At the bottom of the twisting stairs he left the gate-house through the guard-room, saluted respectfully by the two men-at-arms. Sir John de Wolfe was popular with soldiers, who knew of his exploits in many foreign campaigns and his faithful service to the King in the Holy Land during the Third Crusade.
He walked into the inner ward and crossed to the keep, a square two-storeyed building near the northern wall. As he trudged across the refuse-strewn dried mud, the bare stone box of the court-house was on his left, and the tiny garrison chapel of St Mary on his right, but he registered none of these familiar sights as he thought about the prospect of Theobald as a fellow coroner — and the fuss Matilda would make when she knew he was off again today on his travels.
As his gaunt black figure absently navigated the inner ward, people stepped out of his way, either from respect or caution, depending on whether they knew him or not. The yard bustled with activity, with soldiers crossing from their billets in lean-to huts around the walls and the women and children of the garrison filling much of the space that was not occupied by horses, ox-carts or porters pushing trolleys piled with equipment. On the other side of the enclosure, a dozen men in chain-mail hauberks and round helmets were being drilled by Gabriel, the sergeant-at-arms, an activity that produced much shouting, swearing and clattering of shields.
De Wolfe reached the wooden steps that led up to the door of the keep, placed high above the undercroft for purposes of defence. Most of the first floor was occupied by the hall, another hive of activity as clerks, officials, servants, burgesses, merchants and soldiers strode, sauntered, gossiped, conspired, worked, ate and slept in it. Some were there to petition the sheriff but were kept at bay by a man-at-arms outside the door of his chamber, which lay behind the hall. The coroner went straight to the door, nodded curtly at the guard, opened it and marched in.
Sir Richard de Revelle, the King’s representative in the county of Devon, looked up from his parchments in annoyance, which did not lessen when he saw his sister’s husband. ‘I’m very busy, John, very busy indeed.’
De Wolfe leaned on the edge of the document-strewn table and glared down at the sheriff. ‘Too busy to come and eat with us, I hope.’
De Revelle smote his forehead with a beringed hand and had the grace to look slightly apologetic. ‘I’d forgotten Matilda’s invitation, John. Of course, I must come — though I’ll have to finish here first.’
His clerk hovered at his side, with a sheaf of parchments covered in columns of figures. ‘The accounting date is almost due, and I have to be off to Winchester next week with the county farm. As usual, the damned tax collectors are behind with their returns.’
The ‘farm’ was the total amount of tax that the King’s Treasury decided was due from each county. The sheriff was responsible for delivering this in coin every six months. If he could screw more from the inhabitants of Devon than was demanded, he was permitted to keep the excess. It was a goal that de Revelle kept constantly at heart.
‘I’ll go and have a few words with the Chagford bailiff while you finish your business, Richard. Then we’ll walk down to Martin’s Lane, so that you and your dear sister can bend my ear over one of Mary’s good meals.’
De Revelle looked up sourly at his brother-in-law’s sarcastic tone, but made no reply. He was a trim, dandified man, of average height compared to John. He had light brown wavy hair, a pointed beard and a small moustache above a pink, pursed mouth set in a rather weak, narrow face. He dressed in the height of fashion, favouring bright greens and golds for his tunic and mantle, and shoes with ridiculously long pointed toes — the newest mode from Paris.
His eyes followed the coroner across the chamber and he breathed a sigh of relief when the door slammed behind him. Since de Revelle’s secret disgrace over his involvement in the abortive rebellion a few months ago, he had not dared to cross his brother-in-law too openly, but he detested him more than ever. His own indiscretion had given de Wolfe a hold over him.
John muttered to the guard outside the door, who pointed across the crowded hall to a man sitting alone at a table, eating from a bowl of stew and tearing pieces from a small loaf. The coroner walked over to him and sat heavily on the bench alongside him. ‘Are you Justin Green, the bailiff from Chagford?’
The man began to scramble to his feet, but de Wolfe waved him down. ‘Finish your food. You must have left the moor early today?’
‘At first light, sir — though it’s well under three hours to Exeter if you’ve got a decent horse.’ He recognised de Wolfe as someone in authority and hazarded a guess. ‘Are you the King’s coroner, sir, the one I was seeking?’
‘I am indeed, so tell me about this death. We must ride back to your town in a few hours to make full enquiries.’
The bailiff was a small, dark man, his face pitted with old cow-pox scars. He hurriedly spooned the last of his broth before answering. ‘Nasty it was, sir. I’ve known Henry of Tunnaford since we were boys — we’re about of an age. To see him with no head was a shock, I tell you.’ The memory seemed not have spoiled his appetite, as he crammed the last of the bread into his mouth.
‘Was it cut off cleanly? And were there other injuries?’ demanded de Wolfe.
‘No, very ragged it was, just a torn stump of neck. But no other wounds — that was enough!’
‘When was he last seen?’
‘The night before. The gangers left him to tidy up, that was the usual thing. A good overman he was, and the men liked him. As long as they did a fair day’s work, he was easy on ’em, not like some bastards.’
John regarded the man: he seemed a sound enough fellow. A bailiff was a person of some standing in a community: he was one of the main servants of a manorial lord, working under the steward, who was the most senior of the lord’s staff. He supervised the reeves, the headmen of each village, and often presided at the manor court if the lord was absent. If anyone knew what was going on in a manor, village or town, the bailiff would.
‘So who did this?’ asked de Wolfe bluntly.
The bailiff shook his head sadly. ‘For once I can’t say. I know most of the feuds and jealousies that go on in Chagford, but there’s nothing I can put a finger on here. Henry lived quietly out of town, in a croft at Tunnaford, a mile or so away. He had a good wife and a grown son, who is a smith in Gidleigh. No reason for anyone to kill the poor devil. The whole town is shocked at his death.’
‘And the man’s head has gone missing altogether?’
‘Vanished like magic. If I wasn’t a sensible, God-fearing fellow, I’d be tempted to think of witchcraft here.’
They talked for a few more minutes, but it was obvious that the bailiff had no idea as to the motive for, or the perpetrator of, this gruesome crime. De Wolfe left him to get some more ale from the castle steward, with orders to be at the West Gate before Vespers tolled that afternoon. It was too late for an excursion down to the Bush Inn, so he went back to his chamber to wait until it was time to collect the sheriff. As he climbed the stairs in the gatehouse, he heard yelling from above, the deep bass voice of Gwyn roaring in counterpoint to a terrified squealing from another. As he pushed through the hessian screen, he saw his Cornish bodyguard holding a small figure upside down by the ankles, shaking him like a rag doll.
‘Holy Mother of God, what’s going on?’ yelled de Wolfe. ‘Put him down!’
Gwyn stopped and grinned sheepishly at the coroner. ‘Little bastard knocked over my drinking jar — spilled the lot!’ he explained.