Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

‘You seem to know a lot about it, you rogue,’ rasped de Courcy. ‘So tell us who gave them the orders — and who paid them.’

Smok caught a poisonous look from his master, William Lupus, and avoided an answer, mumbling that he did not know.

‘Then who killed Edward, the poacher from Manaton?’ demanded de Wolfe. The four men looked at each other warily, but all shook their heads.

‘Right, it seems that your memories need jogging,’ snapped the coroner. He had identified Henry Smok as the weakest link, though the other page, who was called Miles, also looked as if he would betray anyone if it could save his neck. John crooked a finger at Stigand, who was waiting expectantly a few yards away. The finger moved to point at Smok and the gaoler waddled across to grab the page. The man struggled violently, but Gabriel and Gwyn seized his arms and dragged him across to the brazier. Stigand pulled an iron rod from the glowing charcoal and spat on the small cross-piece at the end. There was a hiss of steam as the gobbet vaporised and an almost simultaneous scream of fear from Henry Smok.

‘It was Crespin, he fired the arrow!’ he yelled in terror.

‘Into the back of Edward?’ persisted de Wolfe.

‘Yes. The poacher was running away, but he said he’d teach the bastard a lesson,’ gabbled the page.

There was a roar of denial from Michael Crespin, but Lupus was silent. If it had not been Crespin, then he would have had to take the blame.

Lord Ferrars felt he had been silent for too long.

‘Who directed you to start all this upheaval in the forest, eh?’

He took a step forward and glared at Lupus and then Crespin, his nose almost touching theirs. ‘Where did you get your orders?’

There was a sullen silence, then Lupus growled that there were no orders, they had done it for their own purposes, to make more money for themselves and the verderer.

‘So you killed three men, burned down a tannery and consorted with a gang of outlaws, all on your own initiative?’ snarled Ferrars. ‘A likely story!’ He turned to the gaoler, who stood hopefully in his filthy leather apron, spotted with burns and what looked like dried bloodstains.

‘Carry on, Stigand, see if you can restore the page’s memory — then we’ll try this other lout, before moving on to the men in green.’

The grossly fat gaoler stuck the first iron back into the fire to reheat and pulled out another, the end of which glowed a dull red. Advancing on the cringing Smok, he reached out and ripped down the neck of his tunic to expose a broad, hairy chest. The page wriggled violently in the grip of the men holding him and screamed out in a last attempt to avoid the branding.

‘I don’t know, I’m just a servant!’ he howled. ‘I suppose it must have been that horse-dealer — he was always bringing purses of money and whispering into the foresters’ ears!’

The hot iron was now near enough to start singeing the hairs on Smok’s chest, but the coroner waved Stigand back, much to the sadistic gaoler’s disappointment. John accepted that the page was not privy to any important information, so he turned back to the foresters.

‘And what can you two fine men tell me about it?’ he asked ominously. ‘There’s plenty of charcoal to keep the fire going, remember.’

‘You wouldn’t dare torture us, we’re officers of the King,’ Crespin said defiantly.

‘No, you’re not any longer! Didn’t you hear the Warden dismiss you just now?’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘And if he hadn’t, I would have, under the terms of my Commission. You’re just common men now, subject to the law like anyone else.’

He turned to face the elder man. ‘Who was behind all this, Lupus? We know Stephen Cruch instructed and paid you, but he was just a messenger.’

‘Stop beating about the bush, de Wolfe! Was the Count of Mortain behind all this, Lupus?’ Ferrars seemed permanently angry, but today he was even more pugnacious than usual.

The granite-faced forester looked stonily at the coroner. ‘The Prince’s name was never mentioned. I know nothing of politics, I did what I was asked and was paid for it, that’s all.’

‘Were you also asked to stab William Gurnon to death at the deer-leap — or was that your idea?’ growled Ferrars, still smarting at the loss of some roe buck and his servant.

‘We were told to get Winter’s men to dig the saltatorium — but I killed no one afterwards,’ said Lupus stonily.

De Wolfe pointed to the men’s weapons lying on the floor.

‘Are those your daggers?’ he demanded, motioning to Gwyn to bring them across. He held the belts up for them to see.

‘Which is yours and which belongs to Crespin?’

Sullenly, the men confirmed which was their property. John slid the knife belonging to Michael Crespin from its sheath and looked at the intact blade. He laid it on Thomas’s writing desk, then pulled out the weapon belonging to William Lupus. Dropping the belt to the floor, he used his free hand to feel in his waist pouch, pulling out a shrivelled green leaf. His fingers freed a shining triangle of steel and, wordlessly, he held the dagger up for all to see. As he displayed the broken tip, he showed how the fragment from his pouch fitted exactly.

‘I took that scrap of metal from the body of William Gurnon. Does any one here need better proof?’

There was silence, broken only by the footsteps of Richard de Revelle, as he followed the example of Philip de Strete and walked out of the undercroft without another word.

John went home to his empty house for a meal. He could have gone to the Bush, where he had eaten so often in the past, for the cook-maid was providing the same good fare as before Nesta had been taken to Polsloe. However, with his mistress absent, he had no urge to sit at their table by the hearth without her and preferred to eat in his own hall. Mary kept him company for a while, as she brought him various dishes from her shack in the back yard. As he tackled the ham-and-bean stew and the boiled knuckle of lamb with cabbage and onions, she sat across the table, her handsome dark head supported on her fist, listening to his account of the past few days. When she came back with bread, butter and cheese, she raised the subject of Matilda, her worries about the future still nagging away.

‘I’m going up to Polsloe later this evening,’ said John, with a reassuring tone that failed to convince her. ‘Gwyn and Thomas have asked if they can come with me, as they’ve not seen Nesta for some time, with all this commotion in the forest.’

He paused to cut a thick slice from the loaf with his knife.

‘This time I’ll insist on seeing my wife. It’s ridiculous that I can’t get some kind of answer from her about her intentions, one way or the other.’

‘Lucille is even more concerned than I am,’ said Mary. ‘At least for me there’s always the house and the cooking to be attended to — but without a mistress, what use is a mistress’s maid? I don’t like the girl, I’ll admit — but I’m sorry for her, being so uncertain about her future.’

Once more, John promised to discover what he could that evening, and when his meal was finished he walked the few yards across the cathedral Close to the house of his friend, the archdeacon.

The evening period after Compline was the most restful time for the clergy, as this was the last of the nine canonical hours, the services that occupied most of the ecclesiastical day. There was free time now until Matins at midnight, when priests could pray, read, sleep, eat or gossip.

John found the archdeacon in his usual place at that hour, sitting in his austere room, reading a book, with a flask of good wine on the table in front of him. He greeted his namesake with a smile and set another cup before him. Though de Wolfe rarely made formal confession, it was to the Archdeacon he came when that was necessary — but more often he unburdened himself to him as friend to friend, over a measure of wine.