‘He said that the foresters and woodwards have become much more aggressive of late. They used to turn a blind eye to a bit of poaching, if it was only coney or partridge or taking a few fallen branches for firewood, as long as the cottar slipped them a couple of pence now and then. But recently they have come down hard, dragging offenders off to the gaol or hauling them up before the court.’
‘It seems the same story all over the forest,’ mused John. ‘Anything else?’
‘Father Amicus reckons the outlaws are becoming more bold around here. One of them, belonging to this gang of Robert Winter, even slips into confession now and then. The priest wouldn’t reveal what was said, of course, but he had the feeling that the foresters and the outlaws had agreed not to interfere with each other.’
That was about all that Thomas had to relate before it was time to go outside to hold the inquest on the pathetically scanty remains of the cremated tanner. Most of the village of Manaton was gathered on the green as a jury was assembled and the usual ritual was gone through, with the skull being paraded around carefully by Gwyn of Polruan. The inevitable conclusion was that Elias Necke had been killed unlawfully by unknown persons, but as the coroner was delivering this verdict he was incensed to hear hissing and sullen curses coming from the crowd.
At first he angrily assumed that they were disagreeing with his findings, but then he saw that their eyes were focused on someone behind him. Turning, he saw that a pair of horsemen had come up silently on the turf and were sitting behind the circle of villagers, listening to his final pronouncements.
The growling of the Manaton men increased and a few shaken fists and louder blasphemies showed the depth of feeling against the newcomers.
The leading man was bony faced and grey haired, sitting stiffly erect on his horse. He wore no mantle over his dark green tunic, on which was the horn badge of a forester. The other man was younger, but coarse featured and unkempt. As the crowd continued to demonstrate their ill feeling, a sneer appeared on the forester’s face as he looked down with obvious contempt at those who reviled him.
Father Amicus, perhaps bolder because of the protection of his cloth, pushed forward until he was almost against the stallion’s nose. He had donned a rather threadbare cassock for the inquest, in place of his workman’s smock. Looking up angrily at the rider, he pointed an accusing finger.
‘This is partly your work, William Lupus! I don’t know what role you played in the fire that killed this poor man, but Almighty God will know, be assured of that!’
The forester deliberately yanked on a rein, so that the horse’s head lunged against the priest and made him stagger backwards.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Father,’ he snarled. ‘Stick to the cure of souls and keep your nose out of business that doesn’t concern you.’
De Wolfe and Gwyn simultaneously moved towards the forester, shoving aside surly villagers to get to the priest’s side.
‘Are you this William Lupus I keep hearing about?’ rasped the coroner.
‘I am indeed — and I suppose you’re this new crowner I keep hearing about,’ replied the forester, with deliberate insolence in his voice.
‘Keep a civil tongue in your head!’ roared Gwyn. ‘Else I’ll pull you off that bloody horse and use your face for a door mat!’
Lupus ignored the threat and looked down at de Wolfe.
‘You have no authority here, this is the King’s forest.’
John looked up at the man with contempt in his dark face.
‘Don’t talk such arrant nonsense, fellow! I was appointed coroner by the King himself. His writ runs everywhere in England where death, injury or serious crime is suspected. Don’t think for a moment that your trivial powers extend to anything other than dealing with the theft of firewood or poaching a buck or boar!’
The taut features of the forester flushed at the insult to his importance.
‘You can’t speak to me like that, damn you!’ he shouted, his normal impassive composure shattered.
Gwyn grabbed his leg and pulled, causing Lupus to sway dangerously in his saddle. Only his feet jammed tightly in the stirrups allowed him to keep his balance.
Immediately, his ugly page Smok spurred his mare alongside Gwyn and aimed a blow at the Cornishman’s head with a short staff. Gwyn dodged it easily and with a roar of anger reached up and grabbed Smok around the waist in a bear-like grip. To the cheers of the people crowded around, the ginger-haired giant hauled the page clean out of his saddle and dumped him on the ground, where he aimed a series of kicks at his buttocks and shoulders.
‘That’s enough for now, Gwyn, let him be,’ ordered de Wolfe, after Smok had let out a tirade of yells and curses. Gwyn stepped back and the page scrambled to his feet and backed away, his piggy eyes blazing with hate.
William Lupus sat rigid, tight lipped with anger. It was something new for him to have his authority in the forest challenged so publicly.
‘You’ll regret this, de Wolfe!’ he hissed.
‘Sir John de Wolfe to you, fellow,’ snapped the coroner, with deliberate arrogance. ‘You’ll address a knight who carries the King’s commission with proper respect! Remember that you’re nothing but a common gamekeeper, even if you wear a fancy badge on your tunic.’
White faced with rage, Lupus pulled his stallion’s head around to leave, but John grabbed the bit-ring to stop him.
‘Wait, I’ve not finished with you yet. Get out of that saddle.’
The forester looked about him, ready to break away by force, but he found Gwyn on the other side, grinning up and rattling his sword in its scabbard.
With seething ill grace, he slowly dismounted and handed his reins to Henry Smok, who had got to his feet and was glowering at Gwyn, now his mortal enemy.
‘Well, what is it?’ he snarled to the coroner.
De Wolfe stood with his hands on his hips, his sword hilt prominently displayed as he glared at the other man.
‘I’ve been hearing bad tidings about you, William Lupus. I don’t know what your game is, but believe me, from now on you’re a marked man. So tread carefully, forester! Stick to your vert and your venison and don’t dare to question the powers of the King’s coroner again, d’you hear me?’
In spite of his innate arrogance, Lupus’s gaze dropped before the vulture-like figure of de Wolfe. He swung away and muttered threateningly under his breath, ‘You’ve not heard the last of this.’
John caught the words and snapped at the retreating back of the forester.
‘Neither has the Warden of the Forests. Nor the Chief Justiciar — nor King Richard himself, if needs be. Watch your step, William Lupus!’
This time the man made no reply, but after an angry gesture at his page he mounted up and the two cantered rapidly away, with the jeers of the villagers of Manaton ringing in their ears.
CHAPTER FIVE
While John de Wolfe was riding back from the edge of Dartmoor, his mistress was giving instructions to Edwin and her maids about their tasks while she was away from the inn for an hour or so.
The day was as warm as ever, so Nesta wore no mantle or shawl when she went out into Idle Lane and walked across to the top of Stepcote Hill, the steep lane that led directly down to the West Gate. When she was bustling about the tavern, she always concealed her hair inside a linen helmet, but today she had discarded the coif and allowed her auburn tresses to hang in two plaits over her breast, the ends braided into two green ribbons.
As she passed the Saracen inn, she pointedly ignored the lewd stares and suggestive comments of a pair of foreign seamen who leaned against the wall, quart pots in their fists. The slope steepened and became terraced by shallow steps leading down to the level ground inside the town wall, alongside the appropriately named church of St Mary Steps.