The clerk wondered why he had seen fit to add that. He tried further questions, hinting that maybe Fitzhai had known the dead man either in the Holy Land or on the long journey home, but Fitzhai became surely, and even annoyed.
Eventually, he threw down the last of his ale and stood up so abruptly that his bench fell over with a clatter. ‘Look, I saved your hide out there, but that’s the end of it. I want nothing to do with any affair of the law or to waste my time as juryman or witness. I want to keep clear of sheriffs and crowners and the like. So I’ll say goodnight to you, and advise you to stay indoors on dark nights.’ He grabbed his sword belt from the end of the table and buckled it on as he pushed his way to the door.
Chapter Eight
In which Crowner John disputes with the sheriff
By noon next day, John had been told of the events at Honiton. He had been to one of his reading lessons in the cathedral cloisters and, on his return at mid-morning, had found Thomas and Gwyn waiting for him in the gatehouse chamber.
The clerk, who had timorously waited for full daylight before setting foot outside the door of the inn, had examined the scene of his ordeal before leaving Honiton. To his joy, he had discovered his pathetically few coins trodden into the mud alongside an ominous patch of blood from the wound Fitzhai’s sword had inflicted on the arm of one of the attackers.
John sat silently behind his trestle table while Thomas related his story, in which he made much of his assault and the valiant resistance he had put up against at least four desperadoes. He ended his tale with the sign of the cross and waited expectantly, hoping for some expression of concern.
The dark, hawkish figure behind the table glared at him. ‘And you let this fellow get away knowing nothing but his name?’
Thomas tried to look hurt, but his wry neck and squint spoiled the effect. ‘He got up and left as soon as I questioned him. Said he wanted nothing to do with the law. But I’m certain he knew the dead man – he had said so at the outset.’
Crouched on a box across the small room, Gwyn gave one of his meaningful grunts. ‘I should have gone to Honiton, not him. But I remember there was a Fitzhai at Ascalon, in the last weeks before we left Palestine, though I can’t recall what he looked like.’
John rose impatiently and walked to the slit in the boarded window to peer down at the inner ward of the castle.
‘Why was this Fitzhai in Honiton? Was he staying at the inn?’
The clerk fidgeted on his stool. ‘I asked that of the innkeeper. He was loath to tell me anything, except that every man’s business is his own.’
John came across the room and towered over the diminutive Thomas. ‘So we have lost him, have we? Our only witness and he walks out of the door.’ He swung round to Gwyn, whose red hair was glinting in a rare ray of sunshine. ‘Are there any Fitzhais in that area?’
Gwyn shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Don’t know of any hereabouts. But I’m no expert on Norman families.’ His slight emphasis on ‘Norman’ was a subtle token of the resentment that still lingered among the native population, Saxon and Celt alike.
John rested his buttocks on the edge of the table, which creaked ominously. ‘Then I’ll have to ask the sheriff for help. He should know all the manorial holders in his own county. I thought I did too, but Fitzhai is new to me.’ He jerked away from the protesting trestle and stalked to the door. ‘I’ve given you those names from yesterday’s inquest, Thomas. Get them down on a roll, with the usual style of words. Tostig is committed to prison to await trial and Eadred of Dawlish is placed in the care of his assailant, once the holy sister says he can be moved.’
At the head of the stairs, he turned with an afterthought. ‘And record that the innkeeper, Willem of Bruges, can distrain on the family to get his board and lodging for the wounded man. Now I’m off to see Richard de Revelle.’
John was tempted to divert to the Bush to see Nesta and take an hour’s ease with some beer and a meal. Yet the prospect of having to negotiate again with his brother-in-law, who would be sure to put every difficulty in his path, decided him on a less inviting diversion. On his way down the high street, he turned into St Martin’s Lane and entered his own front door.
At least he had slept in his wife’s bed the previous night and attended his reading lesson – which had been her idea to improve his mind and social status – so their recent frigidity had warmed slightly. He walked through the entry passage and out through the back door into the yard, where Mary was throwing washing over some bushes to dry. He tickled Brutus’s ear and pecked the girl’s cheek before he climbed the outside wooden staircase at the back of the house to the solar. At the top, a heavy door led into the square room supported on timber stilts.
Inside, Matilda was working at her embroidery, the usual pastime for a woman of her standing. She was sitting near the window, which was the only one in the house to have glass in it – a useless luxury, John thought, as the distorted view it gave through its thick, curved surface was merely that of their back yard and the roofs of nearby houses. A large low bed, a table and two chairs completed the furnishings. Sombre tapestries hid most of the timbered walls except where, on the wall opposite the window, a shuttered opening looked down into the hall below.
After some strained but civil words of greeting, John lowered himself on to the other chair. ‘I need your advice,’ he began lamely.
Matilda’s eyebrows rose and she looked up from her needle. ‘Since when have you needed my opinion? You’ve gone your own way these sixteen years.’
Swallowing both a retort and his pride, he tried to look conciliatory. ‘About your brother, Matilda. We have to work together, for the sake of the King’s peace, if nothing else.’
‘And for the sake of family peace, I should hope,’ she snapped, conscious that, for once, she had the upper hand over her husband.
‘I don’t enjoy these futile squabbles with the sheriff,’ he lied. ‘It’s a question of jurisdiction between us, you see.’
Matilda stared at him suspiciously, her needlework forgotten. ‘What d’you mean, jurisdiction?’
John stretched out his long legs, the back flap of the grey surcoat falling to the floorboards. ‘The new Articles say that all violent and uncommon deaths be investigated by the coroners.’ She grudgingly nodded agreement. ‘And, furthermore, we are strictly to record all such happenings – and many more besides – to present to the King’s justices when they visit.’
‘Of course. Everyone knows that.’
He silently disagreed with her, but kept his peace. ‘Your brother seems to think that the new law is a personal intrusion into his powers.’ And into his purse, thought John, but kept that to himself too.
His wife put her needle to the linen and fiddled with the thread. She was in something of a dilemma, as although she was devoted to her brother she had ardently supported her husband’s elevation to the coronership. But both she and the sheriff had assumed that his appointment had been to a sinecure and had never dreamed that John was going to pursue his duties with such unrelenting zeal.
‘So what advice do you want from me?’ she asked uncertainly. He leaned back and locked his hands behind his head, his fingers buried in his thick black hair. As he told her the story of the dead Crusader and the trail that led to Honiton, she listened and watched him covertly.
What did she feel for this hawk-like man, who had been joined to her for almost half her lifetime? Love was for the young and for illicit dalliance after marriage, and the purpose of marriage was to weld together family lands and fortunes, to produce sons, to gain political advantage. Love was the last consideration. She and John had been joined by their parents for mutual links between two Norman families – even though John’s mother was Cornish, which still rankled with Matilda.