‘Before you begin your duties, you must eat and drink something. You must have been a few hours on the road from Exeter, in this damned heat.’
De Pagnell perfunctorily introduced the other two men as his steward and bailiff, as he led the way across to the alehouse. In the single large room, which stank of stale urine, spilt ale and of the calves mewling behind a hurdle at the other end, they all sat around the dead fire-pit on a collection of rough benches and a few milking stools. Widow Mody and a snivelling waif brought them pottery mugs of ale and a tray of fresh bread and slices of boiled pork, which, in spite of the cloud of flies settling on it, tasted surprisingly good.
The coroner gruffly matched William’s introductions by poking a thumb at his own companions as he spoke.
‘Gwyn of Polruan, my officer and right-hand man.’
Gwyn grinned, his bright blue eyes twinkling in his red, knobbly face. He was as tall as the lanky coroner, but built like a bull, his wide shoulders emphasised by the boiled-leather jerkin that he wore whatever the weather.
‘And this is my clerk, Thomas de Peyne, who works wonders with a pen and parchment.’
The little fellow, who was dressed in a patched black cassock like a priest, smiled shyly at the compliment, a rare thing from his usually taciturn master. Thomas had a thin, pinched face, with a long pointed nose and a receding chin. His looks were further marred by a slight squint and the sparse, mousy hair that was cropped into a parody of a clerical tonsure.
‘This is a bad business, Crowner,’ said de Pagnell. ‘I wish to God it had happened on someone else’s manor, not mine!’
‘It may well have, from what I’ve been told,’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘The body ended up here, but who knows where the death took place?’
‘Does that make any difference to your findings?’ asked the lord hopefully.
John de Wolfe shook his head. ‘The new law says that the coroner investigates where the corpse lies. If someone drowns off Dover, but is washed up on the shores of Devon, then the burden is on me.’
They ate and drank hurriedly, as the Exeter men wanted to get on with their task and get back to the city. Gwyn finished first and ambled out with the bailiff from Ilsington, the person who, the evening before, had ridden to Exeter to notify the coroner. By the time de Wolfe and the others had ducked out of the low doorway into the blinding sunlight, Gwyn was standing within the circle of villagers, beckoning the bailiff as he pushed a handcart out of a nearby shed. As he trundled the cart to the centre of the parched grass, the crowd saw that it bore an inert shape under a couple of sacks. The coroner strode to stand alongside it, followed by Thomas de Peyne, who had brought a pair of stools from the alehouse. He sat himself down unobtrusively behind the coroner and delved into a shapeless pilgrim’s pouch to pull out a parchment roll, a quill pen and a stone phial of ink, which he set on the other stool.
As de Pagnell and his servants joined the ring of villagers, Gwyn stepped forward and bellowed in a voice that echoed across the little valley.
‘All ye who have anything to do before the King’s coroner for the county of Devon, draw near and give your attendance.’
Having formally opened the proceedings, the Cornishman turned to his master.
‘The village reeve has rounded up all the men and boys from here, apart from the idiot. He didn’t attempt to get any from farther afield.’
John nodded resignedly. Although the rules demanded that all males over the age of twelve be summoned from the four nearest villages, it was a physical impossibility and would have left the countryside denuded of workers in the fields and those who herded the livestock. He took a step forward and glared around the throng.
‘I am Sir John de Wolfe, our sovereign King Richard’s coroner for this county. We are here to enquire as to where, when and by what means this man came to his death.’
He slapped the edge of the cart with his hand to emphasise the point.
‘The King’s Chief Justiciar, in his wisdom, last year set out certain formalities for dealing with violent and suspicious deaths — if these have not been complied with, then the law prescribes certain penalties.’
There was a subdued groan from some in the gathering. Unfamiliar though they were with this new system, long experience warned them that the ever-grasping authorities would fleece their thin purses once again.
‘So who was the First Finder?’
Reluctantly, the blacksmith stepped forward, the reeve a pace behind him.
‘We were the ones who stopped the horse, sir.’
‘And did you then raise the hue and cry?’
The smith looked at Morcar, who shrugged.
‘I suppose so, Crowner. At least, the whole village came running at once, but there was no one to chase after — that bloody mare just galloped in unbidden!’
De Wolfe had some sympathy with them. For centuries, going back to Saxon times, it had been the rule that when a crime was discovered a hue and cry should be started, the four nearest households being knocked up and a frantic hunt begun for the culprit. But in these circumstances, where the horse may have come from five or more miles away, it would have been a pointless exercise.
‘Before seeking how and when he died, I have to be certain of the name of the deceased.’
Immediately, William de Pagnell spoke up, his tenants and serfs all looking warily at him from under lowered brows.
‘As you already know, Sir John, there’s little doubt of that, even though his features are so ill used from being dragged along the highway.’
The smith nodded and spoke up boldly.
‘I knew him as soon as I saw his garments, Crowner. The badge on his breast, that yellow axe, marked him as a verderer — and I knew from his size and that brown moustache that it must be Humphrey le Bonde. I’ve often seen him riding through the village.’
De Wolfe grunted, a favourite response of his. He turned to the cart and motioned to Gwyn to pull off the sacks over the cadaver.
‘We need to make quite sure. You men are now the jury and you must view the body with me.’
He motioned to the nearest dozen and Gwyn marshalled them past the cart, where they stared with morbid interest at the battered corpse lying face up on the boards. The cheeks, forehead and chin were ravaged by deep lacerations and covered in streaks of dried blood and grime, but the eyes were open and stared up sightlessly at the blue sky. Although he had been dead less than a day, the remorseless June sun was already generating an odour and bluebottles were buzzing enthusiastically around the open wounds.
His shredded clothing consisted of the remains of a thigh-length fawn tunic held tightly round the waist with a thick leather belt, which carried a long dagger in a sheath over one hip and a purse on the other. The legs were covered in torn brown worsted breeches tucked into stout riding boots. John pointed a finger at the prominent badge sewn on to the breast of the tunic, depicting a yellow axe on a green background.
‘Undoubtedly the emblem of a verderer, one of the senior officers of the Royal Forest. But which one? We have four in Dartmoor Forest alone — and others elsewhere in the county.’
William de Pagnell looked impatient.
‘I’ve told you, Crowner, there’s not the slightest doubt! I know the man, it’s Humphrey le Bonde, the verderer for this south-eastern bailiwick.’
There was a growl of assent from the village men, but the coroner was stubborn in his desire for certainty.
‘The face is unrecognisable, so can you be quite sure?’
‘His build is stocky, he has that short thick neck, middling brown hair, a full moustache and no beard. It must be him, for the other verderers would have no occasion to be in his part of the forest.’