‘Is he proving satisfactory, John? The poor fellow has had a rough time these past few months.’
De Wolfe gave a rare lopsided grin. ‘Being almost hanged for murder after failing to kill himself was certainly a test for his soul! But he is an excellent clerk. His prowess with a quill pen is equalled only by his intelligence.’
The archdeacon nodded in approval. ‘He certainly seems more cheerful these days. Though I have little hope to offer him of a return to Holy Office in the near future.’
The coroner grunted his agreement. ‘I suspect he would have to move to some place far distant from either Winchester or Exeter. I know an influential churchman in Wales, Gerald de Barri, the Archdeacon of Brecon, who might help him. But to be honest, I am loath to lose Thomas, at least until I know that I could get someone half as reliable to replace him.’
The priest turned to de Wolfe, a smile lighting up his thin, lined face. ‘No, John, I don’t believe that such selfish motives would ever impede you, if you thought you could help my luckless nephew. Gerald de Barri, you say? Giraldus Cambrensis, a famous man in his own way, though a thorn in the flesh of Canterbury and even the Pope. No wonder you are friends, you are two peas from the same pod!’
They walked on in companionable silence, two figures both dressed sombrely, the one in a black cassock, the other in his grey tunic, until the archdeacon brought up a new subject.
‘I hear there is trouble in the forest — that verderer reminded me that one of the parish priests has voiced his concerns to me.’
‘Would that happen to be Father Amicus from Manaton?’
‘It was indeed — when he brought his tithe money in yesterday, he told me about the dead tanner and of the other problems in the forests.’
De Alencon stopped walking and ran a hand through his crinkled grey hair. He turned a worried face to the coroner.
‘I have heard through channels that need not be named that the old trouble may be stirring again, and I cannot but wonder if this unrest in the forest is related.’
De Wolfe rubbed the black stubble on his face.
‘You mean the old trouble involving our royal namesake? How can that be, what could he gain from it?’
They began walking again, down Castle Hill towards the high street.
‘More money, more influence, disruption of the existing order,’ replied the priest. John did not ask him where he had heard the rumour — it was a poorly kept secret that Bishop Henry Marshal, in common with some other senior churchmen, had been sympathetic to Prince John’s abortive rebellion when King Richard was imprisoned in Germany and not expected to survive. They walked on for a few more yards, then the archdeacon spoke again.
‘My duties these days are more administrative than pastoral or devotional,’ he said rather bitterly. ‘I meet many other priests from the diocese and hear many scraps of gossip and chatter.’
De Wolfe waited patiently; he sensed that his friend was gathering himself to tell him something that the secretive ecclesiastical community would rather keep to itself.
‘I heard a rumour not only that certain senior colleagues were dabbling again in sedition, but that some particular priest was actively engaged in furthering that ambition.’
They took a few more strides, which brought them into the hubbub of the main street, before the coroner pursued the matter.
‘Have you any idea as to his identity? You are not talking about one of the prime movers, I assume?’
He meant the bishop himself, but kept to their coded way of talking.
‘No, no, he will keep a low profile until things develop much further, having had his knuckles rapped last time. This priest seems to be some kind of go-between, a buffer to insulate the leading lights from any dirty work that may be needed.’
‘And you have no idea who or where he is?’
John de Alençon shook his tonsured head. ‘Only that he is not from Exeter, but probably farther west. I have no means of improving on that hint — I had it second hand from someone whose informant unwisely let slip a few words and immediately regretted it.’
As they shouldered their way through the crowded street, with stall-holders and shop men advertising their wares and hawkers shaking trays at them, John once again realised what a dilemma men like himself and the archdeacon faced. They were devoted to the King, both from a sense of loyalty to their monarch and because of his powerful personality and courage. Yet competing reluctantly with these feelings of fidelity was the common-sense realisation that Richard Coeur-de-Lion was not the best head of state as far as England was concerned. In the past six years he had spent a bare four months of his reign in the country; he seemed unwilling ever to return; and he had never even bothered to learn to speak English. His interest in the country seemed confined to how much money he could squeeze from its inhabitants; time and again he had imposed crushing taxes and additional demands on religious houses and nobles alike. He and his Curia Regis strove to raise extra funds for his French wars, on top of the great debt still owing on his ransom to Emperor Henry of Germany. Richard auctioned titles and offices of state to the highest bidder and brazenly sold charters to towns and cities. He was once reputed to have said that he would have sold London itself if he could have found a rich enough buyer!
In contrast to Richard and his careless and profligate manner, his brother appeared to many to be a more practical and prudent caretaker of the island of Britain. Even the rather blinkered John de Wolfe could appreciate that to many the accession of the Count of Mortain, as John was also known, might be advantageous to the country. But never would men like de Wolfe accept this while the Lionheart lived, especially as John’s personality was so unattractive. Mean spirited, conceited and arrogant, the younger brother was personally highly unpopular. Having lived for so long in the shadow of his illustrious royal brother, John was disgruntled and jealous.
In his father’s time he had almost no territory of his own, being dubbed ‘John Lackland’, but when sent by Henry II to prove himself by governing the new conquest of Ireland, his rule was such a disaster that he had to be recalled in ignominy. When Richard came to the throne, he was excessively generous to John and gave him six counties for himself, including Devon and Cornwall — and was repaid with treachery when he was imprisoned on the Continent. Even after his release, when he rapidly crushed John’s rebellion, Richard was far too forgiving — instead of hanging his brother, he pardoned him and even restored some of his forfeited lands. Now, thought John sourly, the King’s compassion was being thrown back in his face, if the prince was once more seeking the throne. But how could this be related to the troubles in the forest?
De Wolfe’s cogitations had brought them to Martin’s Lane, where the archdeacon left him at his front door.
‘I have a suggestion, John,’ said the canon, as they parted. ‘I know you think highly of my nephew’s artfulness. You have told me before that he is adept at worming his way into the confidence of priests, so why not send Thomas out of the city to seek better information?’
He gave the coroner a broad wink with one of his lively blue eyes and strode away, his long cassock swirling as he crossed the cathedral Close.
CHAPTER SIX
The coroner spent the afternoon examining a corpse discovered in the Shitbrook, a foul stream just outside the city wall which ran from St Sidwell’s down to the river. It was aptly named, for it served as one of Exeter’s main sewers, the effluent that oozed down many of the streets eventually seeping to the little valley that carried the brook. After heavy rain, it tended to cleanse itself, but most of the time it was a stinking channel infested with rats. Often a dead dog or cat lay in its ordure, but today a resident of Magdalene Street, when tipping a barrow-load of goose droppings into the stream, came across the corpse of a man. From the state of him he had been there for some days, and nothing could be learned of the cause of death. Even de Wolfe and his officer, hardened as they were to repulsive sights, found the advanced decay of the body and the putrid waters of the Shitbrook an unattractive combination in this hot weather.