He looked at John de Alencon. ‘We need to ambush these fellows and catch them in the act. For several reasons, I do not wish to involve the sheriff at this stage. Afterwards though he will need to take into custody any perpetrators.’
‘What are you asking, John?’ responded the Archdeacon.
‘We don’t know how many adventurers or ruffians Fulford will bring into this escapade. I have only one fighting man to assist me so we need a few strong arms to capture anyone who tries to dig for this treasure. Can you help there?’
There was some discussion between the two canons, and it was arranged that several of the younger servants from the Close would be recruited, including David from de Hane’s household. Thomas would go straight away that evening to the Chapter House library and write some fictitious account of where the main hoard could be found in the vicinity of Dunsford church. Eric Langton would take this to the Saracen late that evening; if Fulford was not there, he would try again tomorrow, insisting that he had better be present at the digging, to interpret the instructions accurately.
With much misgiving on the part of both Roger de Limesi and his vicar-choral, the meeting broke up so that the priests could prepare for their nightly services, and de Wolfe could go home to his frosty welcome at his own fireside.
Chapter Six
In which Crowner John lurks behind a hedge
When there was no war, revolt or insurrection in England, the nobility had to find other ways to pass the time and release their aggression. The usual surrogate for armed conflict was hunting, where the urge to kill and maim was transferred from fellow men to animals. In Devon, the wolf, the wild boar, the fox and, above all, the stag were the victims of this pastime, which in the case of some Normans was almost a full-time occupation. The forests were sacrosanct, either to the lord of the honour or to the King, who reserved to himself vast areas for hunting. It might be a capital offence for any commoner to poach on these lands and a complex system existed to protect the hunting by means of verderers and even special courts for the punishment of offenders.
But on the day before the eve of New Year, the hunting on the lower reaches of the River Dart was untroubled by poachers: a score of the local aristocracy were scouring the heavily wooded valley in pursuit of their sport. The event had been organised by Henri de Nonant, the lord of Totnes, who had invited many of his friends and neighbours to hunt on his lands, as well as in the forest owned by Bernard Cheever and on the estates of other manorial lords whose domains were continuous with theirs.
De Nonant had started the day with a lavish breakfast for all the hunters in Totnes Castle. A remarkable fortress, it had been built by Juhael soon after the Conquest; hundreds of men had toiled to raise a high mound, on which he built a circular stockade. At one side was a large bailey, itself protected by a deep ditch, the whole edifice looking down on and dominating the little walled town that stretched down to the Dart. To his surprise, as he was not the most sociable of men, Sir William Fitzhamon was one of those invited, though his son was not. Being as fond of chasing the stag as any other man, he accepted the invitation, which had come at short notice the previous day. It was delivered by word of mouth by de Nonant’s bailiffs, who travelled around the district recruiting the guests.
The hunters assembled soon after dawn, none having to travel more than a dozen miles to reach Totnes. As many of the participants had their own squires, the company amounted to more than thirty men, and after eating and drinking, the already raucous throng set off from the castle bailey into the dense woods that rose on each side of the valley. There was no set route or organisation: the hunters dispersed into the forests and scrubland as they wished, some in small groups, others in pairs or with their squires. All had their own hounds running alongside, darting hither and thither, looking for the scent of deer or boar. Most hunters carried a long-bow and a supply of arrows, though a few relied only on lances.
Within minutes, the yelling and horn-blowing around the castle subsided, though occasionally the gatekeeper could still hear a distant blast or the yelp of a hound up on the hillsides. The weather had improved slightly and the wind was not so keen in the deep vale of the Dart, though there was still frost on the ground to keep the mud at bay.
Deprived of his son, William Fitzhamon had brought with him one of his reeves, a man called Ansgot, renowned for his prowess with the bow. His lord suspected him of being an accomplished poacher, but as long as he did not practise on Fitzhamon’s own land, he was not bothered – if the fellow wanted to risk a hangman’s noose elsewhere, that was his business.
With the Saxon close behind him, Fitzhamon cantered away from the castle with the rest of the crowd, but gradually they all diverged and when well into the trees, the two were alone. Ansgot had with him a pair of large hounds, loping along one each side, but so far they had shown no sign of raising a quarry.
Fitzhamon pushed ahead, along the east bank of the river, then splashed across and started to climb the other side of the valley. Although he knew more than half of the other hunters, who were either acquaintances or neighbours, he deliberately kept away from the distant sounds of the pack, preferring to hunt alone. Soon one of the hounds shot off to the right and, nose to the ground, vanished into the trees.
‘He’s taken a scent, master,’ called Ansgot, and for five minutes or so, they pushed their way through thickening forest to keep the hounds in sight – the other had chased away to join its companion. Then the reeve called again, shouting urgently at his master’s back. Impatiently, Fitzhamon reined in his horse and looked over his shoulder. Ansgot had stopped and was dismounting to feel his horse’s back leg.
Cursing, he trotted back to his servant to see what was wrong.
‘He’s lame. I thought there was something wrong a while back, master.’ The reeve picked up the animal’s hoof and held it between his thighs, the better to examine the lower leg. ‘There’s a cut here, in the fetlock,’ he exclaimed. ‘What bastard would do this to a fine mare?’
His master, anxious to follow the hounds, looked down impatiently from his saddle. ‘Was she sound when you left home?’
‘Yes, sir. This is a fresh wound. It must have been done when we ate at the castle. While you went to the hall, we serving-men were fed in the kitchens. The horses were left tied up in the bailey.’
Fitzhamon sighed in exasperation. ‘Then you’ll have to walk her back to the castle. I’ll see you there when the day’s sport is finished.’ He wheeled his horse around and hurried after the hounds, who were whimpering at the edge of the small clearing, anxious to follow their scent. Cursing, Ansgot began the long trek back, leading his lame mare by a rein.
While the nobles of south Devon were crashing through the forest in search of their quarry, a second meeting was taking place in the Archdeacon’s house in Exeter. Once again, the late-morning meals usually enjoyed by the clergy were being postponed by the need to devise a plan of action.
‘I gave Thomas’s false document to Giles Fulford late last night,’ muttered Eric Langton. ‘He wanted to know where I had obtained it so I told him I found it among de Hane’s papers in the archives.’
‘Did he accept it as genuine, do you think?’ demanded John de Wolfe.
‘I’m sure he did. The greed showed on his face and he was in no frame of mind to question it.’
Thomas allowed himself a congratulatory smirk. He was proud of his forgery, which he had laboured over the previous evening. On a piece of vellum torn from an old hymnal, he had penned long-winded instructions to an imaginary site where the treasure was buried, using old ink he found in a stone bottle in the cathedral library. He had diluted this with dirty water from the yard outside, rapidly dried it over a candle flame, then rubbed and creased it until it looked genuinely old.