Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 11

  Simon Basset was a portly cleric, still a canon of Lichfield Cathedral. He had climbed the Westminster ladder during old King Henry’s time and was now one of the senior administrators in the Treasury. Though he had met him only twice, John felt that Basset was an astute royal servant, as well as being a pleasant, amiable character, with a round face and pink cheeks.

  ‘What’s to be done with these damned boxes?’ asked the coroner. ‘We’ve guarded them like precious babes all the way from Winchester. I’ll be glad to see them safely housed, so that we can stop looking over our shoulders at every corner!’

  Simon motioned to the two gate guards to open one leaf of the heavy, studded doors. ‘We’ll get the chests taken inside right away, Sir John. They’ll not be here more than a few days, as we are waiting for a king’s ship to take them over to Rouen.’

  John guessed that the sale of the gold and silver was needed to pay the Lionheart’s troops and to finance the endless need for food and fodder for the large army.

  The soldiers from their escort began sliding the large boxes from the wagon and carrying each between four men down the ramp into the undercroft. De Wolfe, together with Aubrey and Ranulf, followed the Treasury official and his two companions into the gloomy basement and across to another locked door which was lit by guttering flares stuck in rings on the wall. They went along a passage to yet another heavy door, where one of the Tower officers produced a large key. He let them into a small chamber devoid of any windows or other openings, obviously deep in the bowels of the Conqueror’s fortress. A soldier brought another flaring pitch-brand and by its light John could see that half a dozen other chests were lined against the walls.

  ‘All destined for Normandy!’ observed Simon Basset, as they watched the two new boxes being added to the collection.

  ‘I presume I leave the keys with you?’ growled de Wolfe, feeling in his pouch for the heavy bunches that he was only too happy to be rid of.

  ‘What about checking the contents?’ asked Ranulf. ‘The inventory was certified correct when we left Winchester, but I wouldn’t want any loss to be alleged while the chests were in our care.’

  Simon smiled benignly. ‘Very commendable, sir. I was going to do that very thing now.’ He held out his hand for the four keys, which de Wolfe handed over with some relief. Now he noticed that each key had a dab of coloured paint on the ring of its stem, which corresponded with a similar blob on the face of each lock.

  ‘I will keep the keys for one lock on each chest,’ said the Treasury man, sliding two of them off the wire loop that held them. ‘The other two will be given straight away to the Constable of the Tower. Neither of us – nor anyone else – can open them alone.’

  Contradicting his own statement – but under the eyes of half a dozen watchers – Simon Basset used the four keys to open each of the padlocks and hoisted back the heavy lids, which were held upright by leather straps. He produced a roll of parchment from inside his black robe and held it so that the flaring light from the torch fell upon the lists written in ornate black script.

  ‘This was sent from Winchester by a royal messenger on a swift horse after you left and arrived yesterday,’ he explained. ‘It is the manifest which was made immediately before the chests left the castle there.’

  The two knights from the Tower garrison squatted at the side of the one of great boxes and checked the bags of money. They did not count the actual coins, but confirmed the number of bags and the fact that the red wax seal with the impression of the ring of the Exchequer official was intact. Then they turned to the smaller chest which held the gold, silver and jewelled objects. As the treasurer called out a description of each piece, they rooted around in the contents. Smaller items were wrapped in pieces of velvet or silk. Some lay in leather bags closed with purse-strings, but larger objects such as silver candlesticks, a heavy gold torc, a thick Celtic necklace and some massive silver belt-buckles, were loose amongst the other treasures.

  The process of checking the items against Simon Basset’s list took no longer than half an hour, at the end of which he declared himself satisfied that nothing was missing and added his signature to the bottom of the inventory from Winchester.

  The chamber was re-locked, as was the outer door into the undercroft and the party moved back out into the glow of sunset outside, where Gwyn and Thomas were waiting patiently. Simon offered them all refreshment, but the Westminster contingent unanimously decided to ride back home. Now unencumbered by the wagon, the troop set off westwards and passing through the city streets and out through Ludgate, arrived thankfully at the palace less than an hour later.

  Thomas hurried off to the abbey refectory and Gwyn inevitably made for the nearest alehouse for food, drink and a game of dice with his cronies. This left de Wolfe to seek supper in the Lesser Hall, accompanied by Ranulf of Abingdon and William Aubrey. The meal had begun, but they found seats opposite Renaud de Seigneur and Lady Hawise. When John slid on to his bench, he found himself next to the archdeacon, Bernard de Montfort.

  ‘We’ve missed your company these past days,’ offered the amiable cleric. ‘We have heard that you have been on a secret mission deep into the countryside!’

  John was happy to let Ranulf answer, as he was too intent on loading his trencher with a pair of grilled trout from a platter which a serving boy placed in the middle of the table.

  ‘Nothing secret about it, merely a routine escort task for some of the king’s valuables,’ said the under-marshal easily.

  ‘There will be another royal escort task soon,’ commented the Lord of Blois. ‘We hear that Queen Eleanor’s arrival becomes ever more imminent. No doubt she is awaiting a fair wind from France.’

  ‘Then you know more than I, sir,’ replied Ranulf. ‘But in any event, it will not involve us, other than to manage the horses and wagons to transport them. They will require far more august persons to attend upon her than a lowly servant of the Marshal.’

  Renaud’s wife answered for him.

  ‘You are too modest, sir. I feel sure you are given assignments that would surprise us all, if you could reveal them.’

  Hawise d’Ayncourt fluttered her lashes at the good-looking knight, but her eyes slid covertly towards de Wolfe, who was stolidly attacking his fish with his eating knife.

  ‘What do you say to that, coroner?’ asked Renaud, with false jocularity. ‘I hear you have the ear of the Justiciar – and even of the king himself!’

  John sighed inwardly, he was becoming a little tired of these mild interrogations at every meal. He would not mind bedding the delectable Hawise, but tonight he did not particularly wish to talk to her or her tiresome husband.

  ‘The king’s ear is far away in Normandy – and the archbishop’s is only tuned to receiving my reports on dead bodies!’ he replied rather abruptly. He lifted his ale-pot and waved at a nearby servant for a refill, hoping that the others would drop the subject. However, Hawise, tonight attired in a white gown and a light surcoat of blue silk, dextrously moved on to his private life.

  ‘We hear that you have your own private house in the town, coroner,’ she said smoothly. ‘That must be very convenient for a handsome man living far from his home and family?’

  The meaning of her remark was obvious from the roguish tone she used. De Wolfe was about to snub her with a cutting remark about his wife, but then thought that if that was how the land lay, then maybe he should leave the matter open. To tell the truth, he was feeling the ill-effects of a long period of celibacy since leaving Devon – and even before he left, the barren period since Nesta had abandoned him, had only twice been relieved by visits to Dawlish. If this undoubtedly handsome woman wanted to enjoy herself one evening, then why should he stand in her way?

  The look he gave her from under his heavy brows must have conveyed something of his mood, for she smiled archly at him. For her part, she thought once again that he was an attractive man, with his tall, strong body and dark brooding features. His swept-back black hair, his high-bri
dged nose and his full, sensuous lips gave her a quiver of anticipation. Hawise lifted her wine cup and stared over its rim at de Wolfe, already imagining those hard-muscled arms crushing her tightly against him, so different from the flabby embraces of her boring husband.

  Still, at the moment that boring husband was sitting right alongside her and with a sigh she returned to her trencher of boiled salmon and her platter of beans and carrots. The conversation continued around them, and once again the lack of any progress over the murdered Basil was one of the topics.

  ‘Probably slain by a disgruntled guest, in revenge for the poor food and service that we get upstairs!’ chortled the archdeacon, an insensitive remark for one whose profession was supposed to exude compassion and respect for his fellow men.

  ‘There should be at least one good meal on the way,’ offered the cherubic William Aubrey, from further down the table. ‘I hear that Hubert Walter is to hold a feast in the Great Hall when the old queen arrives, as a mark of respect for her.’

  This set them chattering again about the continuing role that the ageing Eleanor still played in politics, even though she was now seventy-four years of age. She continued to champion her favourite son Richard and kept a rein on the excesses and follies of the younger John. This was undoubtedly the main reason for her impending visit, as the Count of Mortain continued to be much too friendly with Philip of France for most people’s liking.

  Eventually the meal ended and Hawise swayed away behind her shorter husband, casting a longing look at John as she went.

  ‘That dame is quite taken with you, John,’ said Ranulf rather wistfully, as they went out into the twilight of the Palace Yard. ‘I’d not say no to a tumble with her myself, especially as that Renaud fellow seems not to be too bothered by her wayward eye.’

  De Wolfe shrugged indifferently. ‘I don’t want to start a diplomatic incident, even if the chance presented itself,’ he countered. ‘Why the hell are they here, anyway? De Seigneur is lord of some miserable place in Blois, which is not even allied to Normandy.’

  Near the main gate to the palace compound, Ranulf excused himself and hurried off up King Street. ‘He’s off to a game of chance in one of the houses up at Scotland Yard,’ confided Aubrey. ‘A great one for cards and dice, is Ranulf. But when he loses badly, he’s like a bull with a sore head for days!’

  The under-marshal, who John felt was rather naive even for the youngest of knights, pleaded fatigue after the long day and went off to his quarters near the stables at the rear of the palace, leaving John to his own devices. He was tired as well, but decided to have a last drink with Gwyn before going to bed.

  The sun had dropped well below the western horizon and the light was failing as he went into the Deacon alehouse, which seemed to have become their favourite tavern.

  He found his henchman with a group of soldiers and palace guards, sitting in a circle of benches and stools, playing ‘quek’, an obscure game with dice and small stones, thrown on to a board upon the ground, painted with a series of squares. Money was changing hands, but he was glad to see that it seemed to be only halves and quarters of pennies. He knew that Gwyn was trying to save from his daily wage of three pence, to take money back for his wife and two small sons when they next returned to Exeter. Although John had bought the Bush inn from Nesta when she left and put in Gwyn’s wife as landlady, the profits might not be much for some time, until the trade settled down after the change.

  He sat with a jug of ale while waiting for the game to end and then bought Gwyn a quart of cider when the big redhead ambled across to him. ‘Made seven pence tonight, Crowner! Must be the luck from all that treasure rubbing off on me.’

  They sat peacefully for a while, drinking and watching the light fade in the open window space. ‘Thank God that it was all intact, according to the check that the treasury man made,’ said John, for Gwyn had not been in the strongroom when Simon Basset had confirmed that all was correct. ‘I was worried that that fire was some kind of diversion intended to cover up an attempt to rob the wagon.’

  They discussed the events of the past few days, and as usual their conversation drifted off to nostalgic longing for Devon and all the familiar things that made this exile in London seem so miserable.

  ‘We must get ourselves back there as soon as possible, Gwyn. But this damned appearance of the dowager queen will interfere – we can’t get away until her visit is over.’

  ‘Unless we can slip away for a few days from Bristol or Gloucester?’ suggested the Cornishman.

  John shrugged. ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings – every day seems to have some new twist.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In which Crowner John receives a welcome visitor

  The new twist that arrived the next day came via the same timid page that had summoned de Wolfe the previous week. His head appeared around the door after Gwyn had yelled in answer to his gentle knock.

  ‘Sir John, I have a message from the Justiciar’s office,’ he began. Taking a deep breath, the lad then rattled off a long sentence that he had obviously learned parrot fashion.

  ‘Archbishop Walter sends his felicitations to the Coroner of the Verge and commands his attendance at noon in the Great Hall to meet various parties in regard to jurid – jurisdiction.’

  He stumbled over the last unfamiliar word, then subsided into embarrassed silence, looking from one to the other of the three men in the chamber.

  ‘Thank you, lad,’ said John kindly, remembering his own days as a ten-year-old page in the service of a knight from Dartmouth. ‘Do you know who else might be attending this meeting?’

  ‘Another page has been sent across to the abbot, sir. And I know that yesterday heralds went up to the city in connection with the same matter, according to the Justiciar’s chief clerk.’

  The boy left, thankful for such an amiable reception and John pondered over the significance of the news.

  ‘Hubert is either going to cave in to those arrogant louts from the city – or he’s going to hold out for precedence for us,’ he said pensively.

  ‘The archbishop probably has to tread carefully at the moment,’ observed Thomas, who had the best grasp of current politics. ‘He is in bad odour with many of his churchmen and also with the civic authorities in London. The city is still angry with him for setting fire to one of their churches – and in knocking down so many houses to build this new wall around the Tower.’

  ‘But that’s at the direct command of the king!’ bellowed Gwyn, who was as staunch a royalist as his master.

  ‘Doesn’t stop Hubert being unpopular,’ said de Wolfe. ‘Bloody-minded independence is virtually a way of life with the citizens of London. We’re likely to have a lively meeting today, mark my words! You had both better come along, you’re part of the coroner’s team which is at the heart of this dispute.’

  When they entered the main entrance of the Great Hall early that afternoon, they found that the meeting was to be held at the far end, on the central dais facing down the colonnade of pillars that supported the massive roof. The court of the King’s Bench sat there frequently, but today it had been commandeered by Hubert Walter, who was head of the justice system – and almost everything else.

  Three large chairs for the judges were placed at the back of the platform and benches were arranged at right angles in the space marked off by the bar of the court, a wooden pole which kept the public at bay. As de Wolfe and his companions arrived, so did most of the other participants, coming in from the interior of the palace through a rear door. Four palace guards preceded Hubert Walter, whose lean body was today dressed in a crimson tunic with a large golden cross hanging from a chain around his neck. His head was covered with a white linen helmet, laced under the chin and he wore gloves of thin leather.

  Behind him came half-a-dozen worthies and John recognised Godard of Antioch, the sheriff with whom he’d had dealings the previous week. Another taller man with a pointed brown beard wore a massive gold chain over a robe that
had fur trimming, even in this warm weather. John assumed that this was Henry fitz Ailwyn, the first Mayor of the city of London. There were several other men who were unknown to him, as well as a couple of priests, one being Hubert’s personal chaplain and confessor.

  Two clerks, complete with parchments and pens, sat at either side to record the proceedings. After some muted conversation and shuffling about, everyone sat themselves down, Hubert in the centre, the mayor on his right. The other chair was empty, but as the rest of the delegates arranged themselves on the benches, a new trio came marching up the main aisle and entered under the bar, lifted for them by the sergeant of the guard. These were William Postard, Abbot of Westminster, with his prior and another priest. The abbot took the vacant chair and John de Wolfe, at a sign from Hubert, perched himself on the end of one of the benches, near the door into the palace.

  Gwyn and Thomas melted into the small crowd that was now gravitating to the bar and to the sides where the court was partitioned off between the first two pillars. John noticed that amongst the spectators were Renaud and his eye-catching wife, as well as Archdeacon Bernard and Ranulf of Abingdon.

  The sergeant opened the proceedings by rapping the end of his pike on the platform and everyone stood while the chaplain gabbled a prayer in Latin. He made the sign of the cross in the air and everyone subsided again, as the Justiciar began speaking without any preamble.