Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 5

  To get away from the subject, he turned the conversation to the stabbing that had happened that day, of which the couple opposite were unaware.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be a robbery, though we’ve got no body yet,’ he concluded. ‘So I wouldn’t be too concerned about being at risk from murderous cutpurses in the palace precinct. But be careful always, Sir Renaud. Don’t let your wife go out unchaperoned.’

  Hawise d’Ayncourt gave him a brilliant smile at this. ‘I’m sure with a Crusader on the premises, we can all sleep safely in our beds, Sir John!’

  Renaud stood up rather abruptly and helped his wife to her feet, as he bade the two men goodnight. As he walked her away with her arm through his, he murmured, ‘You needn’t make it too obvious, lady.’

  She pouted a little as they walked up the hall. ‘You never know when two court officers might be useful,’ she whispered.

  The news came in mid-morning, just after Gwyn had returned from collecting their daily rations. Part of their expense allowance was in bread, candles and ale, as Thomas had his own allotment over in the abbey, in return for working in the scriptorium when not on coroner’s business. Gwyn had lumbered in, clutching four barley loaves and a bundle of candles, which he dumped on the table in front of his master.

  ‘I’ll go back for the ale in a moment,’ he grunted, taking a breather before he went for their daily two-gallon jar. The allowances were dispensed from a room near the entrance to the Lesser Hall. Thomas had run out of rolls to scribe and was quietly reading his precious copy of the Vulgate of St Jerome, while de Wolfe was sitting with a quart pot of yesterday’s ale, morosely contemplating the floor and wondering what was happening back in Exeter.

  Gwyn slumped on a stool and began cutting a thick slice from one of the loaves with his dagger, to go with a lump of cheese that had been wrapped in a cloth on a nearby shelf. He was about to offer the same to his companions, when there was a rap on the door and the warped boards creaked open to admit the head of a young page.

  ‘Pardon me, sires, but I was sent by the doorward to give you a message,’ he said hesitantly. He looked about ten years old and seemed overawed by the presence of the king’s coroner.

  ‘The Keeper of the Palace requests that you attend upon him directly, sir. It is something relating to a dead body.’

  He made to withdraw, but de Wolfe roared at him and his curly head bobbed back again.

  ‘You had better lead us to wherever he is, boy!’ he snapped, his scowl frightening the lad even more. ‘By Job’s pustules, I don’t want to spend the next hour wandering these damned passages!’

  John had met the Keeper of the Palace, Nathaniel de Levelondes, several times, once in the company of Hubert Walter, the Chief Justiciar, when they first arrived, but he had no idea where he was installed in the rambling buildings. Leaving Gwyn and Thomas to enjoy their bread and cheese, he followed the nervous page along the same floor towards the royal chambers, a three-storey block built around a private cloister adjacent to the Lesser Hall. Between this and the back of the Great Hall, were the guest chambers, which de Wolfe calculated must be over the Steward’s domain that they had visited the previous day. The lad, who de Wolfe guessed must be the son of a baron being placed here for eventual advancement in court, led him to a narrow stair to an upper floor, where he held aside a heavy leather curtain which did service as a door.

  John went inside and found an elderly clerk writing at a table and a younger man, also with a tonsure, shuffling parchments at another. The latter jumped to his feet and ushered de Wolfe through an archway into an inner room.

  ‘Sir, the coroner is here.’

  The Keeper of the Palace was seated behind a desk, reading a parchment roll which he was unfurling with both hands. It looked as if he was one of the relatively few people not in holy orders who could read and write and John felt a pang of envy, as he had been trying to learn for almost two years, with indifferent success.

  De Levelondes was an elderly man who seemed to lean forward with his head outstretched and de Wolfe noticed that his hands trembled as laid down the parchment. He had a thin, careworn face, deep grooves running down each side of his mouth. His hair was as grey as his long tunic, over which he carried a large ring of keys on a thin chain around his neck. John knew that he was not a knight or a baron, but came from an affluent Kentish family which held the post of Keeper as a hereditary gift from old King Henry. In the hierarchy of the Norman court, de Wolfe was his superior and he gave a brief nod of the head as a deferential greeting.

  ‘I am sorry to trouble you, Sir John, but I thought I had better deliver a message to you myself, rather than depend on perhaps the garbled efforts of yet another messenger.’

  His voice was slightly tremulous as he rested his quivering hands on the edge of the table for support. This was not due to anxiety, but appeared to John to be some disorder of the nerves. De Wolfe muttered a greeting in reply and waited for enlightenment.

  ‘A lay brother from the chapel of Baynard’s Castle in the city came on a donkey a short while ago, sent by the priest there to tell us that a body had been recovered from the nearby foreshore. He was apparently someone in holy orders, and had the royal device displayed upon his robe.’

  John’s black eyebrows rose on his forehead.

  ‘Someone from here? Then surely it is likely to be that of the man who was stabbed on the landing stage yesterday. You heard about that?’

  The Keeper nodded. ‘Hugo de Molis informed me as soon as he had confirmed that Brother Basil had not returned. I understand that this probably falls within your remit as Coroner of the Verge?’

  De Wolfe nodded. ‘It most certainly does! My officer saw it happen and we only just missed catching the bastard who was responsible.’

  Nathaniel de Levelondes sank back on his stool as if unsteady on his feet. ‘The corpse is being held inside Baynard’s Castle until someone confirms it is indeed Basil of Reigate.’

  John rubbed the black stubble on his face. ‘I must go there at once – but I don’t know this fellow from Adam!’

  ‘No doubt Hugo de Molis can send someone with you who knew him. He will also be able to direct you to the castle.’

  Glad at last to have a proper case to deal with, the coroner was eager to be off and managed to find his way down to the purveyor’s chamber. Here de Molis dispatched one of the young clerks to accompany John and after gathering Gwyn and Thomas from their upstairs chamber, they collected their horses from the livery stables and set off, the clerk on a pony commandeered from another of the under-marshals who organised all transport for the palace. The coroner’s trio had ridden up from Exeter five weeks earlier and John had his old destrier Odin, while Gwyn kept to his big brown mare and Thomas rode a docile palfrey.

  The clerk, a cheerful young man named Edwin, was happy to have a few hours away from his tedious duties in the stores and regaled them on the way with accounts of the places they passed during the two-mile journey. They walked their steeds across the Palace Yard between the Great Hall and the wall of the abbey to reach the gateway into King Street, commonly known as ‘The Royal Way’. The wide track led northward, crossing the Clowson Brook, with houses on either side.

  ‘That lane goes down to Enedenhithe, a wharf on the river,’ said Edwin, with a cheerful wave of his hand. He pointed to a short side street lined with larger stone houses, which lay on their right. ‘Many of the senior court officers live there – and some of the king’s ministers!’ he added with almost proprietorial satisfaction.

  Beyond this, the houses petered out and there were meadows, those toward the riverbank being called ‘Scotland’ by the clerk for some obscure reason. At the small village of Charing, the road turned to follow the curve of the river, where the Hospital of St Mary’s Rounceval was placed on the bend.

  From there up to the Preceptory of the Templars, with their new round church, the track followed the raised strand above the edge of the river, the clerk enthusing about some large houses,
gardens and orchards that were scattered along both sides. By now the city was looming in front of them behind its great wall, as the road dipped down into the valley of the Fleet. The city was already overflowing beyond its walls, set out by the Romans in a great irregular half-circle. Each end abutted on the riverbank, the further one finishing at William the Bastard’s great tower that still loomed threateningly, reminding the citizens of its royal power.

  John and his two henchmen had been to London before, but the sheer size of the place never ceased to impress them. The great bulk of St Paul’s stuck up brazenly, shepherded by dozens of church spires and towers across the city.

  ‘That’s Baynard’s Castle there!’ pointed Edwin, as they crossed the wooden bridge over the murky Fleet river to pass through Ludgate, the westernmost of the eight entrances to the city. His arm flung out towards a low fortress tucked inside the end of the city wall where it met the Thames, just beyond some busy wharves at the mouth of the Fleet.

  The road was crammed with people, carts, barrows and animals coming and going through the gate. Inside, they climbed part of the slope of Ludgate Hill, then turned right to squeeze along a narrow, noisy, stinking street to the gateway of the castle. Here the two sentries recognised a knight of some substance by the size of his destrier, his sword and his forbidding appearance, together with the three men who formed his entourage. They saluted him and waved him into the large bailey that occupied much of the space within the walls. In the centre were several stone buildings forming a palace and a keep, with other half-timbered and wooden structures built against the inner walls. There were two turrets at each end of the castellated ramparts right on the river’s edge, but John’s eyes sought out a guardhouse just within the main entrance. With a nod of his head he sent Gwyn towards it and the Cornishman slid from his saddle and went to seek directions.

  ‘The corpse is lying next to the chapel,’ he announced when he returned. The rest of them dismounted and a pair of young grooms came running to take charge of their horses. The chapel was a small stone structure next to the keep and when they approached, they saw a group of figures standing outside a lean-to shed attached to its wall. From many similar encounters, de Wolfe knew that this was likely to be a primitive mortuary.

  One of the three men outside was obviously a priest and John sent Thomas ahead to greet him, as he knew that this was often a useful tactic.

  When de Wolfe reached the chapel, his clerk introduced the priest and explained that the other two men were sheriff’s constables from the city. They were heavily built and had the appearance of watchmen or soldiers, though they wore leather jerkins and breeches, rather than uniforms. John thought them surly fellows and after muttered greetings they all turned to the open end of the shed, which seemed to be mainly a repository for a handcart.

  ‘I have brought someone who can definitely identify the body, if it is who we think,’ said John brusquely. He motioned Edwin forward. ‘This young man is on the palace staff and knows the presumed victim.’

  A still shape lay upon the cart covered with a grubby sheet of canvas. One of the sheriff’s servants pulled it off and Edwin moved forward to study the dead man’s face.

  ‘There’s no doubt about it, that’s Basil of Reigate,’ murmured the clerk, looking rather white about the gills.

  The other sheriff’s man, rather reluctantly deferring to a knight of the realm, wanted to know more details and Edwin described how Basil was one of the palace officers responsible for the upkeep of the guest chambers.

  ‘I suppose you want to examine the cadaver, Crowner?’ said Gwyn, moving towards the barrow. The first sheriff’s officer, named William, quickly stepped forward and laid a hand on the massive arm of the Cornishman.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

  Gwyn looked enquiringly at John as he shook off the restraining hand. For a moment, de Wolfe was afraid that his henchman was going to send the other man staggering for his temerity in grasping him. He held up a restraining hand to Gwyn and glared at William.

  ‘I need to examine the corpse! He was stabbed before going into the river.’

  William glowered back at him. ‘You Westminster people came to identify him, that’s all! Your duty is done, for which the sheriffs will thank you.’

  It was John’s turn to scowl at the man. ‘I am the coroner, fellow! I need to hold an inquest into this man’s death!’

  William shook his head and stood in front of the body with his arms folded in a gesture of defiance.

  ‘You have no powers here, sir. The city of London is an independent commune and has no coroner. Our two sheriffs carry out that function, so there’s no need to trouble you.’

  De Wolfe glowered at the men, for the other one had moved to stand alongside William in an almost threatening manner.

  He knew that the city was a place apart, fiercely jealous of its independence, arrogant by virtue of its huge commercial strength, undoubtedly greater than all other English cities put together. The aldermen, burgesses, guildsmen and merchants were extremely powerful and on occasions might even defy the king himself. John was also well aware that when Hubert Walter had instituted coroners in every county two years earlier, he had to heed a refusal from the city fathers and was forced to exclude them from the edict, allowing the two sheriffs to perform those duties.

  ‘That may well be – for your own corpses from the city!’ he protested harshly. ‘But this is a royal servant who drifted down the river from the king’s palace of Westminster and that falls within my jurisdiction.’

  The stony face of the sheriff’s man stared defiantly at de Wolfe.

  ‘Well, he’s not in Westminster now, is he? His corpse lies here in the city and that’s what matters.’

  The coroner felt like punching the man on his fleshy nose, but managed to restrain his short temper.

  ‘He lies within the Verge, damn you! Twelve miles in any direction from the king’s court!

  The other constable, a tall, burly man, smirked. ‘By Christ’s bones, sir, then you’ve got your work cut out!’ he exclaimed sarcastically. ‘That encompasses the whole of London and halfway into Essex, to say nothing of Middlesex and much of Surrey!’

  ‘Only if the deceased is connected with the court, you damn fool!’ snarled de Wolfe. In truth, he was not at all sure of the exact definition of those who should come within the jurisdiction of the Verge, but he was incensed at being sneered at by fellows who were little more than city watchmen.

  William stood obstinately in front of the body. ‘I know nothing of that, sir. All I know is what the sheriff ordered and that was to keep the body privy until he comes to see it and decides what to do. No doubt it will be sent back up the river to you when he’s finished with it.’

  De Wolfe, never known for his patience or easy temper, was fuming at the man’s smug complacency. But short of starting a fight with the representatives of the city’s aldermen, there was little he could do at the moment.

  ‘And when will that be?’ he demanded fiercely, glowering at the man with his arms akimbo, hands jammed into his waist. ‘I need to speak to this sheriff of yours straight away. And then to the Chief Justiciar, who introduced these laws on behalf of King Richard!’

  The watchman was unimpressed. ‘That’s nothing to do with me, coroner. The sheriff is Godard of Antioch – at least the one that’s dealing with this. The other one is Robert fitz Durand, but he’s away hunting in Northampton.’

  ‘Where can I find this Godard?’ demanded John.

  ‘He must have heard you, sir,’ crowed the other man, raising his eyes to look across the bailey. ‘Here he is now!’

  They all turned and saw a fine white horse enter the castle gate. The rider slid off and threw the reins to an ostler who dashed to meet him. Then he waddled across the open space, a fat man with a long yellow tunic reaching to his calves, slit front and back for sitting a horse. As he approached, John saw that his bulging belly was girdled by a wide belt, bearing a short riding swo
rd. He had virtually no neck, a bulbous head rising straight from his shoulders, bristly blond hair surmounting a round, pugnacious face. John sighed and he heard Gwyn mutter.

  ‘Another awkward bugger, by the looks of it!’

  De Wolfe decided to go on the offensive right away.

  ‘Sheriff, I am Sir John de Wolfe, the king’s Coroner of the Verge! We have just identified this corpse from the river as being that of the palace clerk who was murdered in Westminster yesterday.’

  Godard, who took his other name from estates his father had owned in one of the Christian kingdoms of Outremer, held up his arm in salute, but looked suspiciously at de Wolfe.

  ‘I have heard of you, Sir John. What are you doing here?’

  His tone was guarded, but not overtly hostile, as his eyes flickered from the coroner to the body on the cart and then to his pair of henchmen standing in front of it.

  ‘This man was stabbed yesterday within the enclave of the royal palace and then fell into the river. I need to investigate his death and bring the culprit to justice.’

  Godard shrugged and virtually repeated what William had said. ‘This is a task for us, sir. We perform your function in this city.’

  Bottling up his exasperation with difficulty, John made a further effort to reason with the man. ‘I grant you that this was the situation until recently,’ he grated. ‘But King Richard expressly directed the appointment of a coroner to deal with all relevant deaths within the verge of the royal court, wherever it may be. He ordered the Chief Justiciar to implement his wish and I have been appointed by him to perform that function.’

  He deliberately emphasized the names to convey the importance of his office, but Godard seemed unimpressed.

  ‘Ha, Hubert Walter! He’s well out of favour in London these days, so I’d not be too ready to flaunt your warrant from him.’

  De Wolfe sighed heavily. He knew Godard was referring to the harsh way in which a couple of months previously Hubert had quelled the popular revolt against taxation led by William fitz Osbert, known as ‘Longbeard’. The leaders of the rebellion had been cornered in the church of St Mary le Bow, which Hubert had set on fire, driving the rebels out to be dragged to an agonising death at Tyburn. Since then, his unpopularity over the increasing burden of taxes had been worsened by accusations that he had deliberately ordered the violation of sanctuary.