‘Is this Rosamunde just a common harlot, then?’
‘Not according to Otelin, the leatherman. I gathered she was a camp-follower to these hired soldiers, a cut above an ordinary whore.’
John picked up a parchmentroll and absently looked at Thomas’s inscription under the tape that tied it. His new literacy just allowed him to make out the name of the deceased person to whom it referred, a man who had fallen from a roof a week ago. But his mind was elsewhere.
‘Is any of this at all to do with our dead canon?’ he muttered. ‘Only the presence of the next-door vicar has the slightest possible connection.’
‘He is the deputy for Roger de Limesi,’ the astute Thomas reminded him. ‘That might be a slight strengthening of the connection, as there are twenty-one other canons who have nothing to do with the archives.’
Having got a word in between the two bigger men, he continued by telling of his sole discovery of the fresh cross against Saewulf in Robert de Hane’s parchments. His announcement was met with blank silence by the other two in the chamber. Abashed, he murmured, ‘I know nothing of this Saxon, but I will find out. It may be a pointer to something, as the mark was made in the same colour ink as that on the canon’s desk in the Chapter House.’
Gwyn snorted, which made Brutus recoil. ‘A mark on a roll of sheepskin! Is that all your night’s labour can turn up, midget?’
De Wolfe held up his hand to forestall a squabble between his assistants. ‘No matter! The next task is to shake some information from this vicar, but first I’ll see what’s to be learned about Jocelin de Braose and his squire.’
A few moments later, having left Brutus in the safe hands of his officer, the coroner was in the sheriff’s chamber. This time, the sharp-faced Lady Eleanor was there, dressed for travelling, an elderly handmaiden hovering behind her. A harassed-looking Richard de Revelle was shouting orders at a steward and at Sergeant Gabriel, who was leading a small escort for his wife on her journey back to Revelstoke.
The coroner greeted the woman civilly. She replied with cold ill-grace, and de Wolfe retired into the shadows of the room until his brother-in-law had ushered the party out and had seen them depart from the keep of Rougemont on their slow four-hour journey to his main country residence near Plympton.
On his return, Richard was almost affable in his relief at having seen the back of his wife for a week or more. ‘Wives are all very well in their place,’ he said cheerfully, ‘as long as that place is a long way from their husbands.’ He sat behind the heavy oak table that served as his desk. ‘Now, what can I do for you, John?’
The coroner came straight to the point. ‘What do you know of a man called Jocelin de Braose? And his squire, for that matter.’
De Revelle looked warily at his brother-in-law. ‘Almost nothing – why?’
‘Just tell me, man. Do you know of him at all?’
The sheriff, dressed in his favourite pale green, pulled rather nervously at his beard. ‘I know his name, of course, and generally of his family. But I’ve never met him, that I can recollect. Again, why do you want to know?’
De Wolfe had a distinct feeling that the other man was being evasive, if not actually lying, and wondered why this should be. ‘He may be involved in the death of our old prebendary. It’s only the faintest of possibilities as yet, but any glimmer of light is welcome in this obscure affair.’ He related Gwyn’s story of the meeting with Canon de Limesi’s vicar, feeling that it had only the most tenuous connection with Robert de Hane.
His brother-in-law was obviously of the same mind: he scoffed at the idea. ‘For God’s sake, John, how can you make a conspiracy out of this? The damned priest was probably trying to buy a night’s lechery from this squire’s woman. You know what some of these clerics are like – their celibacy is the biggest joke in the city.’
De Wolfe had to admit that he was probably right but, like a dog with a bone, he wouldn’t give up worrying the matter yet. ‘This Jocelin fellow, I hear he is one of those who sells his sword to the highest bidder.’
‘There are plenty of them about, John. Think of all your Crusader comrades who have returned home to find nothing to occupy them or fill their purses. They can’t all find wars in France.’
‘So this man is one of those hired warriors, then,’ persisted the coroner. ‘I have heard that they have even formed some sort of confederation in these western counties.’
The sheriff became cautious at once. ‘I know nothing of that. Any baron or manorial lord is entitled to employ men in his service, be they cooks or men-at-arms. It has always been so.’
He refused to be drawn further and John changed the subject slightly. ‘What about this Rosamunde wench? Is anything known of her?’
Richard de Revelle’s narrow face twisted into a leer. ‘I’ve certainly heard of her – she has a reputation as the most talented doxy between Penzance and Dover. Not that I have any personal knowledge of that,’ he added, with such haste that de Wolfe knew he was lying. It was little more than a month since he had caught his brother-in-law in bed with a harlot in the very next room.
‘She is a whore, then?’
The sheriff put on a sanctimonious expression. ‘I have heard that she started as one. She was thrown out of her birthplace of Rye for it and then worked the Kentish ports, until her good looks attracted some of the noble travellers crossing the Channel. Since then she seems to have sold her favours only to those she fancies, usually good-looking fighting men with money at their belt.’
The coroner noticed that Richard seemed as happy to discuss the woman as he was reluctant to talk about Jocelin de Braose. He also wondered how the sheriff was so familiar with the history of a woman of no virtue, when he claimed never to have met her. Now he tried to get the conversation back to the young knight: as the King’s representative for the county, the sheriff should have been the best authority on all the Norman establishment in Devonshire. ‘Jocelin de Braose comes from the Welsh Marches, I hear?’ he said.
De Revelle’s lips tightened in annoyance at the return to an unwelcome subject. ‘So I assume. That family has been trying to subdue the damned Welsh in that area for more than a century.’
‘So why is the son here in the West Country now?’
‘How the devil should I know?’ snapped the Sheriff. ‘I presume he uses his sword in the service of someone. If he’s a junior son of his father, he may have no prospects at home, especially if he has been away at the wars for some years.’
‘So where is he selling this sword at the moment?’ persisted John.
De Revelle scowled at him, but could hardly feign ignorance of what went on in his own county. ‘I believe I heard that he has been in the company of Henry de la Pomeroy or his kinsman Bernard Cheever – but whether he is still there now, I couldn’t say.’
De Wolfe knew that Pomeroy was a baron who held large tracts of land in central and western Devon as well as many manors in Somerset and Dorset. He also knew a lot more about Pomeroy’s father. ‘Doesn’t it worry you, Richard, that these men are attached to a family who are reputed to be traitors?’
The sheriff looked sullenly at John. ‘What concern should it be of mine?’ he growled. ‘Henry’s father is dead, and that’s all behind him.’
‘And we all know how and why he died, Sheriff!’ said de Wolfe sarcastically. It had been the scandal of Devon earlier that year. Pomeroy’s father, also a Henry, had been a leading supporter of Prince John’s revolt. When the Lionheart had returned from captivity last March and crushed the remnants of the rebellion, he had sent a herald to Berry Pomeroy Castle with his felicitations. Once inside, the herald announced that he brought a warrant for Pomeroy’s arrest for treason against the King, whereupon Henry stabbed him to death. Fearing retribution, he abandoned his castle and rode with his troops to St Michael’s Mount, the rocky island in Cornwall, which he had previously seized for Prince John by disguising his soldiers as monks. His constable there had already dropped dead of fright on hearing of the King’s release from Germany, and when Henry de la Pomeroy was besieged by Archbishop Hubert Walter and the sheriff of Cornwall, he committed suicide by slashing his wrists. Sardonically de Wolfe reminded his brother-in-law of this salutary tale of treachery, but it seemed he would gain nothing more from de Revelle so he eased himself from the edge of the table where he had been leaning. ‘I think I’ll have a strong word or two with this vicar. Perhaps the knowledge that he’s been seen in a tavern with women of easy virtue will loosen his tongue.’