Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) Read online

  ‘It seems they are both of an age and come from the same village in Surrey. This Basil had decided he wanted to enter the abbey as a novice – perhaps to be with his best friend,’ Thomas added with a blush.

  ‘What sort of secrets might justify the risks of stabbing a man in broad daylight?’ queried Gwyn.

  De Wolfe chewed this over in his mind for a moment. ‘Unless this is all a figment of the fellow’s imagination, there’s some palace intrigue behind this. I’ve heard that the place is a hotbed of corruption, embezzlement, theft, adultery, fornication and God knows what else!’

  ‘What about spying?’ added Thomas. ‘I know the king’s directing his war against Philip from Rouen, but it’s from here that England has to defend its coast against invasion. And the French are always trying to stir up the Scots and Welsh against us.’

  ‘Perhaps they were planning to steal the Crown Jewels!’ offered Gwyn facetiously.

  ‘They should be safe enough in the crypt of the abbey,’ replied John seriously, impervious to his officer’s humour. ‘Thomas, tell this new friend of yours that I want to talk to him tomorrow, before I hold the inquest. And Gwyn, in future I think I had better forsake Osanna’s cooking in the evenings and eat in the palace. You never know what we might pick up there.’

  With a picture of a certain lady in mind, an obvious answer came to him, but he managed to convince himself that dining in the Lesser Hall was now part of his duty.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In which the coroner meets an old comrade

  The next day, though the sun was already warming the lanes, it was still early when the coroner and his officer walked from their house to the palace. As they went from Tothill Street through the rear gate of the abbey precinct and strode across Broad Sanctuary, the sounds of chanting came from the chancel, as the monks celebrated Prime, the first office of the day.

  ‘I suppose our clerk is amongst that lot,’ said Gwyn gruffly, jerking a thumb towards Edward the Confessor’s great building.

  John had never managed to discover the cause of the Cornishman’s disenchantment with the Church. He himself was a reluctant worshipper, especially since he no longer had his wife to drag him to devotions, but compared to his officer he was an ardent believer.

  ‘Let him enjoy it, poor fellow,’ he advised. ‘There’s nothing for him to do until the inquest an hour before noon.’

  They passed the small church of St Margaret, built by the monks for the use of the local population, to avoid interruption of their endless devotions in the abbey. A small gate in the wall between the monastic and secular areas, led them into New Palace Yard, where already clerks, men-at-arms and members of the public were criss-crossing the wide area, dodging ox-carts and mounted men coming and going from the main gate on King Street.

  Up in their chamber, Gwyn threw open the window shutter and leaned out to study the strip of scrubby grass between the base of the wall and the river’s edge. Feet had worn a path of dusty earth along it, the same one along which he had chased the killer two days before. The tide was dropping now and the sullen brown water swirled downstream. Across the wide expanse, he could see more marshes and some farmland visible on the opposite bank at Lambeth, now disfigured by some large building activity.

  ‘Too bloody flat around here for my liking,’ he grumbled, determined to find fault with everywhere that was not his native West Country. Coming from the steep fishing village of Polruan in Cornwall, he missed the slopes and cliffs of his youth.

  He raised his eye to the sky and frowned. ‘I reckon this weather is soon going to end in a storm,’ he added. ‘Instead of dust, we’ll have mud everywhere!’

  ‘Jonah had nothing on you, Gwyn,’ growled John, sitting behind his table. ‘I think you’ll soon need a trip back home to see your wife and family. I might come with you, to try to discover what this bloody wife of mine intends to do.’

  His officer left the window and sat on a milking stool, which creaked ominously under his weight. ‘If this whole court is going to shift itself to Gloucester when the old queen comes, maybe we’ll have a chance to slip off to Exeter from there – it’s nearer than this place.’

  De Wolfe shrugged, doubtful if the distance would make much difference, but not wanting to dishearten Gwyn. They had spent over twenty years together away from Devon, on campaigns in Ireland, France and the Holy Land, without being too bothered by homesickness. However, three years back in England seemed to have softened them up. He decided to shake off this morbid mood and changed the subject.

  ‘Thomas said he would bring this fellow Robin Byard here when they had finished singing and praying over in the abbey.’

  ‘D’you think there could be anything in this story?’ grunted Gwyn. ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched to me, a clerk being afraid that he’s overheard something to endanger his life!’

  De Wolfe shrugged, running his hand through his over-long hair. ‘Nothing would surprise me in this damned place! I know both France and our own country have a bevy of spies in each other’s camps. But this might just be some petty intrigue about one man bedding someone else’s wife – or even some swindle over an official selling meat from the kitchens.’

  For a while there was silence in the bare chamber, as John settled down to try to re-learn some of the Latin that Thomas had written out for him in simple phrases on a roll of parchment. When in Exeter, a vicar in the cathedral had coached him until the patience of both of them had run out. Now his own clerk had taken on the task, but at his age, John’s mind was too set to absorb much learning. He was a physical man, active and energetic, but lacking the concentration and willpower to apply himself to academic pursuits.

  He muttered under his breath, his lips forming the unfamiliar words as his finger slowly traced out the perfect script of his clerk, while his officer perched back on the windowsill, gazing out across the Thames. A barge drifted downstream, piled with bales of raw wool, four men keeping it in the centre of the river with long oars. Above, the sky was taking on a leaden hue towards the south, and the weather lore that Gwyn had learned from his fisherman father told him that a storm was brewing.

  After about an hour, the silence was broken by Thomas entering the room. He ushered in a pale young man dressed in Benedictine black, his shaven tonsure having removed most of his fair hair. Robin Byard looked nervous and ill-at-ease as he looked from the ginger giant at the window to the menacingly dark figure of the coroner sitting behind the table.

  ‘My clerk tells me that you have something to tell us about Basil of Reigate,’ began John, trying to sound affable.

  To his embarrassment, Byard promptly burst into tears. ‘He was my best friend, Sir John! Perhaps there was something I could have done to save him.’

  The ever-sympathetic Thomas placed a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Just tell the coroner what you know,’ he advised.

  ‘I told your clerk the little I know yesterday,’ he snivelled. ‘Basil was afraid for his life, in case the people he heard plotting decided to silence him.’

  ‘Yet I’m told you have no idea either who these people were – nor what was said between them to make him so fearful?’ snapped John, already forgetting his attempt at being gentle.

  Robin cringed at the coroner’s tone. ‘He said he had no wish to drag me into danger, sir.’

  ‘And you have no other suspicion as to who these people might be. Were they both men or a couple, for instance?’

  The novice shook his head miserably. ‘All he wanted was some advice as to what he should do. He was even talking about running away, back to our village.’

  ‘And what did you advise him?’

  ‘He worked in the guest chamber of the palace, so his immediate superior would be the Guest Master, who was one of the Lord Chamberlain’s staff,’ explained Byard. ‘Yet he was concerned only with supplies, so he was directed mainly by the Purveyor. I told him he must confide in either of these – or go to the Keeper of the Palace himself.’

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nbsp; ‘And what did he say?’ demanded the coroner. It was obvious that Basil had not spoken to the Purveyor, for that official knew nothing of it when told of the recovery of the body.

  ‘He said he would think about it, but was reluctant in case he was not believed or thought of as causing false rumours. And that was the last time I saw him!’ added Robin, bursting into tears again.

  If there was anything that de Wolfe could not abide, it was weeping, especially if it came from a man. He jerked his head at Thomas to take the boy away and the soft-hearted clerk gently ushered him out of the room.

  ‘I’ll not call him at the inquest, for his evidence is not worth a bent penny,’ he growled. ‘And if there was any truth in what he said, there’s no point in alerting these mysterious conspirators, if they exist.’

  He rose from his bench and stretched his long arms.

  ‘I’ve asked for an audience with our old friend Hubert Walter this morning. He’s back from his parish in Kent today, so I’m told.’

  He was referring to the Chief Justiciar and Gwyn guessed that John’s attempt at levity about a parish concerned the Archbishop’s diocese in Canterbury.

  ‘He won’t be interested in a stabbed clerk, will he?’ objected Gwyn.

  De Wolfe gave one of his rare grins. Hubert was effectively running England in the continued absence of King Richard and undoubtedly had more weighty matters on his mind.

  ‘No, but I want to bend his ear about these bastards in the city,’ he fretted. ‘If I’m supposed to be Coroner of the Verge, then we can’t have these arrogant sheriffs interfering. And what’s going to happen when the court goes out into the shires? Are the county coroners going to do the same?’

  He pondered for a moment. ‘Mind you, if I was still Devon’s coroner, I’d be hopping mad if some outsider turned up and took my cases from me, just because the court is within a dozen miles of Exeter!’

  Gwyn nodded sagely, knowing his master well enough to let him blow off steam. ‘When are you going to see him? That’s if you can find him again in this rabbit warren.’

  They had ridden up to Westminster the previous year to see the Justiciar, when they needed a special dispensation against an injustice caused to a fellow Crusader.1 Gwyn recalled being led through innumerable passages to get to Hubert’s chamber, but he doubted he could find it again without help.

  ‘One of the Chancery clerks is coming to fetch me when he’s ready,’ replied John. ‘Until then, we’ll have a drop of the ale you’ve got hidden in that jar.’

  It was the same austere chamber that they had sat in the previous year. Though as Chief Justiciar and Archbishop of Canterbury, he was the most powerful man in the country, Hubert Walter did not flaunt his power with rich robes and ostentatious jewels. A lean man with tonsured iron-grey hair, he wore a plain dark-red tunic, belted at the waist, the only sign of his ecclesiastical eminence being a small gold cross hanging by a thin chain around his neck.

  In spite of the difference in their stations in life, he was a good friend of John’s. They had first met in the Holy Land, when Hubert, then Bishop of Salisbury, was made chaplain to the Crusaders after Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, had died before the walls of Acre. Like many bishops, Hubert was also a seasoned warrior and became the king’s chief of staff, later being left behind to organise the withdrawal after Richard sailed for home on his ill-fated journey. John had been one of the royal bodyguard that had accompanied him and had suffered the same shipwreck in the Adriatic that led to the Lionheart’s ill-advised attempt to reach England overland, with only a few remaining knights and squires as protection. De Wolfe still felt guilty about being away from the king’s side when Richard was captured near Vienna, though the Lionheart had since airily absolved John from any fault.

  ‘At least it’s not about Richard de Revelle this time!’ said the Justiciar with a smile. On the two last occasions that they had met in England, it was over problems with John’s brother-in-law, the former sheriff of Devon, who had repeatedly sailed too close to the wind of treason and corruption.

  ‘No, but his sister is causing me problems instead!’ confessed John wryly. He explained the frustrating situation with his wife, who was in Polsloe Priory in Exeter, but had not committed to taking her vows nor indicating whether she would return to married life. However, his matrimonial affairs were nothing to do with his purpose today and he went on to explain in detail the confrontation with Godard of Antioch and his men.

  ‘I must know who has precedence, Your Grace!’ he ended.

  Though the archbishop was an old comrade-in-arms, John was not one to ignore the formalities of address. ‘If the king requires me to be his court coroner in England, then I must know where the limits of my duty lie. There’s no point in having jurisdiction over the Verge, if the local officers deny me the right to investigate anything.’

  The Justiciar leaned across the oak table that was half-buried in parchments. ‘They delight in being awkward, those strutting city folk!’ he complained. ‘I’m in bad odour with them at present, over that Longbeard affair in April, so no doubt they’ll take every opportunity to tweak my tail.’

  He twisted a large golden ring on one of his fingers, one of the few signs of his religious primacy, for he had recently been made Papal Legate to England, the agent of the Holy Father in Rome.

  ‘Not only that, but the Mayor, Henry fitz Ailwyn, is annoyed that I am enlarging the defences around the Tower. He says I am encroaching upon his territory, so he’s trying to defy me in as many ways as possible.’

  ‘But where does that leave me as coroner?’ persisted de Wolfe. ‘Am I going to face the same opposition in the shires when the court moves out into the country? If so, I may as well abandon any hope of carrying out the king’s wishes.’

  Hubert Walter shook his head decisively.

  ‘I am the Chief Justiciar, responsible for law and order in England. They cannot obstruct me, much as they would wish to.’

  He stood up and strode about the room, rubbing his hands together. ‘As you well know, almost two years ago I instructed my judges at the Kent Eyre to appoint three knights as coroners in every county to keep the pleas of the crown. Straight away, London raised objections and the king gave in to them, wanting to keep them sweet, as they are a huge source of revenue to the Exchequer. We need every penny to pay off his ransom and to fund his wars across the Channel.’

  ‘I understand that one of the sheriffs also acts as coroner in the county of Middlesex,’ said John morosely. ‘Does that mean that even Westminster comes under their jurisdiction? If so, I may as well saddle up and go home to Devon right away!’

  Hubert replied by ringing a small brass bell that stood on his table.

  ‘I’ll get this settled this minute,’ he promised, as one of his black-robed clerks hurried in from an adjoining room and stood waiting expectantly for instructions. ‘As for Middlesex, I don’t think you need worry about that. Westminster is an ancient liberty ruled by Abbot Postard, who is even more jealous of his independence than is the city. Even I as Archbishop have no say in abbey affairs, only through the Pope, but I doubt the abbot is interested in usurping the functions of a coroner.’

  He turned to the elderly clerk. ‘Send me in one of your scribes, Martin. I want a letter to go out to every sheriff, when you next send monthly heralds out to the counties – and a separate one to the Mayor and aldermen of London.’

  He plumped himself down again on his chair and looked across at John. ‘I will command them all in the king’s name to allow you access and every courtesy in investigating incidents that occur within the Verge, for that is what our Lord Richard specifically desired.’

  A younger clerk came in and quietly sat at a small desk to one side of the Justiciar’s table, quill and parchment at the ready for dictation.

  ‘I’ll have a copy sent to you, with my personal seal attached, John. You can keep it with you and wave it under the nose of any belligerent officer who gives you trouble!’

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nbsp; De Wolfe recognized this as a signal to leave and rose from his seat, but as he bobbed his head in deference to the archbishop, Hubert had one last question.

  ‘This palace servant who was stabbed in broad daylight – have you any idea what that was all about?’

  ‘I am holding an inquest this morning, sire, though I doubt it will achieve much. The killer seems to have vanished into thin air.’

  He hesitated, unsure whether it was worth mentioning the nebulous tale offered by Robin Byard. ‘There is a vague suggestion that it might have been connected with some intrigue within the palace, but I will keep you informed, if you so wish.’

  Hubert nodded and waved his hand in dismissal, but just as John reached the door, he called him back.

  ‘I almost forgot, I need you for another task this week, one for which your reputation as a safe and trusted escort fits you well.’

  De Wolfe waited patiently for enlightenment, though he had misgivings about being landed with some other unenviable job.

  ‘We have now brought almost every office of state here from Winchester, but there remain several chests of bullion which need to be safely moved to London. The Marshalsea will organise the transport, but I want you to make sure that nothing goes amiss. There are too many rogues and robbers about these days to take any chances. The under-marshals will give you all the details.’

  John wondered what this had to do with being a coroner, though it was true that they could be a given a royal commission to carry out virtually any task which the monarch wished. However, he made no objection, as it sounded a welcome opportunity to get away from Westminster for a while.

  As he muttered his agreement, Hubert Walter was already dictating to his clerk, so John quietly slipped away, hoping he could find his way back through the corridors of power.

  As de Wolfe had anticipated, the inquest achieved virtually nothing, but doggedly he went through the routine, for his fervent loyalty to the Lionheart made him a stickler for keeping to the rules laid down by the king and his council.