Anyway, he thought, it was no business of his and he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his mind, no longer having to avoid the woman or make stern refusals of her future favours.
As soon as Renaud had finished his meal — not that he had eaten much — he rose abruptly and almost dragged his wife away, murmuring a bare goodnight. Accompanied by her maid, Hawise followed reluctantly, giving Ranulf a soulful glance and a covert flutter of her fingers as she trailed after Renaud towards the doors.
While de Montfort prattled on to Guy de Bretteville on his other side, John prodded Ranulf gently in the ribs with his elbow and leaned over to speak to him in a low voice.
‘Well done, sir knight! I see how the land lies between you and the fair Hawise,’ he murmured. ‘But watch your step, the husband looked none too pleased, I doubt he’s ignorant of what’s going on.’
Ranulf gave a sheepish grin, but John sensed that he was both excited and agitated beneath his efforts to keep a calm exterior. De Wolfe hoped that Hawise had restrained herself from boasting to the under-marshal about Marlborough. She wouldn’t disillusion the younger man by flaunting her promiscuity, he thought.
He let the subject lie and they talked of other things, including the return journey through Oxford and the fortitude of the old queen and William Marshal on such a long and gruelling ride.
John had hoped for a walk along the riverbank with Ranulf, to catch up on the events of the return from Gloucester and to tell him more details of his own recent brush with death. But the younger knight seemed abstracted and excused himself straight after the supper, taking Aubrey away in a rather abrupt fashion. John wondered if Hawise had in fact told him of her previous passionate episode with him and this had made Ranulf embarrassed. John shrugged it off, he had more pressing matters to think of, mainly how he was to tell Hubert Walter that the investigation had stalled and that he wanted to resign as coroner.
For some exercise to settle the meal in his stomach, he walked into the abbey precinct and across Broad Sanctuary to come out in Thieving Lane. He loped back towards the main gate of the palace and the Deacon tavern. This route took him past the Crown alehouse, a low-class drinking den of which the man who had assaulted John had been a patron. On impulse, he turned into the inn and pushed his way past the drinkers standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder in the low-ceilinged taproom.
The place reeked of sweat, spilt ale and urine — both human and animal. The floor rushes looked as if they had not been changed since before the Conquest and several cats and dogs scratched through the litter for mice, rats and scraps of fallen food. Compared with this hovel, the Deacon was as much a palace as the one across the road.
De Wolfe pushed to the back of the room, where several casks were propped up on wedges and racks. A landlord almost as big as Gwyn stood truculently in front of the kegs, his hands on his hips. He had a large cudgel propped against a barrel, ready to deal with the frequent fights that broke out. The man wore a stained leather apron over his bare chest, his lower half encased in serge breeches. He glared at de Wolfe, who was obviously not one of his usual class of customers.
Thinking it politic to act like one, he asked for a quart of ale and gave a quarter-segment of a penny in exchange. Rather cautiously, he took a sip and to his surprise found it of better quality than that on offer in any of the other Westminster taverns. He complimented the landlord on the taste and received a grunt in reply, but persisted in his quest. This was no place to flash his royal warrant, especially without its impressive seal.
‘I met a man recently who recommended your brew,’ he lied. ‘A big fellow, with a curious brown mole on his cheek.’
The publican stared at him suspiciously.
‘Then you’ll not meet him again, for I hear he’s dead. Fell down and broke his neck.’
Obviously the instant news network of Westminster was not confined to the upper echelons of the palace and abbey.
‘Indeed, that’s a pity,’ said John insincerely. ‘What was his name?’
‘Jordan the ratcatcher, that’s who he was.’ The dead man had obviously not plied his trade in this alehouse, by the state of the place, but that was no concern of John’s.
‘And you are the coroner, sir — so why are you asking these questions?’ growled the landlord suspiciously. It was hardly surprising that he had been recognised, as de Wolfe was a striking figure, stalking around in black or grey, well known to most as the king’s new coroner. Deprived of anonymity, he thought he might as well be frank.
‘This Jordan tried to kill me, probably more than once,’ he growled. ‘Is it known that he took on such tasks, as well as killing vermin?’
The landlord, summing up the coroner’s demeanour and the size of the sword he carried, forbore to say that he thought that royal officials were just another class of vermin.
‘Jordan was a violent man, sir. Many a time I’ve had to deal with his brawling in here.’ He looked down at the heavy club propped against a barrel. ‘But I wouldn’t know about any other troubles he might have got into.’
‘You never saw him in the company of clergymen, I suppose.’
John was thinking of the possibility that Canon Simon might have had some nefarious dealings with the man, though as he was already dead at the time of the two attacks on John, he could not have been involved in those. But perhaps the silencing of the ironmaster might have been ordered by him or his partner, the mysterious man in the city tavern.
The innkeeper gave a derisive laugh. ‘Jordan? I doubt he’s been to Mass or confession since he was a lad. And the clergy, for all their sins and corruption, never come into the Crown, it’s way too rough for them.’
John looked around the room at the suspicious stares that the patrons were directing at him. He knew he would never get any information from them, even if some knew of Jordan’s exploits. He decided to send Gwyn to see if he could pick up any useful information, as alehouses were his forte, just as abbey dorters and refectories were happy hunting-grounds for Thomas de Peyne.
Sinking the rest of his quart, which he admitted he enjoyed very much, John went out into the far fresher air of the street and walked home to his bed, frustrated again by a failure to make any progress.
Next day, de Wolfe awoke with a sense of foreboding, for this might well be the day he would be called to account before Hubert Walter. If no summons came that morning, he would have to take the bull by the horns and seek an audience, confessing that he had failed and that he wished to resign and slink home to Devon.
But fate had other ideas for that day. Soon after the eighth hour, Thomas arrived in the coroner’s chamber from attending Prime in the abbey. They had just begun their second breakfast of bread, cheese and cider provided as usual by the ever-ravenous Gwyn, even though he and his master had had Osanna’s gruel and boiled eggs soon after dawn.
An imperious rap on the door heralded an unusual visitor, in the shape of Martin Stanford, the Deputy Marshal, who had never before sought out the coroner.
The three residents rose to their feet, for Stanford was a knight of greater seniority than even de Wolfe. He was one of the deputies to William Marshal himself, though to be fair, he never gave himself any great airs. A stocky man in his late fifties, he had a short neck and a red face, his brown hair cropped to a mat on top of his head in the old Norman style. He looked agitated and began speaking without any preamble.
‘De Wolfe, you supped in the Lesser Hall last evening, I understand? Were two of my under-marshals there with you?’
John waved an invitation for Martin to be seated, where Thomas had hastily vacated the bench, but the marshal ignored this and waited impatiently for an answer to his strange question.