Fuming at the deception, and not a little uneasy at what the immediate future might hold, Fulford was led alongside Gwyn’s mare and the cavalcade set off for Exeter.
Chapter Seven
In which Crowner John goes into the forest
They delivered their prisoner to Rougemont by late afternoon, giving him into the charge of Stigand, the obese and repulsive gaoler who reigned in the undercroft of the keep. Protesting violently, and promising retribution from on high, Giles Fulford was thrust into a filthy cell that lay off the passage that ran from an iron gate in the basement of the building.
This undercroft was partly below ground, reached by a short flight of steps from the inner bailey. It was divided in half by a dank, fungoid stone wall, the outer cavern being an open space, used for storage and as a torture chamber. There, ordeals, mutilations and the peine et forte dure were carried out. The rusted, barred gate was set in the centre of the wall, beyond which lay a dozen small cells and one larger cage.
De Wolfe gave no explanation to Stigand as to the reason why Fulford was to enjoy the sheriff’s hospitality, and the gaoler showed no interest as he pushed a dirty jug of water, half a loaf and a leather bucket for sanitation into the cell with the new prisoner. When Giles demanded the attentions of an apothecary for the wound on his arm, Stigand took a casual look at it, shrugged and walked away.
De Wolfe had already discovered that Richard de Revelle was out of the city until next day, so his intention to discuss the arrest of Fulford and the escape of de Braose was frustrated. Tired from a day in the saddle and the exertions of a fight, John was ready for a good meal, some ale and bed. He walked back across the inner ward of the castle with Gwyn, advising his old henchman to do the same, especially as he had a wide graze and cut on his forehead and was suffering a headache from the blow he had taken.
‘Where will you get a bed tonight?’ he asked, as the gates were shut and the Cornishman could not get back to St Sidwell’s.
‘Gabriel will find me a place in the barracks. I often sleep there if I can’t get home,’ Gwyn answered. ‘I’ll go down to the Bush to eat. I don’t fancy the Saracen after today’s performance.’
De Wolfe had the same desire for the tavern in Idle Lane, mainly to consolidate the healing of the tiff with Nesta, but he felt obliged to go home first, to see how the land lay as regards his wife’s mood. But he and Gwyn were delayed again as they passed the wooden staircase to the keep entrance. A servant came to the rail on the landing above and called down, ‘Sir John, the constable asked me to look out for you. He has an urgent message for you.’
Though the sheriff was the King’s representative in the county, the castle had been Crown property since it was built by the Conqueror and its constable was appointed by the King. This was meant to avoid it being used as a base for revolt by the barons, who owned most of the other castles. De Wolfe and his henchman climbed the steps in search of Ralph Morin, and went into the main hall, where people were eating, drinking and making a general hubbub after the day’s work.
As soon as he saw them, Morin got up from one of the tables and came across. He was a big man, almost the size of Gwyn, and his massive face was crowned with crinkled grey hair. He had a bushy grey beard with a fork in it that gave him the look of one of the Viking ancestors of his Norman race. He was an old friend of de Wolfe and they shared a dislike of Richard de Revelle, although Morin had to keep that well hidden as the sheriff was his immediate superior.
The constable invited them to sit with him and have a jar of ale as they talked. ‘I saw you bringing in a man lashed to his saddle just now,’ he began. ‘Have you lodged him with that filthy old pig down below?’
De Wolfe told the story of the day’s ambush in Dunsford and its connection with the death of Canon de Hane. Morin made a sucking noise through his teeth. ‘De Revelle will have problems with that. He’s quite thick with some of de Braose’s friends out in the county.’
The coroner stared hard at him. ‘Is something going on that I don’t know about, Ralph?’ he asked.
The constable refused to elaborate, saying he had heard only rumours, and he changed the subject by passing on his own news. ‘While you were out jousting in the countryside today, a messenger rode in from Henri de Nonant’s place at Totnes. It seems we have another high-class death, for during a hunting party there yesterday Sir William Fitzhamon fell from his horse and was killed.’
The coroner stared at him again. ‘Just what in hell’s name is going on, Ralph? Only three days ago I was sought out by Fitzhamon, who complained about a violent dispute over land with Henry de la Pomeroy – and now he’s dead!’
The constable shrugged his great shoulders. ‘Hunting is a dangerous pastime, John. Men often fall from their horses and break either their legs or their necks.’
The coroner scowled in disbelief. ‘Mother of God, these coincidences are becoming more than I care to accept!’ He drained his mug and stood up. ‘I suppose I have to ride down there in the morning to settle this new death – my backside is raw from the saddle with all these corpses about Devon.’
Morin rose to see him off. ‘At least there’s no reason to think that your favourite culprits Fulford and de Braose are involved in this one.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that, Ralph. I’ve heard – and you’ve just hinted at it – that Jocelin de Braose is a creature of some of those barons down in deepest Devon. I’m keeping an open mind on this.’
‘Well, that’ll be more than Richard de Revelle will be doing,’ murmured the constable, as he walked de Wolfe to the door.
With that cryptic comment in his ear, the coroner went thoughtfully back to Martin’s Lane.
Riding out in the early morning from the West Gate seemed to be developing into a routine, thought de Wolfe, as he and Gwyn trotted out once again in the grey dawn light of New Year’s Day. This time, there was no messenger with them, as he had turned tail the previous afternoon and started back for Totnes, probably buying a pennyworth of food and lodging at some village on the way.
As they jogged westward along the tracks, John pondered on the differences between women. Last night, Matilda had kept up her unrelenting sullenness, glowering at him whenever he had tried to make conversation to heal the breach between them. Even her habitual fascination with tales of the county aristocracy, which was usually grist to the mills of her snobbery, seemed to have evaporated: his news of the death of William Fitzhamon and the extraordinary behaviour of Jocelin de Braose, who had tried to kill her husband that day, failed to stir her from her sulks. By contrast, when he had given up the effort and gone to the Bush Inn, he had found Nesta her normally affectionate self, quite recovered from her passing fit of jealousy. In fact, she was even able to tease him about his infidelities, poking fun at his sexual stamina and hoping, for her sake, that his rutting abilities would not be overtaxed.
He smiled ruefully to himself as Bran’s great legs ate up the miles to Totnes. He was stuck with Matilda, he had to accept that, but he was damned if he was going to spend the rest of his life worrying about it and enduring decades of domestic torture when women like Nesta and Hilda were able to offer him such amiable company and delightful passion.
Gwyn trotted alongside him in companionable silence, aware after twenty years with de Wolfe that this unfathomable man often needed to be left well alone, when he wished to churn something over in his mind. What it was, he didn’t know, nor did he much care: he was content to do what his master asked of him, even follow him into the jaws of hell. Gwyn’s domestic life was simple: he had a pleasant wife, who fed him, bedded him and had given him two boisterous children, never caring where he had been, whether it was to Dartmoor or Damascus.