‘I’ve killed no one. Those outlaws did the deeds,’ shouted Lupus violently. ‘You can prove nothing against us. We did what we were told in the matter of commerce, like brewing and forges.’
‘Told by whom?’ demanded Ferrars, determined to play a part in the coroner’s inquiry.
Lupus looked furtively at Crespin, then at de Strete.
‘By the previous verderer, Humphrey le Bonde.’
There was a snort of derision from several throats at this.
‘You damned liar!’ shouted de Courcy. ‘Very convenient to blame him, now that he can’t contradict you. No doubt he was killed because he tried to moderate your evil schemes.’
‘Which one of you put an arrow in his back?’ demanded Ralph Morin.
‘It was an outlaw, some footpad who wanted to steal his purse.’
‘Strange that every penny was still inside it when he was found,’ said de Wolfe, with heavy sarcasm. He turned to the elderly Warden, who had been standing with a grim expression on his lined face.
‘De Bosco, what do you make of all this?’
‘It saddens me to think that forest officers, who on their appointment swore loyalty to the King, should have degenerated into little better than outlaws themselves. Whatever else happens to them, they are not fit to wear the horn badge of a forester, and I hereby dismiss them, as from this moment!’
‘I doubt you have that power, Warden,’ objected de Strete. The verderer sounded hesitant, as if afraid to commit himself to one side or the other. ‘You certainly cannot dismiss a verderer. I am nominated by the sheriff, elected by the County Court and responsible only to the King.’
Richard de Revelle supported his protégé, his voice high pitched and pompous. ‘The Warden can nominate foresters, but my recent researches show that he cannot dismiss them — once appointed, they are royal officers.’
John de Wolfe lost patience with this bickering. He grabbed the parchment roll from Thomas once more and brandished it in the face of the sheriff and the verderer.
‘Must I tell you again, damn it?’ he shouted. ‘This is all the authority I need to do as I see fit! I speak now, not as the county coroner, but as a Royal Commissioner.’
He waved the roll again at Philip de Strete. ‘The first action I take under these powers is to dismiss you from your office.’
The podgy verderer found enough courage to protest. ‘You can’t do that. I was nominated under a writ from the sheriff here!’
De Revelle also snarled a contradiction at his brother-in-law.
‘And he was duly elected by the County Court!’
John dropped the roll back on to Thomas’s packing case.
‘The appointment has to be ratified by the Curia or their Justiciar — and I can assure you, Hubert Walter had no hesitation in annulling that confirmation.’
Philip de Strete, now the ex-verderer, responded by walking out of the undercroft, giving the sheriff a look of bitter recrimination on the way.
‘Let’s get on with the business, de Wolfe,’ rasped Guy Ferrars. ‘What are you going to do with these rascals, if you won’t send them to be hanged straight away?’
‘I want some answers from them, for a start. I’m declaring this to be the continued inquests on Elias Necke, Edward of Manaton and William Gurnon, a woodward of Lustleigh. Put that on your record, Thomas.’
His eyes moved slowly along the line of men opposite, his face like thunder.
‘Who killed Elias the tanner? Was it you, Crespin — or you, Lupus? Or did you send one of these louts you call pages to do it for you?’
The so-called pages, bullies usually full of swagger, seemed to have crumpled after a few hours manacled in the cells and now faced with the implements of physical persuasion. The ugly Henry Smok had a haunted, fearful look on his face and was the one who answered the coroner, the words tumbling out.
‘None of us, sir, certainly not me! It was those men belonging to Winter. They came down from the edge of the woods and put a torch to the place.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it, you rogue,’ rasped de Courcy. ‘So tell us who gave them the orders — and who paid them.’
Smok caught a poisonous look from his master, William Lupus, and avoided an answer, mumbling that he did not know.
‘Then who killed Edward, the poacher from Manaton?’ demanded de Wolfe. The four men looked at each other warily, but all shook their heads.
‘Right, it seems that your memories need jogging,’ snapped the coroner. He had identified Henry Smok as the weakest link, though the other page, who was called Miles, also looked as if he would betray anyone if it could save his neck. John crooked a finger at Stigand, who was waiting expectantly a few yards away. The finger moved to point at Smok and the gaoler waddled across to grab the page. The man struggled violently, but Gabriel and Gwyn seized his arms and dragged him across to the brazier. Stigand pulled an iron rod from the glowing charcoal and spat on the small cross-piece at the end. There was a hiss of steam as the gobbet vaporised and an almost simultaneous scream of fear from Henry Smok.
‘It was Crespin, he fired the arrow!’ he yelled in terror.
‘Into the back of Edward?’ persisted de Wolfe.
‘Yes. The poacher was running away, but he said he’d teach the bastard a lesson,’ gabbled the page.
There was a roar of denial from Michael Crespin, but Lupus was silent. If it had not been Crespin, then he would have had to take the blame.
Lord Ferrars felt he had been silent for too long.
‘Who directed you to start all this upheaval in the forest, eh?’
He took a step forward and glared at Lupus and then Crespin, his nose almost touching theirs. ‘Where did you get your orders?’
There was a sullen silence, then Lupus growled that there were no orders, they had done it for their own purposes, to make more money for themselves and the verderer.
‘So you killed three men, burned down a tannery and consorted with a gang of outlaws, all on your own initiative?’ snarled Ferrars. ‘A likely story!’ He turned to the gaoler, who stood hopefully in his filthy leather apron, spotted with burns and what looked like dried bloodstains.
‘Carry on, Stigand, see if you can restore the page’s memory — then we’ll try this other lout, before moving on to the men in green.’
The grossly fat gaoler stuck the first iron back into the fire to reheat and pulled out another, the end of which glowed a dull red. Advancing on the cringing Smok, he reached out and ripped down the neck of his tunic to expose a broad, hairy chest. The page wriggled violently in the grip of the men holding him and screamed out in a last attempt to avoid the branding.
‘I don’t know, I’m just a servant!’ he howled. ‘I suppose it must have been that horse-dealer — he was always bringing purses of money and whispering into the foresters’ ears!’
The hot iron was now near enough to start singeing the hairs on Smok’s chest, but the coroner waved Stigand back, much to the sadistic gaoler’s disappointment. John accepted that the page was not privy to any important information, so he turned back to the foresters.
‘And what can you two fine men tell me about it?’ he asked ominously. ‘There’s plenty of charcoal to keep the fire going, remember.’
‘You wouldn’t dare torture us, we’re officers of the King,’ Crespin said defiantly.
‘No, you’re not any longer! Didn’t you hear the Warden dismiss you just now?’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘And if he hadn’t, I would have, under the terms of my Commission. You’re just common men now, subject to the law like anyone else.’
He turned to face the elder man. ‘Who was behind all this, Lupus? We know Stephen Cruch instructed and paid you, but he was just a messenger.’
‘Stop beating about the bush, de Wolfe! Was the Count of Mortain behind all this, Lupus?’ Ferrars seemed permanently angry, but today he was even more pugnacious than usual.