They sat in silence for a moment.
'The king seems the only hope in this matter,' said the sheriff finally. 'I can do nothing, as it was my own county court that made them outlaws — though before I was in office — so I can't turn round now and say it never happened. The writs of exigent will still be lying in the court records.'
John finished his drink and stood up. 'It's not really any of my business, either. All this happened before the office of coroner was set up, so I've no power to look into the death of that man almost three years ago.'
Henry looked up at his friend with a knowing expression. 'But you're going to make it your business, I can tell. How will you set about it?'
De Wolfe hauled his cloak higher and wrapped it around himself before leaving the relative warmth of the chamber. 'It's no good waiting for the next visit of the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery, or even the judges at the next Eyre, whenever that might be. They're not likely to be sympathetic to an outlaw's plight. I'll need to talk to Hubert Walter and see what he can do. I might even have to cross the Channel to seek King Richard, come the spring sailing season.'
Henry rose and walked to the door with him. 'Let me know if there is anything I can do, as I would hate to see that crafty swine de Revelle getting away with this. He's kept it pretty well hidden, for very few people know what happened in Hempston. It was put about that de la Pomeroy bought it back from the so-called widow.'
The coroner left, content at least that de Furnellis was not going to send a contingent of soldiers on to Dartmoor to hunt down Nick o' the Moor and either slay him or drag him back for hanging. John went across the hall, which had become even more crowded as the morning went on, and found Gwyn sitting at a trestle table with a quart of ale which had been sizzled with a red-hot poker. Before him lay a bowl of potage, ladled from a blackened cauldron sitting on an iron tripod at the side of the firepit. The Cornishman was noisily sucking from a wooden spoon with every sign of relish.
'D'you never stop eating, man?' demanded the coroner.
His officer grinned up at him, his red hair sticking out from his head like a hedgehog's spines. 'I've got a bigger body than most folk, so it needs more sustenance,' he claimed. 'Is there something you want me to do now?' He began to rise, but John pressed a hand on his shoulder.
'No, you sit there and make a pig of yourself; good man. I'm off to see a lady.'
His officer grunted. 'It's a bit early for Idle Lane, isn't it?'
His master shook his head. 'I'm off to see de Arundell's wife. I'll be back before dinnertime.'
He loped away, his tall, black-clad figure parting the crowd like a ship cleaving through the waves. Going along towards the East Gate, he turned off into Raden Lane and soon was admitted into the le Bret household by the servant with the prominent birthmark.
'You led us a fine dance across the moor,' said John good-humouredly.
Maurice grinned. 'I spotted you right from where the road turned off to Crediton, Crowner!' he chortled. 'But I didn't let on, for having you follow me to the tavern was just what Lady Joan would have wanted. I told Peter Cuffe what was going on and he played along with it.' He escorted de Wolfe inside, where a warm welcome awaited him from Gillian and her cousin Joan. Matilda had already been there to pass on the welcome news and all John could do was to confirm it more formally.
'But don't expect too much of this yet, my ladies,' he warned before he left. 'Finding Hubert Walter is a task in itself, and I have no means of knowing whether he will have any sympathy with the appeal. Officially, your husband is still an outlaw, and must keep clear of any risk of being seized.'
In spite of the caution, Joan was effusive in her thanks.
'Both you and your good wife have been kindness itself to me. I feel sure that God will see fit to right this wrong done to us, and you are his instrument.'
John had never been given such an accolade before and hawked and cleared his throat in his usual way when he wished to disguise his embarrassment. 'One thing I can say is that you have no need to hide yourself away now,' he advised. 'You have committed no crime and can appear as Lady Joan de Arundell with no fear or shame.'
De Wolfe stood in the doorway, adjusting his cloak ready for the cold outside. 'As soon as circumstances and the weather permit, I will ride to Winchester and if necessary to London, to seek out the Chief Justiciar and put the case before him. That is as far as my powers will extend and it will be up to him to decide what, if anything, shall be done.'
Heavy snow brought many activities to a stop, including crime. The streets were layered by half a foot of snow and outside the walls, travel was brought almost to a standstill. Traders in the city had a hard time in getting supplies of meat, fish and vegetables from the surrounding countryside and though they shovelled the dirty white slush from around their stalls, the range of goods on display was much reduced. Many households were becoming anxious about obtaining their staple provisions, and in the mean lanes of Bretayne the rapidly rising prices made the poverty-stricken existence of the poor even more miserable. The slowdown in the pace of life also meant that John de Wolfe had little to do, as the January Fair had to be cancelled, which meant a hiatus in the usual crimes always associated with such events. The cut-purses, armed robbers and thieves who normally infested the fairground never arrived, and even the usual violent rowdiness in the ale-houses abated.
Every morning, the coroner trudged up through the snow to Rougemont, where he discussed with Gwyn his proposed visit to Winchester. As they sat in the keep, warming before a huge log fire and supping the castle ale, he broached the subject of Thomas.
'Should we take him? He'll slow us down, the way he rides that damned rounsey,' observed John.
His officer shrugged, squeezing the ale from his whiskers with his fingers. 'Thank God, he's at last throwing a leg over its saddle now, instead of sitting on his arse sideways like a bloody woman. But he's still so damned nervous on the back of a horse, you'd think he was riding a tiger.'
'He'd be much happier playing bishop in his little side chapel every morning,' conceded de Wolfe. 'So I think we'll give the poor little fellow a holiday and leave him here to commune with his Maker, rather than drag him half across England.'
This agreed, they talked about the journey itself. The distance a horse and rider could travel in a day was very variable. In the depths of winter, there were only about nine hours of daylight, as opposed to more than double that in high summer. Without changes of horses, as were provided for the royal messengers and heralds, a beast could not be expected to toil along all day without rest and fodder. Then the state of the tracks was paramount — heavy rain which turned the surface into glutinous mud made it almost impossible to get very far. Hard frost, in which the ruts were frozen into stone, could cripple a horse's legs. Floods and the crossing of swollen rivers were additional hazards, so it was never really predictable how long a journey would take. In good conditions in winter, the most a rider could hope for was thirty miles a day, not the fifty that the official messengers might achieve with relays of mounts.
'We'll have to reckon on five days to Winchester, if the weather improves,' grunted de Wolfe. 'And another three if we have to go on to London.'
Two days after Twelfth Night, the weather warmed up a little and most of the snow melted, with the sages and wiseacres in the taverns forecasting that January would be relatively mild.
But it was not only the coroner and his officer who had an interest in the weather — twenty miles to the west, two men in Berry Pomeroy castle were considering the same problem.