Henry de Furnellis gave a cynical laugh. 'Yes, we'll be going, when it suits us. And all of you will be going with us, back to the prison in the undercroft of Exeter Castle! If you persist in lying, then you will have to be persuaded. '
There was a hubbub of anguish and protest, especially from Absalom. 'You cannot touch me, I claim Benefit of Clergy. I can say the 'neck verse' to prove my status as a clerk! You have no jurisdiction over me!'
De Wolfe thought that he was probably right, but he decided to turn the screw a little tighter. 'Yes, in the fullness of time you can claim to be tried by your ecclesiastical courts under canon law — though as you belong to a foreign alien order and do not come under the rule of a bishop, even that claim might fail. But you cannot evade my questioning or my accusing you.'
'And if you don't like it, appeal to the Pope!' added de Furnellis mischievously. 'You might get a reply within a year or so!' He turned to leave the house, ordering Morin to place a guard upon the suspects until they were ready to leave for Exeter. Outside, Thomas de Peyne had just arrived, having satisfied himself that a pitched battle was not taking place in the village.
'Is there anything you require of me yet, Crowner?' he asked timidly.
'Unfortunately not, Thomas. These bastards have decided to keep their mouths clamped shut and may need some persuasion to open them.'
The clerk shuddered at the implications and crossed himself nervously. '
'Keep the men, searching until they have covered every inch,' ordered the sheriff. 'I think we had better look again in those warehouses on the quayside that you described to me, John.'
Demanding the keys from Capie, they set off towards the edge of the estuary beyond the church, where two cogs were visible against the bank.
'Had we better mount a guard on those, in case anyone tries to slip away by sea?' asked the constable.
Gwyn grinned and shook his head. 'No need. The tide is out — a vessel would need wheels to get away in the next eight hours!'
One cog was empty, having already discharged her cargo, and the other was half-loaded with wool, so no suspicion attached to either ship. In the warehouses, there was a collection of goods ranging from tuns of wine to bales of Flemish cloth, from cubes of fine Caen stone to baskets of tin ingots. Outside were stacks of trimmed limestone from the nearby quarries at Beer. But without a genuine manifest of what should be present, it was impossible to say whether or not it was all legal.
On the way back to the centre of the village, they met Sergeant Gabriel coming towards them. 'Found something odd in one of the barns, sheriff,' he reported, his grizzled face alight with satisfaction. 'Hidden behind a stack of straw that looked as if it had been piled there deliberately. '
They followed him into the eastern part of Axmouth, where part of the village was tucked into the neck of a small valley cutting up through the hillside. Amongst the crofts and huts were a few barns, in one of which two soldiers stood sentinel over a four-wheeled ox-cart. It had a canvas hood and stood almost totally concealed behind a mound of oat straw that reached nearly to the roof. The drawshaft lay empty on the ground, and there was no sign of the two beasts that would have pulled it.
'Who does this barn belong to?' demanded the sheriff.
Gabriel hurried outside and returned in a moment with an old man he found hiding behind the fence of the nearest house. Pulling him by the scruff of his woollen blouse, he dragged him before the sheriff and coroner.
'Is this place yours?' he barked. 'And what is this wagon doing here?'
The terrified villager immediately disowned both. 'The barn belongs to the manor, sir. Mostly hay, straw and turnips are stored here.'
'Do you store wagons here as well?' demanded the coroner, but the sarcasm was lost on the old fellow.
'It belongs to some of the carters who take the cargoes inland, sir. Nothing to do with me!'
'And where would these carters be now?' boomed Ralph Morin, jabbing his beard almost in the man's face.
'They usually lodge in the tavern, sir. There are a number of them. They come and go, as they are not Axmouth men.'
The constable ordered his sergeant to search the Harbour Inn and if they were not there to seek them in the village. Once out of earshot, Gabriel began muttering that he didn't know how to tell a carter from a wheelwright, but he set his men to find them by some means.
The wagon was empty apart from a single crossbow bolt lying on the floor behind the driving-board. Gwyn picked it up and showed it to de Wolfe, with a quizzical look on his face. John nodded his understanding, but neither could attach any real significance to the find. 'There are crossbows aplenty around the country, Gwyn. This may be nothing to do with the ones that were fired at us.'
When they went outside again, John noticed Thomas in deep conversation with Henry of Cumba, the old parish priest, but they did not approach him and, together with the sheriff and constable, he began walking back to the bailiff's house, annoyed and frustrated that they had been unable to get any confessions from their suspects.
'There seems nothing for it but to drag these bloody men back to Exeter and see if a few days of Stigand's hospitality might loosen their tongues,' observed de Furnellis gloomily.
'What about this blasted monk from Loders?' asked Ralph. 'There'll be hell to pay when his prior finds out we've dragged off one of his staff.'
'I don't give a damn about that,' replied Henry stubbornly. 'This is a task specifically ordered by the Chief Justiciar and with the consent of the king himself, more or less. I've weathered far worse than the anger of some Benedictine.'
As they reached the main track, John became aware of his clerk padding behind him and making some patently false coughing sounds to attract his attention. 'What is it, Thomas? Have you a frog in your throat?'
The priest adopted a conspiratorial manner and came so close that John could see the habitual dewdrop on the tip of his sharp nose. His voice was little more than a whisper. 'Henry the priest has been talking to me, master. I think you should hear what he has to say.'
Henry of Cumba was standing behind Thomas, looking very worried and almost guilty.
'Does he want to confess to being a pirate, too?' demanded John.
'It may well be a confession, but not of the sort you mean, Crowner,' replied the clerk. 'He says he wishes to speak to you and the sheriff, but wants to do so in the sanctity of his own church.'
De Wolfe frowned at this play-acting. 'Can't he just come out with it here?'
Thomas shook his head. 'I think you should indulge him, sir. It might be important.'
The coroner stepped across to where the sheriff was talking to Ralph Morin and Gwyn and told him what his clerk had said. De Furnellis shrugged and agreed to humour the two priests, as there seemed nothing to lose by it.
The constable said that he would go with Gwyn and see if there was any sign of the missing carters. As the tavern was directly opposite the church, they all walked down the village street, leaving the indignant prisoners held in the bailiff's house guarded by half a dozen soldiers.
John, Henry and the two priests turned into the churchyard alongside a double-stone stile, which was used for resting coffins upon before burial. The church of St Michael was a fairly new structure, built about fifty years earlier. It was a substantial building with a nave and chancel, having a squat tower and a striking arched doorway carved in zigzag patterns. The subdued parish priest led the way into the cool nave, which was set with columns on either side. Here, Henry of Cumba spoke for the first time.
'We should all pray to the Almighty for mercy and forgiveness — especially me!' To suit his words, he dropped prone on the floor at the entrance to the chancel, arms spread out as in a crucifixion, and began muttering in Latin into the flagstoned step.