Crowner's Crusade Read online

  Table of Contents

  A Selection of Titles by Bernard Knight

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  PART ONE – The Journey Anno Domini 1192

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  PART TWO – The Homecoming Devonshire, July 1193

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Historical Note

  A Selection of Titles by Bernard Knight

  The Crowner John Series

  CROWNER’S CRUSADE *

  THE SANCTUARY SEEKER *

  THE POISONED CHALICE *

  CROWNER’S QUEST *

  THE AWFUL SECRET

  THE TINNER’S CORPSE

  THE GRIM REAPER

  FEAR IN THE FOREST

  THE WITCH HUNTER

  FIGURE OF HATE

  THE ELIXIR OF DEATH

  THE NOBLE OUTLAW

  THE MANOR OF DEATH

  CROWNER ROYAL

  A PLAGUE OF HERETICS

  The Richard Pryor Forensic Mysteries

  WHERE DEATH DELIGHTS *

  ACCORDING TO THE EVIDENCE *

  GROUNDS FOR APPEAL *

  DEAD IN THE DOG *

  *available from Severn House

  CROWNER’S CRUSADE

  Bernard Knight

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2012 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  First published in the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2012 by Bernard Knight.

  The right of Bernard Knight to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Knight, Bernard.

  Crowner’s crusade.

  1. De Wolfe, John, Sir (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Coroners–Fiction. 3. Devon (England)–History–

  Fiction. 4. Great Britain–History–Richard I,

  1189-1199–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9´14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-348-8 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8221-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-458-5 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Author’s Note

  Apart from the fact that Sir John de Wolfe is a fictional character, the description given in this book of Richard the Lionheart’s disastrous journey home from the Third Crusade is as accurate as can be achieved after an interval of more than eight hundred years. A number of accounts were written soon after the actual event, some taken from men who were with the king at the time, such as his chaplain Anselm, yet details vary considerably from one chronicler to another. The story given here is hopefully a reasonable synthesis of what actually took place on that perilous expedition which, had it ended differently, might have altered the course of English – and indeed European – history. For those readers interested in seeking further details of that fascinating period, some sources are listed at the end of the book.

  Historical novelists have to resist the temptation to stuff all the fruits of their research down the throats of their readers. However, though being well aware that novels are meant to be entertainment, not textbooks, the hundreds of comments received by this author after fourteen previous Crowner John sagas, indicate that many readers appreciate ‘an easy way of learning some history’, as they often put it. This fifteenth story is a result of suggestions from readers that they would welcome a ‘prequel’, an explanation of how Sir John came to be appointed as the first coroner for the County of Devon.

  PART ONE – The Journey Anno Domini 1192

  ONE

  The Ninth Day of October

  As the evening light faded, the King of England slipped away from the Holy Land like a thief in the night. Though it was quite contrary to his flamboyant nature, which revelled in pomp and ceremony, no trumpets sounded and no flags waved. Neither did any royal pennants stream from the masts of the inconspicuous merchant vessel Franche Nef, as she quietly slipped her moorings in Acre’s outer harbour and aimed her blunt prow northwards.

  Richard the Lionheart stood at the rail of the sterncastle, wrapped in a cloak against the evening sea-chill that could be felt even in the Levantine autumn. He stared pensively at the great walls of the battered citadel as the ship glided past, thinking of the legions of men who had died there in battle or from disease – including more than two thousand Moslem captives that had been beheaded on his orders. His lips moved in an almost silent benediction as the gap widened between the vessel and the shore.

  ‘O Holy Land, I commend you to God,’ he murmured. ‘In his loving grace, may he grant me such length of life that I might give you such help as he requires.’ His tall, burly figure stood for some time as he stared landwards, thinking pensively of the greater part of the original crusading army who would never return home – and to such little result.

  Eventually he gave a great sigh and turned away from the fading view of Palestine. ‘Is this the last we will ever see of Christ’s homeland, Sir John?’ His deep voice spoke sombrely to a man almost as tall as himself, who stood protectively at the head of the ladder that led up from the main deck. Though they were now at sea, spies and infiltrators were widespread and, amongst the numerous crew, one could well be an assassin. Sir John de Wolfe, a Devon knight who was one of the king’s small bodyguard on this voyage, was having similar thoughts of his own about this bare and bloody land.

  ‘Sire, you swore you would return for another attempt on Jerusalem, but surely that must now wait upon what you find in England and Normandy when we return.’

  De Wolfe was stating the obvious, but he sensed that Richard desired someone to talk to on this day of despondency. His king had spent a year and a half fighting his way up and down Palestine against Saladin’s army and though he had twice come within sight of Jerusalem, he had known that even if he captured it, he could not hold it for long. Instead, he settled for a three-year truce, which enraged other Crusader kings, during which Christian pilgrims would be allowed to vi
sit the Holy City. In addition, the shrunken Christian kingdom could keep a narrow strip of land along the coast.

  The Lionheart did not respond to his retainer’s comment, but turned back to watch the barren coast recede into the gloom. He was wondering what hostile eyes might be searching for the vessel that was taking the leader of the Third Crusade away, so that messages could be sent throughout the Mediterranean to waylay the man who had made so many enemies, both Moslem and Christian.

  As he pondered on what may lie ahead on the long journey home, the dusk and a thin mist soon obscured the coast. The vessel was gradually pulling farther out to sea, though the Italian sailing master, standing respectfully in the furthest corner of the quarterdeck, would always keep land in sight for as long as he could, navigation being uncertain on the open ocean.

  John de Wolfe stood immobile on the other side of the deck, the hilt of his heavy sword poking out from under his black cloak, ready to be drawn at any sign of trouble. Like that of the other retainers on the ship, his armour was stored below deck, well wrapped in oiled hessian. A hauberk of chain mail rusted quickly enough on land, but salt air and spray would ruin it within days.

  He stood bareheaded, his black hair a complete contrast to the fair auburn thatch of the king. Different too were the styles, as Richard Plantagenet’s was cropped short below a line running round above his ears, in the usual Norman manner. The maverick de Wolfe wore his long, swept back from his forehead to the nape of his neck. With satanic eyebrows of the same jet black as his hair and the dark stubble on his cheeks, it was easy to see why his nickname amongst the soldiery was ‘Black John’, though this was as much from his dour and unbending nature as from his appearance. His hooked nose and long, grim face were equally forbidding, though women somehow sensed that this was a man who could be a passionate lover.

  The Lionheart turned eventually and addressed himself to the sailing master. ‘When should we arrive in Cyprus? The wind seems favourable, does it not?’

  The Venetian raised a knuckled fist to his head in salute as he answered. ‘God willing, on the third day, sire. This breeze will take us well up the coast, then we must weather across westwards to Limassol. I regret that the Franche Nef makes no pretence at being a speedy ship.’

  Richard and his advisers had chosen an ordinary merchant vessel for the journey, instead of the usual ship-of-war or a fast galley in which kings and princes normally travelled. The journey back to Normandy and England would be fraught with danger, as apart from seaborne Muslims and Mediterranean pirates, most of Europe’s rulers were on the lookout for Richard Coeur de Lion, keen to revenge themselves on him for his real or imagined sins against them. Amongst these, Philip Augustus of France and Count Leopold of Austria hated him most, as they had abandoned the Crusade in Palestine and returned home early, outraged at what they considered Richard’s slights against them and now his alleged capitulation to the Saracens. Another who would dearly like to get his hands on Richard was Henry of Germany, whose ambitions to conquer Sicily has been frustrated by the Lionheart. He had recently been elevated to Holy Roman Emperor after his father, William Barbarossa, had died falling into a river in Turkey on his way to Palestine at the head of a huge German and Hungarian army, most of whom had abandoned their mission after his death.

  An hour later, King Richard was still staring into the growing darkness, reluctant to lose the last fading glimpses of the Holy Land, until feet clattered up the ladder from the main deck and a man appeared alongside de Wolfe.

  ‘Go down and get something to eat, John,’ he murmured.

  ‘It’s my turn to stand guard over our lord – though it’s time he went below, he can’t stand there all night in the cold and the dark.’

  The new arrival was William de L’Etang, another staunch supporter and close friend of the king. A knight from Le Mans, he was a stocky, red-faced man of about forty, a couple of years older than John, with whom he had fought side by side in many of the campaigns against the Mohammedans.

  As part of the king’s desire to make his voyage home as unobtrusive as possible, Richard was accompanied only by ten Templar knights and a sergeant, but there were a few others aboard. These included John de Wolfe, William de L’Etang, Baldwin of Bethune, his High Admiral Robert de Turnham, the chaplain Anselm, and his clerk Philip of Poitou. This was a very different journey to the one the previous year, when Richard had set out from Marseilles ahead of a massive convoy bearing his army of thousands of Crusaders.

  The big merchant ship, known as a ‘buss’, was relatively empty, the crew well outnumbering the passengers. There was no cargo, which left plenty of room below decks for the horses that would be needed when they landed, wherever that might be. Richard had still not made up his mind about the safest route through Europe, even though he was anxious to reach Normandy and then England as quickly as possible. This had become even more urgent since he had had repeated messages from his mother, the doughty Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, warning him of the plot his treacherous brother John had hatched with the French king, for Philip to annexe Normandy and for John to seize the English throne.

  William de L’Etang gave de Wolfe a friendly nudge to encourage him to go down for something to eat. ‘Your man Gwyn says he brought a joint of mutton from ashore and it’s still warm in a box of straw. Enjoy it while you can, John, we’ll not eat so well when we get out to sea this late in the season!’

  De L’Etang was right about harsher conditions later in the voyage. It was already past the safe date for deep-sea voyages, which were forbidden between October and April by a number of countries around the Mediterranean. Cooking was difficult or impossible in rough weather, as the danger of fire on board was the constant fear of seafarers. Most voyages hugged the coast and the travellers usually went ashore every night, where food could be cooked on a quayside or a beach and fresh water obtained. However, de Wolfe was sure that the king would try to keep well clear of the mainland, both for safety against attack and the attention of spies, as well as wishing to press on with his urgent need to get home, even if it meant sailing day and night.

  The Franche Nef was broad in the beam, leaving plenty of space on the main deck between the sterncastle and a smaller elevation at the bow. The only cabin on the ship was under the sterncastle, placed between the men who handled the two steering oars, as the old ship had not adopted the more recent invention of the stern rudder. This cabin was strictly the province of the Lionheart, the rest of the ship’s company living and sleeping on deck, except in bad weather when they could share the large hold with the horses. De Wolfe’s stomach persuaded him to take William’s advice and he bowed to the king and clambered down the steep ladder to the main deck below. He found Gwyn squatting against the windward bulwark, sheltering from the cold breeze, busy cutting a loaf of bread in half with his long dagger.

  ‘I saw you coming down, Sir John, so I’ve started on our supper!’

  Gwyn of Polruan was a very large Cornishman, as great a contrast to his master as could be imagined, except in the matter of height. Built like a bull, with a barrel chest and massive shoulders, he had an unruly mop of ginger hair and long drooping moustaches of the same colour. A ruddy face carried a bulbous nose and a lantern jaw, relieved by a pair of twinkling blue eyes.

  It was difficult to define his relationship with John de Wolfe, as he was bodyguard, squire and friend all rolled into one. Originally a fisherman from Polruan, a village at the mouth of the Fowey River, he had become a soldier in the Irish wars, where he served under de Wolfe and had developed this curious blend of mutual respect and comradeship that had now lasted for eighteen years. They were both a couple of years short of forty and in campaigns in France, Ireland and lately in the Holy Land, had saved each other’s lives several times over.

  Gwyn handed his master a hunk of bread, on which were several thick slices of roast mutton, still warm even though it was several hours since they had come off a spit in their billet in Acre. ‘Get that down you, Sir John. There
’s more here when you’ve finished.’

  As de Wolfe squatted down on the deck, Gwyn pushed across a small wineskin and a pottery mug. ‘Wash it down with some of that! It’s the usual camel piss, but we should be used to it by now. Please God we’ll have some decent ale when we get back to Devon.’

  When together, they spoke in a mixture of Welsh and Cornish, both very similar dialects of the Celtic tongue spoken widely in Devon and Cornwall. It was Gwyn’s native language and de Wolfe, though having a Norman father, had learned Welsh at his mother’s knee, for she came from Gwent in southern Wales.

  Thankfully, the ship had only a slight roll in these calm waters, though a southerly breeze was moving them along quite briskly. John managed to fill his cup with the rough red wine without spilling much and, as he ate and drank, he looked about him in the growing dusk. Other groups of men sat or lay about the deck, some eating, some praying, especially the Templars. Others played dice, though a few had already rolled themselves in their cloaks and were sleeping either on straw palliasses or on the bare deck planks.

  Gwyn hacked away at the joint and before long the two men had eaten all the meat and bread. Tossing the bone over the bulwark into the sea, Gwyn delved into the large leather bag that held his few belongings and pulled out some oranges. Passing two across to John, he began peeling his own as he meditated upon their journey. ‘I wonder, Sir John, how are we going to get home? There’s no way we can sail westward through the Pillars of Hercules – and even if we could, trying to cross Biscay this late in the year is just an easy way to get drowned!’

  Gwyn always traded on his few years as a Cornish fisherman to set himself up as an authority on all things maritime, but John already knew that the current flowing into the Mediterranean past Gibraltar was faster than any sailing ship could overcome, unless they hugged the coasts, both sides of which were in the hands of their Moorish adversaries. In fact, the large Crusading fleet that had set out from Dartmouth back at Easter 1190, carrying the English army that was to rendezvous with the Lionheart at Marseilles, could never return from the Mediterranean. The remnants of the army would have to find their way home through Europe and the king’s most trusted general, Hubert Walter, Bishop of Salisbury, had been left behind in Acre to organize their evacuation to Sicily, a kingdom founded by the Normans.