Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

John sat on the kitchen’s only stool and drank a quart of ale while Mary made him a meal of fried bacon, eggs and onion, with a small loaf and butter. As he ate, she squatted near by and listened while he told her of the day’s events and the strange killing of the verderer. She was an attentive audience — John often felt the better for unwinding his tension by talking to her. Mary frequently had intelligent comments to make and her fund of local gossip gleaned at the market stalls of the city was sometimes very useful to him.

‘I heard from a carter from Moretonhampstead, who comes in with geese for the poulterer, that the foresters up there have lately become even more oppressive than usual,’ she reported. ‘Though what that can have to do with this, I can’t see.’

De Wolfe mused on this as he ate. The complicated structure of forest law had always been a matter of exasperation to both landowner and peasant alike. The cruel and punitive measures for any transgression of the strict rules of the Royal Forests had been a scandal for centuries, but had worsened under old King Henry. Yet, like Mary, he could see no connection with the slaying of Humphrey le Bonde, as the most hated men were the foresters and woodwards, not the higher judicial officers — though even they were hardly popular figures.

‘So what’s to be done about it?’ asked Mary, as she refilled his ale-pot and cleared away the iron pan from which he had eaten.

‘I’m off to see the Warden now — he’s the immediate superior of the dead man, he must be told at once.’

Rising to his feet, he stretched and jerked his head up towards the solar.

‘What sort of mood was she in?’ he asked glumly.

‘As usual — no better, no worse. She seems more settled these past few weeks. You haven’t done anything particularly terrible lately, I suppose.’

John grunted, then gave the maid a quick peck on the cheek.

‘Pray for me that it will continue, Mary. I’ll be back late, I expect.’

Hands on her hips, the cook smiled and shook her head in resignation.

‘No doubt you’ll find the need for a mug of ale at the Bush,’ she murmured under her breath, as the tall figure loped off up the passage.

Nicholas de Bosco lived in a quieter part of Exeter, between the North Gate and Rougemont Castle, the fortress that occupied the highest ground in the north-eastern corner of the city walls. St Pancras Lane took its name from the nearby church, one of twenty-seven in a town of four thousand inhabitants. The Warden lived in a narrow dwelling similar to that of John de Wolfe, with a stone-tiled roof and a blind front, with only one shuttered window and a door facing the street. It was but a few minutes’ walk for the coroner from Martin’s Lane, and his rapping on the front door was answered by a wizened old servant whom he took to be de Bosco’s bottler.

John was shown into the hall, a gloomy chamber hung with swords, shields, spears and other paraphernalia of past campaigns. A woman’s touch was obviously lacking as the room contained only the bare necessities for living, with no gestures to comfort. A pair of oak settles stood either side of an empty fire-pit in centre of the floor, and a long table bore a few pewter cups and a flask of wine. Yet the man who rose to greet the coroner was a minor lord, with three manors in the county. A knight since his youth, like John he had fought in several campaigns in Ireland and France and had been to the Third Crusade, though their paths had never crossed outside Devon. Nicholas de Bosco was almost two decades older than de Wolfe’s forty years and he looked every day of it. He had a thin, gaunt face and his sparse hair was white. He had no beard or moustache — nor a single tooth in his head. However, his grey eyes were bright and sharp and his grip was firm as he grasped John’s forearm in greeting. He used his left hand, for the right was crippled from an old spear wound sustained in battle in Normandy years before. Nicholas motioned the coroner to a seat opposite and beckoned to his servant to serve them wine.

‘We have met briefly several times, Sir John, in some of the burgesses’ functions in the Guildhall. I have long known of your reputation as a fighting man in the service of our King.’

As with de Wolfe’s coronership, Nicholas owed his appointment as Warden of the Royal Forests of Devon to his faithful adherence to Richard the Lionheart — and to his father King Henry before him. They exchanged a few memories of campaigns long past, but after they had drunk each other’s health in good Poitou red, John got down to business.

‘My officer told you that yesterday one of your verderers was murdered?’ he asked bluntly.

De Bosco nodded sadly. ‘I find it hard to believe. Humphrey le Bonde was a good man, solid and dependable. Why should anyone wish to kill him? I understand it was not a common robbery.’

‘It’s unlikely, though we can’t be sure. His purse was not taken, nor was there any sign of a struggle along the highway. I hoped you might be able to shed some light on the mystery.’

Nicholas shook his head in mystification. ‘I was not all that close to him, but I know of nothing that would cause anyone to wish him dead. The relationship of Warden to verderers is a loose one, though we are all officers of the Royal Forest.’

The hovering bottler refilled John’s cup as the other man explained further.

‘As you will know, each of the forests has a Warden, appointed directly by the King — or in reality by the Curia Regis or Chief Justiciar on his behalf. It’s supposed to be an appointment for life and I have been overseeing Devon since Richard put me here in ’91.’

He paused to sip his wine, staring pensively into the cold ashes of the firepit. ‘In the last year there has been some agitation to remove me. No one will come forward openly, but I have had anonymous letters telling me to resign — and even a couple of threats on my life.’

John sat up straighter — this might have some bearing on le Bonde’s killing.

‘Do you know if the same happened to the verderer?’

De Bosco shook his head. ‘Not that I know of — and I would be surprised if it were so. I’m sure this is a political matter, which would not affect a mere verderer. I don’t wish to sound patronising, but there is considerable difference between our ranks. Wardens, like coroners, have to be men of substance — at least manor lords or even a baron. Verderers are drawn from the ranks of lesser knights or even just freeholders.’

De Wolfe, who had spent much of his adult life out of England, had never before needed to understand the hierarchy of the forest officers and sought some explanation.

‘So are verderers also appointed by the Crown?’

De Bosco exhaled through his bare gums. ‘It’s complicated! There are four of them in every forest, one to each quadrant. They are recommended by a sheriff’s writ and elected by freeholders in the County Court. But at least in theory they are responsible directly to the King, not to the Warden. It’s a strange system.’

John had pricked his ears up at the mention of the sheriff. Anything that involved his brother-in-law needed to be looked at very carefully.

‘So the nomination comes from the sheriff?’

The Warden nodded. ‘No doubt Richard de Revelle already has someone in mind, if he knows yet about the death of Humphrey le Bonde.’

‘What’s the difference in the functions of these officers?’

Nicholas drained his cup and waved it at his servant to be refilled.

‘I’m just an administrator — it matters not whether I ever set foot in the forest. With my clerk, I compile the records of all income to the Treasury from forest activities and of all court cases, to send to the Justiciar each year.’