Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

Leaving the ever-famished Gwyn to attack a mutton pasty and some bread and cheese that he had bought at a street stall, de Wolfe stumped back down the stairs and turned into the inner ward of the castle. Rougemont had an outer line of defences lower down the hill, where a high earth bank and a ditch marked off a large area in the angle between the north and east city walls. In this outer ward lived many of the garrison and their families, as well as other camp followers. A profusion of huts and shacks, together with stables, forges, armourers and store sheds, turned this outer bailey into a small village. A high, castellated stone wall cut off the upper corner, creating the fortified inner ward, entered only through the gatehouse. Inside was the keep, a three-storeyed building against the far wall, where the sheriff and constable lived. The ward also contained the tiny garrison chapel of St Mary and the bleak stone barn that was the Shire Court. Around the inside of the curtain wall were more lean-to sheds and shacks, some being living quarters, others stables and storerooms. It had been more than half a century since the castle had seen any military action and the place was now hardly a fortress, but more the administrative hub of Devonshire, as well as the home of a few score soldiers and their families.

John de Wolfe strode across the ward, churned by the feet of countless horses, cart-oxen and soldiers into an almost grassless expanse of dried mud. The early evening sun was still warm and outside their huts a few wives were sewing and gossiping, as they watched urchins playing with mongrels or tossing balls of tied rags. Nodding curtly to a few acquaintances as he went, the coroner reached the wooden stairs that led up to the door of the keep, twelve feet above ground. In the unlikely event of besiegers breaking into the inner ward, the stairs could be thrown down and a portcullis dropped over the only entrance to this final refuge. This evening, the only threat to Rougemont’s inner sanctum was the grimly resolute look on the coroner’s face as he marched in, determined to discover whether the sheriff was involved in any new scheming in the Royal Forest.

On the main floor, above the undercroft that housed the fetid gaol, was the great hall of the castle, behind which were the rooms of the sheriff. The upper floor was occupied by the constable of Rougemont, as well as housing the cramped living quarters of numerous servants and clerks. De Wolfe was making straight for the door of his brother-in-law’s quarters, set at the side of the hall, when a voice hailed him from one of the trestle tables that were set out in the large, high chamber.

‘He’s not there, John. Gone to visit his wife, so he says!’

The coroner turned and saw a large, grey-bearded man wearing a mailed hauberk, sitting with Gabriel, the sergeant-at-arms. He was also in armour, his round metal helmet on the table near by. The senior man was Ralph Morin, the castle constable and a good friend of de Wolfe, who walked across and dropped on to the bench alongside them.

‘What’s all this chainmail, then? Are we expecting the French to invade us?’

Ralph grinned and waved to a passing servant to bring some ale across to them. He was living proof that the Normans were recent descendants of the Norsemen, as with his fair hair and forked beard he looked as if he had just stepped off a Viking longship.

‘Just got back from drilling some idle soldiers on Bull Mead,’ he grunted. ‘These days, most of the youngsters have never seen a sword lifted in anger — nor even a drop of blood spilt! We need a war to knock them into shape.’

‘Too damned hot for running around in a hauberk,’ added Gabriel, as a pitcher of ale and some pots were put on the table. The sergeant was a grizzled old warrior, nearing retirement age, who had seen plenty of service in the Irish and French wars. The three professional soldiers spent a few moments bemoaning the soft recruits and easy time that the military had these days, until Ralph Morin returned to the subject of the sheriff. Although de Revelle was nominally the constable’s superior, Rougemont was a royal castle, rather than the fief of a baron, so Ralph was responsible directly to the King for its security.

‘He went up to Tiverton on Sunday, supposed to return tomorrow. Perhaps his lady feels in need of some service!’

The sheriff’s wife, the frigid Lady Eleanor, refused to live with her husband in Exeter in the cold and draughty keep and spent her days either at their manor near Tiverton or at the family home at Revelstoke, near Plymouth. The arrangement seemed to suit Richard, who never lacked for illicit female company in his bedchamber, but every week or two he made short duty visits to his haughty spouse.

‘Then he can’t yet know that the forest has lost one of its verderers?’ observed de Wolfe. He related the story of the curious death of Humphrey le Bonde, and Morin’s craggy face showed his surprise.

‘I knew le Bonde well — I was at the siege of Le Mans with him. He was a good fellow, a dependable fighter. I’m sorry he’s dead.’

‘Who the hell would want to plant an arrow in the back of a verderer?’ growled Gabriel. ‘If it was a forester or even a woodward, I could understand it. Many of those bastards deserve to be slain, but a verderer just holds the forty-day courts.’

‘Could it be an aggrieved forest dweller, who was dealt with harshly at one of those courts?’ hazarded the constable.

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘Those woodmotes can only fine folk a trivial amount for offences against the vert worth less than four pence. Who’s going to commit murder in revenge for a few marks?’

Morin gulped some ale and wiped his luxuriant beard with his hand.

‘Then you’re driven back on outlaws — but if he wasn’t robbed, then why should they fire a shaft through his lights? A verderer would have no particular fight with those human wolves in the forest.’

‘There’s something more sinister going on,’ grunted John. ‘The Warden’s been threatened and someone wants to squeeze him out of his job.’

They kicked the problem back and forth until the ale was finished, then de Wolfe rose from the table. ‘If our dear sheriff isn’t here, then I’d better get back home and face his sister. She’ll be wanting her supper after a hard bout of talking to God at St Olave’s!’

He left the two soldiers looking for some food to be washed down with more ale. The sun was now low over the great twin towers of the cathedral, but the streets were still bustling with people. Many citizens were still haggling with traders at booths or at shopfronts, whose hinged shutters were dropped down to make a counter to display their goods. Porters struggled by with great woolpacks on their shoulders or heaving at laden handcarts. Drinkers staggered in and out of the many ale shops on the high street and sumpter horses and pack mules squeezed through the crowds, with their drivers dragging on the bridles, blaspheming every step of the way. The evening air was redolent with the smells of cooking, sewage and horse manure.

Oblivious to the turmoil, the coroner barged his way towards Martin’s Lane, a head taller than most of those around him. He turned into the alleyway, shadowed by contrast with the brighter expanse of the cathedral Close at the far end. With a sigh of resignation, he pushed open his front door and turned right to go straight into the hall. His big hound Brutus rose from under the table and came towards him, head down and tail wagging in welcome. A less cordial greeting came from behind the wooden cowl of one of the monk’s chairs near the hearth.

‘And where have you been gallivanting since just after dawn?’

‘Getting my arse sore in the saddle, riding around the county on the duties that you were so keen to shoulder me with last autumn,’ he replied sourly, slumping down on to the other settle opposite his wife.