The Sanctuary Seeker Read online

  ‘It is Hubert, God rest his soul.’ His voice cracked and his squire took his arm.

  Thomas edged forward, made the sign of the cross in the air over the open box and began to mutter some incantation in Latin.

  The coroner turned to Baldwyn of Beer. ‘You must have known him well. Do you agree that this is your master’s kin?’

  Baldwyn dropped his hand from Gervaise’s shoulder, stepped forward and bent to look more closely at the cadaver. Like John and Gwyn, he seemed immune to the sights and odours of death.

  ‘There is no doubt, sir. Though the face is swollen and the eyes squeezed shut, it is certainly Hubert. The build, the hair, the features and, above all, that disfigurement he was born with, they all prove it.’ He pointed at the raised brown mark on the side of the dead man’s neck, its colour and hair virtually unchanged, though it now sat on a slimed waxy bed of mottled skin.

  John waved a hand imperiously at the sexton. ‘Seal the box and put him to rest.’

  He turned to Thomas. ‘See to it that everything is done decorously – and tell that lurking priest to say a few words over the grave.’

  As the party turned from the graveside, Gwyn nudged the coroner and pointed into the crude coffin. ‘Those bruises on the arms have come out since we last saw the corpse,’ he muttered.

  John squatted to looked at the greening skin between each elbow and shoulder. On either side, three or four reddish purple marks, the size of a thumbnail, were now prominent on the shiny, peeling surface.

  ‘Grip marks, where fingers have pinioned his arms,’ he said.

  ‘Held by one man, while another stabbed him in the back, already disarmed by a slash into his sword arm,’ completed the Cornishman.

  The coroner rose and shrugged at his henchman. ‘Nothing we didn’t know before, but it confirms that he was ambushed by more than one assailant.’ He led the way out of the churchyard and back to the ale-house, his black cloak billowing behind him.

  Waiting for him was Ralph the reeve, who had been out in the fields when they arrived. He had been supervising the villeins as they ploughed some of the harvest stubble ready for next year’s crop, leaving the rest fallow as part of the rotation system that he had to organise.

  Immediately John put him to work again. ‘Collect as many men from the village as you can muster for an inquest jury. Especially find those who were at the first inquiry a few days back.’

  Ralph’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘What, now?’

  John dropped heavily on to the log outside the tavern door and sat with his hands planted aggressively on his parted knees. ‘Yes, now! And hurry, it will be dark in a couple of hours, too late to ride back either to Exeter or to Peter Tavy, so we must sleep here tonight. We may as well use the remaining daylight to complete the inquest formalities and make an early start in the morning.’

  Muttering under his breath, Ralph hurried off, shouting at every villager he saw to assemble at the tithe barn, set just beyond the church. As he went, Gwyn’s bright blue observant eyes lit on something else, this time at a distance. He tapped John’s shoulder. ‘Look over there, in the reeve’s croft,’ he said.

  John followed his man’s pointing finger to where a horse was contently cropping the thin winter grass in the fenced plot of land that lay behind the hut. He yelled after the reeve, in a voice that could be heard up on the moor, ‘Come back here, damn you!’

  Ralph, who had been giving orders to a couple of villagers to gather up a jury, plodded back to the coroner and his officer.

  John grabbed him by the arm of his coarse tunic and turned him round, none too gently, so that he faced his own house. ‘Is that your dwelling there?’ he boomed, gesturing with his free hand.

  Ralph looked surprised. ‘Of course it is – you ate and rested there last week.’

  ‘And is that your croft behind it?’ John indicated the patch of grass between the back of the house and the cultivated strip that stretched towards the field system.

  ‘It is … yes.’ The reeve was more puzzled than ever and apprehension crept into his voice.

  ‘And is that your horse?’

  There was a slight hesitation, but Ralph had to admit that the beast tethered to a peg in the plot behind his house belonged to him.

  ‘A dappled grey mare with a singular black ring around her right eye!’ said John, with a rising note of triumphant accusation in his voice.

  ‘What of it? It’s just a horse,’ retorted Ralph, with tremulous defiance.

  ‘What of it? What of it, man?’ roared John. ‘That horse belonged to the dead man, as can be testified from when they were last seen together in Honiton.’

  Gervaise de Bonneville and Baldwyn listened intently to this exchange, as did Gwyn, Thomas and the group of inquisitive jurymen. Village reeves were as unpopular as sheriffs or coroners: they were the agents of the manorial lord and chivvied the serfs from dawn to dusk.

  Ralph turned this way and that like a cornered fox, but the coroner allowed him no escape.

  ‘I don’t know where the beast came from,’ he muttered desperately.

  John sneered, ‘It just walked into your croft and tied itself to your peg. Are you going to have the audacity to tell me that a dead man turns up in the village and a horse, identified as his, also appears by sheer coincidence?’

  Ralph stared at the ground.

  ‘I found her,’ was all he could manage to mutter.

  ‘Speak up, man! Let’s all hear what you have to say!’ shouted the coroner.

  ‘I found her, I tell you! She was wandering the woods between here and Dunstone, grazing among the trees. She was without an owner – I thought he may have been thrown and injured or killed, maybe miles away, so I brought the mare back here for safe keeping until she was claimed.’

  ‘Ha! A likely story. Did you make any effort to find the owner? This man who may have been thrown from his horse and injured or killed?’

  The reeve was silent.

  ‘When did you “find” this animal?’

  ‘Er, about a week ago … a week last Sunday. I was taking my ease and walking to Dunstone to visit the reeve there.’

  ‘To visit your fellow reeve, eh? The last time I saw you two together you almost came to blows!’

  The sullen Ralph had no answer.

  ‘So did this horse have any saddle or harness?’

  ‘No, nothing – she was just wandering, I tell you, cropping the grass here and there among the trees. God knows how far she had roamed.’

  ‘And you made no connection between the singular arrival of this unusually patterned horse and the finding of a soldier’s body in your stream?’ asked John sarcastically.

  ‘Why should I? I found the beast days before the body appeared. I had no cause to connect the two.’

  ‘Of course not. Widecombe is such a busy place that a murdered nobleman and a valuable stray horse are everyday occurrences, I suppose.’

  Again the reeve could devise no answer.

  ‘You lie, Ralph,’ thundered the coroner, ‘and I will check your story. First, though, I’ll talk to that other rascal, Simon, the reeve from Dunstone, to see what he has to say about it.’

  Ralph crumbled. ‘He’ll know nothing of this. It wasn’t me that found the mare, it was Nebba. He sold her to me for six shillings. He wanted the money to leave the village.’

  ‘Ha, so Nebba’s name crops up again, eh?’ said John, sharply. ‘And where is he now? Are you telling me he’s left?’

  ‘He went the day you held the inquest, Crowner. Just up and went, we didn’t know where he came from and we don’t know – nor care – where he’s gone. The village has had nothing but bad luck since he walked in from the forest.’

  John turned to be Bonneville and his squire. ‘That mare is forfeit to the Crown, as a chattel of a slain man – but I think you should take her home with you to Peter Tavy. Though in no way compensation for the loss of your brother, she may be some living reminder of him.’ He turned back to Ralph. ‘As f
or you, you’ve not heard the last of this.’

  The reeve stared sullenly at the ground. ‘I’m tempted to drag you back to Exeter gaol as a suspect for the murder, but the city won’t thank me for another mouth to feed at public expense. I know where to find you and I amerce the village in the sum of a further ten marks to ensure that you don’t vanish into the forest as soon as my back’s turned.’

  Gervaise de Bonneville and his squire had been talking together in low voices, their heads close together, when John interrupted them again. ‘I regret this, but the law must be observed. I will take down your depositions on my rolls. The murder of a Norman gentleman is a serious matter, as well as being a sad one for your family.’

  Gervaise’s face was drawn, but he had recovered some of the colour he had lost during the exhumation. John realised that he had never been involved in any fighting or war campaign, which made violent death an unwelcome novelty.

  ‘Who could have done this terrible thing?’ he asked. ‘And how am I to explain it to my father? And to Martyn – he was devoted to his eldest brother.’

  John clasped his shoulder in sympathy. ‘As to the perpetrator, we have much to do to investigate – the inquest is but a starting point. The forest is full of outlaws, as you well know, some of them dangerous and desperate men, yet your brother was a fully armed campaigner, well able to take care of himself unless he was outnumbered.’

  Thomas returned and the sullen reeve assembled more than a dozen villagers to act as jury.

  At the barn door, John took the evidence of Gervaise and Baldwyn as to the undoubted identity of the slain man, all of which Thomas scratched down on his parchment roll. As no other witness came forward, at Gwyn’s stentorian invitation, the coroner declared that death had been due to a murderousknife attack by persons unknown, and the formalities were concluded.

  Before the jury dispersed to go about their business, Ralph had a blunt question for the coroner. ‘What about this amercement you put on the village last time, Crowner?’ There was a murmur of assent and much nodding by the surrounding peasants, who would have to find the money if the fine were collected.

  ‘It stays, of course,’ John asserted. ‘You failed to present Englishry at the first inquest and now that we know the dead man was a Norman, your manor is in more trouble even than before.’ He glared round at the ring of faces. ‘That amercement is now converted into a murdrum fine, for having a slain Norman on your land and not bringing forth the culprit.’

  The village crowd dispersed with much grumbling and Gwyn noticed that the reeve received some jostling and more than one hard dig in the ribs.

  After he had ensured that Thomas had inscribed everything on his parchment roll, John led his party up the valley to claim a night’s lodging from Hugh FitzRalph, the manorial lord who, though he must have heard about the murdered Crusader on his land, had until now kept aloof from the proceedings.

  Next morning, soon after dawn, the two from Peter Tavy left, anxious to reach home and break the sad news to Martyn.

  After their early-morning meal, the coroner and his men prepared to ride in the opposite direction. John had given his thanks to FitzRalph for his hospitality. However, if he had had any hope of getting home quickly to avoid further friction with Matilda, it was soon dashed. Just as a their horses and the mule were being led out from the pasture behind the stables, a solitary horseman, dressed in the conical helmet and leather cuirass of Rougemont Castle’s soldiery, came up the track at a fast trot and swung himself agilely from the saddle right in front of the coroner. John recognised him as one of the men who had brought back Alan Fitzhai from Honiton. He saluted and fished inside his belt-pouch.

  ‘The reeve in the village said you would be here, Sir John. The sheriff sent me last evening. I slept the night at the roadside.’ He held out a crumpled piece of vellum, which John, rather self-consciously, passed to Thomas to read.

  The former priest unrolled it and scanned the few sentences. ‘It’s written by the sheriff’s scribe, at his direction. It tells of another body found by shepherds on Heckwood Tor, up on the moor, apparently another murder by knife. It was known about for some time, but a carter only brought news of it to Exeter yesterday. The sheriff wishes to know if you will deal with it as you are so near or …’ He trailed and looked somewhat furtively at the coroner.

  ‘Well, go on! How does it end?’ John was impatient.

  Thomas cleared his throat. ‘It says do you want to deal with it or shall it be handled properly by the sheriff’s men?’

  John spat on the ground, as if to rid his mouth of the taste of Richard de Revelle. Then he put a foot in his stirrup and hoisted himself up to Bran’s broad back. ‘I’ll show him “properly”, damn the man!’ he muttered. ‘Gwyn, find out exactly where this place is – and you, soldier, you’ve travelled all night so get some food and rest here at the manor house. Tell the bailiff that you’re the sheriff’s messenger.’

  Within minutes, John, Gwyn and Thomas were moving off, back down the valley to Widecombe and then westward on to Dartmoor, following the track of the two who had left an hour before. Gwyn had discovered from the manor bailiff that Heckwood Tor was half-way to Tavistock, just off the road they had travelled the day before. The nearest village was Sampford Spiney.

  It was three hours’ ride, especially as Thomas’s mule seemed less inclined to keep trotting than it had when they left Exeter. John wondered if he should have confiscated the grey mare for his clerk, instead of rashly returning it to the family – but he doubted that the puny Thomas could have handled it.

  When they reached the place described by the bailiff, it seemed certain to the trio that the most prominent tor must be the one named in the note, but not a soul was in sight to confirm it.

  ‘What now?’ asked Gwyn, looking around the bare moor.

  John was angry that the local population seemed so unaware or heedless of the new royal office. It was not that he felt a personal slight at this indifference, but that his unfailing devotion to King Richard interpreted this widespread apathy as a mild form of treason. He was silent, so Gwyn suggested, ‘Let’s get up there and look for ourselves.’

  They turned their mounts about and plodded up the prominent hill to the south of the track. As they rose, they could see over the crest of the right shoulder of the tor into a deep dip where a flock of several hundred sheep was being guarded by two shepherds and their dogs.

  ‘Go down and see what they know,’ John commanded. Gwyn urged his horse over the crest, and a few moments later, John saw him haul one shepherd on to the back of the big mare. The pair came back to where the coroner waited with his clerk.

  ‘He knows where the body lies. It’s still there, above us in the crag.’

  With the young shepherd clinging on behind and giving directions, they all climbed almost to the top of the tor, where granite boulders lay in tumbled disorder. The shepherd, clad in shapeless woollen garments little better than rags, slipped from the horse and ran the last few yards, vanishing into a cleft between two grey rocks that were each the size of a small hut.

  The others had dismounted and John left Thomas to hold their mounts. By the time the coroner and Gwyn had caught up, the shepherd was crouched over a bundle lying at the foot of a rock face. He was prodding it with a piece of stick and muttering to himself, which suggested to John that he was simple.

  ‘What have we got here, boy?’ growled Gwyn, pushing the lad aside with his leg.

  It was the badly decomposed body of a man in a sitting position against the rock. Unlike the one in Widecombe, it was partly mummified. The skin of the face was almost black, and leathery, stretched tightly over the cheekbones like a mask on a skull. The eye-sockets had collapsed to deep holes and the lips had dried to an open circle, as if the corpse was uttering an eternal cry. The hands, protruding from a brown leather jacket, were like bundles of sticks, the skin dried tightly around spidery finger-bones, with loosened nails on the ends.

  ‘The sun and the
wind have shrivelled him instead of the usual corruption,’ observed John, with his usual detached interest.

  ‘How long has he been dead, I wonder?’ ruminated Gwyn, tapping the hard skin of the forehead with his knuckle.

  ‘In the desert, in the burning sun and dry air, they can stay like this for months – even years,’ said the coroner, veteran of Palestine. ‘But here the maggots, the foxes and the rats would see him off in a few months, so I reckon on five or six weeks.’

  He turned to the shepherd, a slack-jawed lad of about fifteen who was crouching nearby, gaping at these visitors from another world. ‘When did they find this, boy?’

  ‘’Bout two weeks back, sir. I can’t reckon time very well, but it was past a couple of church days ago. Will Baggot found it, looking for a missing ewe up here. He told the reeve a few days after, back in Sampford Spiney.’

  ‘A few days!’ exploded John. ‘No hue-and-cry, no one telling the sheriff or myself? I despair of these idle people.’ But it was no use railing against the shepherd, who had no idea of what went on outside his little world.

  ‘Let’s have a proper look at him, Gwyn. Surely we have another soldier here.’

  They examined his tough leather jerkin, with reinforced shoulder covers and studded sides. He still wore a tight-fitting cap, like a bowl of tough leather, with a deep flap to protect his neck. His legs were encased in strong linen breeches with boots coming above the ankles, spurs still in place.

  ‘He has no baldric or sword belt, but the waist-loops of his breeches are snapped through,’ said the Cornishman. ‘I reckon his belt, with sword, scabbard and dagger, has been wrenched off.’

  The coroner was looking at the man’s boots. ‘Eastern work again, I’m sure. That traced stitching is a Mussulman design, just like Hubert de Bonneville’s. This is another Crusader.’

  Gwyn stood up and regarded the corpse from head to toe. ‘Yet he’s no gentleman. His clothing is coarser and of less value. He’ll be a squire or perhaps even a mercenary soldier.’