Bernard Knight - The Manor of Death

'That's one of Thorgils' cogs,' said Gwyn, forgetting for a moment that it was now partly his master's. 'I remember the look of her from when they came down to Salcombe to salvage the ship he died on.'

They trotted back down the other side of the stream and reined in alongside the vessel, which John remembered was called the St Radegund . Several men were working on the rigging of the single square sail, and two others were hammering at deck planks around the gaping hold in the centre.

'Is your shipmaster aboard?' yelled Gwyn.

Several of the men looked up, and one recognised the forbidding figure of the coroner astride his old destrier. He rapidly hissed to his companions that their employer was visiting, then walked to the bulwark and called across the narrow strip of water, which was beginning to run out on the ebb tide.

'Sir John, good day to you! Roger Watts has gone to say farewell to Mistress Hilda, as we sail for Exeter tonight to load your wool for Calais.'

De Wolfe felt a pleasant glow of ownership as he heard this and waved a hand at the shipman, calling a few words of encouragement. Sailing the Channel was always a hazardous occupation, with not only winds, fog and tide to contend with but the ever-present threat of pirates and privateers, who came from as far away as the North African coast and even Turkey.

'Gwyn, I must talk to Roger Watts to see if he has any knowledge about Axmouth. Get yourself to a tavern and find something to eat and drink. I've no doubt you can manage that!' His attempt at unfamiliar jocularity was born of pleasure at having a legitimate excuse to visit Hilda at her house, sufficient to assuage his conscience in regard to Nesta.

Gwyn grinned at this transparent subterfuge and ambled away towards the Anchor alehouse a few yards away. Dawlish was little more than one main street along the track that led from Kenton to Teignmouth, with a few houses on a short lane that went at right angles to the stream, behind the high street. Here, Thorgils had built his mansion, a substantial stone dwelling of two storeys, easily the largest building in the village. It had two pillars in front joined by a shallow arch over a front door and the roof was of stone tiles, rather than thatch or wooden shingles. There was even a chimney, the whole house being a copy of one in the main street of Dol, in Brittany.

John strode boldly up to the door and rapped loudly upon it, so different from the rather furtive visits he used to make when Hilda was a wife rather than a widow. It was opened by her frail little maid Alice, who was always in awe of this great dark man who came to call upon her mistress.

'I believe one of our shipmasters is here, Alice,' he boomed.

The girl, who could have been no more than twelve, bobbed her knee. 'Yes, sir. Master Watts has called and is upstairs.' The maid invited him in, leading him along a passage and up an open staircase to Hilda's solar, one of two rooms on the upper floor — a luxury indeed, even in the grander houses of Exeter.

The master of the St Radegund was sitting on a bench in the window, whose shutters were flung wide to give a view of the sea over the roofs of the low buildings in the main street. Roger Watts was a short, burly man of forty, with a red weather-beaten face. He rose as soon as his employer came in and touched a finger to his forehead in salute. 'A welcome surprise, Sir John!' he exclaimed. 'I was just about to leave to see how my repairs are coming along,' he added tactfully, glancing at Hilda.

The widow sat in a leather-backed chair facing the window, but she also rose as de Wolfe came in. Dressed in a pale blue kirtle of fine wool, she was tall and slim, a blonde beauty looking much younger than her thirty-five years. In the house, she wore no head veil and her waist-length hair was braided into two honey-coloured plaits that hung down over her bosom, the ends encased in silver tubes. A silken rope was wound twice around her waist, with tassels dangling from the long free ends. She glided across the room, her hands held out in welcome. John took them briefly and looked longingly into her blue eyes, but in deference to the presence of the sea-captain he did not hold her close and kiss her, as he would have done if they were alone — though on previous visits since she lost Thorgils, the little maid had crouched determinedly in a corner to act as chaperone.

'John, I am so happy to see you! Sit yourself down, please. Alice, get wine and pastries for us all.'

Roger Watts edged towards the doorway and prepared to say his farewells, but John stopped him with an upraised hand.

'Though I am always delighted to see Mistress Hilda, it is you that I really came to see, Roger.' He managed to give a covert wink to Hilda as he said this, before parking his tender backside on the padded bench and motioning Watts to be seated again.

There was a short interlude of pleasantries about each other's health, in which John avoided mentioning his present embarrassing disability. Then the maid returned with cups, a wine flask and a platter of thin pasties filled with chopped meat. As they ate and sipped the red wine, John explained his mission.

'I have had to deal with an unusual murder in Axmouth. The victim was a young shipman, strangled and buried outside the village. We have no idea who is responsible, but the whole affair is mysterious and the Keeper of the Peace over there thinks that there is some evil business afoot.'

He explained that the lad had been a crew member of The Tiger , but the cog had sailed away and until she came back he had no means of pursuing the investigation. 'You are one of the most experienced shipmasters along this coast, Roger. Is there anything you can tell me about Axmouth or this vessel that might help me?'

Watts drank some of his wine, frowning in concentration. 'Axmouth! A strange place, that!' he said ruminatively. 'I rarely moor in that river, as Exeter, Topsham and Dartmouth are my main ports of call. But sometimes I do pick up cargo there.'

De Wolfe fixed him with a steely glare. 'Why a strange place?'

'It's run by the bailiff and his lapdog, Elias the reeve. That Edward Northcote is an arrogant dictator, running everything in the name of the priory that owns the manor, but I think he has a major stake in it himself.'

This was in complete accord with what John had observed.

'Is there anything illegal going on there, d'you know?' he asked bluntly.

Roger Watts shrugged. 'I'd wager my own anchor that more goods get smuggled in than those on which the king's Customs are paid,' he said. 'There's a fellow there supposed to keep tally, John Capie by name, but he can't cope with the volume of ships that come in and out — and, anyway, every tally-man I've ever known was wide open to bribes.'

Hilda had kept silent all the while, feeling that she had no call to interrupt men's business even if she was a ship owner herself. But now she spoke up.

'It's common knowledge that everyone tries to avoid these harsh taxes if they can. I realise that you are a loyal officer of the king, John, but you must know that people increasingly resent these crushing dues, just to finance wars which they feel are none of their business.'

De Wolfe felt uncomfortable at this turn in the conversation. His own appointment as coroner was mainly to raise money for the Lionheart's treasury, in order to pay for the huge ransom that Henry of Germany demanded for his release over two years earlier. The fines, amercements, surrendered bail money, the seized property of hanged felons and fees for cases that he swept into the royal courts were all grist to the Exchequer's mill in Winchester. King Richard was now engaged in an apparently endless war against Philip of France and was squeezing all he could from England to pay for it. The Church had been bled dry, their silver plate and chalices taken and some of their huge wool output from the larger monasteries confiscated. Along with tin, wool was the staple product of the country and every bale exported was supposed to be taxed for the benefit of the Crown.