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His tone was deliberately offensive, as if his visitor were some minor clerk, rather than the next most senior law officer in the county.

John ignored this, savouring the moment he had been anticipating. ‘I was in Cadbury yesterday, Richard. I believe that you have leased that manor to Robert Hereward of Somerset.’

The sheriff nodded absently, still signing his documents.

‘A pity you didn’t keep it, for at least twenty pounds’ worth of gold and silver was dug up there a few days ago!’

The quill went down on the table with a smack as Richard’s head jerked up. He stared incredulously at his wife’s husband. ‘Treasure? Twenty pounds? On my land?’

‘It’s not your land, Richard. You leased it for five years to Robert Hereward. In any case, the value goes to the King. I held an inquest yesterday and declared it treasure trove, though possibly the Chief Justiciar may award some part of it to Hereward.’

De Revelle jumped up from his chair, every nerve in his body vibrating at the thought of so much money. ‘Nonsense, all that should be mine. You idiot, what right had you to declare it treasure trove? It must have been carelessly lost on my estate and must all be mine, by right of tenure.’

His previously flushed face was now pale with fear at the likelihood of losing such riches and he came from behind his table to pace agitatedly across the chamber. ‘Where is this find now? I must see it and claim it before any is stolen!’

John hovered over him as he came close, a head taller and as dark and sombre as the peacock-attired sheriff was gaudy. ‘It’s quite safe, Ralph has it locked away. But the money — and a big gold brooch — is not yours, Richard, so calm yourself! It was not lost, it is ancient metal, all being of Saxon origin. It was obviously hidden at the time of our conquest.’

Although not a vindictive man, John savoured another opportunity to crow over his brother-in-law, who had so often cheated and embezzled the people of Devon, apart from his devious plotting against his own sovereign. But de Revelle was so obsessed by the thought of such a large hoard of gold and silver being found on what he considered to be his own land that nothing would divert him from seeing it. He hurried to the door and flung it open. ‘You say it is with the constable? Is it safe? I must see it!’

With John ambling behind him, trying to suppress his glee, the sheriff stalked into the hall, pushing aside the clerks, men-at-arms and merchants who were in his way as he made straight for the constable’s door. Morin’s chamber was more an armoury than an office, as unlike the sheriff, he was as illiterate as the coroner. When the door crashed open, he looked up from his conversation with Sergeant Gabriel to see de Revelle, resplendent in a bright green tunic, searching the room with his eyes.

‘Where is it? Is it in that chest?’ De Revelle focused on a large battered trunk under the window slit, made of oaken boards and secured with a massive padlock. It was twice the size of the aumbry in Cadbury church and was used by Ralph for keeping the pay for the men-at-arms. Exeter had always been a royal castle, not the fief of a baron, which was why it was administered by a constable appointed directly by the King’s Council, who sent the coin for the soldiers’ wages down from Winchester. But the sheriff, often jealous of Morin’s relative autonomy, was not interested today in politics, but in beautiful, shiny money.

‘Open it up, it must be given into my safe-keeping!’ he barked.

The constable threw a questioning glance at de Wolfe, who shrugged and then nodded. Ralph had no reason to refuse, though knowing de Revelle only too well he felt a certain reluctance to let him get his hands on anything valuable. Grudgingly, he took a small key from the scrip on his belt and handed it to the grizzled sergeant, who went to a locked cupboard on the wall and took out a much larger key, with which he opened the padlock. Thrusting Gabriel aside almost before he had lifted the heavy lid, the sheriff peered inside, then hauled out the old box by the cords that bound it and dropped it on the floor. Watched silently by the others, his fingers scrabbled at the knots and he pulled off the remains of the lid with shaking hands. The sight of a mass of glinting silver and gold seemed to hypnotise de Revelle and he let coins slide through his fingers as he dipped into the treasure. As he held up the golden brooch, John heard his breath whistling out in a hiss of admiration. Then abruptly, he slapped the top back on the box and hoisted it up into his arms, uncaring of the considerable weight.

‘This must be lodged in my chamber, where I can keep an eye on it!’

‘Don’t get any hopeful notions about it, Richard,’ warned de Wolfe. ‘That box and all its contents will have to be accounted for to the King or one of his ministers.’

‘This was found on my land! The fact that I temporarily sub-let to someone else makes no difference. I am the owner of that ground, held in fee simple.’

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘Makes no odds who owns the land. Even if you can maintain your claim against Robert Hereward, you are still a tenant-in-chief of the King. It’s by that right that all treasure trove belongs to the crown.’

‘It’s mine, I tell you!’ howled the sheriff, clasping the box to his chest as if it were his first-born child. ‘It must have been lost on my property, it’s not treasure trove, damn you!’

He scuttled out of the room and hurried back to his own chamber, slamming the door behind him. The three military men looked at each other and sighed.

Although Sergeant Gabriel was not of their rank, he was an old and trusted servant. Their common bond of loyalty to the Lionheart and their mutual distrust of the sheriff gave him a privileged status in private. ‘I see trouble ahead over this, Crowner,’ he grunted.

Ralph Morin dropped on to a bench and pulled at his beard. ‘I trust you’ve got a detailed list of what’s in that bloody box? Just in case some of it takes a walk before it gets to Winchester.’

De Wolfe nodded. ‘I’ve got a written list, with witnesses. If any goes missing, we’ll know who to blame.’

Again that was something he later wished he had never said.

On that Tuesday morning, a woman walked out of the lanes behind St Mary Arches church into Fore Street and stopped while a large two-wheeled cart pulled by a pair of patient oxen lumbered past her. She was painfully thin and had a severe wry neck, her chin being pulled down and across almost to her opposite collar-bone. To look straight ahead, the poor soul had to swivel her eyes right up, giving her an expression of permanent questioning. Crossing the main thoroughfare, she made her way down through the lower town until she reached Idle Lane. With a couple of hours to go before noon, the Bush was quiet and Nesta was supervising her potman and maids as they changed the rushes on the floor. The Welsh woman prided herself on running the cleanest inn in Exeter, as well as the one with the best ale and food and insisted on changing the floor coverings every couple of weeks. The visitor stood at the door and watched as one of the maids dragged the old rushes into a pile, using a hay-rake made of wooden pegs fixed into a long cross-piece at the end of a handle. Old Edwin was using a pitchfork to load it on to a barrow, which was tipped on to the midden on the waste ground at the side of the tavern.

The woman, who looked about thirty, tapped on the panels of the open door and twisted her head to look across at the landlady. Nesta had seen her about the streets, but did not know her name. Coming across the taproom, she asked what she wanted, sympathy in her voice as she acknowledged the good-wife’s disability. Accustomed to using her deformity to the best advantage, the caller rolled her eyeballs even farther than necessary and managed to look piteously at the tavern-keeper.

‘My name is Heloise, wife of Will Giffard, a porter. I have several grave problems, good lady,’ she croaked. ‘But could we talk about them privately?’

Nesta already had a good idea what one of these problems might be and, having had the same dire trouble recently, was even more sympathetic than usual. ‘You’d better come up to the loft, away from these ruffians!’ Edwin and the maids had started an acrimonious shouting-match over who should push the barrow out to the midden and Nesta beckoned to the woman to follow her up the broad ladder to the upper floor. Here she led the way to a corner partitioned off from the rest of the spacious attic, where a dozen straw pallets were scattered around to accommodate lodgers.