Bernard Knight - Crowner Royal

The publican stared at him suspiciously.

‘Then you’ll not meet him again, for I hear he’s dead. Fell down and broke his neck.’

Obviously the instant news network of Westminster was not confined to the upper echelons of the palace and abbey.

‘Indeed, that’s a pity,’ said John insincerely. ‘What was his name?’

‘Jordan the ratcatcher, that’s who he was.’ The dead man had obviously not plied his trade in this alehouse, by the state of the place, but that was no concern of John’s.

‘And you are the coroner, sir — so why are you asking these questions?’ growled the landlord suspiciously. It was hardly surprising that he had been recognised, as de Wolfe was a striking figure, stalking around in black or grey, well known to most as the king’s new coroner. Deprived of anonymity, he thought he might as well be frank.

‘This Jordan tried to kill me, probably more than once,’ he growled. ‘Is it known that he took on such tasks, as well as killing vermin?’

The landlord, summing up the coroner’s demeanour and the size of the sword he carried, forbore to say that he thought that royal officials were just another class of vermin.

‘Jordan was a violent man, sir. Many a time I’ve had to deal with his brawling in here.’ He looked down at the heavy club propped against a barrel. ‘But I wouldn’t know about any other troubles he might have got into.’

‘You never saw him in the company of clergymen, I suppose.’

John was thinking of the possibility that Canon Simon might have had some nefarious dealings with the man, though as he was already dead at the time of the two attacks on John, he could not have been involved in those. But perhaps the silencing of the ironmaster might have been ordered by him or his partner, the mysterious man in the city tavern.

The innkeeper gave a derisive laugh. ‘Jordan? I doubt he’s been to Mass or confession since he was a lad. And the clergy, for all their sins and corruption, never come into the Crown, it’s way too rough for them.’

John looked around the room at the suspicious stares that the patrons were directing at him. He knew he would never get any information from them, even if some knew of Jordan’s exploits. He decided to send Gwyn to see if he could pick up any useful information, as alehouses were his forte, just as abbey dorters and refectories were happy hunting-grounds for Thomas de Peyne.

Sinking the rest of his quart, which he admitted he enjoyed very much, John went out into the far fresher air of the street and walked home to his bed, frustrated again by a failure to make any progress.

Next day, de Wolfe awoke with a sense of foreboding, for this might well be the day he would be called to account before Hubert Walter. If no summons came that morning, he would have to take the bull by the horns and seek an audience, confessing that he had failed and that he wished to resign and slink home to Devon.

But fate had other ideas for that day. Soon after the eighth hour, Thomas arrived in the coroner’s chamber from attending Prime in the abbey. They had just begun their second breakfast of bread, cheese and cider provided as usual by the ever-ravenous Gwyn, even though he and his master had had Osanna’s gruel and boiled eggs soon after dawn.

An imperious rap on the door heralded an unusual visitor, in the shape of Martin Stanford, the Deputy Marshal, who had never before sought out the coroner.

The three residents rose to their feet, for Stanford was a knight of greater seniority than even de Wolfe. He was one of the deputies to William Marshal himself, though to be fair, he never gave himself any great airs. A stocky man in his late fifties, he had a short neck and a red face, his brown hair cropped to a mat on top of his head in the old Norman style. He looked agitated and began speaking without any preamble.

‘De Wolfe, you supped in the Lesser Hall last evening, I understand? Were two of my under-marshals there with you?’

John waved an invitation for Martin to be seated, where Thomas had hastily vacated the bench, but the marshal ignored this and waited impatiently for an answer to his strange question.

‘Yes, they usually eat there. Ranulf of Abingdon and William Aubrey kept me company, as they often do. Why do you ask?’

‘Because they’ve both damned well disappeared!’ snapped Stanford. ‘Of all times, when I need every man in the Marshalsea to start preparing for Queen Eleanor’s departure to Portsmouth tomorrow.’

‘They said nothing to me about going away when I spoke to them last night,’ replied John. ‘Is there no sign of them in their quarters?’

Stanford strode to the open window and slapped the sill angrily with his riding gloves. ‘There’s nothing left there — they’ve taken their personal belongings and vanished! It seems that they left before dawn, for only a stable boy saw them both saddle up and ride away. Are you sure they said nothing about leaving?’

John shook his head. ‘Not a word! I must say that Ranulf seemed somewhat distant, compared to his usual talkative self, but there was no mention of leaving Westminster.’

Martin Stanford’s rather small eyes stared suspiciously at the coroner. ‘What d’you mean, he was somewhat distant?’ he demanded.

De Wolfe felt trapped, as he had no wish to start gossip that might prove unfounded. ‘There might have been a reason, but it was a very personal one and as I’m only guessing, it would not be fair for me to repeat it.’

Stanford glowered at him. ‘Damn it all, de Wolfe, this is a serious matter! If you know or even suspect something, I need to know. They were two of my most senior assistants.’

John wavered until he decided that he had better divulge his suspicions about Ranulf and Hawise, but he was saved from this awkward position by yet another interruption. This time there was no knock on the door, it was flung back with a crash to admit Renaud de Seigneur, followed by a worried-looking Keeper of the Palace and an even more distraught Guest Master.

‘Sir John, do you know where my wife has gone to?’ he demanded in his shrill voice. For a moment, de Wolfe feared that he was going to denounce John as an adulterer and accuse him of adultery with his wife, but thankfully he had a different target for his anger.

‘You were in the supper hall last evening — did that bloody man Ranulf say anything to you about her?’ he almost shrieked.

Before John could again deny being told anything by the under-marshal, Nathaniel de Levelondes laid a restraining hand on the Lord of Freteval’s shoulder and tried to placate him.

‘De Seigneur, I’m sure there must be some innocent explanation. Let us begin a search of the palace, for perhaps your lady has had some temporary loss of her mind and is wandering the passages and rooms.’

Renaud twisted away and red-faced, began to shout again. ‘Loss of mind be damned! She has gone off with that devil of a horseman! Left her maid and almost all her clothes behind, just taken her jewels!’ he yelled.

Stanford turned to stare at the coroner. ‘Is that what is behind this, de Wolfe? Is that what you were going to tell me?’

John shrugged. ‘I know nothing definite, believe me. It’s just that at the table last night, I thought I detected — well, a situation between the Lady Hawise and Ranulf.’

‘By God’s bones, you certainly did!’ snapped Renaud. ‘I saw what was developing during the week it took to come back from Gloucester. I regret to say that my young wife has a weakness for handsome men.’ He did not look at de Wolfe when he said this and John was unsure whether to be relieved or insulted.

‘Then last night, she said she wanted to petition for an annulment, ridiculous though that may sound. She has had many a flutter with other men, but has never gone as far as that before.’