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.
The lord of Berry, Henry de la Pomeroy, was entertaining some of his friends, one of these being Sir Richard de Revelle.
The main bond between Henry and Richard - apart from a venal love of money and power - was their continued, though covert, attachment to the cause of Prince John, Count of Mortain. When King Richard, the Lionheart, was imprisoned on the way home from the Holy Land, Prince John had made an abortive attempt to seize the English throne. He had been supported by many barons and high clergy, including Bishop Henry Marshal of Exeter - and amongst the hangers-on, who hoped for advancement under a new monarch, were Henry de la Pomeroy's father and Richard de Revelle.
The two manor lords were sitting in a chamber in one of the twin towers that flanked the main gate. The ladies were in another room with their companions and tire-women, having left the men alone to drink wine before one of the several large braziers set around the chamber.
They sat in heavy folding chairs with thick hide seats and backs, keeping them close to the fire. The wooden shutters on the window-slits kept out most of the wind, though even the easterly breeze had died down considerably.
'There should be no problem getting up to the moor in this,' observed Henry. 'There will still be snow on the slopes, but the valley bottoms should be clear by then, unless it turns bad again.'
De Revelle nodded, holding out his heavy glass goblet for a refill of the excellent red wine that Henry imported from Bordeaux. 'How many men will you muster?' he asked. 'I have arranged for a dozen of my retainers to come up on Monday.'
De la Pomeroy fingered his heavy jowls thoughtfully.
'I thought to take about the same number. That will be double the strength of Arundell's gang.'
'Are you sure that he can be found up in that great wilderness?' asked de Revelle, concerned both for his comfort and his safety.
'I sent one of my bailiffs up to Widecombe, to scout around and listen to the local gossip. Though there are a number of these cursed outlaw bands up on Dartmoor, it seems no secret that this Nick o' the Moor, as they call him, is the best known.'
'But is it clear exactly where he hides out?' persisted de Revelle.
'There is little doubt that he camps somewhere up in the vale of the Webburn. When we get near there, I have no doubt that my men will soon flush them out.'
Richard still looked anxious. 'Are you sure that we will have enough men for this? We want no survivors to go carrying tales to my damned brother-in-law or the Justiciar.'
His host rang a hand bell to summon a servant to bring more charcoal for the braziers. When he had gone, Henry answered his guest.
'These men of Arundell's are village clods, who ran away with him when he fled. They have no talent for fighting, whereas most of the men I will take are men-at-arms from the garrison here. Together with your fellows, they will be able to wipe out this bunch with one arm tied behind their backs.'
'When will we ride out then?' asked de Revelle.
'As soon as possible, Richard. You said that your sister forcefully informed you that her husband is setting off to seek the Justiciar immediately the roads are clear of this snow. God knows how long he'll be gone if he has to chase Hubert Walter over half the country. So we should have a clear field to complete our business before he returns, if we set out at the same time.' Richard still looked uneasy, drumming his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair. 'There'll be hell to pay when he finds out, especially if he managed to obtain the support of the Justiciar over this.'
'Kill these bloody outlaws now and then all we can be accused of is doing our duty!' reasoned Pomeroy. 'If your bloody brother-in-law has no one left to champion, the whole affair will fade away.'
Henry de la Pomeroy shrugged his burly shoulders.
He was a tougher character than the former sheriff.
'We are respected landowners who have been pestered by the depredations of outlaws, who steal and rob on our lands, Richard! We have every right, indeed a duty, to flush them out by raising a posse to exterminate them.'
He grinned wolfishly, showing his stained and chipped teeth. 'I might even claim the five-shilling bounty on each wolf's head that we collect up on the moor!'
The following night, John de Wolfe strode away towards the Bush Inn, heedless of the steady rain that had moved in overnight, washing away the remnants of the snow and making the air feel almost mild after a month of continuous frost.
'This will hamper your journey tomorrow, John,' said Nesta solicitously. 'The highway will be a morass of mud if it keeps on raining.'
She put a quart of best ale in front of him, but was unable to sit with him for the moment, as the inn was busy. He looked up at her trim figure, her delicious bosom sheathed in a green linen kirtle, over which was a long apron. He hoped that he could have at least a few hours with her later that day, up in her little room in the loft, for it might be weeks before he could touch her soft flesh again. Nesta seemed to read his thoughts, for her green eyes twinkled and she bent to give him a quick kiss before gliding off to chivvy her kitchen maids in the cook-hut in the back yard.
He sat alone at his table by the firepit, but his isolation was short-lived. The huge figure of Gwyn rolled in through the door from Idle Lane and, a moment later, Thomas de Peyne appeared, both of them sitting down opposite him.
'Bloody rain!' began the Cornishman, echoing Nesta's complaint as he signalled to old Edwin to bring him a drink. 'This will add at least a day to our journey.'
The little clerk looked smug, having been excused the torture of a long horseride. 'I'll pray for you every day, Gwyn, in the hope that that great fat backside of yours doesn't develop saddle sores.'
John gave instructions to Thomas about the conduct of the coroner's business in his absence. The clerk was to record all details of every case reported and seek the aid and advice of the sheriff if any death, rape or assault occurred. There was now a second coroner in the north of the county, who in desperate circumstances could be summoned.
After they had thrashed out the routine for putting the coroner system on hold for at least a couple of weeks, de Wolfe turned to Gwyn.
'Are you all set for an early start tomorrow? Has your family given you grief over your absences?' The ginger scarecrow grinned. 'My wife is usually glad to see the back of me every now and then. We love each other dearly, but absence makes the heart grow fonder. And I've promised my two lads that I'll buy them new knives at Candlemas if we're back by then.'
'Candlemas? You'll not be away that long, surely?' Nesta had come back and was shocked that she might not see her lover again until the second day of February. 'I'll be looking for a new suitor by then, John de Wolfe.'
John hastened to reassure his mistress that if the Chief Justiciar could be found at Winchester, they should be back within little more than ten days. He omitted to mention that if they had to go on to London, that time could be at least doubled.