Gwyn reached out to tear off a chunk of coarse rye bread from the loaf on the table, the crust burnt black on top by a careless village baker. He used his dagger to hack off a slice of hard cheese from the lump provided by the landlady but paused with the food halfway to his mouth to ask a question. 'This Keeper of the Peace is some new-fangled official, is he?'
Thomas, always the best informed about current affairs, looked scornfully at his big colleague. 'If you ignorant Cornishmen spent less time eating, drinking and gambling, you might know more about what's going on in the world!' His head stuck out of his shabby black cassock like a rabbit peering from its burrow. 'Just as the Chief Justiciar established coroners eighteen months ago, last December he carried out the king's orders to set up knights in every county to keep the peace — or try to, in this disorderly realm where people seem to have conveniently forgotten the Ten Commandments!' He crossed himself piously, as he did a score of times each day in a habit as compulsive as Gwyn scratching his armpits or his crotch.
John de Wolfe added to his clerk's explanation, forgetting his sore bottom for a moment. 'The bailiffs and serjeants of the Hundreds have been such a dismal failure at keeping law and order that the king decided to augment them with men made of sterner stuff. Now that the Crusade has ended, there are plenty of unemployed knights knocking about the countryside who could help the sheriffs to seek out and arrest wrongdoers. '
The Cornishman champed on his food for a moment, then washed it down with a mouthful of sour ale. 'I thought that was our job, Crowner?' he said.
De Wolfe grinned sardonically. 'Only because the last sheriff was a crook and the present one is bone idle! I'm supposed to present the evidence to the courts, not go out and catch the bloody criminals as well!'
Thomas's dark little eyes flicked from one, man to the other. 'Do you know this new Keeper, Sir John? I'd never heard of him until now.'
The coroner shook his head, his black hair swinging over the back of his collar. Unlike most Norman gentry, he wore it long, instead of shaving his neck right up to leave a thick mop on top of the head.
'He's from this eastern edge of Devon, a foreign land to me!' De Wolfe came from Stoke-in-Teignhead, down towards Torbay. 'He was never in Ireland nor the Holy Land with us, Gwyn, though I think he fought in France.'
Draining his pot, he stood up and slapped a penny on the table in payment for their refreshment. 'Time we went. I'd like to get back to Exeter tonight; I've not seen Nesta for a few days, you know. She gets irritable if I leave her too long.'
Gwyn smirked. He had a great fondness for de Wolfe's mistress but was constantly amused by their bickering.
De Wolfe grunted a farewell to the ale-wife and ducked his head under the low lintel to lead them into the road outside. Both he and Gwyn were six feet tall, though he was as lean and spare as his officer was massively built. A slight stoop and his habit of always dressing in black or grey made him look like some predatory crow. His great hooked nose, black eyebrows and pugnacious chin combined to make most men step hurriedly aside when he bore down upon them.
When their horses were brought around, John climbed gingerly into his saddle, his old warhorse Odin waiting patiently while he arranged his posterior in the position of least discomfort.
'We're well over halfway, I reckon,' advised Gwyn as they set off over the little bridge. 'I came up here many years ago to the harbour in Axmouth, when my father came to buy a new boat.'
Gwyn, who for almost twenty years had been de Wolfe's squire, bodyguard and now coroner's officer, had previously been a fisherman in his native village of Polruan, at the mouth of the Fowey river in Cornwall. He had followed his master to campaigns in Ireland, France and to the Third Crusade in Palestine, but now that they were both over forty, their fighting days seemed over.
It took them almost another two hours to pass through the village of Colyford, on the western side of the wide valley of the Axe. Across the vale, a barrier of green hills ran north and south, dividing Devon from Dorset and ending in an abrupt headland where the estuary opened into the sea. The tide was in and a great expanse of water lay below them, like a fjord reaching almost two miles inland, being up to half a mile wide. They trotted their horses down to the marshy ground, where the track became a crude causeway leading to a small bridge, where at this stage of the tide the water was lapping almost to the edges of the boards. The bank rose on the other side as they reached the lower slope of the ridge where there was a crossroads. When they stopped, the knowledgeable Thomas pointed up the road to their left, where the valley vanished northwards. 'That's a branch of the Fosse Way, built by the Romans,' he announced with the air of a pedagogue. 'Goes all the way to Lincoln!'
The coroner's officer was not impressed by his learning. 'Then we'll take the opposite direction, which with a bit of luck goes all the way to another alehouse!'
They turned down towards the sea and for a mile or so followed the well-beaten track to the large village of Axmouth, the high ridge close above them on their left. It was virtually a small town, straggled along the edge of the estuary. It existed because the river provided one of the safest harbours along that coast, the tide swelling the river twice a day to allow vessels to beach themselves safely along both banks. It was one of the busiest ports in the west of England, as well as having an active fishing fleet, as did the smaller village of Seaton on the opposite bank.
'A bigger place than I remember,' observed Gwyn as they walked their steeds down the last furlong. Though not actually fortified, it had a substantial wall around the centre of the village, above which could be seen the tower of a stone church. There were two solid gates, which, like the wall, were higher than a man. One faced them as they approached, the more distant one leading out on to the quayside on the seaward side. Cottages, shacks and storage huts straggled along the river bank, showing that the place had expanded beyond the confines of the walls. A small side valley cut into the hill on their left, revealing more dwellings and barns.
'Looks as if we're expected, master,' observed Thomas, pointing at a small group who were waiting outside the landward gate, staring at the approaching horsemen.
'That clerk must have told them we were on our way,' said Gwyn. The man had left Exeter even earlier that morning, and his rounsey would have been faster than the plodding Odin or Thomas's pony.
As they came up to the gate, they saw the clerk, Hugh Bogge, standing alongside another one of the group, a man better dressed than the others. As they approached, he left his fellows and came towards them, his hand held up in greeting. John sat on his horse and looked down at the man, who looked about his own age. He was of average height, but an ale-belly was beginning to push out a good-quality yellow tunic and a sure oat of brown wool. His round, plump face carried a prim, pursey mouth, and strands of straw-coloured hair poked out from under his floppy cap of green velvet.
'Sir John de Wolfe, I presume?' he asked in a rather harsh voice. 'I am Sir Luke de Casewold, the Keeper of the Peace for the Hundreds of Axminster, Colyton and Axmouth.'
He said this in such a self-important manner that the coroner immediately began to dislike Luke de Casewold. However, he held his tongue and cautiously eased himself out of his saddle, feeling relief at being able to stand up. After John introduced himself, the Keeper turned and pointed at the silent group standing a little way off, looking uneasy and sheepish.
'These are people concerned, coroner. I know what the law demands and have made sure that the First Finder and anyone who might have any knowledge of this business have come before you.'