The Manor of Death Page 14

  Gwyn was, of course, delighted with the news and almost fell from his horse in his haste to reach the alehouse for some refreshment. Inside the low taproom of the Ship Inn, they found a group of sailors standing around a large upturned barrel, drinking their ale and cider. One was the shipmaster, Angerus, who looked startled to see one of his employers appear unexpectedly but rallied and introduced his crew to Gwyn and the coroner.

  'We made port only on the last tide, sir!' he explained. 'So ale was the first necessity after a trip up from Dartmouth.'

  He called for drinks for the new arrivals, as de Wolfe explained what had brought them to the neighbourhood. 'I came hoping to see you or Roger Watts again, to see if I could get any more news of what may have been going on in Axmouth.'

  Angerus de Wile, a stringy man approaching thirty, had a prominent projecting lower jaw that made him look a little like a pugnacious bulldog. He had not yet had time to speak to his older colleague, Roger Watts, so did not know of John's previous visit to seek information about smuggling and piracy. When the coroner explained, there were murmurs from his shipmates and Angerus put them into words.

  'Crowner, it's damned strange that you should be asking about this, for not more than a month ago we picked up a man floating on some wreckage, nearer the French coast than ours. He was half-drowned and had a great slash across his head. Poor fellow died before we could land him in Rouen, but he was the only survivor - if you can call it that - of a pirate attack.'

  The ale-jugs arrived and John waited impatiently while thirsts were quenched. 'Did he tell you anything?' he demanded.

  'The man could hardly speak - and that not for long until his wits failed completely. A Fleming he was, crewing a Dunkerque ship, carrying cloth and wine out of the Rhine, bound for Southampton.'

  He stopped for a swallow and his ship's mate, a rotund older man, took up the tale. 'Hard to understand, he was, what with the foreign language and his weakness - but it seems that a faster cog had appeared in mid-Channel and boarded them, killing the crew, then scuttling the vessel after ransacking her.'

  Angerus nodded. 'This fellow was struck with a sword and thrown overboard but managed to cling on to dunnage boards that floated free when the ship went down. The pirates sailed off without noticing that he wasn't yet a corpse.'

  'Did he say what vessel attacked them?' asked Gwyn, wiping ale from his moustache with the back of his hand.

  To de Wolfe's great chagrin, Angerus shook his head. 'It was just another cog. He couldn't read, even if he had the time and wits to see a name on the bow. But he said the assailants shouted in English, he was definite on that!'

  'Damn it all!' muttered John. 'Have you any ideas where the vessel may have come from?'

  The shipmaster looked around his crew, but they all shook their heads dolefully. 'Could be any port along the south coast - or even up the east or west, come to that,' said the mate. 'The worst bastards are those in Lyme, though maybe blaming them first has become a habit.'

  'You've never been attacked yourself?' asked de Wolfe.

  'No, thank Mary Mother of God!' said the shipmaster fervently, crossing himself. 'But Gilbert here had a narrow escape some years ago.' He prodded his mate in the ribs. 'Tell the coroner what happened.'

  The fat man, who had features like a pickled walnut, banged his pot down on the barrel as he prepared to tell his story for the hundredth time.

  'Coming over from Barfleur we were, in a cog belonging to a Dartmouth owner. This vessel comes beating up behind us, too close to be normal, and eventually we decided the bastard was trying to board us!' He cowered down and put his hand to shade his eyes in a dramatic reconstruction of the event. 'Our master was a cunning devil, thank Christ, for at the next tack he foxed the other one by going in the opposite direction. We were faster downwind than the pirate and gained on him so that after an hour he gave up and sailed away. Made us a day late getting into the Dart, but saved our necks, no doubt.'

  'Did you recognise the other cog?' demanded Gwyn.

  'It was English, no doubt of that, not a Frenchie,' replied' Gilbert. 'The cut of the rigging could be nothing else.'

  'Any idea where she came from?' asked John.

  'Not then, but a funny thing, a year later I saw a vessel berthed in Dover that I swear was the same one. I even went snooping around her and was told she had changed hands several times. You mentioned Axmouth just now, Crowner - well, the owner before the last one had bought her there.'

  De Wolfe and Gwyn exchanged glances, eyebrows raised. 'I wonder who had sold her there?' musedJohn.

  'Doesn't necessarily signify that she came out of Axmouth at the time she tried to board Gilbert's vessel,' cautioned Angerus. 'She might have been sold before then.'

  'Did you get the name of the cog?' snapped the coroner.

  'I can't read, but the lad I questioned said it was the Apostle Thomas.'

  Most ships had names with religious connotations, as tokens of protection from the perils of the deep, but Gwyn pointed out that they changed these as often as women changed their kirtles. 'Could have been a totally different, name when she was sold from Axmouth,' he grunted.'

  Some more discussion produced nothing of help to the coroner, except that Angerus de Wile was of the opinion that Martin Rof, the shipmaster of The Tiger at Axmouth, was 'a hard bastard', to quote him exactly. 'I've heard that he has flogged men in his crew to within an inch of their death,' he said sourly. 'That's no way to get your men to work properly!' There were growls of assent from those around the barrel.

  'Could it have been his ship that chased you?' de Wolfe asked Gilbert.

  The mate shook his head. 'Impossible to say. I don't know what Rof's cog looks like - and they never got close enough to see faces, thank Jesus. '

  'Where are you and Roger Watts taking your vessels next?' asked de Wolfe. Hugh de Relaga and his clerks were the ones who ran the practical side of their business, and John was content to sit back and receive a bag of money at regular intervals.

  'Now that April's here, we can start sailing long distance,' answered de Wile. 'Both of us are taking the cogs round to Exeter next week to load. I'm taking finished cloth down to St-Malo, and Roger is hauling tin over to Honfleur for the king's army, then up to Antwerp for more cloth.'

  It was an open secret that Richard the Lionheart, hard-pressed for money to pay his troops, was diluting the silver coinage with Dartmoor tin.

  Soon, John became restless and, muttering something about conferring with his partner about how the business was progressing, left Gwyn to continue drinking with his sailor friends, all of them following his departure with knowing grins.

  At the imposing house behind the main street, John found Hilda on her doorstep, just returning from an errand of mercy. Some months earlier, assassins had slain the whole crew of one of their ships. Since then, Hilda had made it her business to see that the bereaved families of the shipmen lacked none of the necessities of life, and she had just been taking some child's clothing and a few pennies to one of the widows. Her face lit up when she saw John coming along the lane, and when her maid Alice opened the front door she ushered him inside, offering her cheek for a chaste kiss as soon as they were off the street. Though she was now an eligible widow, he was a married man and she did not want to provide scandal for anyone who might be peeping in the street.

  'You look well, Hilda,' offered John gallantly as they followed Alice up the stairway to the solar. She did indeed, he thought, seeing her in more formal attire than on his previous visit, a light green mantle over her cream kirtle and a snowy linen cover-chief and wimple framing her beautiful face.

  The maid took her cloak and they sat opposite each other, Hilda sending Alice for the inevitable wine and pastries. In spite of John's claim to a business visit, he disposed of his conversation in the tavern in a few sentences and settled down to enjoy her company, free from any need to interrogate or make plans.

  They reminisced about their childhood and adolescence in Holc
ombe, their families and their youthful escapades, Hilda coming near to blushes as they skirted the memories of amorous adventures in hay-barns and woods. These had gone on intermittently for years after John had taken up the sword, until his long absences had caused her to seek a husband in Thorgils - and even a few times after that. When alone with a pretty woman, the coroner was a different man from the stern, almost grim law officer that most people knew.

  A dozen years seemed to drop away from him in her company. His back straightened, his features lightened and an almost roguish smile crept across his usually taciturn face. As with Nesta, and several other ladies who had now faded into his past, the presence of an attractive woman like Hilda seemed to act as a catalyst, softening his habitually severe manner.

  After Alice had brought the refreshments, Hilda waved her away, needing no chaperone in the privacy of her own home, and John's personal devil had a fine time, dancing merrily on his shoulder as the pair leant towards each other, chatting and smiling. With an effort, de Wolfe kept his distance, though every fibre in his body yearned to seize her and smother her in kisses!

  Hilda knew this only too well and had difficulty in keeping her own instincts in check, especially as after so many months her lonely bed had become increasingly hard to bear. But she knew of John's longstanding liaison with Nesta, and her innate sense of propriety made her suppress her longing - and dampen down any bursting of passion on his part.

  His only chance to relieve his feelings came as they eventually parted, when a goodbye embrace somehow turned into a bear-like hug and a prolonged kiss that left her breathless.

  As they left the solar, his arm around her waist, they saw Alice sitting on the lower step of the stairs, gazing up with an impish expression identical to that on the face of his shoulder-devil.

  Two days later the coroner's team rode once again to Axmouth. The previous evening a carter had left a message at the castle gatehouse from Luke de Casewold, to the effect that the cog The Tiger had arrived that day. As she was likely to sail again very soon, the coroner should make all haste to get down to the harbour, where the Keeper would meet him by noon on Thursday. In fact, he was waiting for them at the crossroads outside the village when they trotted in from Colyford, with the clerk Hugh Bogge alongside his master.

  The group walked their horses down to the upper gate ofAxmouth, Luke telling the coroner that Martin Rof had unloaded his vessel the previous day and was now taking on wool for Calais.

  'I've already had words with him, but the bloody man will say almost nothing, except to tell me to mind my own business,' complained the Keeper. 'But I have threatened the bailiff here that unless he allows me a view of one of those storehouses, I will petition the sheriff for a troop of men-at-arms to come down and force it open.'

  De Wolfe thought that the chances of Henry de Furnellis agreeing to that were remote, but Luke's next words surprised him.

  'After that threat, Edward Northcote has agreed to let me see inside one of them, which he says contains goods belonging to Robert de Helion, the Exeter merchant. I'm going in there this afternoon, if you want to see for yourself.'

  As they went down the main street towards the gate to the wharf, the village seemed almost deserted, though they received a few scowls and stares from people standing at their doorways to watch them go by. There was no sign of the bailiff or portreeve as they passed their houses, but when they came out on to the bank of the estuary there was much more activity. Four cogs were tied up along the wharf, the furthest being The Tiger, identified by an animal head crudely painted in yellow on each side of the prow. Men were carrying large bales across the gangplank, bringing them from an open warehouse on the other side of the road, beneath the slope of the hill behind.

  'That's the shed I am going to inspect,' said de Casewold proudly, as if he had beaten the bailiff and portreeve into submission over the issue. He marched across the track to the large open doors, where the Customs tally-man, John Capie, was standing with notched sticks and knotted cords in his hands.

  'I demand to see inside this building,' bleated Luke, as if he expected yet another angry refusal. The tallyman shrugged and waved a handul of cords towards the entrance. 'Help yourself - best hurry or it'll be empty, the rate these lads are loading the ship.'

  Somewhat deflated, de Casewold strutted into the storehouse like a bantam cockerel, staring around him pugnaciously. On the left of the large shed there were a score of big bales of wool, trussed in cord, but most of the space had already been emptied. On the opposite side of the doorway a large bay held more bales, but to one side was a pile of kegs and bundles reaching to twice the height of a man. Hugh Bogge and Thomas, the only literate members, wandered over and read out some of the crude lettering burnt into some of the kegs with a hot iron.

  'Wine from Anjou, Bordeaux and the Loire,' announced Thomas. 'And other barrels seem to have dried fruit.'

  'What's in those other bales, the ones wrapped in hessian?' demanded the Keeper.

  'They are full of finished cloth, good English wool coming back from the weavers in Flanders.'

  The voice came from behind them and, turning, they saw that the bailiff, Edward Northcote, was standing there, with Elias Palmer and another man.

  'And it all belongs to my master, Robert de Helion,' snapped the stranger, a thickset man of about forty, with a pale, puckered scar running from eyebrow to chin down his leathery face.

  'Who might you be?' demanded John de Wolfe, glaring at the newcomer.

  'I am Henry Crik, one of Sir Robert's agents. Why are you nosing into his property?'

  The coroner took a long step towards Crik. 'Watch your tongue, agent! I am on the king's business and I need give you no excuses!'

  Henry Crik flushed, and the scar looked whiter by contrast. 'This is private property and you have no right to look here.'

  John moved even nearer and looked down into the agent's face, almost nose to nose. 'I will look up your arse if I so choose, Crik! Obstruct me and you'll find yourself answering my questions in the undercroft of Exeter Castle!'

  The man seemed to get the message and stepped back, muttering under his breath. The coroner turned to the bailiff and pointed to the pile of merchandise. 'How do I know that all this is legitimate import - and has been tallied for Customs duty?'

  Northcote shrugged and waved a hand at Elias Palmer. 'Ask the portreeve. He keeps all the records. And the tally-man - it's his job to check it all.' He bellowed for John Capie at the top of his voice, and the skinny official hurried in. 'When did this lot arrive?' demanded Northcote. 'Tell the coroner what you know about it.'

  'It has been here a sennight, sir. Came in from Caen, off-loaded from the cog St Benedict. I checked it all and gave the tallies to the portreeve, as usual.'

  Luke de Casewold bobbed around to Elias. 'Can you confirm that, portreeve?' he snapped.

  Elias looked back at him calmly. 'No doubt I could, if I had my manifests with me. They are in my house, if you wish to check them.'

  De Wolfe had the distinct feeling that if they were checked they would be in perfect order - and he further suspected that they had been allowed into this particular shed because the contents were quite legitimate. He further had the suspicion that Elias was crafty enough to be able to produce parchments to legitimise anything that became the subject of investigation.

  'When will this stuff be moved?' he asked Henry Crik. 'Does it all go to your master in Exeter?'

  The agent shook his head sullenly, chastened by meeting a stronger will than his own. 'Some will end up there, but much will be taken to various places. That is why I am here, to leave instructions for the carters to take these and other goods to different destinations - Bridport, Taunton and even Dorchester.'

  De Wolfe suddenly felt that he was wasting his time here. If the damned Keeper wanted to persist in hounding down those who might be fiddling the Customs duty, that was his affair, but the coroner's business was murder.

  'Gwyn, Thomas! Come with me,
we need to talk to this ship master.'

  He marched out with his officer and clerk in tow, and after a brief hesitation Luke followed him across the road to the large cog that was sitting upright on the mud that was revealed at low tide. Men were still humping bales aboard and others were packing them tightly in the single hold. De Wolfe stalked to the edge of the river and looked across at the stern of the vessel, where a raised platform carried the steering oar and roofed over a shallow shelter where the master and mate slept, the rest of the crew cowering under a similar structure forming the forecastle.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled at the top of his voice, 'Martin Rof! Are you there?'

  A figure emerged from the aftercastle and stared around to see where the shout came from. He was a burly man, broad and tall, with close-cropped fair hair and a ragged beard and moustache of the same yellow hue. Dressed in a short tunic of faded blue serge, he had breeches that ended above his ankles, his bare feet splayed out on the deck.

  'Who wants him?' he demanded when he identified the caller amongst the group on the bank.

  'Sir John de Wolfe, the king's coroner! Come on down here. I want to talk to you and I'm not clambering along that bloody plank.'

  For a moment Thomas thought that Rof was going to refuse, but the coroner's tone was one that offered no compromise. The rough-looking sea-captain jumped down to the main deck and padded down the gangway to where they were waiting.

  'What the hell do you want? I'm a busy man. I want to sail on the next tide.'

  'That depends on what you have to tell me about the death of Simon Makerel. You may be sailing a horse to Rougemont Castle,' snapped John, repeating the threat he had made to Henry Crik.

  'Simon Makerel? What in the Virgin's name do I know about him?' snarled the shipmaster. 'The bloody boy left my vessel at the end of the voyage, so how should I know what happened to him?'