Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) (12 page)

So far, the coroner could not think of any way of stimulating conversation which might lead to discussion of current intrigues, but then the empty place opposite was filled by Ranulf of Abingdon. John was glad to see him, as he had enjoyed his company the other night – and possibly he might lead them into more gossip. As a servant filled his tankard with ale, Ranulf greeted John warmly and then introduced the priest sitting next to him, who it seemed was also an established friend.

‘This is Bernard de Montfort, archdeacon of Saint Flour,’ he announced, confirming John’s guess that the man came from the Massif Central, as Saint Flour was an important town on the edge of the mountains. They exchanged some pleasantries and de Wolfe began to think he must be on the road to becoming a soft-centred expert in mouthing platitudes, instead of the hard-bitten soldier that he had been for the past twenty years.

After a few moments, the under-marshal leaned across and spoke in a low voice. ‘We had better meet for a talk afterwards, I have some news for you about our trip to Winchester.’

Immediately, the sharp-eared Hawise picked up on the remark.

‘What plots are you men hatching now?’ she asked archly. ‘Are you off on a hunting trip – or perhaps you are seeking to hunt the ladies of Winchester!’

Ranulf smiled weakly, wishing for once that she would mind her own business.

‘Affairs of state, I’m afraid, nothing exciting,’ he replied dismissively. He winked at John who took the hint and diverted the inquisitive woman. ‘Madam, did you know this poor fellow on whom I held an inquest today? He was one of the staff in your guest quarters.’

Her husband spoke across the table before Hawise could answer.

‘You mean Basil, the little fellow who made sure we all had bed linen and chamber pots?’

‘He did a little more than that,’ countered Ranulf. ‘He also made sure that the kitchens were supplied with food for the guests and a host of other tasks to make your stay comfortable.’

‘Why on earth should anyone murder such a useful fellow?’ asked Hawise, fluttering her long lashes at the under-marshal, who was handsome enough in a stern sort of way. In fact, she thought, both he and the brooding Sir John alongside her, were very attractive men.

‘I wish I knew, there seems no motive for it at all,’ said de Wolfe. ‘He was not robbed and his private life seemed too dull for him to have made enemies.’

‘He was in minor orders, I understand,’ cut in the archdeacon. ‘More than just a servant, then?’

‘He was a small, but not insignificant part of the palace administration,’ replied Ranulf. ‘He had to be literate and he needed to behave correctly before persons of high rank and quality – such as yourselves,’ he added suavely.

Hawise preened herself at the compliment, but John had a question for her and her husband.

‘On that point, did you ever notice Basil in any kind of – what shall I say – close contact with any of the guests? I mean, engaged in conversation beyond any matters relating to your accommodation?’

The couple from Blois looked at each other in mystification. ‘I don’t really know what you mean, Sir John,’ said Renaud. ‘Men like that are not noticed much – in fact, I feel that is part of their function, to remain inconspicuous. This Basil certainly went about his business quietly and discreetly, as one would expect.’

‘I never noticed him whispering in corners,’ declared Hawise, determined to have the last word. ‘He was certainly self-effacing and discreet. Now, tell me about this mysterious journey to Winchester. I hope you are going to return before we leave for Gloucester, we need your company and your protection on our own journey!’

Ranulf managed to fob off her curiosity with adroit disclaimers and then turned the conversation around to the sightseeing and marketing the visitors had done in the city since they arrived. At the end of the meal, he managed to escape with John and they strolled out into New Palace Yard, where they were joined by Gwyn, who had come up from his supper in the soldiers’ mess. They walked to the riverbank, near the landing stage where poor Basil had met his end and watched the evening sun as it dropped through a heat haze in the western sky.

‘So tell me about this task we have in Winchester,’ began de Wolfe. ‘My officer here will be with me, as well as my clerk. The Justiciar was not very forthcoming about why he wanted me to go on this venture.’

The under-marshal hooked his thumbs into the broad leather belt that encircled a thigh-length brown tunic, below which breeches and boots were visible. He spent much of his life on a horse and rarely wore the long calf-length tunic favoured by the less-active men in the palace.

‘These two chests are the last remaining in the treasury vault in Winchester Castle,’ he explained. ‘One is full of coin, being part of the last Exchequer collection, but I’m told that the other holds a variety of valuable objects of both gold and silver, as well as a few jewels.’

‘Where did they come from?’ asked John. Jewels were not common, most wealth being held in the two precious metals.

‘I gather they are mostly objects recovered as treasure trove, almost all of Saxon origin. No doubt you know more about that than most folk.’

John nodded. ‘We have had quite a few finds in Devon these past few years. Probably some of the contents of that chest have already passed through my hands in Exeter.’

Gwyn had been listening attentively. ‘So we are to bring these safely back to Westminster. Will they be lodged in the Receipt of the Exchequer?’ This was a building adjoining the front of the Great Hall, on the corner facing the river.

‘I doubt it, that’s only an office and counting house for clerks of the Exchequer, when the sheriffs bring their taxes up for audit. It’s not very secure, so I think at first they will be housed either in the strongroom in the King’s Chamber or in the abbey crypt. Some previous deliveries have been taken to the Great Tower in the city.’

‘You say “at first”, so are they to be moved again?’ asked John, wondering how an under-marshal knew all these details of the nation’s wealth.

As if reading his thoughts, Ranulf of Abingdon explained.

‘I have carried out this task before, as most of the treasure has come up to London over the past year or so. Some of it gets sent on to Dover and across to Rouen via Honfleur, but the last consignment ended up in the vaults of the New Temple, a mile up the road from here.’

At John’s puzzled expression, Ranulf slyly tapped the side of his nose. ‘Both old King Henry and now Richard have borrowed heavily from the Templars – I suspect that they require either some repayment or at least security for further loans.’

De Wolfe did not wish to get into a discussion about his sovereign lord’s financial dealings and moved on to more practical matters.

‘So what is the plan for this expedition? I’m still not clear what my role is supposed to be.’

‘You are well known as the most trustworthy of Hubert Walter’s knights. With so much silver and gold at risk, you are to ensure that nothing goes amiss!’

John thought cynically that if anything did go amiss, then it would be his head that would roll – perhaps literally.

‘When do we leave on this mission?’

‘The day after tomorrow, wet or shine! There will be twenty men-at-arms under a sergeant and three knights, including ourselves.’

‘Who is the other one?’ enquired de Wolfe.

‘William Aubrey, who is slightly junior to myself. He will carry the writ of release for the chests to the custodian at Winchester Castle.’

A distant rumble of thunder made them glance up at the sky and they saw that a bank of almost purple clouds was rolling up rapidly from the southern horizon.

‘God save us from muddy roads on Thursday!’ said Ranulf fervently. ‘Let’s get this storm over with tonight and give it a chance to dry up tomorrow.’

They began walking back across the wide yard and the marshal went off to his quarters behind the palace, leaving the coroner and his officer to trudge towards Long Ditch Lane. As they reached their dwelling, the first big splashes of rain began falling and within minutes, a deluge dropped from the darkening sky.

They sat in the main room around the whitewashed stones of the dead firepit and drank a few pints of Osanna’s ale as they listened to the rain beating on the thatch above the upper room and heard the drip of several leaks on to the table and benches below. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled for an hour until the storm passed over, but a steady drizzle of rain continued for much of the night.

John lay for a long while on his low bed, which he had shifted to avoid the drips, thinking about how his life had changed in the past couple of months. Losing Nesta was the most hurtful thing, though he fully appreciated the reasons. He fervently hoped that she was happy with her new husband, Owain the stonemason, and had found contentment back with her own people in Gwent. For all his many amorous adventures over the years, she was the one who had tugged at his heartstrings the most and he had truly loved her – even though he had loved Hilda before her and still loved her now.

Apart from concerns over these two women, he had problems with yet another pair. Firstly, Mary, his cook-maid in Exeter was left alone in his house in Martin’s Lane with only his old dog for company. Until he knew how permanent this exile to London might be – and whether or not his wife would ever return home – he could not dispose of the dwelling. He knew that Mary was unhappy with being left in an empty house with no duties except to feed herself and Brutus, and with no forecast of how long this state of affairs might last. With money not an issue, thanks to his share in a successful wool-exporting business, he could afford to keep the house on indefinitely, but it was his wife Matilda who was the fly in the honey-pot. As he tossed and turned on his hard mattress in the humid heat of the small room, he cursed again at the fate that had linked him to Matilda seventeen years earlier. Neither had a say in the marriage, forced on them by their respective parents and John had coped by staying away from his bride for most of the first fifteen years, finding campaigns, battles and then a Crusade to keep him far away. Since he had hung up his lance and shield over two years ago, living at home had only been bearable by virtue of his new job as Devon county coroner – and his liaison with Nesta. Matilda had become more and more sullen and abrasive, both because of his infidelities and by the depression caused by the disgrace of her brother Sir Richard de Revelle, who had been ejected as sheriff, mainly due to John’s exposure of his malpractice. Twice she had forsaken the world and entered a nunnery, this time showing no sign of revoking her decision, and until she decided what she was going to do, Mary was left alone in the house.

With these thoughts going round and round in his head, John eventually fell asleep as the thunder rolled away over the distant Chilterns, leaving him with the half-formed decision to somehow get back to Exeter to try to resolve the problem of his resentful wife.

It was good to be away from the restrictive atmosphere of Westminster, riding at the head of a squadron of soldiers through the Hampshire scrubland. The storm of a few nights ago had cleared the air and though it was warm, there was a breeze with white clouds scudding through a blue sky, instead of the hazy oppression that had hung over the Thames valley.

De Wolfe trotted along contentedly on Odin’s back, the heavy destrier’s hairy feet thumping rhythmically on the packed earth of the high road between Farnham and Winchester. Alongside him rode Ranulf of Abingdon on a roan gelding and behind came Gwyn on his brown mare, Thomas valiantly keeping up on a dappled palfrey borrowed from the palace stables.

The score of men-at-arms rode two abreast in semi-battle order, with boiled-leather jerkins but no chain-mail. However, they all wore round iron helmets and carried either a sword or an axe at their saddlebows. The last four in line were archers, dark mercenaries from Wales with longbows across their backs and a quiver of arrows at their knee. Bringing up the rear were the sergeant who had been at the inquest and the other under-marshal, William Aubrey, a fresh-faced young knight from Essex, who had not long obtained his spurs. He was a stocky, muscular fellow, always amiable and cheerful.

‘We are making good time, John,’ called Ranulf. ‘At this rate we should be there well before sundown.’

‘Make the most of it, as going back will be miserable, compared to this,’ replied de Wolfe, never ready to be optimistic. They would be encumbered by a heavy wagon on the return journey, and even though they had been promised a horse-team, instead of the usual slower oxen, it would more than double the time spent on the road. They had slept last night at Guildford Castle, but going back would mean at least five nights on the journey.

Every few hours, they halted at a village to rest, feed and water their horses. At noon, the whole party ate the rations they carried in their saddlebags, replenished that morning at Guildford. One stop was allowed soon afterwards at a tavern in a small hamlet, where everyone, including the soldiers, downed a quart of ale.

Back on the track, they passed through interminable heathland, with bushes and small trees dotting the scrub of the sandy Hampshire soil. Only around manors and villages were there strip-fields and pasture, quite different from the greener, lush valleys that John was used to in Devon.