‘Who are the others, then?’ demanded Nesta sharply, already acting as if John was being taken advantage of by the state.
‘They have a knight from up Barnstaple way who may accept. Another should be recruited for the Plymouth area, but that’s just wishful thinking at the moment. There has to be a clerk as well, as few of us can read or write.’
‘Where are you going to get a clerk?’ asked Gwyn. ‘We don’t know anyone who can read and write, apart from all the damned clergy.’
John shrugged. ‘If it comes to pass, then I’ll ask the archdeacon, he’s sure to know someone.’ He finished his ale and stood up. ‘In fact, I’ll call there now, on my way back to face my wife.’
As he kissed Nesta goodbye, he groaned at the prospect of returning home. ‘Oh God, how she’ll crow over me, now that her bloody brother is going to be sheriff again. Life won’t be worth living in Martin’s Lane!’
The archdeacon admitted to John that he had already heard rumours of de Revelle’s return to favour.
‘The bishop told me several weeks ago that his brother William had petitioned the archbishop and the Curia about it, but directed me not to speak publicly about the matter. But I had not heard about this offer to you, John. It’s an honour to have this bestowed upon you by the king himself — a well-deserved honour, too.’
John described what he knew about the nature of the coroner’s duties and the archdeacon, a very well-educated man, said that he had heard of such an officer in the past.
‘There are several mentions of such an officer in Saxon times, right back to King Alfred and Athelstan,’ the archdeacon observed. ‘It seems to have died out, but Hubert Walter seems to be reviving it to his advantage.’
‘If I do accept — and it looks as if I have little choice, given the royal command,’ said John, ‘I would need a clerk, someone who could keep all these records which have to be presented to the king’s courts. Where could I find such a person?’
De Alencon raised a hand to his lips and tapped them for a moment as he thought, then raised a finger. ‘I may have the answer, John!’ He leaned across and rang a small bell on his table to summon his steward from the next room.
After a whispered request, the man left and came back leading a small young fellow of a most unprepossessing appearance. He had a slight limp and a small hump on his back, under a threadbare black cassock. His face was pathetically thin, with a long sharp nose and a receding chin, but relieved by a pair of bright, intelligent eyes. His sparse dark hair was unkempt and showed the remains of a clerical tonsure on top, though this was growing over again.
‘This is my nephew, Thomas de Peyne, who has fallen on hard times and has walked from Winchester to throw himself upon my mercy,’ explained the archdeacon. ‘He has found himself a bed in my servant’s quarters but is in dire need of some employment. I can vouch for his literacy, as he taught at the cathedral school in Winchester, where he was in holy orders.’
John noticed the past tense in the last few words and was about to enquire further, when the sad-faced clerk spoke up.
‘To save my uncle’s embarrassment, sir, I will declare straight away that I was dismissed from the school and indeed, banned from any ecclesiastical post. It was because of an allegation that I made improper advances towards one of the female pupils. It was a false and malicious claim, but that is of no consequence now. I am cast out into the world and will either perish, as I almost did this past year — or find some occupation to give me food and shelter.’
There was something about Thomas’s tone that rang true in John’s ears. Perhaps it was the utter fatalism with which he stated his situation or the detachment from caring much what happened to him.
‘It is premature for me to decide on employing a clerk at this stage,’ John said to both of them. ‘But if I accept this post, and it is confirmed, then I will certainly take you on for a trial period, which starts at Michaelmas.’
To John’s great discomfort, Thomas de Peyne’s eyes suddenly filled with tears and he dropped to his knees in front of him.
‘Sir, your kindness is only matched by that of the archdeacon.’ With a sob, he rose and hurried from the room, leaving his uncle to promise to tell John the whole sad story of Thomas de Peyne at some other time.
Finding no other excuse to delay confronting Matilda, John slowly walked the few hundred paces from Canon’s Row to his house, where he found his wife sitting alone at the table, drinking hare stew from a wooden bowl with a spoon carved from a cow’s horn. Bread and cheese lay in front of her, together with a large cup of wine. She looked up at him with a sly smile of triumph, but he decided to get in his attack first.
‘Yes, I know all about it now, lady! Thanks to his friends in high places, your brother has wormed his way back into favour — though for how long, depends on how he behaves himself.’
Matilda raised her glass and drank, before replying. ‘Jealousy, jealousy, always jealousy, John!’ she sneered. ‘My brother has attained high office, while my husband remains an unemployed wastrel, useless at anything but killing, drinking and whoring!’
A warm glow of satisfaction crept over him as he saw his chance. ‘Your brother has not yet seen the king’s commissioners, then?’ he asked innocently.
Matilda looked at him suspiciously. ‘He is at the castle now, receiving the official warrant of his appointment — though the bishop told him of it several days ago.’
John dropped into his cowled chair with assumed nonchalance. ‘Then neither of you are aware that I have already received a warrant from the Archbishop of Canterbury, issued to me on the Lionheart’s specific orders, to become the King’s Coroner for the County of Devon, taking office on the same day as your dear brother!’
John had rarely seen his wife lost for a tart reply, but this was one of those delicious occasions. Making the most of it, he got up again and informed her harshly that he was taking the hound for some exercise.
‘I don’t know when I’ll be home, I have much to think about,’ he said, as he went to the door and slammed it behind him. Whistling for Brutus, he set off for the Bush again.