Gwyn and Thomas felt the tension in their master and did their best to humour him, with little success. As the coroner’s work had declined that week, Thomas suggested that he might help de Wolfe with his reading lessons, which had recently fallen by the wayside.
John had no great appetite for this, but as he did not want to snub his little clerk, he made a few half-hearted efforts to master some of the work that the vicar in the cathedral had been trying to din into his head for the past few months.
Thomas had his own preoccupations, too, though he was wise and considerate enough not to burden his master at the present fraught time. He was still yearning for news of any restoration of his ordination, following the revelations at Winchester. It would be too much to hope for that the response from that city to the coroner’s urgent message might also contain some reference to Thomas’s reinstatement, but nevertheless he could but hope.
The weather continued to suit their tense mood, as every day was hot and still, without a breath of wind. The sky was a glassy blue, although on the far horizon, when seen from high up in the gatehouse tower, a line of piled-up dark clouds gathered towards evening and during the clammy nights the growl of thunder could be heard far away.
It was late afternoon on Friday before the impasse was broken. John was at his table with Thomas at his shoulder, laboriously writing his name repeatedly on a scrap piece of parchment. He had managed it six times, one after the other, his tongue outside his lips, moving in time with the scratchy pen, as the clerk twittered encouraging noises.
The peace was broken by the familiar clump of boots on the stairs and the hessian curtain was jerked aside by Gabriel’s head, flushed with heat, exertion and suppressed excitement.
‘He’s back, Crowner. Just ridden in with some fellow who looks like a minor lord from somewhere. Not from these parts, talks like he might have come from Gloucester or the Marches.’
John threw down his quill and jumped to his feet. ‘Is he in his chamber?’
‘Yes, Sir John. By the state of his horse, he’s ridden up from Revelstoke without drawing breath. Poor beast is near dropping in this heat.’
Gabriel caught Gwyn’s eye, as the redhead sat on his window ledge, whittling a stick with his dagger. The eyes swivelled to the cider jar in the corner, but de Wolfe was already starting down the stairs.
At the keep, he thrust open the sheriff’s door and barged in to confront his brother-in-law. Still dusty from his journey, Richard was pouring wine into one of a pair of pewter goblets. The other cup was not in expectation of John’s visit, but for a man who lounged in a leather-backed folding chair placed in front of the desk. De Wolfe had never seen him before, but he was about thirty, of slim build and elegant in his dress. Black haired and clean shaven, he had a sallow, almost Spanish complexion, his face long and smooth with high cheekbones. Although he was not wearing clerical dress, he had a small gold cross on a chain around his neck.
De Revelle’s head jerked up at the sudden intrusion and he scowled at John, although the look was mixed with wary apprehension. ‘Do you never knock at a door, Crowner?’ he snapped.
‘I probably will when the next occupant is here. It seems likely to be Henry de Furnellis once again.’ Courtesy inhibited John from starting his tirade against the sheriff in the presence of a guest, so he began cautiously. ‘I hear you have ridden hard from Revelstoke today.’
The stranger picked up his goblet and languidly intervened. ‘We have ridden from Glastonbury — we left Gloucester yesterday.’
Richard scowled, having been caught out in a lie before he had even opened his mouth. He had been nowhere near his manor in the west, but had ridden north a week ago. John immediately realised what was going on, for Gloucester was now Prince John’s principal house in England. He had been given no less than six counties, including Gloucestershire and the county of Mortain in Normandy, by his recklessly generous brother at the time of Richard’s accession in 1189. They were taken from him after the abortive rebellion, but recently Gloucester and Mortain had been restored to him. It was obvious that de Revelle had hurried to the Prince’s nearest domain to rustle up support in this latest crisis, and his next words confirmed it.
‘This is Roscelin de Sucote, who, though in holy orders, is also a lawyer and an aide to the Count of Mortain. He has come to give me some advice and bring support from his lord.’
The man nodded at John condescendingly, but made no effort to rise to his feet. ‘Prince John is at present at his court in Normandy, but I can speak for him on virtually every issue,’ he said smoothly.
De Wolfe grunted back at him and decided that he had no need to offer this rebel lawyer anything more than basic civility. He turned to his brother-in-law. ‘I wanted you at an inquest this week, Richard. If you feel you can vanish from the county, after giving a false account of your movements, and ignore your responsibilities for a week, then it seems an added reason for it being high time for you to relinquish the shrievalty.’
‘You have no authority to even suggest that Sir Richard should give up his office,’ cut in de Sucote. ‘And it is both ill mannered and possibly treasonable for you to speak to the King’s representative in that way!’
John rounded on the man, his long face dark with annoyance. ‘When I want your opinion, clerk, I’ll ask for it — though bulls are more likely to give milk before that happens. And if we’re talking of manners, it would do you well to stand when you speak and address the King’s coroner as “sir”!’
The lawyer’s sallow face flushed, but he made no effort to rise. John swung back to the sheriff, who stood behind his table, looking nervously defiant. ‘Come, John, there’s no call to be offensive to a guest. I’m sure these recent difficulties can be dealt with in a civilised way.’
‘Bollocks, you devious, lying bastard! And if you take offence at my words, I’m more than happy to meet with you with horse, shield and lance down on Bull Mead.’
He was on safe ground here, as the last thing Richard de Revelle would accept would be a challenge from the battle-hardened coroner. John plunged on, ignoring the look of outrage on the face of the Prince’s emissary. ‘You have even more to answer for now than before you slunk away to your rebel friends. I know now that you paid your whore’s sister to falsely denounce the landlady of the Bush. That led to a death and a major fire in the city, both of which you will be called to account over, when I can finally drag you to an inquest!’
De Revelle made loud protestations at this and the lawyer-clerk finally jumped to his feet to add his outraged denials. John shouted them down at the top of his voice, to the delight of a cluster of people outside the ill-fitting door. ‘So add manslaughter and conspiracy to arson to your existing crimes of stealing the King’s money, Sheriff!’ he yelled. ‘You’re still on probation for treason, aiding and abetting the King’s enemies. Explain all that to the royal justices when they get here! You’ll need more than a Gloucester lawyer to wriggle out of that!’
Not trusting himself to avoid physically assaulting his brother-in-law, de Wolfe stalked to the door, went out and slammed it behind him with a force fit to knock it off its hinges. Scattering the eavesdroppers outside, he marched out of the hall, his temper subsiding sufficiently to hope to God that someone in Winchester had taken notice of his urgent message.