As soon as the city gates were opened at dawn, Odin and Gwyn’s big brown mare clattered through the cobbled archway of the South Gate, bearing their riders out on to Holloway and the road to Topsham, the little port where the Exe river widened out into its estuary and the open sea beyond.
They passed a stream of people bringing produce into the city, ox-carts laden with cabbages and root vegetables stored over the winter, mules and donkeys labouring under wicker panniers filled with butter, cheese and eggs, and a stream of peasants, some pushing handcarts laden with whatever was available in spring before the new crops had come to fruition. Others drove pigs, sheep and a few spring lambs, all destined for the slaughterers in the Shambles of South Gate Street — a few old women even had a live chicken under each arm, hoping to make a penny out of someone’s Tuesday dinner.
The track dipped into the little valley just beyond Southernhay, where the outflow of the city’s drainage gave the little stream its odious name of Shitebrook, and then up on to the level road that ran along the bank of the Exe, past St James’s Priory.
At a steady clip, the two big horses rapidly covered the three miles to Topsham, where a large flat-bottomed rope-ferry carried them across to the marshy ground on the other side of the river. Soon they were trotting towards the low hills that ran down to meet the sea at Dawlish. An hour later, as they approached the village on the sand, Gwyn privately wondered how his master was going to deal with the situation. As they slowed to a walk to splash through the little creek that sheltered a few boats from the open beach, he won his mental wager with himself. De Wolfe began to inspect the one or two larger sea-going vessels that were beached on the banks of the stream by the ebbing tide.
‘Very few vessels here today, Crowner,’ observed Gwyn, keeping a straight face. He knew very well that de Wolfe was looking for the one owned by Thorgils the Boatman, the husband of the lovely Hilda.
The coroner gave one of his noncommittal throat clearings and reined in his horse at the top of the further bank of the creek. Gwyn knew what to expect next: it was a routine they had played out several times before.
‘We’ll have a short break from our journey, Gwyn,’ he muttered. ‘I have an errand to carry out, so get yourself to that alehouse and refresh yourself. I’ll call for you there when I’m finished.’
Both knew exactly what was going on, but nothing was put into words.
Gwyn was surprised, therefore, when less than a quarter of an hour later his eating and drinking were interrupted by de Wolfe, who stalked into the primitive single room of the alehouse and demanded a quart, a hunk of bread and some cheese. The ginger giant made no comment but waited for some explanation from his master.
‘We’ll carry on to Stoke straight away, Gwyn. We’ll leave there early this evening.’ He hesitated and made another rumble in his throat. ‘It may be that we will have to break our return journey and stop somewhere overnight.’
Gwyn dipped his face into his ale-jar to hide a grin. He could wager confidently that their overnight stay would be in Dawlish on the way back. Hilda, the beautiful blonde, was the daughter of the reeve at Holcombe, just down the coast. When much younger, de Wolfe had had a long love-affair with her, but as she was both a Saxon and the child of a manor servant, there had been no question of a permanent relationship between them, let alone a marriage. When de Wolfe had gone to the wars, Hilda had married an older man, but kept an ember glowing in her heart for the lover of her youth, which was fanned into fire at intervals when Thorgils was away on the high seas.
The two men continued along the coast road, keeping up a good pace on the dry track. The weather was dull but dry, with a persistent cold breeze. The trees and bushes were well into leaf and bud, and primroses brightened the verges. Patches of scrub and woodland alternated with hamlets nestling in their strip-fields, and more ground was constantly brought under cultivation by cutting assarts from the surviving forest.
De Wolfe rode immersed in his own problems, but Gwyn, in his contented, easy-going way, had time to contrast this mellow coastal strip with the bleak harshness of Dartmoor, which they had visited a few days earlier. One such prosperous village was Holcombe, the second of the de Wolfe manors and Hilda’s original home.
John deviated a little from the main track to visit the manor farm, in case his brother was there, but the bailiff told him that William had returned to Stoke-in-Teignhead the previous evening. The elder brother, though also tall and dark, was quite different in nature from the warrior John. He was devoted to managing the two estates and improving the farming. This suited de Wolfe, as he had been left a share of the profits by their father Simon. He was content that the land had been given to William, who cared so much for its welfare. A lesser share of the income had been bequeathed to his spinster sister Evelyn, their sprightly mother Enyd also having a life interest in the estate.
‘The whole family will be at Stoke, Gwyn. I’ll be happy to see them all together — and no doubt you’ll get your usual welcome from the maids in the kitchen, who’ll fill you to bursting point.’
As they rejoined the track to Teignmouth, where they could cross the river, he felt happier at the thought of a pleasant afternoon and a dalliance with Hilda on the return journey that night, after his disappointment earlier. Having made sure that Thorgils’ boat was away from Dawlish, he had called at the fine stone house in the middle of the village. His first setback was being told by a giggling maidservant that Mistress Hilda had been in Exeter for the past two days, shopping for a new gown and cloak to attend her younger sister’s wedding next week. She was expected back that afternoon and de Wolfe left a discreet message that he would call upon her that evening.
But ‘Man proposes and God disposes’, as the devout Matilda could no doubt have told him. De Wolfe’s anticipation of a family reunion followed by an evening of passion was dashed within minutes of their leaving Holcombe. Two riders came towards them, trotting so purposefully that Gwyn instinctively felt for the handle of his mace, which hung from a loop on his saddle. ‘Careful, Crowner, these fellows are coming at too fast a clip to be out for some morning exercise.’
His caution proved unnecessary, for de Wolfe soon recognised one of the horsemen as they came nearer. ‘It’s the reeve from Teignmouth. I’ve known him since we were lads — we fished together in the river there.’ The coroner’s boyhood home of Stoke was within walking distance of the reeve’s village.
The recognition was mutual, and a moment later the village headman from Teignmouth reined up alongside them, astonishment written on his broad face. ‘Have you dropped from the sky, Sir John? We were on our way to Exeter to find you or the sheriff’s men.’
Their story was soon told, the other man being an armed companion for the messenger: lone horsemen were easy targets for trail-bastons.
‘A body was found washed up at the mouth of the river early this morning, though he probably came downstream during the night. Our bailiff says that strange corpses must be notified to the sheriff or the crowner without delay these days.’
‘Or else the village gets stuck with a big fine,’ added the other man wryly.
‘Any knowledge of who it might be?’ asked de Wolfe.
The reeve shook his head. ‘No one local, that’s for sure. And by his clothes he’s no peasant.’
These words caused the first niggle of concern to rise in de Wolfe’s mind. ‘You’d better lead us to this mystery man,’ he grunted. ‘Is he still where he was found?’
‘Indeed he is, Crowner. The bailiff said that, these days, on no account must we interfere with corpses.’