Bernard Knight - Crowner Royal

Shocked by his miraculous escape, but too hardened to admit it, he kicked his horse into action and heedless of branches and brambles tearing at him, charged off down the path to the main track, with de Montfort struggling to keep up with him. He turned left in the direction that Gwyn and Raoul must have taken, pounding along, shouting for his officer to say where he was. Suddenly, the trees thinned and they found themselves almost at the edge of the forest, with the park fence ahead of them.

‘There he is, at the deer-leap!’ shouted Bernard and true enough three figures were seen in the pit beneath the sheer wall of the trap. John slid from his horse, wincing at the pain in his chest and stumbled down the steep slope which formed part of the one-way system for the deer.

Gwyn and Raoul were bending over a still shape that lay at the foot of the ten-foot drop from the outer side of the leap.

‘The sod is dead, blast it!’ yelled Gwyn, incensed beyond measure. ‘I wanted the joy of twisting his head off myself, but he’s beaten me to it!’

‘Damn that!’ stormed de Wolfe. ‘I wanted him alive so that I could discover who’s behind this.’

‘How did this happen, Raoul?’ demanded the archdeacon of his servant.

The powerfully built Raoul looked sullen at this condemnation of his efforts. ‘He was dead by the time I got here, sire!’ he growled. ‘He was well ahead of me when I heard him crashing through the bushes. Then he streaked down here and started to climb the leap, as the fence is too high elsewhere. He almost got to the top, then fell back and must have broken his neck.’

The angry coroner looked at the low man-made cliff that fronted the grassy ramp on the other side. It was made of earth and rocks, partly colonised by clumps of coarse grass and weeds.

The dead man lay crumpled on the ground at its foot, his head bent at an unnatural angle. A few large stones lay tumbled nearby as if they had fallen out of the cliff face when he attempted to climb up.

‘Turn him over, Gwyn, let’s have a look at the bastard,’ commanded de Wolfe. He did so and the sightless face of a rough-looking man in a brown smock and serge trousers stared up at the sky. He had a tight wide belt carrying a long dagger and wore wooden-soled shoes on his feet.

‘Anyone recognise the bastard?’ asked Gwyn. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

None of the others admitted to knowing him and by this time one of the Greenford hound-masters had joined them, as his dogs had run to this unusual gathering as they passed by on the main track. He was told of the failed crossbow attack and after some strenuous blasts on his horn, others of the hunting party came to join them. The prior was one of them and he was aghast at yet another attempt on the life of the palace coroner.

‘You must have made some persistent enemies, Sir John,’ was his comment, as he studied the features of the dead man. The face of the corpse was dirty and coarse-skinned, with heavy brows and a lantern jaw. He had no beard or moustache, but a raised dark brown mole, the size of a thumbnail and covered in coarse hairs, sat on his right cheek amongst the cow-pox scars.

‘I seem to recall this fellow’s face and that hairy tumour on his cheek. I have seen him about Westminster, though I have no idea who he is.’

More hunters gravitated to the leap and soon almost all the party was there, commiserating with John and making sure that he did not need the services of an apothecary. They all clustered around the corpse and one of the lay brothers that came with the abbey precentor also recognised the man.

‘He is a ruffian I have seen about the town,’ he said confidently. ‘I remember that disfiguring mole and once saw him staggering drunk out of the Crown alehouse in Tothill Street and starting a fight with another man.’

John, remarkably composed for one who had escaped death by a miracle, thought it very significant that the failed assassin was from Westminster, a dozen miles from home. It confirmed that whoever had employed him — for he was obviously a hired killer — must also be from there. Though he had no recollection of the man who had attacked him in the crypt of St Stephen’s Chapel, he felt it likely that this was the same man.

This was rapidly confirmed when another of the hunting party came forward to view the cadaver.

‘That is the man I saw running out of the passage outside the chapel!’ declared Gerard, the chaplain who had tried to come to John’s aid at that time.

In spite of the drama, the hunters had come to hunt and even such a startling episode as this did not put them off. De Wolfe and Gwyn decided that they had had enough excitement for one day and after the rest had regrouped to go back into the forest for their entertainment, they trotted back to the manor house, leaving some of the manor servants to carry the corpse back to the stables. As Greenford was just outside John’s jurisdiction, he was not bothered about any legal formalities. If the bailiff wished to report the matter to the sheriffs who acted as coroners, it was up to him and John for once had no enthusiasm for seeing that the law was followed to the letter.

Gwyn fussed over his master like a hen with a single chick, but all John wanted before they made their way back home was to sit down in the hall with a quart or two of ale and something to eat. This was readily provided on the orders of the house steward, who had heard of the incident in the forest and was eager to do all he could for the king’s coroner. As they sat eating and drinking at a table in the hall, Gwyn wondered aloud what was provoking these murderous attacks on his master.

‘Is it because of the treasure or this tale about spies that Byard spun us?’ he said. ‘For someone is trying to shut your mouth for ever!’

De Wolfe put down his mug and gave a wry grin. ‘I may have been asking for it, in a way. Several times now, I’ve deliberately boasted about being on the verge of making an arrest for both the crimes. I hoped that it might provoke either culprit into taking flight or giving away something that would show their guilt.’

Gwyn smoothed down the ends of his drooping moustaches.

‘Instead of that, they tried to strangle you and then shoot your giblets out of your chest!’ he exclaimed. ‘But we don’t know which crime it was for.’

‘No, but both attacks were by the same man, so it was for the same crime. It would be too much of a coincidence if the same lout was hired by two different parties.’

None of this told them which party it was and eventually they rode home being none the wiser — and now John would have to go the Justiciar’s office when Hubert returned, to get a new seal placed on his most useful warrant.

‘Maybe you should ask for one made of iron,’ suggested Gwyn, facetiously. ‘Next time, perhaps sealing wax won’t be as effective!’

The royal procession returned with somewhat less pomp and glamour than when they had left several weeks earlier. The banners still waved and the trumpets still blew, but in the late afternoon of a hot day, everyone was tired, dusty and limp, apart from Eleanor of Aquitaine and William Marshal, who still rode stiffly upright in their saddles. They came in from Windsor and after the major figures had been escorted into the royal apartments and the chambers above and around the Lesser Hall, all the others rapidly dispersed. Grooms and ostlers ran to take care of the horses and the ox-wagons came to a halt in Old Palace Yard behind the stores’ entrances. Ranulf and William Aubrey had plenty to occupy themselves in sorting out the confusion of animals and carts, and John did not see them until the evening, as he kept well out of the way in his chamber facing the river. He wanted to keep out of sight of Hawise for the time being, though he realised he would have to face her sooner or later. Thankfully, she and her husband would soon be leaving with the queen, as Eleanor would be departing for one of the channel ports within a few days.