Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

‘Yes. The two Ferrars and their men left Winchester for Southampton, with authority to collect sixty men-at-arms and archers, who were waiting to cross to Harfleur. The Justiciar said that though they were intended for Richard’s army, they could delay for a few weeks and come down here. He placed them under your command, Ralph, to do whatever you think necessary.’

Morin’s bushy eyebrows lifted almost into his hairline.

‘Me? Not the sheriff?’

De Wolfe took a sip of his wine and explained.

‘De Revelle is in bad odour with the Justiciar, though he can’t get rid of him just yet because of his influential allies. But Hubert has given me a coroner’s Royal Commission to use whatever means I wish to sort out this mess in the forest. That includes using these troops under your direct command.’

The constable looked delirious with joy. ‘God’s teeth, that’s marvellous! But will the sheriff let you get away with it? He’s supposed to be the King’s man in the county.’

‘I have letters from the Justiciar, speaking for the Curia Regis, which confirms the Commission. They strictly forbid de Revelle from countermanding my activities, as well as stopping him from becoming Warden.’

The man with the forked beard beamed. ‘Anything else?’

‘Another parchment gives me the power to arrest any forest officer whom I consider to be guilty of an offence, irrespective of forest law. As the Royal Forests are royal, they can hardly oppose a direct order on behalf of the King!’

‘Is there anything you can’t do?’ asked the portly chaplain.

‘You’re safe enough, being a man of the cloth,’ replied John. ‘I’ve no mandate to do anything against clerics or any ecclesiastical or monastic establishments. So I can’t act against this damned Father Edmund, apart from handing him over to the Church authorities, which would probably be a waste of time.’

Ralph Morin was already imagining himself in command of a small army. ‘When do these soldiers get here?’ he demanded.

‘As soon as Ferrars can march them from Southampton — they should be halfway here by now. You’ll have to find some accommodation for them somewhere.’

The constable swallowed the rest of his wine and jumped to his feet.

‘I’d better get started — tents and shelters to put up in the outer ward and extra victuals to get in. The sheriff will have apoplexy when he hears, not least when he realises the cost of feeding these men!’

At the door of the sacristy, he turned to John,

‘Please, let me come with you when you tell the bastard about all this. I wouldn’t want to miss seeing his face at the news!’

John decided that there was no time like the present, and they walked across the bailey to the keep, smugly anticipating the violent reaction of de Revelle when he heard how he was being sidelined. But the man was not there, and from the furtive looks and feeble excuses of his chamber servant, John suspected that he had some dubious assignation in some backstreet of the city.

‘Delay increases the anticipation of good things,’ he told Ralph philosophically. ‘We’ll ruin his day by telling him first thing in the morning.’

As he walked through the gatehouse arch on his way home, Sergeant Gabriel bobbed out of the guardroom to intercept him.

‘Crowner, Gwyn sent a message up by a lad a few minutes ago. He said to meet him as soon as you can just above the Saracen, but not to go inside.’

John stared at the grizzled soldier, unsure of the meaning of this cryptic message.

‘Any idea what it’s about?

‘No idea, sir, but it was from Gwyn all right — I questioned the boy and he said it was a giant with red hair who gave him a quarter penny to run with the message!’

For Gwyn to be so generous for such a small task must surely mean something important, thought John.

‘That Saracen’s an evil place, Crowner. Would you like me to come with you, in case there’s any rough stuff?’

The old soldier was obviously curious, as well as trying to be helpful, so John accepted his offer and they set off at a quick march for the lower town. The tavern of ill repute was at the top of Stepcote Hill, leading down to the West Gate, and ten minutes later they were within sight of the low thatched building, with dirty yellow-plastered walls displaying a crude painting of a Musselman over the door.

In the rays of the setting sun, they saw Gwyn lurking fifty paces short of the ale house, trying unsuccessfully to look inconspicuous in the doorway of the last house in Smythen Street. They walked cautiously up to him, as he peered down towards the hill.

‘What the devil’s going on, Gwyn? Are you spying on someone?’

He pointed a forefinger the size of a blood sausage towards the Saracen. ‘He’s in there! I didn’t want to scare him off before you came.’

The Cornishman was in one of his exasperatingly obscure moods.

‘Who, for Christ’s sake?’ snarled de Wolfe.

Gwyn looked as his master in surprise, as if he should already know.

‘Stephen Cruch, of course! I was going to the Bush along Idle Lane when I spotted him creeping down here. I followed him and saw him going into the tavern.’

‘After that affair in the forest near Ashburton, it’s a wonder he’d show his face within miles of the city,’ observed Gabriel.

‘Maybe he didn’t know about it — though every one else in Exeter does,’ replied de Wolfe.

‘From the way he was skulking along, I think he’s well aware of the danger,’ said Gwyn. ‘Perhaps he left something in the Saracen last time he stayed there, which he urgently needs before making a run for it, out of the county.’

De Wolfe stared down the street, keeping the door of the tavern in view.

‘If we seized him, it might help when the troops arrive. He can probably tell us where the various outlaw camps are placed. The one you saw, Gwyn — that must be only one of many.’

The big man’s huge moustache lifted as he grinned. ‘I’m sure he can “probably” tell us, crowner. Especially if I lean on him a little. He’s only a small fellow!’

‘How are we going to do it?’ asked Gabriel.

‘Just march in and grab him!’ said John bluntly. ‘Though I’ve got the King’s Commission to do almost anything I like, he’s already due for a hanging for consorting with outlaws — which I saw with my own eyes!’

‘A good bargaining point!’ chuckled Gabriel. ‘Let’s go.’

The taking of the horse-dealer was simplicity itself. The three men, two unusually large and the third in a military tunic, brandishing a sword, burst into the taproom of the tavern. There was a stunned silence from all the patrons, a rough-looking bunch with a sprinkling of resident harlots. As John and his friends scanned the room for Stephen Cruch, the silence was broken by the landlord, a grossly fat man called Willem the Fleming, with whom John had often had dealings, usually unpleasant.

‘What the hell do you want!’ he shouted.

Gwyn spotted Cruch sliding behind the fat innkeeper, trying to make for the back door. With a roar, he charged forward, brushed Willem aside and grabbed the horse-trader by his greasy hair. As he dragged the smaller man back towards the entrance, pandemonium broke out and the patrons surged forward, but Gabriel swished his sword back and forth in warning as he and de Wolfe retreated to the door and left.

Outside, their captive was writhing in Gwyn’s grasp, now with a massive arm locked around his neck, cutting off most of the oaths and blasphemies that he was trying to scream. They dragged him across to Idle Lane, where beyond the Bush on waste ground were a few scrubby trees. From the pocket of his jerkin, Gwyn produced a short length of stout twine and, pushing Cruch back against the trunk of an elder, he tied his wrists behind it, then stepped back.