Taking the hint, Gwyn ushered Walter to a stool on the other side of the firepit, where a glowing pile of logs threw out a comforting heat. Motioning to one of the serving wenches to fetch the leatherworker another quart, Gwyn went back to his master's table and sat where Waiter had been, opposite de Wolfe and the fair Nesta, who had her arm through that of her lover.
'What d'you think of that tale, then?' he demanded of them.
John had just told Nesta the gist of Pole's story, while Edwin eavesdropped shamelessly. The old one-eyed servant, standing at the end of the table with a brace of empty jugs in his hands, took it upon himself to answer.
'I remember that old man from Priest Street, the one with the shaking palsy. He used to shuffle up this way now and then, I always was afeared that he would pitch forwards on to his nose, poor fellow. But I've not clapped my eye on him for many a month.' As if to illustrate this, he rolled the sunken, white orb of his horrible dead eye in its deformed socket, the legacy of a spear thrust during the Battle of Wexford.
'Well, we should know in the morning, if this man Pole can make anything of the features of the corpse,' observed John, gently massaging Nesta's shapely thigh under the table. 'Richard de Revelle has got some crazy notion that he was planted there by a Dartmoor outlaw just to discredit his bloody school.'
'What outlaw would that be, John?' asked Nesta, sliding her fingers over his.
'Another landless knight, I suppose. There are so many about these days. Since the Crusade ended, many warriors, mostly second sons without an inheritance, find themselves without either a war to fight or a manor to farm, so they take to armed robbery.' He paused to lift his pot with his free hand and take a long swallow, before continuing. 'This fellow is from some Cornish family. Maybe you know of them Gwyn, coming from those parts. He's Nicholas de Arundell, according to my dear brother-in-law. I vaguely recall the name, but our paths never crossed in Palestine.'
'It's a well-known family in Cornwall,' replied his officer. 'Been there since the Conquest, for William the Bastard handed out many parcels of land to the Arundells, all over the West Country.'
The potman, a champion nosy-parker well able to rival the inquisitive Thomas de Peyne, still hovered with his empty mugs, reluctant to leave without adding to the discussion.
'I know something of this outlaw fellow Nicholas,' he said. 'Some call him Nick o’ the Moor and many have a lot of sympathy with him.'
John was willing to listen to Edwin, as the old man often had useful snippets of information. Endlessly passing amongst the patrons of the Bush, distributing ale and collecting pots, he heard all kinds of conversations from men who travelled to Exeter from all over England and beyond.
Resting his pottery mugs on the end of the trestle, Edwin leaned forward and in a lowered voice, as if what he had to say was confidential, he told them what he knew about Nick o' the Moor.
'Gwyn's right about him being from this big Cornish family, but he inherited a small manor in Devon from his father. Somewhere near Totnes it is, I forget the actual name, but it's nigh to Berry Pomeroy.'
The coroner nodded, as this was what Richard de Revelle had told him. 'Hempston Arundell, that's the manor,' he grunted as Edwin went on with his story.
'Seems he had not long taken over the place after his father's death, when he was persuaded to take the Cross, back in 'eighty-nine. Doesn't get back for a few years and then finds that he has been declared dead and his manor confiscated by the Count of Mortain, who puts Pomeroy and de Revelle in his place.'
De Wolfe groaned. 'It's no surprise to hear those treacherous bastards would be involved in some underhand scheme like that. But how came this Nicholas to be outlawed?'
Here the potman had run out of gossip. 'I'm not sure of that, Crowner, I only overheard part of the talking and that was a year or two past. I seem to recall that this Nicholas is a hothead and he assaulted and killed somebody in his rage over the loss of his estate. He was arrested but escaped and ended up on the moor with a band of other men, most of them his own retainers.'
De Wolfe prodded Edwin a little more, but the old man had nothing further to offer. 'Now that I know the bones of it, I must discover the whole story,' John said ruminatively. 'De Revelle must have been up to his tricks before I got back from Austria.' That return was a sore memory for de Wolfe, for he had been one of the king's bodyguard when the Lionheart had been seized in Vienna and held to ransom in Austria and Germany for eighteen months. John still felt guilty of letting his monarch down, even though in fact he had been away foraging for fresh horses when the mayor of Vienna burst into the tavern and arrested Richard.
Pushing the recollection away, he decided to probe further into this affair of Nicholas de Arundell, though he thought it was preposterous to suggest it had anything at all to do with the death of the man in the forge. Slipping an arm around Nesta's shoulders, he looked meaningfully at the ceiling planks, which were also the floorboards of her little chamber up in the loft.
'Tomorrow, I'll get the full story from our sheriff,' he said, standing up as a signal to Gwyn and Edwin that he had other, more immediate plans in mind. 'Henry de Furnellis is of old Devon stock, he'll know all the scandal about the gentry. This might be another useful stick with which to beat my brother-in-law.'
CHAPTER FOUR
Soon after first light the next morning, the coroner's trio was back at the school in Smythen Street, where they found Waiter Pole already waiting for them outside the yard of the old forge. When Gwyn banged on the weathered boards of the gate that stood at the side of the plot, they were eventually pulled aside by Henry Wotri, the servant they had met when the body was found. As they trooped into the yard, the sounds of chanting could be heard from the main building, which used to be not only the residence of the forge master and his family, but also a shop on the ground floor where he sold his wrought-iron products. Now Magister Anglicus lived on the upper floor along with two other teachers, the lectures being given in the big chamber down below, which had been formed by knocking the old shop and the metal store into one large space.
'What are they doing?' demanded de Wolfe, as they walked across the empty yard. 'Singing their lessons or what?'
Henry gave a lopsided grin. 'No, sir, that's their morning prayers. The master starts the day with a service, them being all clerics of one sort or another.' Henry led them towards the old forge, where work had ceased on pulling the floor down until such time as the cadaver would be removed. 'Magister James has been in a proper state, having the builders sent away because of this body,' the servant said with ill-concealed delight 'He's got eight more students arriving next week and nowhere to put them until this place is finished.' It looked as if de Revelle's venture into education might pay off after all, thought John. More scholars meant more fees, which would be music to his mercenary brother-in-law's soul.
'The deceased is just where you said he was to be left, Crowner,' said Henry. 'I'll not come in with you, if you don't mind. He's not a pretty sight.'
This was hardly encouraging to Walter Pole, who already looked anxious, but at that early hour de Wolfe was in no mood to pander to sensibilities.
'Come on, this will take but a moment. Just one look at him — and especially at his clothing.'
He stamped on ahead into the forge and Gwyn urged the harness maker to follow him. A moment later, Gwyn pulled off the old canvas that had been thrown over the body.