Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

The four prisoners who were led out of the rusted iron door by the grotesque jailer were subdued and apprehensive even before they faced their accusers.

Though they had been in the squalid cells only since that morning, they were already dirty and tousled. The green tunics of the two foresters and the leather jerkins of their pages were streaked with grime, wisps of dirty straw adhering to their hair and hose.

With Sergeant Gabriel at one end and the obese Stigand at the other, they were prodded into a ragged line, clanking the heavy irons that secured their ankles. Their belts and weapons were laid out near by on the dried mud of the floor, and off to one side Stigand had helpfully set out a brazier, with branding irons stuck into the glowing coals.

Facing them were the men responsible for their capture, together with Nicholas de Bosco, the Warden of the Forests, Philip de Strete, the new verederer, and Brother Roger, who, as castle chaplain, now had a legitimate reason for being present, as a priest was required at such events in case a prisoner died during the Ordeal or torture. Thomas was also there, squatting on a keg, with his writing materials before him on a crate, ready to record any confessions.

‘All we need now is the damned sheriff!’ bellowed Guy Ferrars.

‘I thought you said he had promised to come?’ demanded Reginald de Courcy of the constable.

Before Ralph Morin could reply, a shadow darkened the light coming through the small entrance at the foot of the steps leading down from the inner ward. It was Richard de Revelle, scowling like thunder and obviously making a point by arriving last. He had a light mantle tightly wrapped around his body, as if to insulate himself from the others in the undercroft. The faces of the foresters brightened slightly when they saw him, as if they expected him to save them from this nightmare.

‘About time, de Revelle,’ barked the elder Ferrars. ‘This is something you should have done long ago.’

The sheriff glowered, but made no response, standing apart from the others as if he had no interest in the proceedings.

John de Wolfe bent to Thomas’s makeshift table and picked up the rolls of his Commission, which he brandished at the prisoners.

‘These are signed by the Chief Justiciar himself, on behalf of our sovereign lord King Richard!’ he announced. ‘So let no one here try to dispute my right to proceed as I think fit.’

He handed the parchments back to his clerk, then took a step nearer the foresters, his fists planted aggressively on his belt.

‘You, William Lupus — and you, Michael Crespin. I summoned you both to attend my inquests on the tanner, Elias Necke, and Edward of Manaton. You refused to attend and are already in mercy for that. Why did you not come?’

The elder of the two foresters appeared to have regained some of his former arrogance, perhaps emboldened by the presence of the sheriff and the verderer, who he assumed would be on his side.

‘You had no right to interfere in forest affairs. They are regulated by the forest law,’ he growled.

‘Nonsense. The king’s peace covers the whole of England, including his own forests,’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘The forest laws deal only with matters of vert and venison.’

‘You had no Royal Commission when you summoned them, de Wolfe,’ snarled the sheriff, opening his mouth for the first time.

‘I needed no special commission to attach witnesses for an inquest,’ said the coroner, testily. ‘That power was granted by the Crown in Article Twenty of the General Eyre held in Kent last September.’

He turned back to Lupus. ‘You and your accomplices have perpetrated a reign of terror and extortion in that bailiwick of the forest of Devon. You have closed forges, forced alehouses to take your own product, destroyed a tannery and caused the deaths of at least three people.’

‘I’ve killed no one. Those outlaws did the deeds,’ shouted Lupus violently. ‘You can prove nothing against us. We did what we were told in the matter of commerce, like brewing and forges.’

‘Told by whom?’ demanded Ferrars, determined to play a part in the coroner’s inquiry.

Lupus looked furtively at Crespin, then at de Strete.

‘By the previous verderer, Humphrey le Bonde.’

There was a snort of derision from several throats at this.

‘You damned liar!’ shouted de Courcy. ‘Very convenient to blame him, now that he can’t contradict you. No doubt he was killed because he tried to moderate your evil schemes.’

‘Which one of you put an arrow in his back?’ demanded Ralph Morin.

‘It was an outlaw, some footpad who wanted to steal his purse.’

‘Strange that every penny was still inside it when he was found,’ said de Wolfe, with heavy sarcasm. He turned to the elderly Warden, who had been standing with a grim expression on his lined face.

‘De Bosco, what do you make of all this?’

‘It saddens me to think that forest officers, who on their appointment swore loyalty to the King, should have degenerated into little better than outlaws themselves. Whatever else happens to them, they are not fit to wear the horn badge of a forester, and I hereby dismiss them, as from this moment!’

‘I doubt you have that power, Warden,’ objected de Strete. The verderer sounded hesitant, as if afraid to commit himself to one side or the other. ‘You certainly cannot dismiss a verderer. I am nominated by the sheriff, elected by the County Court and responsible only to the King.’

Richard de Revelle supported his protégé, his voice high pitched and pompous. ‘The Warden can nominate foresters, but my recent researches show that he cannot dismiss them — once appointed, they are royal officers.’

John de Wolfe lost patience with this bickering. He grabbed the parchment roll from Thomas once more and brandished it in the face of the sheriff and the verderer.

‘Must I tell you again, damn it?’ he shouted. ‘This is all the authority I need to do as I see fit! I speak now, not as the county coroner, but as a Royal Commissioner.’

He waved the roll again at Philip de Strete. ‘The first action I take under these powers is to dismiss you from your office.’

The podgy verderer found enough courage to protest. ‘You can’t do that. I was nominated under a writ from the sheriff here!’

De Revelle also snarled a contradiction at his brother-in-law.

‘And he was duly elected by the County Court!’

John dropped the roll back on to Thomas’s packing case.

‘The appointment has to be ratified by the Curia or their Justiciar — and I can assure you, Hubert Walter had no hesitation in annulling that confirmation.’

Philip de Strete, now the ex-verderer, responded by walking out of the undercroft, giving the sheriff a look of bitter recrimination on the way.

‘Let’s get on with the business, de Wolfe,’ rasped Guy Ferrars. ‘What are you going to do with these rascals, if you won’t send them to be hanged straight away?’

‘I want some answers from them, for a start. I’m declaring this to be the continued inquests on Elias Necke, Edward of Manaton and William Gurnon, a woodward of Lustleigh. Put that on your record, Thomas.’

His eyes moved slowly along the line of men opposite, his face like thunder.

‘Who killed Elias the tanner? Was it you, Crespin — or you, Lupus? Or did you send one of these louts you call pages to do it for you?’

The so-called pages, bullies usually full of swagger, seemed to have crumpled after a few hours manacled in the cells and now faced with the implements of physical persuasion. The ugly Henry Smok had a haunted, fearful look on his face and was the one who answered the coroner, the words tumbling out.

‘None of us, sir, certainly not me! It was those men belonging to Winter. They came down from the edge of the woods and put a torch to the place.’