Bernard Knight - Crowner Royal

He uttered this bare-faced untruth with no compunction at all, as it was his only hope, faint as it was, of scaring the culprits out of cover.

The archdeacon nodded as he swallowed the last spoonful of his cherry torte. ‘And what about this rumour we heard of spies in the palace being connected to that poor clerk who served us so well in the guest chambers?’

Again John concealed his total ignorance of who might responsible. Bernard de Montfort was an inveterate gossip and there was no better way of spreading John’s false optimism, than telling the archdeacon.

‘Ah, there I am also most optimistic!’ he replied. ‘I hope to lay my hands on Basil’s murderer before the week is out. There are certain pieces of the riddle still to fall into place, but I shall soon have them, never fear!’

If he had been Thomas de Peyne, the coroner would certainly have made the Sign of the Cross and murmured a prayer for forgiveness for his blatant lies.

The next few days passed without incident until the palace began to murmur with anticipation at the return of the court from Gloucester. A herald rode in with the news that they were at Oxford and would probably arrive in Westminster in three days’ time. This meant a great deal of work for those who would have to deal with the sudden influx of several hundred hungry souls, horses and oxen. The Keeper was seen to be striding around with an even more woebegone face than usual, harrying his staff into greater preparedness.

For the Coroner of the Verge, there was little to do. The only event that concerned him was a fire in Thieving Lane, where sparks had set the thatch of a house alight. Neighbours and lay brothers from the abbey managed to limit the damage by rushing for ladders and pulling clumps of smoking straw down into the street, but John still had to attend the scene and get Thomas to write a short report for the abbot and the justices, as fires in towns were a serious hazard which could destroy acres of closely packed buildings.

Two days before the queen and her entourage were due to return, John had an invitation from Bernard de Montfort to join him and some others in a hunting trip to one of the abbey manors. Unusually for a knight, John was not addicted to hunting, perhaps because he had spent so many years in campaigns and battles, where the hunting was usually of two-legged beasts. Most of his fellow Normans saw hunting the boar, the stag and the wolf as both a sport and a means of keeping them in practice for war, by honing their skills with horse, bow and lance.

However, he had little else to divert him and he agreed to go with them to the forests around Green-ford, one of Abbot Postard’s manors, about twelve miles to the west. He took Gwyn with him as his esquire, as the Cornishman was still adamant that he was not going to let him out of his sight until his would-be assassin was dealt with. They left Westminster in the afternoon and rode out with Bernard de Montfort, Guy de Bretteville, Peter le Paumer and half a dozen others, including the prior and the precentor of the abbey, both keen hunters and Gerald, the chaplain of the palace chapel.

John had borrowed a couple of ‘coursers’ from the Marshalsea, as Odin and Gwyn’s heavy mare would be of little use for rapid sprints in woodland. The stay in the manor house at Greenford was pleasant enough, with a good meal and plenty of ale, cider and wine to lubricate the conversation. Early next morning, they rode out from the stockade around the house into the surrounding farmland, then into the park. This was a few hundred acres of forest that had been surrounded by a deer-proof fence to keep in the game and discourage those who might risk the inevitable death penalty for poaching. At intervals around this fence, there were deer traps, a deep ditch on the inner side to prevent the animals from escaping, but a grassy ramp on the outside to allow any wild beasts to enter. Attracted by hinds in season, males would jump in, but were unable to get out again and so increased the manor’s stock.

The hunting party, about a dozen in number, assembled on their horses and waited whilst the huntmaster and his assistants marshalled their hounds. The different types of dog had different functions — the scent-pursuing lymer, the running-dog for stamina and the greyhound for the speed needed once the quarry was sighted. The hunters carried a variety of weapons, some with short bows, others with crossbows. A few preferred the short lance and most carried clubs hanging from their saddle-bows. A platoon of servants ran beside them when they began to move, some holding hounds on the leash, others beating the trees and yelling to drive the quarry out of hiding. Several green-clad hunt-masters and their assistants were mounted and kept in touch by blasts on their horns.

Soon the party broke up into smaller groups, most with a hound or two out ahead, being controlled by a handler running behind. John cantered down a path between the trees and then turned to follow the sudden urgent sound of horns, somewhere away to his right. Gwyn came close behind, with Bernard de Montfort, dressed in a very un-clerical brown tunic and breeches, his silent manservant Raoul close behind on foot. The path narrowed and then petered out so that they had to go forward between the trees and saplings at a walk, their horses brushing aside leafy branches and bushes.

‘This is getting us nowhere, de Wolfe!’ called the archdeacon from behind. ‘Best to go back and work our way around on the main track.’

John, brought up against what seemed to be an impenetrable thicket of ash and hazel, had to agree and pulled his courser’s head around to face back down the path of crushed vegetation that they had just made. As he did so, there was a distinct and chillingly familiar twanging sound from beyond the bushes and John de Wolfe jerked in his saddle as a crossbow bolt hit him in the chest.

‘I’m all right, Gwyn! You get the bastard!’ roared John, who rather to his surprise was still alive and apparently uninjured.

He looked down at the tear in his grey riding cloak, which now overlaid a smarting bruise over his ribs, but nothing else.

Gwyn, ignoring his master’s command, hastily came back and slid from his saddle, with de Montfort close behind. John looked down and saw a bolt on the ground nearby, with some odd red fragments scattered around it. The Cornishman insisted on feeling around de Wolfe’s chest to see if there was any wound or bleeding. Both he and de Montfort took some convincing that he was not seriously hurt, but again he yelled at his officer to pursue whoever had loosed off the crossbow at him. With a roar of rage, the Cornishman set off on foot, crashing through the bushes towards where the bolt must have come from.

‘My man has already gone after him, he’s quick on his feet,’ bellowed the archdeacon. ‘But you, Sir John, what about you? How could you survive that bolt?’

The coroner, still in the saddle, had been investigating his chest, pulling aside his cloak over the painful bruise that was now smarting like fury. He gave a shout of surprised astonishment.

‘Hubert Walter saved my life! By God’s guts, that’s incredible!’

He opened his short cloak and showed Bernard de Montfort a torn parchment in a ripped inside pocket. Pulling it out, a shower of brittle red fragments fell from where a length of pink tape carried the sparse remnants of a thick wax seal.

‘But a crossbow bolt would go through that easily!’ protested the priest, unable to believe his eyes.

‘It must have been a glancing blow and it skidded off sideways! Thanks be to the Virgin and all her saints!’ he added fervently. ‘Now let’s get after your servant and my officer; we need to catch this murdering swine and find out who he is.’