Now they sat opposite each other in the chilly morning, at first reminiscing about their dusty, dirty and dangerous days in Palestine, then getting down to the business that had brought de Wolfe to London.
'I guessed it would be de Revelle again,' sighed the Justiciar. 'I suppose it would have saved a lot of trouble if we had hanged the bastard a couple of years ago.'
'He never seems to learn, damn him,' replied John in exasperation. 'But he is my wife's brother and it would be difficult for me to see him swinging on the gallows-tree.'
He explained in detail what had happened over the seizure of the manor of Hempston and the banishment of Nicholas de Arundell.
'So you see the difficulty, that Nicholas was forced into outlawry and is unable to sue for restitution,' he concluded.
Hubert Walter stared at the base of his goblet as he twisted it on the table. 'He was with us in Outremer, you say?'
John nodded. 'I never met him there, but he was at the battle of Arsulf. Who wasn't?' he added rather bitterly, for that was a day of great slaughter on both tides.
'De Arundell? Yes, I remember the name, amongst so many others. That family came over with William the Bastard at the time of Hastings. This is a poor reward for a staunch Crusader, John.'
As Hubert refilled their cups, John added some more explanation. 'From what I've heard, Henry de la Pomeroy was the prime schemer in this. Hempston lies against his lands and though de Revelle has been a beneficiary of the theft, Henry has annexed the manor into his own estate and the two of them are splitting the revenues between them.'
The archbishop shook his head sadly. 'There's been too much of this petty anarchy going on, John. Even though we crushed Prince John's major treachery, thanks to Queen Eleanor's vigilance, since then many lords have been whittling away at their neighbours' property. Too many of the damned sheriffs are either absentees or corrupt; they rarely take any action - and some are party to it themselves.'
John thought of saying that it was a pity that the king did not spend more time in England to take a firm grip on his wayward nobles, but decided to hold his tongue.
Instead, he pointed out one fact.
'Both the miscreants in this are covert supporters of the Count of Mortain, sire. I don't claim this particular act is anything to do with that, it's just plain greed and opportunism on their part. But it goes a long way to explaining why they could get away with it, as John was the original tenant-in-chief.'
The Justiciar looked enquiringly at the coroner. 'In what way?' he asked.
'Well, this happened before you established the coroners, so I was not around to be involved. And you well know who the sheriff of Devon was at that time.' Hubert nodded. 'Prince John Lackland, of course. As Sheriff of Devon he was remarkable for his complete absence from the county. God knows who did his work, some serjeant or bailiff, no doubt. They wouldn't have lifted a finger against de Revelle or Pomeroy, of course.' He absently fingered the cross on his breast as he stared into the fire. 'What's to be done about it, that's the thing? You didn't ride all the way from Devon just for my sympathy, you want some action, eh?'
De Wolfe nodded. 'It's a gross injustice, sire. They mustn't be allowed to get away with it.'
'Indeed not. If it was up to me, I would ride back with you and either clap the bastards into irons or hang them from the nearest tree, for the trouble they have wrought these past few years. But they have powerful allies amongst both the barons and the churchmen. Even I have to work with circumspection, as there are those who would delight in seeing me humbled.'
John, who took no great interest in the politics of the court, gave a noncommittal rumble in his throat and waited.
'The prince still has a substantial following, all waiting like a pack of dogs to fall upon a lame deer,' continued Hubert Walter. 'Many lesser nobles, like de la Pomeroy and de Revelle, have ingratiated themselves with these and expect protection when they get into trouble.' He drank some of his wine and looked directly into John's eyes. 'I know from the complaints and veiled threats I've had before, that Bishop Henry of Exeter is one of these.
And he is brother to William the Marshal of England, also effectively the Earl of Pembroke. There are others too, who would delight in seeing me fall, especially as I am so obviously the King's man.'
This was all getting too rarefied for de Wolfe, who always considered himself a simple fighting man.
'So what's to be done?' He returned to the same basic question, afraid that the Justiciar was working around to a refusal to take any action, but Hubert reassured him.
'This must be properly brought before the royal judges, to ensure that justice is seen to be done. I know that the Eyres are grossly lagging behind in their visitations to the counties, but I will appoint a special commission to hear this matter.' He gave a wry smile and winked at de Wolfe. 'I think that Walter de Ralegh might be an appropriate person, being from Devon himself.' Walter, one of the senior royal justices, was well aware of the situation in the west of the country, being a local man. He had had brushes with de Revelle before and in fact had been responsible for dismissing him from office as sheriff, and had also sworn in his successor, Henry de Furnellis.
'I'll appoint Walter and one other reliable judge to come down as soon as possible,' continued the Justiciar. 'They can resolve this matter speedily and firmly at a special sitting in Exeter.'
'But what about Nicholas de Arundell?' asked John. 'He is still marooned on Dartmoor as an outlaw. I'd not put it past Pomeroy and Richard to murder him under the excuse that he is still has the wolf's head".'
Hubert rubbed his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. 'I'll take a chance on that. I'll grant him and his men the king's pardon and get the Lionheart to ratify it when I see him, probably in a month's time. It will certainly serve to allow de Arundell to attend the court and put his side of the dispute.'
De Wolfe was gratified and relieved to hear this, but was still cautious. 'Is that really possible, sire?' Hubert looked sternly at de Wolfe. 'Anything is possible when you possess the king's writ to manage his kingdom in his absence. And here I have a twofold power, for as Head of the Church as well as Justiciar, I could enforce my decision on the grounds that it is an offence punishable by excommunication for anyone to take advantage of a man who is on Crusade. Even the other crowned heads of Europe, evil swine though most of them are, respect that rule. It was what prevented Prince John from getting aid from abroad when he rose up in revolt against his brother, when Richard was returning from Palestine.'
•
They spent a few more minutes discussing the details of the procedure before John took his leave. The two men had a deep mutual respect, and de Wolfe knew that he could depend upon Hubert Walter to keep his word. For his part, the Justiciar promised as John left the chamber that the clerks in Chancery would deliver a writ of command to him later that day, which would order the Sheriff of Devon to deliver Nicholas from his predicament as an outcast.
'We will have to walt for Ralegh to make his deliberations before this Arundell can enter into his manor again, but that should not be long. At least, the fellow and his men can be reunited with their wives in the meantime.'
With a great sense of relief, the coroner strode after an attending clerk through the tortuous passages of the palace, eager to find Gwyn and tell him the good news over a celebratory quart of ale.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In which Crowner John comes home
When the coroner and Gwyn were again at Dorchester, with still two days to go on their journey home, a curious injury occurred in Exeter.
That evening, a master weaver, Gilbert le Batur, left the back door of his house in Rock Lane, at the lower end of town near the Water Gate, to visit his privy. This was against the fence at the end of his yard, past the kitchen hut and pigsty. Inside the house, he had left his buxom wife Martha and his two adult sons, who were shocked to see their father stagger back into the hall a few minutes later, bleeding profusely from a wound in his shoulder.
Half an hour later, apothecary Richard Lustcote arrived, having been urgently summoned by one of the sons. It was not usual for him to attend upon customers, as they normally came to his shop, but he was well acquainted with Gilbert from their activities in the guilds - and the son's concern at his father's injury was too intense to be ignored.
Lustcote found his friend lying on a pallet in the solar that was built on to the side of the hall, anxiously attended by his wife and younger son. The weaver was pale and shocked, lying shivering under a thick blanket of his own manufacture, and responded to questions only with a mumbled grunt. The son had only been able to tell Lustcote that some kind of missile was lodged in his father's shoulder, and with some calming words, the apothecary turned down the blanket and saw a mess of blood across Gilbert's tunic, spreading down from the shoulder to his waist. At the upper part of the garment, a short stub of what appeared to be rusty metal was protruding. Feeling gently around the back of the shoulder, Richard Lustcote touched more metal, this time a sharp spike protruding through the fold of skin at the bottom of the left armpit.
'What's this, for pity's sake?' he exclaimed. Gilbert screeched when he touched it and the apothecary fumbled in his bag for a vial of strong poppy syrup, a large dose of which he administered to the weaver. 'That will deaden the pain very soon,' he said reassuringly, covering up the shoulder again, after checking that the bleeding was now almost stopped.
He turned to the despairing wife and the two sons, then motioned them to move a little further away. 'While that drug works its effect, tell me what you know of this,' he said in a low voice.
'My father went out to the privy and came back like this,' growled the elder lad, a stocky youth of about eighteen. 'It looks as if someone has shot him with a crossbow, yet the missile looks too small.'
'Have you been out to see if some miscreant is in the yard?' asked Lustcote.
'I saw no one, but it is so dark and all I had was a flickering candle.'
Richard shook his head wonderingly at the strange things that happened at night, then waited for the poppy extract to take effect. He considered having the injured man taken up to St John's Hospital, but the journey up to the East Gate would be very painful for Gilbert and would increase his shocked condition. Lustcote used half an hour to try to reassure the wife that the wound was not mortal, as the arrow or whatever it was had gone through the flaps of skin and muscle under the armpit and had thankfully missed any vital structures. What he did not tell them was that the main risk was from suppuration and gangrene, if the object had carried any dirt into the wound. By now, Gilbert le Batur had subsided into a drugged stupor, his breath puffing between slack lips, and the apothecary, with the help of the sons, turned him on to his side. With relative ease, Lustcote slid the projectile out of the wound at the back of the armpit.
After seeing the wife clean up the dried blood and place new linen over the two wounds, he walked over to the firepit, where the flames from a pile of logs augmented the rush lights and candles.
'What do you make of this?' he asked the sons, holding out the object he had taken from the wound. It was a short iron rod, somewhat longer than a hand, with a very sharp arrowhead on one end, being plain on the other. 'Just as well it had no fletching or I would never have removed it as easily as I did,' he said thankfully.
'Any idea what it is?'
The sons inspected the missile, then denied all knowledge of it. 'It's not a crossbow bolt,' said the elder. 'Too short and it has no leather flights.'
'Your father is a very lucky man,' exclaimed Richard. 'This thing had the power to completely transfix his armpit. If it had hit him a few inches to the right, it would have gone into his heart. This was an attempt at murder.' The wife left her ministrations and came across, holding a bowl of water stained pink with blood. She and her boys were well aware of the fate of the three other guildmasters in recent weeks.
'My husband was a master weaver, as you well know, Richard,' she said quaveringly. 'Is this yet another such attempt, d'you think?'
The avuncular Lustcote put a hand gently on her shoulder. 'I do not know, Martha; that will be for the sheriff and maybe coroner to investigate. But at least this time it was an attempt, not a success. For that we must be thankful.'
Cold and weary, muddy and hungry, the coroner and his officer reached Exeter just before dusk two days later. Gwyn went off to his dwelling in St Sidwell's to let his family know that he was still alive, whilst John took the valiant gelding back to Andrew's livery stables, then crossed the lane to his own house. After a warm welcome and a surreptitious kiss from Mary in the vestibule as he shed his cloak and boots, he went into the hall, wondering what sort of reception he would get from his wife after two weeks' absence.
Matilda proved to be remarkably benign, as she had been just before he left. She even enquired if he was tired, which for her showed unusual solicitude. He sank into his chair by the fire and fondled the soft ears of old Brutus, who crawled up to greet him. Mary bustled in with mulled ale and hurried off again to bring him food from the kitchen shed.