Thursday of the following week for the brief ceremony that would restore him to grace. Originally, John was going to send Gwyn with him as a companion and bodyguard on the long journey, but fortuitously the sheriffs trip to the exchequer to deliver the county taxes coincided with Thomas's appointment. Henry de Furnellis readily agreed to having the clerk tag along with his party, which would be escorted by Sergeant Gabriel and six men-at-arms, to make sure that the large sum of silver coinage would be safe from prowling outlaws.
In addition, after this had been arranged, Archdeacon John de Alençon, Thomas's uncle, decided to include himself in the party. He claimed to have ecclesiastical business in Winchester, but the coroner suspected that he was keen not only to see his much-maligned nephew vindicated, but to savour the chagrin of his fellow canons in Winchester, who had so readily accepted the downfall of his young relative.
They were to leave at dawn on Monday, spending two nights on the journey, which was almost a hundred miles. By Friday, Thomas was already in a fever of excitement, hardly able to credit that the nightmare of his long period in the wildnerness was now almost over. He persuaded Gwyn to shave his tonsure down to his scalp, scraping off every vestige of thin mousy hair from the top of his head. His uncle bought him a new black robe to replace the patched, threadbare garment that he had worn for more than two years. Nesta gave him a pair of strong leather boots and Gwyn's present was a new shoulder bag of doehide to carry his writing materials. John, bereft of any original ideas to celebrate this happy event, handed him a purse containing a hundred silver pennies, the equivalent of more than four weeks' wages. The little clerk was overcome by the kindness of his friends and babbled his thanks to each of them, tears of gratitude mingling with his joy.
Monday morning could not come soon enough for Thomas, but then on Sunday, at about the ninth hour of the Sabbath, just as the nearby cathedral bell was tolling for Terce, de Wolfe was in the stable across the lane from his house. He was waiting for Andrew the farrier to finish saddling Odin, as John felt that the big stallion needed some exercise down on Bull Mead and perhaps a canter down the Wonford road and back. Just as Andrew was tightening the saddle girth, a figure appeared in the doorway from the lane. So often in the past, it had been Gwyn arriving with some news of a fresh body, but this-time it was Sergeant Gabriel. John's first thought was that he had come with some news of a change of plan for the sheriff's departure for Winchester the next day, but the grizzled old soldier had news of a different kind.
'A fellow from Shillingford has just turned up at the gatehouse with some nasty news, Crowner!' he exclaimed, with an excited gleam in his eye. 'Their manor-lord has been found dead, on account of his head being lopped off and gone missing!'
John stared suspiciously at Gabriel, but he knew that the sergeant was not much given to humour or practical jokes.
'Shillingford? That's the honour of Sir Peter le Calve! Dead, you say?'
His tone carried incredulity, as in peacetime manorlords were not expected to be murdered.
'Dead as mutton, Sir John! Beheaded, he was - and no sign of his nut anywhere!'
'Is Gwyn up at Rougemont?'
'I'm sure he is, Crowner. Playing dice in the hall, last I saw of him.'
De Wolfe turned to the farrier, whose jaw had dropped at this bizarre news. 'Get Odin ready for the road, Andrew, while I go for my cloak and sword. Gabriel, get back to the castle and tell Gwyn to saddle up and meet me back here, as quick as he can.'
As the sergeant turned to hurry away, the coroner called after him.
'And send whoever brought the message down with him.'
As the farrier fussed with Odin, John went across to his house and sought out Mary to tell her that he would be missing his dinner once again. When he told her where he was going,
In addition, after this had been arranged, Archdeacon John de Alençon, Thomas's uncle, decided to include himself in the party. He claimed to have ecclesiastical business in Winchester, but the coroner suspected that he was keen not only to see his much-maligned nephew vindicated, but to savour the chagrin of his fellow canons in Winchester, who had so readily accepted the downfall of his young relative.
They were to leave at dawn on Monday, spending two nights on the journey, which was almost a hundred miles. By Friday, Thomas was already in a fever of excitement, hardly able to credit that the nightmare of his long period in the wildnerness was now almost over. He persuaded Gwyn to shave his tonsure down to his scalp, scraping off every vestige of thin mousy hair from the top of his head. His uncle bought him a new black robe to replace the patched, threadbare garment that he had worn for more than two years. Nesta gave him a pair of strong leather boots and Gwyn's present was a new shoulder bag of doehide to carry his writing materials. John, bereft of any original ideas to celebrate this happy event, handed him a purse containing a hundred silver pennies, the equivalent of more than four weeks' wages. The little clerk was overcome by the kindness of his friends and babbled his thanks to each of them, tears of gratitude mingling with his joy.
Monday morning could not come soon enough for Thomas, but then on Sunday, at about the ninth hour of the Sabbath, just as the nearby cathedral bell was tolling for Terce, de Wolfe was in the stable across the lane from his house. He was waiting for Andrew the farrier to finish saddling Odin, as John felt that the big stallion needed some exercise down on Bull Mead and perhaps a canter down the Wonford road and back. Just as Andrew was tightening the saddle girth, a figure appeared in the doorway from the lane. So often in the past, it had been Gwyn arriving with some news of a fresh body, but this-time it was Sergeant Gabriel. John's first thought was that he had come with some news of a change of plan for the sheriff's departure for Winchester the next day, but the grizzled old soldier had news of a different kind.
'A fellow from Shillingford has just turned up at the gatehouse with some nasty news, Crowner!' he exclaimed, with an excited gleam in his eye. 'Their manor-lord has been found dead, on account of his head being lopped off and gone missing!'
John stared suspiciously at Gabriel, but he knew that the sergeant was not much given to humour or practical jokes.
'Shillingford? That's the honour of Sir Peter le Calve! Dead, you say?'
His tone carried incredulity, as in peacetime manorlords were not expected to be murdered.
'Dead as mutton, Sir John! Beheaded, he was - and no sign of his nut anywhere!'
'Is Gwyn up at Rougemont?'
'I'm sure he is, Crowner. Playing dice in the hall, last I saw of him.'
De Wolfe turned to the farrier, whose jaw had dropped at this bizarre news. 'Get Odin ready for the road, Andrew, while I go for my cloak and sword. Gabriel, get back to the castle and tell Gwyn to saddle up and meet me back here, as quick as he can.'
As the sergeant turned to hurry away, the coroner called after him.
'And send whoever brought the message down with him.'
As the farrier fussed with Odin, John went across to his house and sought out Mary to tell her that he would be missing his dinner once again. When he told her where he was going,
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