Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 10

  The other soldiers had ropes, which they lowered through the opening and amid much shouting of orders, first one, then another large chest was hauled up and placed on the wooden floor. They were of similar size, about four feet long, but one was of darker oak and had three iron bands around it, as opposed to the two on the second chest. Each had two massive metal hasps with padlocks on each.

  ‘The darker box contains the coin, the other one is a mixture of precious objects,’ declared de la Pole. He gestured briskly at one of his clerks, who proffered another roll of parchment, with three different seals of red wax dangling from it by red tape.

  ‘This is an inventory made yesterday by myself and two other officials of the Exchequer, signed with our marks and our seals.’

  He handed the roll to John. ‘Now it’s your problem, sir! When you deliver this roll to the Constable of the Great Tower and the Treasury officials there, they will recheck the contents of the chests with this manifest. I hope for your sake that they agree!’

  He said this with a hint of malice, as if he relished the thought of there being some fatal discrepancy.

  Ranulf looked puzzled. ‘I assumed that we were taking the chests to Westminster?’ he said to de la Pole. The Exchequer official shook his head. ‘Not this time, the treasure is urgently needed in Rouen, so it will go to the nearest place for shipment from the port of London. So make sure it gets there safely!’

  ‘What about the keys?’ said John gruffly, anxious to get away from this insolent fellow. For answer, Matthew turned again to his senior clerk and held out his hand. The subdued cleric scrabbled in the scrip on his belt and produced two more pairs of steel keys, each pair on a ring.

  ‘These are for the locks on both chests,’ he snapped. ‘Normally, they are separated and one is held by myself, the other by another member of the Exchequer. I presume the same will happen in London, but that’s their affair!’

  As John took the large and slightly rusty keys, de la Pole offered one last barbed comment.

  ‘They are now your responsibility, de Wolfe! Let them out of your sight at your peril!’

  With that, he sailed from the chamber, his two clerks hurrying after him like a pair of chastened hounds at their master’s heels.

  As de Wolfe had forecast, their journey back was painfully slow. Though the two chests were heavy, the pair of horses had no difficulty in pulling the cart, especially as the road was free from the mud that could bog the wheels down in thick mire. But the beasts could do no better than a steady walking pace, and on the first day they covered a bare sixteen miles along the London road. This took them as far as Alton, where the soldiers commandeered a tithe barn to sleep in, while the three knights and Thomas battened upon the local manor-lord for hospitality. He was not all that pleased to see them, but with ill-grace gave them a meal and let them sleep on some straw mattresses in his hall.

  Next day they set out earlier and rode until late so that they could reach Guildford again, where the castle was obliged to accommodate the official procession. The third day was a disappointment, as although Ranulf had hoped to get as far as Kingston, they did not even make it as far as Esher. One of the wheel-hubs cracked and they came to a halt in the middle of a forest. This failure was a well-known problem and they carried a spare wheel lashed to the tailboard, but it meant almost two hours’ delay. The men-at-arms had to cut down a sapling from the adjacent woods and use it to lever up the heavy cart. Then stones and fallen wood had to be collected and used to prop up the wagon, so that the errant wheel could be removed and replaced with the spare.

  That part of Surrey was covered by dense forest and villages were few and far between. By late evening, everyone was tired and fractious, so when they reached a small hamlet, John and his companions decided they had travelled far enough.

  ‘God’s guts! Where can we sleep here?’ demanded Gwyn, looking around at the dozen mean huts that made up the settlement. There was no manor house, but it had a tiny church, a primitive structure of wattle-and-daub with a vestigial bell tower at one end of the tattered thatched roof. Inside the churchyard was a hut that presumably did service as the priest’s dwelling.

  ‘Go and see what your holy colleague can suggest,’ said de Wolfe to Thomas, as the weary men and wearier horses stopped on the road outside. The little clerk trotted off and soon came back with a wizened man, dressed in a short smock and cross-gartered breeches. Though he looked like a hedger or a ditcher, Thomas presented him as the parish priest, proven by his shaven scalp.

  ‘Father Aedan says that you are welcome to use his church to shelter in overnight.’

  The bent old man, his remaining hair showing enough blond strands to mark him as a Saxon, had a surprisingly sweet smile.

  ‘There are no palliasses, but it is a warm night and no doubt your soldiers are used to sleeping on the floor,’ he said, exposing toothless gums behind his sunken lips. ‘For you gentlemen, maybe you would prefer the luxury of a pile of hay in the barn on the other side of the church.’

  John muttered his thanks, but Ranulf, who had a smoother tongue than the bluff coroner, was more fulsome in his appreciation.

  ‘That is a very Christian gesture, father! We are tired and hungry, having been on the king’s business these past three days.’

  ‘I can do little about your hunger, sir, this is a poor and insignificant village. There is an alehouse, but I doubt the widow who runs it could provide for more than a score of men.’

  In spite of the priest’s misgivings, after leaving William Aubrey to organise the guarding of the wagon and the settlement of the men-at-arms, de Wolfe and Ranulf walked a little further down the track to seek the alehouse.

  ‘This really is a dismal village,’ said Ranulf, looking around in the gathering dusk at the few shacks spread along the road. Most were built of cob, a mixture of lime, dung and bracken, spread on wattle panels. One or two were dry-walled stone, but none had more than one room. All were steeply thatched, the state of the straw or reeds varying from fairly new to green disintegration, some with actual grass or weeds growing on their roofs. The alehouse proved to be almost indistinguishable from the other crofts, though a little longer from end to crumbling end. The tattered bush hanging over the door was the universal sign of a tavern and the two knights bent their heads to enter.

  A frightened-looking woman appeared from behind a rickety table, apprehensive at the sudden arrival of two tall men of military appearance. Again Ranulf took the lead in reassuring the ale-wife of their good intentions.

  ‘We are a force of soldiers on our way to London, good woman,’ he said. ‘We are staying in the churchyard for the night, but are seeking any food and drink that might be available.’

  On learning of their numbers, the widow shook her head. ‘I might have enough ale in my crocks to give you a pint apiece, sir, but as for food, there is hardly enough bread in the whole village to feed twenty-five men!’

  A man sitting on a bench against the wall got up and came over to them, touching his forehead in salute. ‘I killed a pig this morning, sirs, it’s hanging fresh in my croft. I’d sell it for a shilling, if you wanted to roast it.’

  John looked at Ranulf. ‘Better than going hungry! Though it would take a few hours to roast on a spit.’

  After some haggling, the crofter sold them the pig for ten pence, which Ranulf intended reclaiming from the Keeper as part of their expenses. ‘Best get the men organised, if they want to eat before midnight!’ advised de Wolfe.

  They arranged for the ale-wife to supply all the spare drink she had, collected later by soldiers who carried the large five-gallon pottery crocks back to the churchyard. The old priest made no objection to starting a fire inside the ring of large stones which was used every time the village had an ‘ale’ for some celebration or other. The men entered into the spirit of the event, gathering fallen wood from the edge of the forest and when the gutted pig had been brought, it was turned on a makeshift spit supported on forked branches stuck into th
e ground.

  Darkness was falling by the time the meat was cooked, making the scene look like some barbaric festival, with a circle of hungry men sitting around the fire, lit up by sizzling flares when gobs of fat dripped into the flames. As a log burnt through and fell, a shower of red sparks rose into the air, like a swarm of fireflies. When the sergeant-at-arms, who had appointed himself cook, declared the flesh ready to eat, every man, including the knights and Thomas, lined up to cut themselves slices with their eating knife or dagger. In spite of her pessimism about the amount of bread, the tavern widow had found enough coarse loaves to give every man a hunk, on which he laid his hot pork until cool enough to eat.

  Together with some ale dipped from the crocks in a few pint pots and passed from mouth to mouth, the succulent meat and the comradely atmosphere satisfied everyone. By the time the hog had been reduced to a near skeleton, most of the men were ready to sleep, though four were obliged to stay awake to form the first watch to guard the treasure wagon until morning.

  The rest ambled back to the little church and gratefully curled up on the earthen floor, wrapping themselves in their riding cloaks though the night was still warm.

  All the horses had been watered at a stream than ran through the village and then turned out into a large meadow with a dry-stone wall around it. The cart, bereft of its draught animals, stood forlornly against the church wall, with two of the guards sitting on the driving-board and the other two crouched on the grass at the rear.

  ‘We may as well test the softness of the priest’s hay, I suppose,’ suggested Ranulf, leading the way towards the small barn. Its interior was almost completely dark, but a half moon and the remains of the fire gave them enough light to see that it was almost empty. At the end of spring, most of the stored roots like turnips and carrots had been used up and it was too early for much of this year’s produce to be gathered in.

  ‘Just enough hay to lie on, I reckon,’ said Gwyn, peering around in the streaks of fitful moonlight that penetrated the gaps between the rough planks that formed the walls. It was more a large shed than a proper barn, but was enough to hold the meagre tithes that such a small hamlet could produce for their priest. The five men shuffled around in the gloom and each found a corner or a nook amongst the remains of last year’s crops, curling up in their mantles and ignoring the rustling of mice and rats that were their fellow guests for the night. The coroner and the two knights from the Marshalsea decided to lay where they could see the precious cart through the open doors of the barn. Gwyn and Thomas preferred a spot against the back wall.

  John found it warm enough to roll up his riding cloak to use as a pillow, after he had wriggled himself into a comfortable position on a thin layer of musty-smelling hay. He had pulled off his boots and laid his belt, which carried sword, dagger and pouch, on the ground alongside him. Too tired tonight to churn his personal troubles around in his mind, he fell almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.

  Hours later, when the moon had declined almost to the horizon, he suddenly awoke, with the feeling that something was wrong. As an old campaigner, used to sleeping rough where danger was ever present, he was instantly fully awake. He heard Ranulf snoring nearby, but his nose and his ears told him that they were in danger. Jerking upright, he sniffed repeatedly and then got to his feet and hurried to the door, ignoring the jabs to his bare feet from debris on the floor. As he emerged into the near darkness, there was a sudden yell of ‘Fire!’ from nearby and William Aubrey stumbled around the corner of the barn, clutching his breeches around his backside, his belt hanging loose.

  ‘The thatch is on fire, come and see!’ He grabbed John by the arm, pulled him to the corner and pointed up. ‘I went outside for a shite and then saw flames!’ he gabbled. Almost at the same time, there were sudden cries of alarm from across the churchyard, where the four sentries were guarding the wagon.

  ‘Fire, fire!’ came the dreaded yells and going further out from the barn, John coughed as a wreath of smoke drifted down from above. Due to the overhang of the eaves, he could see nothing until he ran out into the coarse grass and weeds of the churchyard. Stumbling backwards and looking up, now he could see that part of the barn’s ragged thatch was alight and spreading rapidly, fanned by the slight breeze and aided by the dry state of the old straw after days without rain.

  He heard shouts and running feet coming towards him, and turning saw that the soldiers from the wagon detail were racing towards the barn. A sudden thought occurred to him and he yelled at them urgently.

  ‘Get back to your posts, damn you! That’s more important than a poxy shed!’

  The possibility that this could be some sort of diversion, to leave the treasure cart unattended crossed his mind, though it seemed highly unlikely. But the barn was undoubtedly on fire and John hobbled back to the entrance, cursing as small stones cut into his almost bare feet. As he went through the doorway, he was just about to start yelling ‘Fire!’ himself, when he dimly saw that Gwyn had risen to his feet and was starting to bellow a warning, as he pushed Thomas ahead of him to safety.

  ‘The bloody thatch is afire!’ hollered de Wolfe. ‘Give that other fellow a shake, Gwyn!’ he shouted, pointing at the inert shape of Ranulf, who seemed capable of sleeping through an earthquake. Scooping up his boots and his belt, John retreated to the door and hurriedly thrust his feet into his footwear and buckled on the belt. By now, the fire had reached the inside of the thatch and bits of burning straw were falling through the framework of twisted hazel withies that held it up. There was no danger to any of them, as by now Gwyn had hauled the bemused under-marshal to his feet and given him a push in the direction of the doorway, where Aubrey was tucking his shirt into his breeches and anxiously awaiting his friend.

  A moment later, they were all outside and by now the men-at-arms who had been sleeping in the church had streamed out and were standing in a half-circle, staring impotently at the burning roof.

  ‘There’s no way we’ll save that now!’ called out the sergeant. ‘There’s no water here and by the time we get buckets to the stream, the place will be well alight.’

  Now the crowd was strengthened by some villagers who had been attracted by the noise and the priest had emerged from his dwelling on the other side of the churchyard to witness the destruction of his property. Thomas hurried to console him, but he seemed unperturbed.

  ‘It is the will of God!’ he cried philosophically, crossing himself, content in the knowledge that the manor would have to rebuild it for him, hopefully a better one than the decrepit structure that was now burning merrily.

  Ranulf, now fully awake but rubbing his eyes sleepily, decided that they themselves must have been the cause of the fire.

  ‘Blame the damned pig!’ he muttered. ‘Must have been a spark that flew up from our fire that landed in the thatch and smouldered until it caught hold. I’d best give them a couple of marks in compensation – I’ll get it back from the palace when we return.’

  John went over to the wagon and paced around it suspiciously, under the uneasy eyes of the four sentinels. He suspected that they had all been fast asleep, as their recognition of the burning barn had been remarkably slow.

  ‘Have you seen or heard anything untoward?’ he demanded of them. They denied seeing anything out of the ordinary and when a now more wakeful Ranulf and Aubrey came across to join him, they checked the two chests and saw nothing wrong. Before long, the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky and it seemed pointless to try to settle back to sleep. When it was full light, the soldiers went off to the stream to drink and splash their sleepy faces with cold water. By then, it was time to round up the horses and prepare to continue the journey. De Wolfe was still anxious about the treasure chests and studied the locks more closely.

  ‘No one seems to have tampered with them,’ muttered Gwyn, looking over John’s shoulder at the pair of large iron padlocks on each box. They were covered with a thin patina of rust, in which no fresh scratches were visible around th
e keyholes to suggest any attempt had been made to pick them.

  Eventually satisfied that they had not been robbed, the cavalcade moved off, leaving a village glad to see the back of them. Having had no breakfast, the troop and their officers were all pleased to reach Kingston, where they were able to eat and drink at the manor house, then set off on the last leg of the journey to London. Their slow journey kept them south of the Thames all the way to Southwark, where in the early evening their tired horses clattered over the old wooden bridge into the city. The oppressive heat had declined during the days since they had left for Hampshire and it remained pleasantly warm as they plodded the last half-mile through busy streets along the north bank to the Tower. The grim grey rectangle stood high above a confusion of construction around its base, as Hubert Walter was busy carrying out the Lionheart’s orders to encircle the keep with a retaining wall and a moat. They picked their way through mounds of stone blocks and heaps of sand and lime, where masons and labourers were still working overtime to build a twenty-foot rampart, further evidence of the royal mistrust of the citizens of London.

  ‘Our chests should be safe enough inside this lot!’ jested Ranulf, as they dodged under wooden derricks and tripods hauling stones to the top of the growing wall. Once close to the Tower itself, the construction chaos ceased and they drew their cart up to an arched entrance in the north face of the cliff-like tower. Here a brace of guards with spears stood each side of the big doors which led into an undercroft, partly below ground level. The entrance to the upper floors was up a nearby flight of wooden stairs, the usual defence mechanism to prevent easy access during a siege, as the steps could be thrown down in minutes.

  ‘Now what happens?’ grunted John, tired of sitting on his horse for so many hours. As if in answer to his question, a wicket gate in the large doors opened and several men stepped out into the evening sunshine. He recognised one as Simon Basset, a senior Treasury official, for he had once sat next to him in the Lesser Hall. The other two seemed to be Tower officers, in severe military-looking tunics with the three royal lions embroidered on their surcoats. Each had a large sword swinging from a belt and baldric. John and the two other knights-marshal dismounted and went to meet the men, apologising for the delay in their arrival and explaining the problem with the cracked wheel-hub. De Wolfe thought it pointless to mention the fire, which appeared to have no relevance to their journey.