‘They were. We gave them some food and a few pence to teach those woodcutters a lesson. They are always hanging about the villages along the edge of the moor and forest, looking either to rob and steal or to do some occasional work for a pittance.’
De Wolfe well knew that although outlaws were supposed to be hunted like vermin, they often crept back into society, either to perform casual labouring work or even to settle permanently and take up a trade. Officially they were outcasts, usually escaped prisoners, suspects on the run or sanctuary-seekers who had promised to abjure the realm but who had melted away into the forests instead of seeking ship at a port. Anyone could slay an outlaw on sight; in law, they were considered ‘wolves’ heads’, and a bounty of five shillings could be claimed for their amputated head, if brought as proof to the sheriff or coroner.
‘Were all your gang outlaws who attacked the assart-makers?’ snapped de Wolfe.
‘All but two, who were our own men, including the reeve. Sir William decreed it should be done, so his steward found the men.’
De Wolfe bent over the corpses and saw that the right arm of one had been severed at the shoulder – the bloody limb was lying on the grass alongside him. The other had a massive wound in the neck and the coroner unhesitatingly stuck his fingers into the slash to gauge its depth. He looked up at Gwyn. ‘The neck bones are chipped by the blade. It was a good blow, almost took his head off,’ he said conversationally. He considered himself an authority on methods of killing and maiming, after a score of years on a multitude of battlefields. He wiped his fingers on a tuft of frozen grass and stood up. ‘I suppose I must hold an inquest on them, Gwyn.’
The hairy assistant looked dubiously at the still figures on the ground. ‘Is there any need?’ he asked grudgingly. ‘If they are outlaws, they don’t even exist in the eyes of the law. Why bother?’
The coroner rasped a hand over his black stubble – he was due to have his shave tomorrow. ‘I’m not sure. Nor do I think that anyone else knows the answer. The instructions are far from clear as to the duties of coroners.’
The only mandate they had was a single sentence issued by the meeting of the King’s justices held in Kent last September. This merely said that, in every county, three knights and one clerk were to be appointed to ‘keep the pleas of the Crown’, which meant all legal events that took place in the county had to be recorded for presentation to the Justices when they made their visits, which were noted for their infrequency and irregularity. As part of this ‘keeping of the pleas’, the coroner had to investigate all sudden deaths, assaults, rapes, finds of treasure, wrecks, catches of royal fish, such as whales and sturgeon, and perhaps even robberies. He had also to attend all hangings, mutilations, ordeals, trials by combat and any other legal happening that might come along. Yet the instructions for how to deal with such matters were vague in the extreme. De Wolfe knew that if he tried to seek clarification as to whether he need investigate the deaths of non-persons such as outlaws, he would wait months for a response from the royal court, if the judges of the King’s council could be bothered to consider the matter.
‘Let’s do it, to be on the safe side,’ he muttered to his officer. ‘There may be some political aspect to this. I suspect that a couple of dead men are but a symptom of some feud between Henry de la Pomeroy and William Fitzhamon, over land tenure, apart from this assart business.’
As if some heavenly ear had overheard him, a diversion occurred. Gwyn’s head went up and he almost sniffed the air. ‘Horsemen, coming this way – at least three of them,’ he said.
It was a minute or so before de Wolfe’s less keen ear heard the hoofs, but soon horses appeared at the end of the track through the village and four riders cantered up to the tithe barn. ‘It’s Sir William Fitzhamon,’ said Ulf, hurrying out of the hurdles to pull his forelock to his master.
The leading horseman was a thin, erect man whom John had met somewhere in the past, but with whom he was barely acquainted. Fitzhamon dismounted, walked across to the coroner and greeted him abruptly, giving hardly a glance at the bloody cadavers on the ground. ‘This is my son, Robert,’ he said jerking his head at the lad, who had also slid from his horse, leaving two squires mounted to guard their rear. ‘I assumed rightly that you would come here this morning, in response to the message I sent with my bailiff,’ he said, with a touch of arrogance that irritated John. ‘These dead rogues are of no account in themselves, but I wanted official recognition of the harm and insult that Pomeroy has done to my estate.’
De Wolfe, half a head taller than Fitzhamon, glowered at the older man. ‘I gather this comes about from some land dispute?’
‘There is no dispute, Sir John. The land is mine and has been in our family for generations. It is flagrant robbery on the part of Pomeroy, who is trying to push back my boundary by several hides, hacking and burning my part of the forest where it abuts on to his land, between this village and Afton.’ He smacked his leg in anger with a riding crop. ‘It’s not the first time he’s tried this.’
He took the coroner by the elbow and pulled him away from the others, while his son followed uncertainly behind him. ‘I have a number of manors scattered over the western counties and I cannot be everywhere at once. But this has gone too far. I have threatened Pomeroy that I will petition the King if he does not stop cutting my trees and withdraw back to his own boundaries.’
‘The King is a hard man to petition, these days. He is ever abroad,’ observed de Wolfe, though without any hint of criticism of Richard the Lionheart’s disregard for England.
‘I know that, and resign myself to not seeing him in person – though I wish I was still young enough to assist him in his war against that milk-sop in France, the unspeakable Philip.’
De Wolfe’s heart began to warm to Fitzhamon, after their first cool encounter. Anyone who was such a staunch supporter of the King was a man to admire, in his eyes.
‘I can – and will – go to see the Justiciar over this,’ continued Fitzhamon. ‘I regret that I missed the chance to meet him last month when he was in Exeter, but I had a week of the bloody flux and could not get from my bed or the privy.’
‘Hubert Walter is a fair-minded man and would consider your complaints seriously,’ advised de Wolfe.
Fitzhamon gave a quick look over his shoulder. ‘I could tell him a few other things as well, beyond my complaints about my land boundaries, if I had a mind. Things he might well pass on to our sovereign.’
Intrigued, John tried to lead him into more detail, but Fitzhamon seemed to feel that he had said too much already and would not be drawn further. They walked back to the barn and Fitzhamon prepared to remount his horse. ‘I wished to bring these deaths to your notice in the proper manner, Crowner, so that Henry de la Pomeroy is in no doubt that he has done wrong in setting a pack of rogues upon my own men who are defending my land.’
As he swung himself into the saddle, de Wolfe went up to him. ‘Your bailiff said that a man called Giles Fulford was among those who attacked your men, but that the leader was a red-headed fellow. Have you any idea who that might be?’
Fitzhamon shook his head. ‘I am not acquainted with the mercenaries of this county, sir. I know that many hot-blooded young men are putting themselves at the disposal of those who need strong arms and long swords to further their ambitions. I myself was invited to join them, but I considered it infamous! But, as to names, I can’t help you. I leave that to my servants.’ With this arrogant snub, he swung his horse round and cantered off, his silent son and two guards close behind him.