He thought again for a moment, staring blankly at a sliver of sky visible through a slit window on the opposite wall.
‘This is what I’ll do, de Wolfe. When I established the coroner system last September, the main object was to raise revenue in the royal courts as well as keeping a check on all these rapacious sheriffs. But I also made provision for coroners to be given roving commissions on an ad hoc basis, when some particular problem arose.’
John waited tensely. This sounded very interesting.
‘So I’ll draft you a King’s Commission this very day, which should solve most of the problems. I have every faith in you, John, to carry it out, just as you did your duty in the Holy Land and when you did your best to safeguard the Lionheart in Austria. I know I can depend on you.’
For an instant de Wolfe felt tears of pride prickling his eyes at this endorsement of his loyalty, and even the self-centred Lord Ferrars looked at him with new respect — this was fulsome praise from a man who was the virtual Regent of England.
They both leaned forward expectantly, as the Justiciar outlined his proposals.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was Thursday evening before John returned to Exeter, but before entering the city he called at Polsloe, leaving Gwyn to escort the timid clerk the last remaining mile or two. He found Nesta even less well than when he had left. Though she was still deathly pale, there was a flush on her forehead and her eyes appeared slightly suffused.
‘She has a slight fever, which gives us some concern,’ said Dame Madge, when she took John aside and insisted on inspecting the healing wound on his hip.
‘Is she in any danger?’ asked John anxiously.
The cadaverous nun shrugged. ‘Not at present, though everything is in the hands of God. Her loss of blood when she miscarried has lowered her resistance to bad humours. She needs good nursing and constant prayer, Crowner. We can supply both, though it would not come amiss if you went on your knees more often yourself on her behalf.’
When he went back in to Nesta, to softly tell her all his news of the journey to Winchester, she seemed attentive enough, but hardly spoke. Yet he felt that her mood had improved since before he went away, and she seemed slyly amused about something, but would not tell him what it was. He put a hand on her brow and felt the unhealthy warmth and saw a prickle of sweat on her upper lip.
‘You are warm, my love, but Dame Madge says you are in no danger,’ he said, diplomatically slanting the infirmarian’s comments. ‘You need the best attention, which I’m sure you get in this blessed place.’
Again the half-smile as she nodded slightly and reached for his hand.
‘I’m glad the long journey went safely, John. The roads can be dangerous places.’
He avoided telling her that he was soon likely to face considerably more danger in confronting the outlaws and turned the conversation on to more innocent paths, such as Thomas’s nostalgic ramblings around Winchester.
As he left her little room, he stared down the corridor of the infirmary and thought he just caught sight of a familiar figure stepping quickly into a doorway.
‘No change there, Crowner,’ said a voice from behind him, and he turned to meet the prioress.
‘She still refuses to talk to me?’
Dame Margaret nodded sadly. ‘I doubt you’ll ever bring her round, sir. She seems set on staying here, though the time for a decision as to taking her vows is still a long way off. But she has a natural talent for nursing — the infirmary seems to suit her well.’
John recollected how Matilda had looked after him with such grim efficiency when he had broken his leg earlier in the year.
‘I hope she finds happiness here, lady. But I would like to speak with her, just to say how sorry I am that I have brought her to this condition. Please intercede for me, when you get the opportunity.’
The prioress nodded. ‘I’ll do my best, but she seems firm in her intentions at present.’
With that he had to be content and, climbing up on to weary, patient Odin, he set off on the last lap of his journey to Martin’s Lane. Here Mary was pleased to see him home, soon setting out some clean clothes to replace the dust-laden ones that had crossed half of southern England. After he had doused himself with a bucket of cold water in the yard, he dressed and sat down to a good meal hurriedly put together by the faithful maid. Later than evening, he went up to Rougemont and sought out the constable to tell him of recent developments. He found Ralph Morin not in the keep, but closeted with Brother Roger, the castle chaplain. They were in the tiny sacristy of St Mary’s chapel, just inside the inner ward — not engaged in any devotions, but covertly sharing a stone jar of good Anjou wine.
‘I’m keeping out of the way of the bloody sheriff,’ complained Ralph. ‘He pesters me ten times a day as to whether you’ve returned from Winchester and what action is to be taken.’
The amiable Roger produced another earthenware cup and poured John a liberal dose of the rich French wine. ‘This is a better drink than the sips of watered vinegar I’m used to handing out at Mass,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye.
They waited expectantly for John to regale them with details of his journey. The castellan was entitled to know and, as usual, the chaplain was consumed with curiosity.
‘Hubert Walter was very cooperative, thank God,’ he began.
‘Is he providing some troops?’ was Ralph’s first question.
‘Yes. The two Ferrars and their men left Winchester for Southampton, with authority to collect sixty men-at-arms and archers, who were waiting to cross to Harfleur. The Justiciar said that though they were intended for Richard’s army, they could delay for a few weeks and come down here. He placed them under your command, Ralph, to do whatever you think necessary.’
Morin’s bushy eyebrows lifted almost into his hairline.
‘Me? Not the sheriff?’
De Wolfe took a sip of his wine and explained.
‘De Revelle is in bad odour with the Justiciar, though he can’t get rid of him just yet because of his influential allies. But Hubert has given me a coroner’s Royal Commission to use whatever means I wish to sort out this mess in the forest. That includes using these troops under your direct command.’
The constable looked delirious with joy. ‘God’s teeth, that’s marvellous! But will the sheriff let you get away with it? He’s supposed to be the King’s man in the county.’
‘I have letters from the Justiciar, speaking for the Curia Regis, which confirms the Commission. They strictly forbid de Revelle from countermanding my activities, as well as stopping him from becoming Warden.’
The man with the forked beard beamed. ‘Anything else?’
‘Another parchment gives me the power to arrest any forest officer whom I consider to be guilty of an offence, irrespective of forest law. As the Royal Forests are royal, they can hardly oppose a direct order on behalf of the King!’
‘Is there anything you can’t do?’ asked the portly chaplain.
‘You’re safe enough, being a man of the cloth,’ replied John. ‘I’ve no mandate to do anything against clerics or any ecclesiastical or monastic establishments. So I can’t act against this damned Father Edmund, apart from handing him over to the Church authorities, which would probably be a waste of time.’
Ralph Morin was already imagining himself in command of a small army. ‘When do these soldiers get here?’ he demanded.
‘As soon as Ferrars can march them from Southampton — they should be halfway here by now. You’ll have to find some accommodation for them somewhere.’
The constable swallowed the rest of his wine and jumped to his feet.
‘I’d better get started — tents and shelters to put up in the outer ward and extra victuals to get in. The sheriff will have apoplexy when he hears, not least when he realises the cost of feeding these men!’