Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

It was still too soon for the inquest to begin, and when he reached the oblong green in the centre of Manaton de Wolfe looked for his officer and clerk to seek some food in the alehouse. Henry le Denneis had offered him a meal, but he preferred to eat with his own men. Gwyn was already standing at the door of the tavern, a quart pot in his hand.

‘Here comes our little spy,’ he said affectionately, waving his pot in the direction of the church of St Andrew opposite. Thomas was coming down the path from the priest’s house, his limp accentuated by his haste. He crossed the grass towards them, his shapeless cloth pouch of writing materials swinging from his lowered shoulder.

‘We can talk over our bread,’ snapped John, leading the way into the low, dark room of the alehouse. Most of these primitive hostelries were run by widow women, who had little other means of livelihood and who were often expert brewers. This one was a fat, amiable woman, who in spite of smelling strongly of the privy brought them a couple of tasty mutton pies and a platter carrying a fresh loaf, butter and hard cheese. Thomas, who disliked both ale and cider but was forced to drink one of them by default of anything else, settled for a pint of turbid cider and the two larger men took more ale. They sat at a rough oak trestle, the only table in the room, and as they ate and drank, the clerk told his story.

‘This parish priest seems better than many,’ he began, his gimlet eyes flicking from one to the other. ‘In spite of looking like a serf from the fields, he can read and write and doesn’t seem to be a drunk. But he thought I was still an ordained priest myself and I didn’t trouble to contradict him, so we got on quite well.’

The coroner had learned that Thomas could be very useful in ferreting out information from the local clergy by pretending to be in Holy Orders. He was a highly intelligent young man, well educated and with an insatiable curiosity that made him a valuable investigator. On a number of occasions he had been able to tease out local gossip and discover confidential information that the coroner himself would never have obtained.

‘It seems that Elias the tanner was a devout man and confided a lot in Father Amicus, especially during his recent troubles.’

‘What recent troubles?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘Several weeks ago the foresters came and announced that he must close down his tannery, as the King had established a new one near Moretonhampstead.’

‘You say ‘foresters’ — was it more than one?’

Thomas was crestfallen. ‘I didn’t think to ask that, Crowner. They offered him and his sons jobs in the new place, but Elias told them to go to hell. Apart from wanting to carry on with his own business, he and the lads would have had to travel miles each day and get a pittance in return.’

‘So what happened?’ asked Gwyn.

‘The tanner told them to clear off, but the thug who was one of the forester’s henchmen tried to beat him up. The sons dragged him off and gave him a hammering, then the forester and his men rode away, yelling threats of retribution. It looks as if those threats have come home to roost.’

De Wolfe digested this, along with the last of his mutton pie.

‘Did the priest tell you anything else of use?’

‘He said that the foresters and woodwards have become much more aggressive of late. They used to turn a blind eye to a bit of poaching, if it was only coney or partridge or taking a few fallen branches for firewood, as long as the cottar slipped them a couple of pence now and then. But recently they have come down hard, dragging offenders off to the gaol or hauling them up before the court.’

‘It seems the same story all over the forest,’ mused John. ‘Anything else?’

‘Father Amicus reckons the outlaws are becoming more bold around here. One of them, belonging to this gang of Robert Winter, even slips into confession now and then. The priest wouldn’t reveal what was said, of course, but he had the feeling that the foresters and the outlaws had agreed not to interfere with each other.’

That was about all that Thomas had to relate before it was time to go outside to hold the inquest on the pathetically scanty remains of the cremated tanner. Most of the village of Manaton was gathered on the green as a jury was assembled and the usual ritual was gone through, with the skull being paraded around carefully by Gwyn of Polruan. The inevitable conclusion was that Elias Necke had been killed unlawfully by unknown persons, but as the coroner was delivering this verdict he was incensed to hear hissing and sullen curses coming from the crowd.

At first he angrily assumed that they were disagreeing with his findings, but then he saw that their eyes were focused on someone behind him. Turning, he saw that a pair of horsemen had come up silently on the turf and were sitting behind the circle of villagers, listening to his final pronouncements.

The growling of the Manaton men increased and a few shaken fists and louder blasphemies showed the depth of feeling against the newcomers.

The leading man was bony faced and grey haired, sitting stiffly erect on his horse. He wore no mantle over his dark green tunic, on which was the horn badge of a forester. The other man was younger, but coarse featured and unkempt. As the crowd continued to demonstrate their ill feeling, a sneer appeared on the forester’s face as he looked down with obvious contempt at those who reviled him.

Father Amicus, perhaps bolder because of the protection of his cloth, pushed forward until he was almost against the stallion’s nose. He had donned a rather threadbare cassock for the inquest, in place of his workman’s smock. Looking up angrily at the rider, he pointed an accusing finger.

‘This is partly your work, William Lupus! I don’t know what role you played in the fire that killed this poor man, but Almighty God will know, be assured of that!’

The forester deliberately yanked on a rein, so that the horse’s head lunged against the priest and made him stagger backwards.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Father,’ he snarled. ‘Stick to the cure of souls and keep your nose out of business that doesn’t concern you.’

De Wolfe and Gwyn simultaneously moved towards the forester, shoving aside surly villagers to get to the priest’s side.

‘Are you this William Lupus I keep hearing about?’ rasped the coroner.

‘I am indeed — and I suppose you’re this new crowner I keep hearing about,’ replied the forester, with deliberate insolence in his voice.

‘Keep a civil tongue in your head!’ roared Gwyn. ‘Else I’ll pull you off that bloody horse and use your face for a door mat!’

Lupus ignored the threat and looked down at de Wolfe.

‘You have no authority here, this is the King’s forest.’

John looked up at the man with contempt in his dark face.

‘Don’t talk such arrant nonsense, fellow! I was appointed coroner by the King himself. His writ runs everywhere in England where death, injury or serious crime is suspected. Don’t think for a moment that your trivial powers extend to anything other than dealing with the theft of firewood or poaching a buck or boar!’

The taut features of the forester flushed at the insult to his importance.

‘You can’t speak to me like that, damn you!’ he shouted, his normal impassive composure shattered.

Gwyn grabbed his leg and pulled, causing Lupus to sway dangerously in his saddle. Only his feet jammed tightly in the stirrups allowed him to keep his balance.

Immediately, his ugly page Smok spurred his mare alongside Gwyn and aimed a blow at the Cornishman’s head with a short staff. Gwyn dodged it easily and with a roar of anger reached up and grabbed Smok around the waist in a bear-like grip. To the cheers of the people crowded around, the ginger-haired giant hauled the page clean out of his saddle and dumped him on the ground, where he aimed a series of kicks at his buttocks and shoulders.