This time, though, it was to Totnes Castle, twenty miles from Exeter, which took them three hours’ riding. They were met in the bailey below the great stockade by Henri de Nonant, who gave Gwyn into the care of his steward and brought de Wolfe into the hall, a substantial wooden building at the foot of the high mound. The lord of Totnes conducted him to the fireside, where he was fed and wined after the cold rigours of the journey.
‘We have the unfortunate lord’s body in the bedchamber next door,’ he said. ‘His son is here, waiting to claim it and take it back to Dartington for burial, but I know that your new crowner’s rules insist on some formalities before that can be done.’
His tone reminded de Wolfe of Richard de Revelle’s dismissive attitude towards coroners. ‘What happened to him?’ he asked tersely.
‘He didn’t return with the others from the hunt, so his reeve went looking for him and found him dead on the ground in the forest. His horse and hounds were wandering nearby.’
‘Any injuries on him?’
‘An obvious wound on the head, and I am told his neck seems broken. The ground is as hard as flint from the frost, as you know yourself.’
‘Anything else?’
‘When a number of the hunters went out there to retrieve the body, some noticed blood on an overhanging branch within a few yards of where he had fallen. It seems that he must have misjudged the height and struck his head on a bough. Naturally he was not wearing a helmet for hunting, only a cap.’
De Wolfe grunted, a favourite form of response he had picked up from Gwyn. Experienced riders had a sixth sense for overhanging trees and an old hunter like Fitzhamon would be unlikely to have been so careless – but the coroner had to admit that it could have happened that way.
After his refreshment, de Wolfe beckoned to Gwyn and they followed de Nonant into a small chamber off the hall. A still figure lay on a palliasse on the floor, covered by a linen sheet. A youth stood brooding by its side, his head bowed until they came in. ‘This is Robert, Fitzhamon’s only son,’ explained de Nonant. ‘We all feel for him in his loss.’
De Wolfe murmured something about having met the lad recently and expressed his own sympathy, none the less genuine for its brevity. Fitzhamon’s heir nodded grimly to the coroner, but said nothing.
John advanced to the bed and Gwyn pulled back the sheet to chest level. The dead man looked much the same as he had in life, apart from his eyes which were closed as if in natural sleep. A white cloth was draped over his forehead and when de Wolfe pulled it away, they could see dried blood matting the white hair at the crown of the head. The coroner and his officer crouched down one on each side of the bed and de Wolfe parted the hair with his fingers. ‘A deep tear in his scalp, running back to front, with bruised edges,’ he commented aloud, motioning to Gwyn to lift the corpse from the bed.
Robert Fitzhamon turned away to look through the window-slit, as his father came up into an almost lifelike sitting position. But as de Wolfe took his hands away from the corpse’s head, it rolled sideways in a most unlifelike fashion, lolling at an unnatural angle. Gwyn gave one of his grunts and the coroner placed his hands alongside the ears, to waggle the head on the neck.
‘Broken, as you suggested,’ he said, looking up at de Nonant.
The baron assumed a knowledgeable expression. ‘Being hurled from a large horse after a blow against a tree is enough to snap a neck.’
De Wolfe pulled down the sheet and examined the rest of the body, arms, legs and trunk, dragging up the undershirt to see the chest and belly. ‘Not another mark on him,’ he muttered. As he was doing this, Gwyn supported the corpse with one hand and prodded about in the head wound with the fingers of the other. ‘Let him down. We can cover him again and leave him in peace,’ commanded the coroner, rising to his feet. He turned to the boy. ‘You wish to take him home for burial, I presume. I will have to hold a short inquest for the sake of formality but I can do that within the hour.’ He turned to de Nonant. ‘What happened to the First Finders? We need them, and anyone else who has any knowledge of this affair.’
De Nonant looked dubious. ‘His reeve, who accompanied him on the hunt, is still here, and one of the two men who went with him to find Fitzhamon. The other returned to his village with his own master, I cannot recall who. The only others were our hunting party who went out afterwards, but they could know nothing of the accident. Of those, only myself and Bernard Cheever are still in the castle.’
De Wolfe sighed, thinking that the King’s Justices who made up the rules for the holding of inquests had little idea of the difficulties of trying to carry out their orders. In a static village, where none of the inhabitants ever went anywhere, it was easy to assemble everyone who might know about a death, but where barons and knights were concerned, with all their equally mobile companions and servants, it was impossible to stick to the letter of the law.
‘Well, get everyone who might have even the most remote knowledge of this death together in the bailey as soon as you can. We will have to move the corpse out there. Then you, Robert, can arrange for a litter to take it to your home.’
The younger Fitzhamon came to life. ‘Is it necessary to parade my father’s body outside in the bailey, Crowner? Can he not rest here in peace and dignity until I can make arrangements for travel?’
De Wolfe shook his head, but spoke gently. ‘I’m sorry, the jury must be able to inspect the body and see the wounds before we can reach a verdict. It will be very brief.’ He turned again to de Nonant. ‘I need to see where this happened. Can someone take us to the spot?’
The best person to do so was Ansgot, the dead man’s reeve, and within minutes he was riding once again along the route he had taken two days before, followed now by de Wolfe, Robert Fitzhamon and Gwyn. They crossed the river and came to the place where the body had been found. He pointed to a place behind dead ferns where the frosted grass had been trampled by many feet. ‘He was there, Crowner, lying crumpled on the ground, face down, chin tucked hard against his chest.’
De Wolfe examined the spot, but found nothing of any significance.
‘What about this tree?’ he snapped. Ansgot walked a few paces back the way they had come and pointed up to an old oak, twisted and gnarled, its bare branches contorted into a variety of shapes. ‘This one here. It has blood upon it where a piece of bark is missing.’
Gwyn walked his mare up to the tree and, the tallest man there, measured his head against its height. ‘True, it comes to my face. Fitzhamon was shorter than me, so he could have struck it with his crown.’
Robert looked away in distress. To be where his father had met his death so recently was harrowing to the boy, who had loved and respected his father, even though he had been a stern and undemonstrative parent.
De Wolfe moved to Gwyn’s side and looked up at the offending branch. ‘There’s a smear of blood upon it – and a sliver of bark is missing at that point,’ he conceded.
Gwyn was silent and de Wolfe looked sharply at him. Even though the Cornishman had not said a word, after years in his company the coroner could sense that he was not satisfied. ‘Well, what’s the problem?’ he muttered.
Gwyn raised his bushy eyebrows and looked pointedly towards Robert. ‘I want to look at the body again,’ he murmured, through his moustache. ‘Look at the direction this branch grows – across the track, not in line with it.’
De Wolfe took the hint and they rode back to the castle, the subdued boy following in the rear.
In the bailey, Fitzhamon’s corpse had been brought down, still covered with the white cloth, and placed on two boards on trestles from the hall. A dozen people were assembled for the inquest, and young Fitzhamon, de Nonant, Bernard Cheever and Ansgot joined the circle around the bier. Before they began, Gwyn went with the coroner to the body. They lifted the sheet and spent a few moments in muttered conversation. Those nearest saw Gwyn again put a finger and thumb into the wound and show some tiny object to de Wolfe. They also looked long and hard at both sides of the head, turning it this way and that on the floppy neck. Then the officer stood back and called for silence for the King’s coroner, who took over the proceedings.