The later years of the reign of Henry II had brought stability and peace to much of England, other than the north and the Welsh Marches, so the fortifications raised in the troubled times of Stephen and the Empress Matilda had often fallen into disrepair. True, the recent intrigues of the scheming Prince John after the capture of King Richard had stimulated many to repair their defences, but such concerns had evidently not reached such a backwater as Peter Tavy.
There was no guard on the gate and they dismounted to lead their horses through to the manorial compound. A well-built fortified stone house occupied the centre, with an undercroft at ground level and wooden stairs leading up to the entrance on the upper floor, pierced by a single arched doorway and a number of narrow slits in the walls.
‘At least the house is defensible, even if they have let their bailey wall decay,’ said John. He looked up approvingly at the castellations surrounding a pitched roof.
‘And they have slated it with stone, not thatch,’ commented Gwyn. ‘No use shooting fire-arrows at that.’
Within the palisade, the bailey contained the usual motley collection of frame and wattle huts and sheds, as well as two barns from which a few labourers gave them curious glances. The arrival of two men of menacing and rather military appearance was never likely to be good news to a placid rural manor like Peter Tavy.
No one challenged or greeted them as they walked across to the foot of the steps leading to the door. The undercroft had open bays for stores and stables and, as they approached, a boy ran out to take their horse’s bridles. The coroner and his henchman slid out of their saddles and the boy led away the beasts to feed and water them.
Simultaneously, a figure appeared in the arched doorway above and strode to the top of the steps to look down on them. He was a powerfully built, short-necked man of about thirty, soberly but well dressed as if he was about to go hunting, with a dark brown surcoat, slit back and front over a heavy woollen tunic. He carried no sword, but a quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulders. John was immediately reminded of Alan Fitzhai in his stocky solidarity but, unlike Fitzhai, the man’s hair and beard were as black as those of the coroner. He came down the steps to greet them at the bottom. ‘Good day to you. Have you come to visit our lord de Bonneville?’
The words implied that he was not one of the family and John guessed that he was a squire to someone – he was too well dressed and self-assured to be a mere bailiff or seneschal.
‘We have indeed, though I understand that Sir Arnulph is gravely ill.’
Blackbeard nodded sadly, and spoke low. ‘He is, and never will recover.’ He glanced up quickly at one of the window embrasures above, as if to make sure that his pessimism had not carried to the bedchamber.
‘I am Sir John de Wolfe of Exeter, the King’s coroner for this county, and Gwyn of Polruan is my officer. May I know who you are?’
The man’s attitude was immediately more deferential yet, at the same time, wary. The arrival of a senior royal law officer was never to be a matter for rejoicing, and these new coroners were said to bring bad news for all and sundry.
‘I am Baldwyn of Beer, squire to Gervaise de Bonneville, the second son, who has had the burden of ruling this honour of Peter Tavy since his father fell so sick. May I learn the reason for your visit, sir?’
John pulled off his heavy gloves and tucked them under his baldric. ‘It is a grave and personal matter, which I must urgently discuss with the family.’
Baldwyn hesitated a moment, as if he was unused to being bypassed with any business that affected the de Bonnevilles, but the uncompromising attitude of the stern man who stood before him made it clear that the matter was not negotiable. He stood aside and waved a hand towards the steps.
‘Please come into our house and take some refreshment. Gervaise is with his father, as is his younger brother Martyn. I will tell them at once that you have arrived.’
They entered the hall, a well-built chamber that took up more than half of the entire building. It was almost empty, apart from a couple of servants removing the remnants of the morning meal. John and Gwyn were led to a table where meat, bread and ale were placed before them. The swarthy Baldwyn, whose name indicated that he came from the small coastal village of Beer near the Dorset end of the county, vanished through a curtained doorway into an adjacent bedchamber.
Gwyn fell on the meat with appetite but John could only pick at the food for the sake of courtesy: it was only a couple of hours since they had breakfasted at the abbey. ‘Baldwyn seems to hold considerable power for a young man’s squire. Perhaps he is also the lord’s steward.’
The curtain parted and two men emerged, followed by Baldwyn. John was immediately struck by their resemblance to the Widecombe corpse: they were both fair-haired and long-nosed. They were also dressed for horse and hunting, and seemed apprehensive at the sudden arrival of the county coroner. John and the de Bonnevilles made stiff-necked bows, both Baldwyn and Gwyn standing back.
Introductions were made and John guessed that the brothers were within a few years of each other in their twenties. Martyn had an air of innocence, seen in some monks and friars, as if he was only half aware of the world in which he walked. Gervaise seemed more brisk and efficient and, no doubt, would manage the manors well in the absence of their elder brother and the disablement of the father. He had slightly darker hair than Martyn and took the lead in conversation.
‘I am my father’s middle son, Sir John. My elder brother, Hubert, is away at the Crusade.’
The Coroner nodded gravely. ‘It is he whom my visit concerns. First, I would like to speak with your father or does his disability make communication impossible?’
Gervaise’s pleasant face creased into sadness. ‘Since his stroke last midsummer he has been paralysed in his right arm and leg and has lost all sensible speech, as well as control of his bodily functions. But sometimes he seems to understand what we say to him.’
His younger brother cut in, ‘He varies greatly from day to day. It seems unpredictable, but sometimes he nods or shakes his head.’
John looked from one to the other. ‘I feel I must try to speak to him first, as a matter of courtesy to the head of the household.’
Gervaise de Bonneville could rein in his anxiety no longer. ‘Sir John, please tell us what this is about. My father is sick near to death and I would prefer to spare him whatever troubles you bring to us.’
John put a hand on his shoulder in an almost avuncular manner. ‘Your father has the right at least to my attempting to inform him about a grave matter that might concern his eldest son.’
Startled, the de Bonnevilles stared at each other, then at the coroner.
‘What has he done this time? He was always a hot-head!’ exclaimed Martyn.
John stored this in his memory for further digestion, then took both brothers by the arm and led them towards the inner doorway.
‘If he is as sick as you say, I’ll not trouble him, but I must set my eyes on him, as a token of my duty to him.’
With a warning glance at Gwyn to stay behind with Baldwyn, the coroner passed into the inner room, which was much darker than the hall, lit only by a single window slit in the outer wall. The chamber smelt of stale urine from the incontinence of the pathetic figure huddled in the bed. An elderly woman hovered in the background with a bowl and some rags. As if reading John’s thoughts, Gervaise murmured, ‘Our mother died five years ago.’
They approached the bed, a large palliasse spread on the floor, covered with a heavy bearskin. Crouched diagonally across it, his head pulled down to his left shoulder, was an emaciated figure with grey hair and a stubbled beard. One corner of his mouth drooped and saliva ran from the lax lips. The left arm was above the bed coverings and the thin fingers twitched and picked constantly at the fur.