Though John might be vague about the administration of the forest, he knew very well that ‘vert’ referred to the trees, vegetation and indeed trade in the royal demesne. ‘Venison’ concerned the creatures of the forest, though even these were strictly categorised from roe deer down to rabbits.
‘So who does the actual supervision of the forest, if verderers are really only concerned with their local courts?’
A sour expression clouded De Bosco’s lined face. ‘The damned foresters, that’s who! Though they’re rough, common men, they rule the forests as if they own them! I’m supposed to be in charge of them, but they go their own way almost unchecked.’
‘You don’t sound over-fond of them, Warden.’
Nicholas scowled. ‘Their name is a byword for greed and corruption, Crowner! They have too much authority and they misuse it to terrorise the forest folk. They take full advantage of their power, especially when the verderer is weak and lets them get away with it.’
‘Was Humphrey le Bonde weak?’
De Bosco shook his head. ‘Not particularly. He did his best to control the worst excesses, and we sometimes spoke of finding some way to curb the misrule of the foresters. But they always had some excuse and recently claimed that they had the backing of the sheriff in some of what they did.’
Again, an alarm bell clanged inside John’s head at the mention of Richard de Revelle’s possible involvement. He declined another measure of wine and stood up ready to leave, thanking the Warden for his help.
‘I may need to call on you again, when more facts are known. But at the moment, you have no idea why anyone should want to murder a verderer?’
Nicholas de Bosco walked the coroner to his street door.
‘It’s a complete mystery to me, de Wolfe. But there are strange things stirring in the forest, and I don’t mean wild boar! Recently, some of the foresters are becoming even more strict and oppressive than usual, and the reaction from both the peasants and the barons is hardening. True, the income that I send to Winchester has increased lately, but I suspect that it is but a fraction of what is being extorted from the forest folk.’
His tired face looked even more unhappy as he finished his tale of woe. ‘I wish I knew what was going on myself — though I can’t see how this death can be connected with it.’
After he had left the Warden, de Wolfe loped along the streets towards Rougemont, trying to make sense of the death of le Bonde, who seemed an unlikely candidate for assassination, if robbery was not the motive. A large part of Devon was designated as a Royal Forest, where irrespective of the ownership of the land all hunting and many other aspects of the rural economy were reserved to the King. He had recently heard that many landowners, from cottagers to barons, were becoming increasingly aggravated by the situation and were beginning to agitate for the forest areas to be reduced and the punitive laws relaxed.
Devoted as he was to his King, John knew that Richard Coeur-de-Lion was only interested in his French wars, having spent only four months of his reign in England and seeming reluctant ever to return. The monarch was unlikely to agree to any loss of income to his exchequer, which paid for his troops to keep fighting Philip of France. The Royal Forests, which covered almost a third of England, were a lucrative source of income, and the Lionheart needed every penny, as the country was still paying off his huge ransom owed to Henry of Germany. De Wolfe still felt guilty about that, as he had been part of the King’s small bodyguard when he was captured in Austria, blaming himself for not being vigilant enough to prevent it.
His ruminations had brought him to the short hill that led up to the drawbridge over the dry moat of the castle. At the top was the tall gatehouse, on the upper floor of which the coroner had his miserable official chamber, grudgingly provided by the sheriff. Grunting at the solitary man-at-arms on sentry duty under the raised portcullis, he turned into the guardroom under the entrance arch and climbed the narrow twisting steps to the second floor.
Pushing through the sacking that hung as a draught-excluder over the open doorway, he entered his office, a dank and cobwebbed chamber under the roof, aired by two open slits that looked down over the city.
On such a long summer evening dusk was still a few hours away, and Gwyn was still here. He lived at St Sidwell’s, just outside the walls, and if he wanted to spend the night with his wife and children he would have to leave before the city gates were shut at curfew.
‘Where’s Thomas?’ demanded de Wolfe.
‘Probably crossing himself and gabbling his prayers down at the cathedral,’ grunted the Cornishman. ‘I think he’s practising for when he gets restored to Holy Office.’
‘I think that’ll be a long while yet, in spite of his yearning.’
John gestured at a large jug of cider by Gwyn’s stool and his officer poured a generous helping of the turbid fluid into two pottery jars standing on the rough trestle table.
‘I thought the bishop and archdeacon had given him some hope, in recompense for him nearly getting hanged by mistake,’ said his officer.
The coroner shrugged and took a long swallow of cider.
‘There’s still plenty of bad feeling against him amongst the other clerics — but at least Thomas is more cheerful these days. We don’t want him jumping off more roofs, trying to kill himself again.’
Their clerk, defrocked several years ago in Winchester for allegedly indecently assaulting one of his girl pupils in the cathedral school, was obsessed with regaining his ordination and had become very depressed at the failure to make any progress towards reinstatement.
De Wolfe slumped onto the bench behind his table and they sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, sucking at their mugs of fermented apple juice. Gwyn had been his bodyguard and companion for many years, travelling and fighting with de Wolfe through a dozen countries as far away as Palestine. Always a taciturn pair, they saw no need for idle chatter, but eventually Gwyn asked whether Nicholas de Bosco had thrown any light on the recent murder.
‘No, but he gave me the feeling that something is brewing in the forest. I’ve no idea yet what it could be, but I’ll wager there’s some politics behind it — which usually means my dear brother-in-law is involved.’
He drained his jar and pushed himself to his feet, leaning with his hands on the table, hunched like a black vulture.
‘Talking of that devil, I’d better go across and see him. I suspect he’s already heard of the loss of one of his verderers, but I’ll have to make it official.’
Leaving the ever-famished Gwyn to attack a mutton pasty and some bread and cheese that he had bought at a street stall, de Wolfe stumped back down the stairs and turned into the inner ward of the castle. Rougemont had an outer line of defences lower down the hill, where a high earth bank and a ditch marked off a large area in the angle between the north and east city walls. In this outer ward lived many of the garrison and their families, as well as other camp followers. A profusion of huts and shacks, together with stables, forges, armourers and store sheds, turned this outer bailey into a small village. A high, castellated stone wall cut off the upper corner, creating the fortified inner ward, entered only through the gatehouse. Inside was the keep, a three-storeyed building against the far wall, where the sheriff and constable lived. The ward also contained the tiny garrison chapel of St Mary and the bleak stone barn that was the Shire Court. Around the inside of the curtain wall were more lean-to sheds and shacks, some being living quarters, others stables and storerooms. It had been more than half a century since the castle had seen any military action and the place was now hardly a fortress, but more the administrative hub of Devonshire, as well as the home of a few score soldiers and their families.