Bernard Knight - Crowner Royal

‘Don’t fret about that, John! They were indeed spies — but for me, not the French! Renaud de Seigneur came across to report what he had recently picked up in Blois and neighbouring counties about Philip Augustus’s intentions in that area.’

The coroner was mortified. ‘Did his wife know about this?’

Hubert grinned roguishly at his old comrade. ‘John, the old dog used Hawise and her insatiable appetite for younger men, to gather intelligence wherever it might be found — often in some large French bed, no doubt!’

De Wolfe felt sullied by the knowledge, though later he consoled himself with the thought that at least she had wanted him for his body, rather than to worm French secrets from him.

It also deepened the mystery of who had ordered the two attacks upon his life, as several times he had falsely claimed in the presence of the de Seigneurs, that he was on the point of unmasking some foreign spies. But if they were on the side of England, this ruled them out as the instigators of the assaults.

Since his interview with the Justiciar, he had had news of Ranulf’s death in the Hospital of St Bartholomew. Though the man was a murderous rogue, John felt a twinge of sadness for both him and William Aubrey. They had been amiable companions, even though their duplicity was unforgivable.

Gwyn had felt no compunction or guilt about so effectively dispatching the younger marshal, as his philosophy was ‘kill or be killed’ and anyone who drew a sword or knife upon him was fair game for fatal retaliation. Now he hauled himself off the windowsill and stretched his hairy arms above his head in a lazy movement.

‘Are we really going to get out of this miserable place and go home to God’s own land?’ he asked.

De Wolfe nodded, almost afraid to tempt fate by parading his good fortune. ‘I have promised to wait until next week, until other arrangements are made,’ he said. ‘Hubert Walter has committed himself, though I still have concerns about what King Richard might have to say.’

After settling the affair of the treasure with the Chief Justiciar, John had stood squarely before Hubert’s table and, after a few preliminary throat clearances to cover his nervousness, launched into his plea.

‘Your Grace, though this matter has ended satisfactorily, in that the gold has been recovered intact and the miscreants have paid the ultimate penalty, I feel that I have failed you and the king. I was charged with the safe keeping of that treasure and, as I have explained, I was tricked into losing possession of the keys, albeit for a brief few moments.’

He paused for breath, but Hubert sat with his fingers interlaced and did not interrupt.

‘Once before I failed in my duty to my king and I consider that I should no longer hold this position of trust as Coroner of the Verge. I have to say that the problems of jurisdiction and the dearth of work here, also make me feel redundant. I humbly seek your consent to my release, so that I may return to Devon and live out my years quietly.’

He swallowed hard, partly from emotion and partly from the effort of making an unusually long speech, then waited anxiously for the Justiciar’s response.

‘By St Peter’s cods, John, that’s bloody nonsense!’ said Hubert, in most un-ecclesiastical language. ‘The king himself absolved you from any blame over the Vienna capture. If anything, it was his own fault for being so rash! And as for this present escapade, you brought it to a successful conclusion single-handedly, apart from the help of that great ginger fellow and that remarkable little clerk of yours.’

De Wolfe opened his mouth to repeat his confession of failure, but Hubert held up his hand.

‘No, John, you were duped by clever and unscrupulous men, and no blame can be attached to you. The king will be well satisfied that the gold has been recovered and the perpetrators dealt with in a summary fashion, with no jeering tales to be bandied about.’

‘I still feel unable to continue as Coroner of the Verge, sire,’ said John stubbornly. ‘I am sure you can find some knight or baron more suited to the life of the court to take my place — the duties are far from arduous.’

After some more contrary argument by Hubert, he eventually gave in.

‘If you are really set upon this — and I suspect it is as much your wishing to return to your beloved Devon as eschewing the duties here — then so be it. I will have to concoct some tale for the king when I see him in Rouen next month, but I trust that he will agree, as a reward for your recovering his precious gold!’

There the matter was left, but now John was able to confirm to his two assistants that in a week or so they would be back on the road to Exeter.

‘I will be happy enough helping my wife in the Bush,’ boomed Gwyn cheerfully. ‘And playing with my lads and drinking half the profits of the tavern!’

‘And the archivist in the cathedral invited me to return there to help him at any time,’ added Thomas. ‘I’m sure I can eventually find a living somewhere, perhaps in some remote parish.’ He sounded a little wistful at that, as at heart he was an academic priest, rather than one who would be content to tend his flock in a rural village.

‘But what about you, Crowner?’ asked Gwyn solicitously. ‘You and I are too old to go campaigning abroad, seeking new battles — our sword arms are getting tired. What will you do with yourself?’

John grinned crookedly. ‘I have this partnership with Hugh de Relaga, so I can take a more active interest in it, as it brings me sufficient to live on. And no doubt I will be taking the road to Dawlish quite often!’

His smile faded. ‘Though God knows how this matter of my wife will be resolved — I am neither married nor a bachelor these days.’

After their dinner at the dwelling in Long Ditch Lane, where Aedwulf and Osanna received with equanimity the news that their tenants were leaving, de Wolfe and his officer walked back to the chamber in the palace. They were resigned to another afternoon of boredom, as no palace resident had been murdered, raped or battered.

As usual, Gwyn stared out of the window at the ever-changing river, the boats plying up and down and the muddy banks being covered and exposed twice a day by the tide. John sat at his table, his Latin exercises lying ignored before him, while he thought dark thoughts about Matilda’s continued obdurateness. When he went back to Exeter, something must be done to resolve the problem, though for the life of him he could not imagine what. His mood lightened when his mind moved on to his house and his dog, with images of himself sitting before his hearth in the coming autumn, with a quart of ale and old Brutus’s head on his lap. And the journeys to Dawlish and the company of the delectable Hilda were the pinnacle of his wandering thoughts.

They were shattered when Thomas came through the door, out of breath and obviously in a state of great excitement.

‘Crowner, you remember that novice I brought to you, Robin Byard, who told us that tale about Basil of Reigate?’

De Wolfe sat up straight and glared at his clerk. ‘What of him? Has he been slain too?’

‘No, it’s not him, but another novitiate that Robin brought to see me after dinner in the abbey refectory just now. He was also a friend of Basil’s.’ Thomas reddened slightly. ‘Another very good friend, if you know what I mean.’

‘For the Virgin’s sake, get to the point, Thomas! You’re as bad as Gwyn for spinning out a tale!’

‘This young man, Alfred, has been away for some weeks at the chapel in Windsor, for he is a particularly sweet chanter.’ Thomas caught the impatient glint in John’s eye and hurried on.

‘So he knew nothing of Basil’s death nor what Basil had told Robin Byard about overhearing some treason. But today he learned from Robin — who is also his very good friend indeed — what Basil told him of his fears.’