‘Is he going to be in trouble again, John?’ she asked in a low voice.
There had been times when John had relished any opportunity to denigrate his brother-in-law’s reputation, but the grief that overcame his wife at the several falls from grace that Richard had suffered had taken away any potential pleasure in repeating the process.
‘I don’t know, wife,’ he replied sadly. ‘He seems to have replaced the dead verderer with remarkable haste and his obstinate refusal to take any action against these misdeeds in the forest is suspicious.’
‘Is it the John affair all over again?’ she asked dully, meaning the Count of Mortain, not her husband.
De Wolfe shrugged, turning up his hands in mystification. ‘Again, I don’t know. I can’t see the connection, so let’s hope it’s just one of Richard’s schemes to fill his purse — and nothing more sinister.’
But privately he doubted it, and as much as living with Matilda irked him he had no wish to make her life more miserable as regarded her brother’s transgressions.
After their supper, at which Matilda was markedly subdued, she announced that she was going over to the nearby cathedral. The day’s offices were over until midnight matins, so John presumed she was going to spend time on her knees, probably praying that her brother would keep out of further trouble.
After the complaints that the county barons had brought to him, de Wolfe felt that he had better make the effort to get some sense from his brother-in-law, so in the warmth of the evening he strode up to Rougemont. The continued dry weather had turned the mud of the streets into dust, except where the effluent ran down the central gutters — but the downside was the increase in the stink from the ubiquitous refuse. The burgesses had recently invested in an extra soil-cart, which trundled around the city picking up the larger piles of garbage, dead dogs and putrefying offal, but several weeks of heat had so increased the stench of the city that even John’s insensitive nose began to notice it.
He wondered whether it might not be a good idea to take himself off out of the city for a few days, down to the healthier air of his family home at Stoke-in-Teignhead near the coast. But Matilda would never come, being flagrantly disdainful of his widowed mother, who was part Welsh, part Cornish. In his wife’s eyes, Celts were worse than Saxons, almost on a level with Moors and Barbary apes. John thought that if she had fully realised he had so much native blood, she would never have married him — and now he wished he had impressed this on her before they went to the altar. Ruefully, these thoughts passed through his mind as he climbed the slope to the castle gate — if he had stayed unmarried, this present crisis that loomed over Nesta’s pregnancy would never have arisen.
He called in at his room high above the guard chamber, but neither Thomas nor Gwyn was there. The clerk often stayed late, labouring over the rolls needed for inquests or making copies for the King’s justices — and Gwyn sometimes slept there when late drinking or gaming prevented him from going home to St Sidwell’s after the city gates closed at curfew. Coming down again, John crossed the inner ward, the red stone of the battlements glowing almost gold in the rays of the setting sun. It was quiet there, only a few off-duty soldiers squatting to play dice or sprawled on their backs fast asleep. Some children played outside the huts against the far wall, their mothers gossiping at the doors or preparing food for a late meal.
He loped across to the steps to the keep, his long grey tunic flapping around his calves and his thick black hair bobbing against the back of his neck. Inside, the main hall was noisy with squires, captains and clerks either finishing their evening meal or lounging at the trestle tables with jars of ale and cider. De Wolfe looked around to see if Ralph Morin, the castle constable, was there, or his sergeant Gabriel, but there was no sign of them. A few other men waved or called out a greeting, some inviting him to join them for a drink, but he made for the side of the hall where a bored man-at-arms lounged at the sheriff’s door.
John sometimes wondered why Richard insisted on having a full-time guard deep inside his own castle, but knowing of the multitude of people who had cause to dislike or even detest de Revelle, he admitted that it was probably a wise precaution. The sentinel pulled himself up sharply when he saw the coroner approach and raised a hand to his basin-shaped helmet in salute.
‘Sheriff’s got a visitor, Crowner,’ he advised.
John scowled. He had wanted to get Richard alone, to avoid too much embarrassment about his possible dubious dealings in the forest — though there were other possible reasons for embarrassment when walking in on the sheriff unannounced, as he had discovered several times before.
‘Is it a man or a woman?’ he demanded, with these last thoughts in mind.
‘It’s the new verderer, Sir John. Don’t recall his name.’
John grunted and turned the heavy iron ring on the door. Inside, his brother-in-law was seated behind his wide work-table, dressed for the warm weather in his usual dandified fashion, with an open surcoat of blue velvet over a long shirt of white linen, cinched at the waist with a wide belt of fine leather. Under the table, John could see fine cream hose ending in shoes with ridiculously curved, pointed toes, a recent fad imported from France, enemies of England though they might be.
A pewter wine cup stood next to his hand and, on the other side of the table, the new verderer sat on a stool with similar refreshment.
Philip de Strete was known only by sight to the coroner, being a rather plump man of average build, nearing thirty years of age. He had ginger hair and a matching moustache of the same colour as Gwyn’s, but of much more modest proportions. All that John knew about him was that he had a small manor near Plymouth, had not been to the Crusades, but had fought in some of the French campaigns without any particular distinction.
Richard looked up in annoyance, his usual expression when de Wolfe appeared. De Strete jumped to his feet as the sheriff somewhat reluctantly introduced him and made considerable play of expressing his honour and delight at meeting the coroner. De Wolfe felt that he was insincere and distrusted him from the start, especially as Philip’s eyes always seemed to evade direct contact with his.
‘De Strete’s appointment is to be confirmed at the Shire Court tomorrow,’ announced de Revelle.
‘How can that be? The time has been far too short to get approval from the King or his Justiciar,’ objected John.
The sheriff shrugged impatiently. ‘Then it is to be made conditional on that consent being granted. It’s a mere formality. Hubert Walter will approve on the King’s behalf. I’m sure the Lionheart has not the slightest interest in who is appointed a verderer in a remote county.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ demanded John.
‘The next Attachment Court is to be held in a week’s time. There are cases to be heard. We can’t wait weeks or months for messengers to go scurrying around the country or even to France.’
De Wolfe sat heavily on the corner of Richard’s table, to the owner’s annoyance.
‘As most of the cases will merely be referred to the Forest Eyre, there can be no urgency. That court sits only every third year!’
Whenever something became awkward, the sheriff managed to change the subject.
‘Was there something you wanted, John?’ he said pointedly.
‘It’s about this very matter. You had a deputation today from some of the most influential barons in this area.’
De Revelle’s narrow face became wary and his eyes flicked between John and the new verderer. ‘How did you know that?’