As de Wolfe broke away and hurried towards the gate into King Street, Gwyn growled indignantly. ‘Perform, indeed! She makes you sound like a mountebank’s monkey! That woman is good for only one thing, Crowner — and she makes it bloody obvious what that is!’
John was of much the same opinion, but he held his tongue and soon the incident was forgotten in the delights of Osanna’s leek soup followed by pig’s liver fried with onions, with a pile of boiled carrots and parsnips. The weather had turned sultry again — hot, still and humid, with dark clouds massing on the horizon threatening another thunderstorm before nightfall. The atmosphere encouraged torpor and the two old comrades slumped at the table to end their meal with a quart of Aelfric’s home brew. Soon Gwyn had rested his head on his arms and began snoring, while John lethargically mused about Hawise d’Ayncourt, wondering how her body looked under those elegant clothes. He didn’t much like her, but that was no barrier to him desiring her.
As he watched Gwyn’s tousled red locks quiver with each snorting breath, John sleepily analysed his love life. At forty-one, he felt as virile as he had at eighteen, but the years were passing ever more quickly and he viewed the prospect of extended celibacy with dismay, unless he patronised one of the Bishop of Winchester’s stews in Southwark. Though John would forfeit his very life before being unfaithful to his king, he would be the first to admit that he was not a faithful man when it came to women. He had loved Nesta deeply enough to have rarely strayed for almost two years, but it had been an effort. He felt a similar guilt when it came to Hilda, but although he had known her for many years he had slept with other women in the lonely years of distant campaigning.
Before he also laid his head on his arms and snoozed at the table, he thought dreamily of the full lips and languorous eyes of Hawise d’Ayncourt, deciding that any reluctance for him to bed her would be on the grounds of diplomatic complications with the Lord of Blois, rather than his own moral scruples.
The under-employed coroner and his officer slept on for almost an hour before they were rudely awakened by an urgent rapping on the street door. Osanna came grumbling from the yard to answer it, but Gwyn had already yawned his way to lift the latch and peer out. It was the same young page who had brought them messages to their chamber in the palace.
‘Sir John, you are required urgently at the Exchequer!’ he gabbled excitedly. ‘The Chief Justiciar and the barons are there already and require your presence straight away.’
‘What’s going on, lad?’ muttered de Wolfe, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
‘I don’t rightly know, sir, but two horsemen with an escort of royal guards from the Tower rode in an hour ago. Since then, there’s been a great deal of bustle and commotion around the palace.’
They buckled on their sword belts and strode after the page, who was almost dancing along ahead of them in his eagerness to get them to the riverside. As they went, the coroner and Gwyn tried to guess what the emergency might be. Since they were summoned to the Receipt of the Exchequer building, from which the block of stone had fallen, John felt that it must be something connected with his inquest that morning. However, no amount of mind searching could fathom any reason for such urgency, especially involving Hubert Walter himself. They eventually decided that the most likely cause was that Queen Eleanor had surprised them all by arriving unexpectedly in the Thames, instead of at Portsmouth.
They were very wide of the mark, as they soon learned when they arrived in New Palace Yard. There was much activity around the front of the Great Hall, with half a dozen fine horses being held by ostlers and grooms standing with a trio of soldiers in the uniform of the Tower guards. To their left, towards the riverbank, they saw Ranulf of Abingdon and William Aubrey with the sergeant of the palace guards, the one who had accompanied them on their trip to Winchester. With them were several senior clerks of the Exchequer in their black cassocks, matching the garb of Thomas de Peyne, who stood near them, looking very apprehensive.
‘God’s guts, what’s all this about?’ demanded de Wolfe of his clerk. Before Thomas could answer, one of the Exchequer officials, a grey-haired man with a large paunch, motioned John and the others towards the door to the very building which had been the scene of the fatal accident that morning.
The Receipt of the Exchequer had been built as a result of King Henry’s desire to move the organs of government from Winchester to Westminster. Now the taxes were delivered here in coin by the sheriffs from every county, as well as dues from wool, tin and the many other commodities from which the king reaped an income for the pursuance of his wars.
It was built against the riverside wall of William Rufus’s huge hall, in line with its front. On the opposite side, a similar edifice was being erected for the housing of the increasing number of Treasury clerks and officials.
Inside, John saw that it was a single hall, with a wide gallery all around, reached by two sets of wooden stairs. There were clerks’ desks on both levels, as well as a number of large tables downstairs, which he guessed were used for the receipt of money, though the famous chequered cloths for counting the coins were not in evidence today. Two of the tables had been pushed together and behind them sat a formidable array of nobles and officials.
In the centre sat Archbishop Hubert Walter, obviously in charge of proceedings. He was flanked by some of the senior members of the Curia Regis, the King’s Council, and a number of nobles, a few of whom John recognised as Barons of the Exchequer, the royal justices. Eustace, Bishop of Ely and Vice Chancellor was also there, as was Richard fitz Nigel, the Bishop of London and King’s Treasurer.
Simon Basset, the Treasury official who had received the chests at the Tower sat with the two knights who were witnesses to the checking of the inventory. Along the sides of the tables sat the Keeper of the Palace, the Constable of the Tower, and the Deputy Marshal, Martin Stanford, who represented William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, who was at present across the Channel, escorting Queen Eleanor.
Having taken all this in, de Wolfe knew that something was seriously amiss, to require such a panoply of senior ministers to be gathered together in such urgency. For a moment he feared that news of King Richard’s death might have arrived, but such a tragic event would not have been announced in the Exchequer chamber.
A moment later, he was made uneasy when the Keeper, Nathaniel de Levelondes, abruptly motioned for de Wolfe, the two Marshalsea knights, Gwyn, Thomas and the sergeant of the guard, to stand in a line before the tables. There were no benches for them and John felt as if they were being arraigned before a panel of justices at the bar of a court.
Thankfully, it was Hubert Walter who began speaking and when he addressed de Wolfe as the most senior, his voice was grave, but in no way condemnatory.
‘Sir John, most serious news has just been delivered to us from the Tower and our first line of enquiry has to be through you.’
Mystified, John racked his brains to wonder as to what prisoner might have died in custody in the grim Tower, to require the services of the coroner. The real reason never crossed his mind until the Constable of the Tower was asked to speak. Sir Herbert de Mandeville, a tall, spare man with a haggard face and slight stoop, rose to his feet and addressed de Wolfe in a sonorous voice.