‘Any baron is entitled to a fighting force of his own. I asked you, did this Fulford say that rebellion was imminent?’
‘Not in so many words, but he gave me enough intelligence to start me on my way to get confirmation – a job you should be doing, if you are so loyal to the monarch you represent in this part of England.’
‘Don’t lecture me on loyalty,’ flared the sheriff. ‘It would be better if the King came home, paid some attention to his kingdom and stopped bleeding it dry. He sells privileges, honours and charters like apples in the marketplace – he said he would sell London itself if he could get a good enough price.’
De Wolfe felt his anger rise. ‘A fine attitude towards the master whose lieutenant you are over thousands of his subjects. You make Fulford’s words more credible every time you open your mouth.’
De Revelle stepped forward angrily towards the coroner, but John leaped from his chair and towered over the other man. ‘You let Fulford go free and now he has confessed to having been involved in the killing of that prebendary – and, I suspect, the death of William Fitzhamon. He was caught red-handed trying to steal treasure, too, which by law belongs to the royal Treasury – and yet you, the keeper of the King’s peace in this county, refuse even to arrest him.’
Woken by the shouting, the old steward put his head fearfully round the door, but his master screamed at him to get out. Then he yelled at de Wolfe, ‘You have no proof at all of this man’s guilt. You torture some false confession from him when all he has done is dig a hole in a wood in some poxy village. Is that such a heinous crime, eh?’
He kicked the chair in which de Wolfe had been sitting, tipping it over with a crash. ‘I’ll not put the man in my gaol! If he doesn’t die of your assault upon him, he can ride out of the city in the morning where he’ll be safe from your lunatic actions.’
De Wolfe moved towards the door. ‘Very well. I felt I should give you a last chance, Richard. As soon as I have collected a little more evidence, I will go to Winchester or London to tell what I know to the Royal Justices and to Hubert Walter. Fitzhamon intended to do that and I owe it to his memory – and to his young son – to finish what evil men prevented him from completing.’
As he pulled open the door, the Nero-like figure of the sheriff spat a last warning at him: ‘Have a care, John! For my sister’s sake – and Christ knows she has suffered enough from you – I must warn you that you are on a path that could lead to the gallows.’
The coroner glared at his brother-in-law from the doorway. ‘Then maybe we will hang side by side on the same gibbet, Richard,’ he said, slamming the door behind him as he left.
That next morning, the second short day of 1195, saw several urgent conferences in the county of Devon, mostly conducted in low tones with many a cautious look over the shoulder.
Well before dawn, shadowy figures could be seen entering the Bishop’s palace behind the cathedral, and a keen observer might have recognised both Canon Thomas de Boterellis and Richard de Revelle going in to see Bishop Henry Marshal, who had recently returned from Gloucester. Soon after first light, the first two could have been seen galloping away along the road westward out of Exeter, with a pair of men-at-arms as escort.
Shortly before this, the coroner had been meeting the Archdeacon in the square chamber at the base of the north tower of the cathedral. In the opposite chamber of the south tower, used as the Lady Chapel, a group of priests and choristers was celebrating the early Lady Mass, but the bell had not yet begun to ring for prime, the first main service of the day, so John de Alencon had time to confer with de Wolfe and Hugh de Relaga, who had accompanied the Coroner to the cathedral. Hugh was a corpulent, cheerful fellow, addicted to colourful, showy clothing. An astute and successful wool merchant, he had been elected by his fellow burgesses as one of the two city Portreeves, the leaders of the civic administration. Unlike the other Portreeve, Henry Rifford, Hugh was an ardent King’s man, and with de Wolfe, the Archdeacon and John of Exeter, the cathedral Treasurer, formed a firm core of support for the Lionheart amid those whose loyalty was suspect. They stood in a tight group in the deserted chamber, the pale dawn light creeping through the tower windows and adding to the glow cast by the candles on the two small altars of St Paul and the Holy Cross behind them. The coroner explained briefly what had gone on during the previous night. ‘We made Giles Fulford tell us what happened to poor Robert de Hane. Although Fulford was the man that de Limesi and his vicar dealt with, it was his master Jocelin de Braose who was behind him. I lost him at our ambush at Dunsford, which made me suspect that he was the leading spirit in this search for Saewulf’s treasure.’
De Relaga was slightly bewildered: he had not been privy to the whole story and de Wolfe had to give him a quick summary. ‘That’s the background,’ he ended. ‘But last night I could see that we would lose our only hope of knowing what happened as the thrice-damned sheriff had let Fulford free to leave the city this morning. So Gwyn persuaded him to tell the truth.’
‘And that was what exactly?’ asked the Archdeacon.
‘When de Braose and Fulford dug up that Saxon brooch, it made them believe even more in the existence of the main treasure. When de Limesi failed to find any other parchment that would lead them to it, they decided to force its whereabouts from Robert de Hane. They beat him, then tried strangling him slowly into submission – but he suddenly died on them, poor old man. To avoid unnecessary problems, they hung him up to look like a suicide.’
While the coroner talked, de Relaga pulled his red cloak more closely about him in the chill air of the damp tower. He had been called from his bed too early to array himself in his usual finery, but his outfit was still in bright contrast to the sombre clothing of the coroner and the priest. ‘But what has this to do with Richard de Revelle’s refusal to arrest this Fulford?’ he asked.
‘Because de Braose and his squire Fulford are leaders of the mercenary gang that’s being hired by the would-be rebels out there in the countryside, I suppose he feels obliged to protect them.’
De Relaga groaned at the possibility. ‘I thought we had seen the last of this treachery last winter, when the King crushed the remnants of John’s vermin. Now you think it’s boiling up again?’
‘There’s no other explanation for the sheriff’s behaviour. He as good as told me so last night. I admit that the Lionheart is his own worst enemy, leaving the country so soon and trusting that the Justiciar can keep the lid on the discontent that these hard taxes undoubtedly foster.’
The Archdeacon snorted. ‘These nobles who are turning traitor are just using that as an excuse. They want more power and they see a better chance of getting it through the Count of Mortaigne, if they can seize the throne for him.’
The Portreeve was rapidly catching up with the situation. ‘But surely Hubert Walter is well aware of what’s going on? He has spies all over the country.’
‘England is a big place, and he can’t be everywhere at once,’ replied the coroner gruffly. ‘I suspect he anticipates attempts at revolt, but it would help him a great deal if he was given actual names and places.’
Hugh shook his head sadly. ‘I can hardly believe that people we know well would defect again so soon. And although de Revelle was sympathetic to the Prince last time, he never actually fought for him. That’s why he was allowed eventually to take up his sheriff’s appointment, especially with people like Henry Rifford and the Bishop to support him.’
‘The same goes for Henry Marshal and Thomas de Boterellis,’ commented de Alencon. ‘We all know that they sailed fairly near the wind, but never actually paraded their sympathies on the streets. Not like the Bishop of Coventry, who was the revolt’s true leader.’