‘What about de Revelle?’ asked John. ‘If he’s not officially a sheriff, how can he deal with a murder?’
Morin gave a cynical laugh. ‘Not so much how, as would he want to? His only interest is collecting the taxes for Prince John, though a fair slice of it goes into his own purse, I’ll warrant. And he’s a lazy bastard, as you know, John. He’ll not put himself out to make any enquiries. He’s back now and in his chamber, so you can ask him!’
‘There’s another aspect too,’ said John slowly. ‘If a king’s courier is slain because of the message he carried, who would be the most likely to benefit from that? With all this unrest and rumours of treason, it’s the Prince who is most suspect — and we know that Richard de Revelle is probably one of his creatures.’
The constable pondered this as he finished his cider and topped them all up once more. ‘We’re in a difficult position here, as though this is a royal castle and I’m a king’s officer, the rest of the county belongs to Prince John. He can do what he likes, he’s a Marcher lord in reality, head of a kingdom-within-a-kingdom. But the Chief Justiciar should surely be told of the death of one of his couriers — the message he carried or the reply to it, might be vital to knowing how far John’s insurrection has advanced.’
‘Did you know that a secret courier was in the West Country?’ asked Gwyn. ‘Would you recognize him if you looked at the body, though he’s going off fast.’
‘I didn’t know, but then I’m just a soldier, I’m not privy to much of the politics. I’ll have a look at the cadaver, but doubt that will help.’
De Wolfe had been thinking hard, his forehead corrugated with the effort. He rasped a hand over his stubble as an aid to thought. ‘I feel that I should ride to London and seek an audience with Hubert Walter. I know him well enough and I should show him that Gwyn and myself survived and give him what details we can about that journey, though I suppose he’ll have already had those from the king, as I hear he’s visited him in Germany. Then at the same time, I can return this ring and tell him what’s happened to one of his spies.’
Ralph readily agreed with this plan and John promised that they would ride for the east within a few days.
‘The dead man will have to be buried very soon, before he corrupts even more. Your garrison chaplain can no doubt arrange that with the cathedral. He deserves a decent burial as he doubtless died in the service of the Crown.’ He rose to his feet and made for the door. ‘Now I suppose I’ll have to talk to my dear brother-in-law. No doubt he’ll be as pleased to see me as a visitation of the plague.’
THIRTEEN
Sir Richard de Revelle was almost a decade older than John, a neat, slim man of average height, with a narrow, foxy face and a small pointed beard of the same light brown as his cropped hair. An elegant dresser, he sat behind his table dressed in a calf-length green tunic edged with gold embroidery around the collar and hem. He looked up from the scrolls he was studying as de Wolfe marched in, ignoring the efforts of the guard on the door to ask him his business.
‘I see you have appointed yourself Sheriff of Devon — or at least, installed yourself in his room!’ snapped John, sarcastically.
Richard looked up in annoyance at the interruption. As he saw who had entered, his face creased into a humourless smile. ‘Ah, so it’s you at last, John. I heard from Matilda that you were home.’
De Wolfe perched himself on the edge of the table, to add to the other man’s irritation. ‘Yes, after having done my best for three years for my God and my King!’
Richard sneered. ‘I trust that God appreciated it, for you didn’t serve the king very well, letting him fall into the hands of his enemies!’
John’s scowl deepened at Richard’s ability to always touch the most sensitive spot. ‘At least I did my best, rather than sitting on my arse at home, making money,’ he retorted.
‘Yet I hear that you have made a lot of money even when you were thrashing about the Levant, thanks to our good Portreeve!’ sneered Richard. Though he was no warrior, de Revelle always won in a battle of words with his brother-in-law.
‘So why are you sitting in here?’ demanded John.
‘The Count of Mortain, who is the lord of Devonshire, graciously asked me to assist him in dealing with the administration,’ said de Revelle, preening himself at the mention of his princely patron. He lifted a roll of parchment and waved it at John, emphasizing the fact that unlike his sister’s husband, he could read and write. Richard had attended the abbey school in Tavistock when young and went on to study law for a few years, as he had a driving ambition to ascend the ladder of politics. He saw attaching himself to the rising star of Prince John the best way of fulfilling his aspirations, especially now that the king was under lock and key in Germany.
But de Wolfe was not impressed by manuscripts and account rolls. ‘I need a proper sheriff, not a tax collector!’ he growled. ‘I have a murder to report to someone — the murder of a king’s officer.’
Richard’s pale eyebrows rose in mild surprise. ‘A king’s officer? What would he be doing in these parts? Prince John rules here.’
‘Not in Rougemont nor Launceston, he doesn’t! The king wisely kept them out of the hands of his untrustworthy brother,’ snapped John, though he felt frustrated at being in territory where his own royal master seemed to have given away his powers.
The man behind the table shrugged indifferently. ‘All I can suggest is that you allow the bailiff or serjeant of the Hundred where this body was found, to conduct an investigation. They have the ancient powers to assist the sheriff, so in his absence they can surely do it themselves.’
John’s dark features coloured with indignation. ‘Do you not even want to know the circumstances of this crime?’ he demanded.
Richard turned up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘It is no concern of mine, John. I am not the sheriff, as he is the representative of the king, whose writ no longer runs in these counties. Perhaps you should tell the Royal Council in Winchester of your problem?’
Angrily, John slid from the table and strode to the door. ‘That’s exactly what I intend to do, Richard. And tell them a few other home truths about what’s happening in Devon these days!’
He marched out and slammed the door behind him.
Back at the Bush, the place seemed cleaner, lighter and happier, even in the few days that he had been away. The number of patrons had increased significantly, intrigued by the new whitewash and thatch repairs. John also noticed several strange horses in the stables, belonging to travellers who were staying overnight. Nesta was delighted to see him back and proudly showed off the recent improvements. She then brought him a steaming pork knuckle on a trencher of yesterday’s bread covered in fried onions, and sat down to watch him eat it, Edwin rallying around with a quart of ale.
‘The next batch will be much better, John, now that Gwyn has brought in new barley,’ she promised. As he ate, John told her about the dead body he had found and she was concerned to hear that he was probably a royal courier. John showed her the ring with the engraved lions and also the bronze buckle he had taken from the man’s belt.
At once, she became excited. ‘I’ve seen a buckle like that before, John,’ she exclaimed. ‘What did he look like?’
‘A bit hard to tell, the state he was in!’ he replied ruefully. ‘A little shorter than average, stockily-built, good quality clothing. He had no beard or moustache and his dark brown hair was cropped in the old Norman style. Had you seen him before, then?’
She put a hand on his arm as he reached for his ale. ‘It sounds like a man who stayed here for one night about three weeks ago. We’ve not had many lodgers lately, so I recalled this one, as we had but two staying that week. I’m sure that dragon buckle was his.’