Manaton’s lord stood up and gazed pensively through the narrow window.
‘I have been afraid that something like this might happen — but not that a villager would lose his life.’
‘What’s going on in the forest these days?’ demanded de Wolfe harshly. ‘A verderer is murdered on the high road, the Warden is attacked in his dwelling — now a man is burned to death in his own tannery, all within a week. Surely this is no coincidence?’
Le Denneis refilled both their ale-pots and sat down with a sigh.
‘The tannery did not belong to Elias as a freeholder, he rented it from the Abbot of Tavistock — as indeed, I do this manor. At the Conquest, Baldwin the Sheriff took it from the Saxon Alwi — then it was handed on as a knight’s fee of the Abbey to one of my forebears, who came over with William of Falaise and fought at Hastings.’ He paused, as if contemplating his ancestors, then, with a jerk, brought himself back to the present tragedy.
‘The foresters have always been scheming, grasping swine, as we all well know. But we had learned to live with it over the years — and a few of them, like Michael Crespin, until recently have been reasonable enough in their demands.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked de Wolfe.
‘Another of the foresters in this bailiwick. He’s been around for many years and though he sees he gets his cut from whatever is going, he’s not quite as bad as that arrogant bastard Lupus, who I suspect is behind much of this present trouble.’
‘So what’s changed recently?’ demanded de Wolfe.
‘Some weeks ago, they began to put the pressure on, in all sorts of ways. Their extortions became more blatant and penalties against the common folk became harsher and more frequent. Though the Attachment Courts are not supposed to pass judgement on any but minor offences against the vert, they started to mete out severe punishments instead of referring them to the forest Eyre.’
‘But that’s not legitimate! How can they get away with it?’
Le Denneis sighed. ‘Because no one stops them any longer. To be frank, the Warden is a weak man, getting old and largely unaware of what goes on in the forest. De Bosco never comes around to see what’s really happening on the ground, he’s content to leave it to the verderers.’
‘And what about them? Don’t the verderers keep a grip on what’s happening?’
The manor-lord gave a cynical laugh. ‘It’s not really their responsibility, they are supposed only to organise the lower courts. The only one to protest to the foresters at some of their excesses was Humphrey le Bonde. And look what happened to him — an arrow in the back!’
John gulped down the last of his ale as he considered what Henry had said.
‘So are the foresters responsible for all of this hardening of the regime?’ he demanded.
Le Denneis shrugged, his expression despondent.
‘They are the instruments of what is happening and they certainly gain personally from the extortions. But somehow I feel there must be others more powerful behind them.’
‘Do they actually perpetrate these acts themselves?’
‘Some of the time, yes. They — or their thuggish grooms — beat up villeins and free men alike who they consider to have made any infringement of the forest laws or who resist some new piece of extortion. But I doubt they would personally kill a verderer or fire a tannery, even if somehow they are behind it.’
‘So who may have done these wicked acts?’ persisted de Wolfe.
‘There are outlaws galore in these woods and moors. They’re not above doing the dirty work for a purse of silver. The main villains in this area are those who follow Robert Winter.’
John nodded. That name was not unfamiliar to him. He stood up ready to leave.
‘So where do you stand in all this?’ he asked. ‘Is there nothing you can do to protect your own villagers?’
Henry le Denneis walked him towards the door of the chamber. ‘I have no say in this,’ he said sadly.’I run my manor, I have my own moot court to control and discipline my people — but only in matters which are not related to the forest. The mill is mine, but not the tannery. If the foresters set up another in competition over towards Moretonhampstead, it’s none of my business.’
After they had said farewell, John walked back to the centre of the village, turning over in his mind what le Denneis had said. Somehow the coroner doubted that the lord of the manor’s proclaimed inability to do anything about the tannery was true, and he suspected that he may have had his palm crossed with silver to mind his own business. Yet now he would have the problem of finding other work for the sons of the destitute widow. De Wolfe also wondered what the Abbot of Tavistock would say when he heard that his tannery had been reduced to ashes, its rent so abruptly terminated.
It was still too soon for the inquest to begin, and when he reached the oblong green in the centre of Manaton de Wolfe looked for his officer and clerk to seek some food in the alehouse. Henry le Denneis had offered him a meal, but he preferred to eat with his own men. Gwyn was already standing at the door of the tavern, a quart pot in his hand.
‘Here comes our little spy,’ he said affectionately, waving his pot in the direction of the church of St Andrew opposite. Thomas was coming down the path from the priest’s house, his limp accentuated by his haste. He crossed the grass towards them, his shapeless cloth pouch of writing materials swinging from his lowered shoulder.
‘We can talk over our bread,’ snapped John, leading the way into the low, dark room of the alehouse. Most of these primitive hostelries were run by widow women, who had little other means of livelihood and who were often expert brewers. This one was a fat, amiable woman, who in spite of smelling strongly of the privy brought them a couple of tasty mutton pies and a platter carrying a fresh loaf, butter and hard cheese. Thomas, who disliked both ale and cider but was forced to drink one of them by default of anything else, settled for a pint of turbid cider and the two larger men took more ale. They sat at a rough oak trestle, the only table in the room, and as they ate and drank, the clerk told his story.
‘This parish priest seems better than many,’ he began, his gimlet eyes flicking from one to the other. ‘In spite of looking like a serf from the fields, he can read and write and doesn’t seem to be a drunk. But he thought I was still an ordained priest myself and I didn’t trouble to contradict him, so we got on quite well.’
The coroner had learned that Thomas could be very useful in ferreting out information from the local clergy by pretending to be in Holy Orders. He was a highly intelligent young man, well educated and with an insatiable curiosity that made him a valuable investigator. On a number of occasions he had been able to tease out local gossip and discover confidential information that the coroner himself would never have obtained.
‘It seems that Elias the tanner was a devout man and confided a lot in Father Amicus, especially during his recent troubles.’
‘What recent troubles?’ demanded de Wolfe.
‘Several weeks ago the foresters came and announced that he must close down his tannery, as the King had established a new one near Moretonhampstead.’
‘You say ‘foresters’ — was it more than one?’
Thomas was crestfallen. ‘I didn’t think to ask that, Crowner. They offered him and his sons jobs in the new place, but Elias told them to go to hell. Apart from wanting to carry on with his own business, he and the lads would have had to travel miles each day and get a pittance in return.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Gwyn.
‘The tanner told them to clear off, but the thug who was one of the forester’s henchmen tried to beat him up. The sons dragged him off and gave him a hammering, then the forester and his men rode away, yelling threats of retribution. It looks as if those threats have come home to roost.’
De Wolfe digested this, along with the last of his mutton pie.
‘Did the priest tell you anything else of use?’