The inner ward was protected by a castellated wall cutting off the uppermost corner of the old Roman fortifications. John walked across this towards the keep, a two-storeyed building in the far corner, beyond the Shire Hall, which was the courthouse for the city. The only other stone building there was the tiny garrison chapel of St Mary.
De Wolfe tramped through the mud churned by horses, oxen and soldiers' boots into a slippery brown paste, until he reached the wooden steps going up to the entrance to the keep. As a defence measure, this was set high above the undercroft, a gloomy basement partly below ground level which housed the cells of the castle gaol. The upper doorway gave directly on to the hall, a large chamber occupying most of the main floor, the remainder holding a few rooms for the sheriff and castle constable. The floor above was a warren of stores, offices and living accommodation for clerks and more senior servants.
John looked around the crowded hall and its scattering of tables where men were talking, eating and drinking. Although it was late in the day, more were standing in groups or tramping impatiently about waiting for an audience with clerks and officials. A big log fire smouldered in an open hearth against one wall, the smoke wreathing upwards to blacken the old ceiling beams even more. He acknowledged a few waves and greetings, then went to the first door on the left of the hall where a man-at-arms in a leather cuirass and round iron helmet with a nose-guard was leaning against the wall. As soon as he saw the coroner, he sprang to attention, banged the butt of his spear on the ground in salute and opened the door for John to enter.
Inside, he found the sheriff, Henry de Furnellis, beleaguered behind a table covered with rolls and parchments. Candles and rush-lights were lit on the table and in sconces around the walls. A clerk hovered beside him, waving more documents for the sheriff's attention.
'Thank God for an interruption!' boomed de
Furnellis. 'Sit down and give me an excuse for a drink and a respite from these bloody rolls.' As Henry was no more literate than John, his clerks had to read him every word and transcribe any responses from his dictation, as Thomas de Peyne did for the coroner.
John was quite familiar with Henry's chamber and went to a shelf to fetch a large jug of cider and two pewter mugs. He filled these and placed one before the sheriff, before dragging up a stool and sitting down on the opposite side of the table. They both took deep draughts of the cloudy fluid, then Henry gave a sigh of satisfaction and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 'I needed that, John! The county farm has to go to Winchester next week and these accursed clerks are driving me mad with their accounts.'
The 'farm' was the twice-yearly payment of the taxes collected from Devonshire and had to be taken in coin personally by the sheriff, to be accounted for by the clerks of the royal exchequer. The two men talked for a few moments about the state of the local economy and the fears they had that the next farm might be much reduced, if the coming harvest was as bad as could be expected after this foul summer. Though Exeter itself was booming from its trade in tin, wool and cloth exports, most of the population elsewhere in the county lived off the land and were ever vulnerable to the effects of the weather.
De Furnellis reached across to refill their tankards. At sixty, he was almost two decades older than John, another old soldier who had been rewarded for his years of faithful service by being appointed as sheriff. In fact, this was the second time he had been sheriff of Devon, as early the previous year John's brother-in-law had been appointed, but owing to suspicions of his favouring Prince John's rebellion, Richard had been suspended and Henry had filled the gap for a few months, until de Revelle was reinstated. Now that the latter had finally been disgraced and ejected, de Furnellis had once more rather reluctantly accepted another term as sheriff. He fervently hoped that it would only be temporary and that he could go back into retirement once again.
After another swallow, the coroner banged his mug on to the table and got down to business.
'I've got some news for you, Henry, from the southwest of your domain. But first, what's this about a royal messenger coming while I was away?'
'That's why I wanted to see you, John. As well as a lot of official nonsense for me from the Chancery and from the justices about their next visitation, there was a message from Hubert Walter which concerns us both — especially as you are so thick with him.'
He said this without sarcasm, as de Wolfe's friendship with the Justiciar was well known. Hubert had been King Richard's second-in-command on the Third Crusade and had been rewarded by being appointed both Archbishop of Canterbury and Chief Justiciar, the highest office in the King's Council. Now that Richard Coeur-de-Lion had gone back to France, apparently never to return, Hubert Walter was virtually regent in his place, the most powerful man in England. John de Wolfe had fought alongside him in the Holy Land and had been part of Richard's bodyguard on the ill-fated journey home, when the King had been kidnapped in Austria and imprisoned there and in Germany for well over a year, until the Justiciar had negotiated his release on payment of a huge ransom.
'What's this message about? Is Hubert calling us to clean the rust from our swords and go to help the King in France?'
John said this jokingly, but there a wistful undercurrent in his voice, as he still missed the excitement and comradeship of the battlefield, after twenty years of campaigning.
Henry de Furnellis grinned and shook his head. He was a heavily built man, slow of movement and deliberate in speech. His ruddy face carried a large nose, though this bucolic appearance was enlivened by a pair of bright blue eyes. He had cropped grey hair and a drooping moustache of the same colour. A mournful mouth above loose skin on his neck gave him the appearance of an elderly deer-hound. Picking up a curled page of parchment from his cluttered table, he waved it at the coroner, who could see a heavy wax seal dangling from it which he recognised as that of the Justiciar.
'Like you, I can't read a bloody word of it, but Elphin said it was important.'
He beckoned to his chief clerk, who was hovering near the door to the inner chamber. This led to the sheriff's sleeping quarters, but though his predecessor had spent much of his time there — sometimes with a lady of ill repute — Henry had his own town house near the East Gate and rarely used the bedchamber. The tonsured clerk, a spare elderly man, came forward and took the document to read to John.
'It's from Hubert Walter, Crowner, and after the usual greetings, he is, quite emphatic that the contents should also be communicated to you.'
He cleared his throat and went on. 'The Justiciar says that he has had information from his spies in France that King Philip Augustus is once again encouraging Prince John, Count of Mortain, to foment rebellion against his brother, our sovereign lord, Richard. The intelligence is very vague, but there are rumours that agents have been sent to England, mainly to raise funds to recruit and equip another army for the purpose.'
De Wolfe looked across at the sheriff and shrugged. 'Nothing new in sending spies across the Channel — it happens all the time, in both directions.'
'I have not quite finished, sir!' rebuked Elphin, and dropped his eyes back to the parchment. 'Though they gleaned little more than hints and rumours, his spies heard whispers that the far west of England was involved and also that Moors might be implicated in raising money.' Elphin bent to put the message back on the table as he said his final words. 'The Justiciar says he has sent this warning to the sheriffs of all the western shires, from Cornwall to Dorset, with an admonition for every law officer to be vigilant.'