‘The main purpose seems to be to screw more taxes from the population!’ growled one of the knights, who was working off some of his annual service to Oliver de Tracey in return for his manorial holding.
De Wolfe shrugged, conscious that this was the general perception of Hubert Walter’s harsh taxation regime. ‘Better an honest coroner than a corrupt sheriff,’ he grunted. ‘I name no names, but it is common knowledge that most of the sheriffs in England are more concerned with lining their own purses than with upholding the King’s peace in their counties. Why else would so many nobles pay large sums to secure appointment to that office?’
Heads nodded around the table, for they remembered the scandal in the time of old King Henry, when all the sheriffs were dismissed for corruption – though almost all had seemed to claw their way back into favour.
‘But what has that do with dead bodies and wrecks?’ asked one of the Welshmen. Apart from a few franchise coroners in Glamorgan and Pembroke, the Normans’ rule of law did not extend to most of Wales.
‘King Richard’s ransom was a heavy burden on England,’ explained de Wolfe. ‘One hundred and fifty thousand marks were demanded by Henry of Germany to release the Lionheart. This, together with the expense of the Crusades and his present wars against Philip of France, creates a need for every penny that our Justiciar can raise. It is where the coroner comes into the picture, to raise what legitimately belongs to the king’s treasury.’
‘Just another bloody clutch of taxes!’ grumbled another knight.
John took a gulp of his wine and nodded in agreement. ‘Taxes, like death and our wives, are always with us!’ he exclaimed. ‘Yet there are other advantages. The coroners now divert many lawsuits to the king’s courts instead of leaving them to the mercy of the sheriffs’ and burgesses’ courts, whose ideas of justice are primitive. We record all serious crimes and accusations for presentation to the royal judges when they arrive at the Eyre of Assize in each county. Our very title of coroner comes from custos plactitorum coronae – keeper of the pleas of the Crown.’
This was beyond one of the castle clerks, though perhaps the amount of beer he had drunk was slowing his wits. ‘But what has this to do with dead bodies or wrecks?’ he complained.
‘There are many ways of raising revenue for the king. Any fault of the community in failing to report a sudden death, to raise the hue and cry, or the death of any who cannot be proven to be Saxon – as well as rapes, assaults and other felonies – these lead to amercements, all grist to the Treasury. I have to attend every execution and see that the property of the hanged felon is seized for the Crown. If there is a wreck of the sea, then this also belongs to the king, as do catches of royal fish, the whale and sturgeon.’
For another hour, there was endless argument, lubricated by wine, ale and cider, about the morality of taxation, but it was all good-natured and de Wolfe defended his monarch’s right-hand man, Archbishop Hubert Walter, in his need to extract as much money from the population as was bearable. Eventually, the minstrels played another tune and sang another song, and as the rush-lights burned low, the audience staggered off to their various chambers or sought their straw palliasses around the glowing embers of the fire in the Great Hall.
After a good breakfast early next morning, Sir John de Wolfe thanked Odo for his hospitality and, with his officer and clerk, set out for Ilfracombe. The main road curved westward along the estuary until it struck north-east to the coast, but there was a shorter, more direct route over the hills due north from Barnstaple through the village of Bittadon. The seneschal recommended this: although it was sometimes plagued by roving outlaws from the fringe of Exmoor, it saved a few miles’ riding. The coroner and his brawny henchman were veteran campaigners and had little fear of wayside ambush – their heavy broadswords and Gwyn’s fighting axe were sufficient to see off anyone other than a substantial band of men. However, Thomas rode in a perpetual state of anxiety, his beady eyes forever scanning the roadside for attacking ruffians, but the journey passed without incident.
A few hours later, they had covered the ten miles to the north coast and were jogging down the hill into Ilfracombe. The little port nestled between jagged cliffs, the harbour hidden behind a rocky prominence. The north-westerly breeze was strong and a line of white breakers hurled themselves against the craggy, indented shore. Ahead in the far distance, the hills of Wales could just be seen in the haze.
‘Who does this place belong to?’ asked Gwyn, as they trotted down towards the twisted street that led to the beach.
‘The Bishop of Coutances owns the land, as he does a great slice of the county,’ piped up the clerk, anxious to display his knowledge, especially when it concerned churchmen. ‘But he sub-let it to Robert of Pontecardon many years ago and then it passed to Robert Fitzroy’s family as tenants.’
‘Damn who it belongs to,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘Let’s just find the reeve. He was the one who sent to Barnstaple with the news of this corpse.’
A substantial village and port like Ilfracombe would normally have had a resident bailiff, a more senior servant of the manorial lord, but Odo had told them that he had recently died of an apoplexy, and until Fitzroy or his steward appointed a new one, the manor reeve was having to cope with the administration. As they trotted down the only street, a dozen curious villagers appeared to gape at the strangers. The harbour was a sandy cove protected on the seaward side by a long peninsula, called the Benricks, which at the highest tides became an island. The outer end rose to a hill, on which was a low tower carrying a signal brazier to direct ships into the harbour. A score of buildings clustered around the harbour, ranging from a few stone-built houses to rickety hovels made of turf. The roofs were mostly thatched, but the larger dwellings had heavy stone slates, better to resist the foul weather that blew so often into this Atlantic mouth of the Severn Sea.
There were a couple of storehouses and fish-sheds at the head of the beach and several fishing boats were drawn up above the tide-line. Leaning against the single quay, listing until the water floated it again, was a merchant vessel with a stumpy mast. A procession of labourers was filing across a plank to the shore, carrying sacks of lime on their backs.
A few yards from the quayside, de Wolfe halted Odin and called down to a young woman, who was gawping open-mouthed at the new arrivals. She had a baby at her breast, the infant naked in spite of the keen wind that ruffled the poor wench’s rags. ‘Where can we find the reeve, girl?’ boomed the coroner.
Wide-eyed at the revelation that this great dark stranger from another world spoke her language, the young mother pointed wordlessly at a stone house directly opposite, then turned tail and ran away, the baby’s lips still clamped to her bosom.
By now, more inhabitants had gathered to peer at the new arrivals, and from them, a stocky middle-aged man with a large moustache and a square brown beard stepped forward. ‘You must be the crowner, sir. I am Matthew, the manor reeve. I’ve been expecting you.’
John recognised him for a sensible, reliable man, which was more than could be said for some reeves, who often seemed high-grade idiots. The manor reeve was at the bottom of the pecking order of officials in the feudal system, responsible for the day-to-day organisation of the village farm work. Although all but the stewards were illiterate, the reeves kept account of village business – crops, stock, tithes and work rotas – by means of notched tally-sticks and their memories.
With half the population following at a respectful distance, the reeve led them across to the bailiff’s house, which he was occupying for the time being. A boy took their horses to the backyard to be fed and watered and they went into the building. It had the luxury of two rooms, though they were bare of any comfort, apart from a few benches and stools grouped around the fire on the beaten earth floor in the centre of the smaller room. Piles of bracken and hay lay against the walls, forming the sleeping quarters for the reeve’s wife and four children. The other room was the kitchen and dairy, which was shared with a cow and three orphaned spring lambs.