The Manor of Death(12)

At the end of the room, a boy was stirring the oatmeal in a large pot hanging from a tripod over a fire.

When de Wolfe dropped heavily on a bench and grunted a vague greeting to the ruffian next to him, the lad brought him a bowl of porridge and a spoon carved from a cow's horn. Then a young girl, no more than eight years old, came around the table with a large jug to top up the crude clay pots with watered ale.

As he finished his gruel, which had the consistency of back-yard mud that had been trampled by pigs in wet weather, he reached for the nearest loaf and cut off an inch-thick slice with his dagger. There was half a cheese next to the loaf, and at the risk of blunting his blade he hacked off a large piece and began chewing while he cleared his mind of sleep.

By now, Thomas and Gwyn had tumbled down the ladder and started on their own frugal breakfast.

'We hold this inquest and then ride for home, Crowner?' asked the Cornishman hopefully.

John grunted. 'Doubt we'll learn much from it, but we have to start somewhere. I need to talk to the bailiff and the portreeve first.'

'A pity that vessel, The Tiger, sailed on Sunday,' observed Thomas, his narrow face twisted in distaste at the sour porridge. 'I feel someone aboard her might be the miscreant. After all, the lad lived across in Seaton, but his body was hidden on this side of the river, so he was almost certainly slain here.'

'Well, they bloody have gone, so there's no use regretting it.'

A man sitting opposite joined in. 'They'll be back as that cog belongs here, she's not just a visitor to the Axe.' He was a beefy mariner, with a short tunic which looked as if it had been made from a spare sail.

'When is she likely to return?' demanded de Wolfe. The sailor shrugged. 'They've gone to Calais, but it doesn't mean they'll sail straight back. They might find a cargo for the Rhine or back down to St-Malo. Could be ten days, could be a month.'

The man next to him sniggered. 'Depends on who they meet out in the Channel!' He was a foxy little fellow with a bad squint. The first shipman glared at him, and John had the impression that he had kicked Foxy hard on the leg under the table, as the smaller man jerked and winced.

'Who's the shipmaster - and who owns the vessel?' asked Gwyn.

'The master is Martin Rof, who lives in this vill. As to the owner, I've no knowledge; you'll have to ask Northcote or Elias Palmer.'

He rose rather abruptly, leaving half his bread on the table, as if he was unwilling to answer any more questions. As he left, he gestured sharply at the squinting man, who followed him sheepishly out of the door.

'What was all that about?' growled Gwyn. 'I say again, there's something odd about this place.'

The coroner turned to his clerk. 'Thomas, did you learn anything from your ecclesiastical friend yesterday?'

His clerk confessed that Henry of Cumba had nothing solid to tell him, though Thomas had sensed that all was not well in the town of Axmouth.

'It was clear that the Prior of Loders had a strong grip on the place and dictated much of what was done there,' mused the clerk. 'The parish priest is but a vicar employed by the priory for parish duties. This bailiff Edward Northcote seems an iron-handed master and acts more like a manor-lord than a servant of the priory.'

'What about the portreeve?' askedJohn.

De Peyne's humped shoulder shrugged under his thin cassock. 'It's clear that he is under the thumb of Northcote, though the pair of them seem to rule everything that goes on in Axmouth. Yet I had the notion that Father Henry suspects that Elias Palmer has his own intrigues, even though he appears to defer to the bailiff in everything.'

Thomas had coaxed little else out of the parish priest, and when they had finished eating John paid the ale-wife a few pennies and they went into the main street.

'Get as much of a jury as you can scrape together, Gwyn,' ordered the coroner. 'With that damned ship gone, we must make do with the widow, the lad's doxy, the First Finder and a few villagers and shipmen. If they are reluctant, wave your sword at them and threaten them with the name of the Lionheart!'

Gwyn ambled off towards the quayside and John led Thomas back up through the village to the bailiff's dwelling. It was a bright morning, spring being now well advanced. Birds were stealing straw from the thatched roofs of the cottages to build their nests, and the sun was drying the mud that rutted the road through the town. Inside Northcote's house, they found him leaning over the portreeve, as the latter inscribed a parchment on a table against the inner wall. Suddenly conscious that Thomas de Peyne was able to read, Elias blew rapidly on his wet ink and took a large pebble off the foot of the document, so that the parchment rolled itself up, out of sight of prying eyes.

'Just recording the tally of a cargo of wine unloaded yesterday,' he piped unconvincingly. 'There'll be dues to pay on that, by merchants in Taunton and Bristol. '