the Justiciar but had naturally kept well away from the hunting party at Totnes. He was curious as to how it had been achieved. De Braose was quite ready to enlighten him. ‘First we had to get Fitzhamon’s bowman out of the way. Giles here damaged a hamstring on his horse before they left Totnes, so the reeve had to walk it back and leave his master to hunt alone. We tracked him and got ahead of him.’