They looked at it again, silently. ‘So what does it say?’ asked Gwyn.
Thomas ran his finger along the faint words, being careful not to touch the fragile membrane. ‘Sixty paces, each of four shoe-lengths, sighted from the west tower wall, in line with the outer corners. Mark the spot, then twenty paces towards the largest yew. A leg’s length deep.’ They digested this for a moment. ‘It doesn’t say where, and there’s no mention of Saewulf or a village priest or even a treasure,’ complained Gwyn.
‘The vellum is torn off close above and below the actual writing,’ explained Thomas, indignant that his marvellous discovery was being challenged. ‘Someone has ripped the directions from a longer document – maybe it fitted the original that de Limesi told us about.’
The coroner was less critical than his officer. ‘Given what we know about the finding of the brooch and the whole story of Saewulf – and that this parchment was deliberately hidden under de Hane’s desk – I’m quite sure that it’s genuine. Well done, Thomas. Your diligence will be rewarded somehow.’
As the clerk basked in his master’s approval, Gwyn still wanted to know how the message was to be interpreted.
Exasperated, the quicker mind of the clerk enlightened him. ‘It has to be Dunsford church, surely. The directions are clear enough, as long as we don’t use your huge feet for a measure – they would take us twenty yards beyond the spot!’
As he dodged a swipe from the redheaded officer, de Wolfe pictured the place where they had ambushed Jocelin and Fulford. ‘The wooden tower is square, so we look along the line of the end wall and go sixty paces. That takes us again into the rough ground over the hedge.’
‘What about the tree, Crowner?’ asked the clerk. ‘This was written over a hundred years ago.’
‘Those yews live for ever. Probably the big one was there in the time of Jesus Christ,’ said the coroner confidently.
Gwyn rubbed his huge hands. ‘Shall I go for a shovel?’ he asked gleefully.
Finding Saewulf’s treasure was so easy as to be almost an anticlimax. On the evening Thomas found the vellum, de Wolfe went to the Archdeacon’s house to give him the good news. De Alencon decided that the Bishop had better be told, as it was one of the rare occasions on which Henry Marshal was actually in his palace at Exeter. The Archdeacon and the Treasurer, John of Exeter, had already made sure that the news of the discovery of rebels in the county had been circulated all around the cathedral precinct. Although no names were mentioned, except those of Pomeroy and de Nonant, there was plenty of nose-tapping and smirking at the knowledge that a few residents of Exeter would be keeping a low profile for some time to come – including some around the cathedral.
The coroner and the Archdeacon made a brief visit to the palace, the largest house in the city, which nestled behind the south-east end of the cathedral. De Wolfe made it clear to Bishop Henry that even if it was found, the ownership of any treasure would have to be decided by his inquest and it could not be taken for granted that any of it would necessarily belong to the Church.
A rather distant and abstracted bishop listened politely, then agreed to leave everything in the hands of the coroner and decided to abide by whatever decision he made at his inquisition. When they left the palace, John de Alencon again arranged to provide servants and horses from the Close, as they had at the time of the ambush. They would to go again to Dunsford in the morning, armed with pick, shovel and baskets, in the fervent hope that this time there would be more to find than a single Saxon brooch.
The cavalcade that arrived next day at the little village contained three canons, attired in plain travelling clothes. Apart from the Archdeacon, the Treasurer felt obliged to be there too and Jordan de Brent also accompanied them, the archivist agog with enthusiasm for this bit of diocesan history come to life. De Wolfe, Gwyn and Thomas were naturally the leaders of the expedition, which might well end in an inquest, and the remaining three were servants from the Close.
The village priest was overawed by the arrival of such senior colleagues from the cathedral and watched, along with half the village, as the servants unstrapped the tools from the packhorse. Within minutes, the measuring began and the rotund Canon de Brent was flattered to be used as having an average stride – de Wolfe and Gwyn were judged too tall for accuracy. The jovial prebendary marched across the rank grass of the neglected churchyard along a line sighted by the coroner, who stood with one eye closed at the rear of the old tower, shouting directions at de Brent to veer left or right.
The priest came up against the rough hedge at forty paces and had to wait until a hole was hacked through the dead brambles, hazel branches and weeds for him to proceed into the rough copse beyond. At the sixtieth pace, a stake was hammered into the ground, then Gwyn took a sight-line from it to the prominent yew tree a hundred yards away. Off went the canon again for twenty paces and stopped. With a ragged cheer from a few throats, a second stake was knocked in and the digging began, Gwyn joining the cathedral servants in throwing up red earth, thankfully a few feet clear of the roots of several small trees.
To allow for errors in pace-lengths and direction, they cut a six-foot circle through the soil and, within a few minutes, the four men’s efforts took them thigh deep. It was David, the groom who had been with them at the ambush, who made the first contact. He was working at the edge of the two-yard excavation when his wooden shovel, a copper band riveted to the edge, gave out a clanging noise as it hit something. ‘A pot, sirs! A big one,’ he shouted, after he had bent to scrape away soil with his hands. A few minutes later, two large earthenware pots, rather like amphorae, were dragged from the earth. They had broken ring-handles near their necks and the wide mouths were stoppered with wooden plugs covered in thick red wax.
As they were hoisted up to the coroner and the canons, the other diggers made sure that there were no others in the wall of the pit. ‘They’re damned heavy, Crowner!’ said the groom happily. ‘I reckon there’s more than a brooch in them this time.’
Though de Wolfe had intended taking them back intact to Exeter before opening them, the beseeching looks on all the faces, from that of the Archdeacon to the village idiot, were such that his resolve was weakened.
Right opposite the church, across the track that lay at the bottom of the steep path from the church door, was an alehouse, the one they had used during the ambush. The woman who brewed and sold the ale was only too happy to let them use her single room to open the jars, and most of the population of Dunsford either crowded in behind them or peered from the doorway.
Gwyn cracked off the hard but brittle wax of the first jar and used his dagger to lever out the wooden stopper, which had softened with age and dry-rot.
‘Tip it gently on to the floor,’ commanded John and the audience watched with amazement as a cascade of coins poured out. The majority were silver, pennies from a dozen different Saxon mints, even a few Roman coins – but a number were gold, dulled by time and damp, but which shined up on being rubbed with a finger. While Gwyn watched the heap with an eagle eye and kept off any villager tempted to stretch out a hand, de Wolfe examined some of the golden coins. ‘This says ‘Offa Rex’ – that’s an old one,’ he said.
The know-all Thomas peered over his shoulder and pointed out the crude Arabic lettering. ‘Made for the Eastern trade, copied from the Kaliphate of Al Mansur,’ he said importantly, which earned him a poke in the ribs from Gwyn.