The Noble Outlaw

by Bernard Knight

  'You must consider who, where, when and by what means the man who lies here came to his death.' He glared around the ring of jurors, as if defying them to contradict him. 'First, let me hear from the First Finder, who discovered the corpse.'

  Reluctantly, the builder stepped forward and stood before John de Wolfe. In response to some impatient prompting, he said that he was Roger Short, a carpenter, who was adapting the building for use as an additional lecture room. Describing how he had unearthed the cadaver from the angle between the upper floor and the rafters, he went on to emphasise that he had rushed to report it to the magister. Roger wanted to avoid any amercement for delay and promptly passed the buck to James Anglicus.

  After determining that the carpenter had no idea who the body was nor how it had got there, de Wolfe asked him a last question. 'How long would you say it had been up in that loft?'

  The scruffy little builder hitched up his sagging breeches and shrugged. 'Hard to tell, sir. There was a thick layer of dust all over the rubbish that covered him, so that hadn't been moved in a long time. Months, I'd say.'

  Roger had nothing else to contribute and thankfully stepped back, allowing Walter Pole to take his place. De Wolfe got him to repeat the reasons why he thought the corpse was that of Matthew Morcok.

  'This deformity of the arm bone will be shown to you all in a moment,' the coroner promised the jury. 'Meanwhile, I will presume that you agree that the body is that of the cordwainer.'

  Then he moved on to the contentious matter of Presentment of Englishry, which he had to explain to them, well aware that they resented the financial implications.

  'After King William first took possession of this country, many Saxons took it upon themselves to slay what they considered to be Norman invaders,' he began, not shirking his words even though there were men of obvious Saxon blood in his audience.

  'To discourage this, a heavy murdrum fine is levied on any community amongst whom a man is found murdered, unless his family can prove he is English or Welsh or Scottish.' Again he scowled around the ring of jurors, well aware that over a century after the Battle of Hastings, intermarriage had blurred the distinction between Saxon and Norman. The murdrum fine was now just a cynical means of extracting more taxes from the population, but to the loyal John, the king's law was absolute and he had no option but to carry it out.

  'Is there any man here related to Matthew Morcok who can present him as English?'

  There was a silence, as de Wolfe had known there would be, as the only kin was a daughter many miles away - and women were not allowed to make presentment, which was normally carried out by two male relatives.

  'Then this will be recorded by my clerk in his rolls and it will be up to the justices, when they arrive, to decide upon the amount of the fine.'

  There were no other witnesses to call, so Gwyn rounded up the jurors and drove them nearer the doors of the forge. Going inside, he dragged out an old door on which lay the pathetic remains of Matthew Morcok, covered with a dirty piece of canvas from the loft.

  'You will all look upon the cadaver before you advise me of your verdict,' said the coroner. 'But first, I will show you this.'

  He held up the rusty nail and passed it to Walter Pole, who was the spokesman for the jury. They all passed it from hand to hand and examined it with obvious curiosity.

  'This was found driven into the bones of his neck.

  You will see the hole it made when you view the remains.' They filed past as Gwyn lifted off the canvas and their reactions varied from the stolid to the revolted. The sight of the twisted, leathery mummy caused some to gasp, but most of the older men, especially those used to the carnage of battle and the cruelties of farming and slaughtering, merely nodded or grunted. When the viewing of the body was complete, de Wolfe again faced the assembled citizens.

  'It is clear that this man, who surely must be Matthew Morcok, a master saddler of Priest Street, was foully done to death by a spike being hammered into his spine. When this happened, we cannot tell, but I will assume that it was during the past year, the sixth in the reign of our sovereign lord King Richard.' He paused and his piercing gaze swept along the row of faces before him.

  'Who killed Matthew, we do not know, but it is my duty and that of the sheriff to discover that. Until then, the only verdict of this inquest can surely be that he was murdered by some unknown person or persons.' The men shuffled their icy feet on the frozen mud of the yard and looked at each other uncertainly.

  'To allow this poor fellow a decent burial at last, I must complete these proceedings - though the inquest can be resumed at any time when further information comes to light. So now confer amongst yourselves and let me know your decision.'

  This was said with a final glare that betokened dire consequences for anyone who challenged his decision - and within a moment, Walter Pole had muttered to the men next to him and come back with total agreement.

  'We say the man is Matthew Morcok, sir - and he was foully killed against the king's peace.'

  That was good enough for de Wolfe, and with a nod at Thomas to get everything down on his parchment, he waved away the crowd, who began drifting towards the street. He beckoned to Walter Pole, the harness maker.

  'What about burying this poor fellow?' he asked. 'Are you going to send for his daughter?'

  'Our guild will see that everything is done right, Crowner. But I don't think we can wait for the daughter, even if we knew exactly where she lived! It would take two or three weeks to get a message to Oxford, and then for her to get back here.'

  John knew that part of the function of the various guilds was to ensure that the widows and families of dead members were looked after and this extended to seeing that deceased guildsmen had a decent funeral if there was no one else to provide for them. But his own duty to the corpse was now fulfilled, apart from finding the murderer, so with a yearning look across the road towards the Bush, he made his way back home for dinner.

  John found Matilda to be in a less frosty mood than he had expected and she even listened to his account of the inquest with less than her usual indifference. He always studiously avoided any topics that could trigger her scorn and anger, which severely limited the range of acceptable subjects for conversation. Naturally mention of the Bush alehouse was forbidden, and even talk about the shipping venture with Hugh de Relaga was banned, for the simple reason that their three vessels were owned in partnership with Hilda of Dawlish, one of his former lovers before Nesta came on the scene.

  But today, his wife seemed moderately civil, if not actually affable. Sensitive to her moods after years of suffering, John wondered what was making her so mellow. It was only after finishing their meal that he found out. When Mary's boiled bacon and a pease pudding had been consumed, followed by dried apricots stewed in honeyed cider, Matilda took her cup of small ale to the fireside and divulged not one, but two reasons for her relatively benign mood.

  'We are invited to a feast, John,' she announced. 'A messenger from the Guildhall came this morning, requesting our attendance there tomorrow evening.

  The Guild of Mercers are holding a banquet to celebrate something or other. It will be a chance for me to wear my new blue velvet, the one I bought at the October Fair.' She preened herself at the thought of outshining some of the merchants' wives who were her cronies from the congregation of St Olave's Church in Fore Street.

  Her husband grunted as he settled down on the opposite side of the hearth. Not much given to social occasions, he was indifferent to such gatherings, but then the thought of a free meal and fine wine made him accept the prospect with moderately good grace. It also occurred to him that it gave him an opportunity to ask amongst the many guildsmen present, to see if they could throw any light on the death of one of their former treasurers.

  Matilda's second reason for being in a good mood was even less exciting, as she was enthusing about a new friend she had acquired amongst the small congregation at St Olave's, a church obscurely named after the firs
t Christian king of Norway. Along with the nearby cathedral, this was her favourite place of worship, where as the wife of a knight she could flaunt her rank amongst the wives of merchants and craftsmen, even though many of them were far richer than her husband.

  'There is a new lady recently arrived in Exeter,' she announced. 'Joan de Whiteford, the young widow of a manor lord from Somerset, though I suspect she has fallen on hard times since his death, as she is living off her relatives, poor thing. Still it is pleasant to have someone of equal status to converse with, a person of breeding instead of the clodhopping goodwives that usually attend the services.'

  John was sleepily staring into the fire, about as interested in his wife's social life as he was in the number of stars in the sky, but she continued to drone on about Lady Joan.

  'She is lodging with her cousin Gillian le Bret, who I've known as a devout churchgoer for some years. I had no idea that Gillian had noble relatives, for her late husband was only a merchant - though a very rich one,' she added, as if his affluence was partly her doing.

  When John responded with a snore, Matilda gave a rut of irritation and flounced out to find her maid to settle her in the solar for her afternoon nap.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In which a noble outlaw comes to town

  As the first pale glimmer of dawn appeared in the eastern sky next morning, people began converging on the city gates like iron filings to a lodestone. There were four main entrances to the city, a legacy of the symmetrical Roman plan that still governed the layout of Exeter.

  Recently a fifth opening, the Water Gate, had been knocked through the south-western corner of the old walls to give direct access to the quayside, necessary now that trade was burgeoning in the city.

  Although Exeter was too far upriver to be prey to the sea raiders and pirates that sometimes ravished the towns on the coast, the city gates were still closed from dusk to dawn, and at the West Gate that morning, a hundred or so people waited patiently to be admitted. As well as farmers driving beasts to be slaughtered in the Shambles, there were many traders and peasants with goods to sell, as Thursday was a market day.

  Though in winter the range of foodstuffs was limited, ox-carts hauled cabbages and root vegetables, and men pushed wheelbarrows piled with other produce, including live chickens trussed by their legs. Fishermen who had boated up on the flood tide from Topsham had wicker creels of fresh fish, and old women stumbled up with baskets of eggs or a goose or duck tucked under their arms.

  Nearby, the new stone bridge across the River Exe was still far from complete, as the builder had once again run out of money, so the figure merging amongst the latecomers had to pass over the rickety footbridge that was the only dry route. In times past, Sir Nicholas de Arundell would have ridden his horse across the ford next to the bridge, but today he trudged with the peasantry, wearing a floppy, wide-brimmed hat, a tall staff in his hand. The grey woollen cloak that enveloped him was thin and stained, and from his shoulder hung a shapeless hessian bag. In the cold wind and the dim morning light, no one gave him a second glance; all were too intent on both their own business and their shivering bodies to concern themselves with another pilgrim, probably on his way to the shrines in the cathedral - or even making for distant Canterbury. With a few days' growth of stubble on his cheeks and a cloth wound round his chin as a scarf, Nicholas was next to unrecognisable, even if there had been anyone in Exeter who might have known this man from a small manor way out in the countryside.

  He crossed with the others on to the marshy ground of Exe Island, and followed the well-beaten track from the bridge to the gate. Here he hunched himself into his cloak and stamped his feet with the other freezing travellers until dawn was unmistakably streaking the sky and the porters took pity on the perishing folk huddled outside. There was a rumble as the bars were slid from their sockets; then, to squeals from the rusty hinges, the huge pair of oaken doors slowly swung open.

  As the press of humanity surged through ahead of the livestock and the carts, the two gate guards made no attempt to check anyone's identity. This was a routine that had been going on for centuries and, except in times of war or rebellion, security was lax. Those who would have to pay market dues for trading would be seized upon by the tally clerks as soon as they set up stalls or crouched at the roadside to sell their eggs or onions, but that was no concern of the gate men. The man in the pilgrim's hat had banked on this and walked boldly into Exeter alongside a man leading a goat on a length of cord.

  Though Nicholas was not very familiar with Exeter, he walked steadily up Fore Street, which climbed from the river up to Carfoix, the junction where the roads from the four original gates met in the centre of the city. This was bustling with activity, as booths and stalls were being set up along the sides of the streets, making the narrow lanes even more congested as early-morning shoppers came out to get the freshest produce. He carried on up High Street past the new Guildhall, looking neither to right or to left in his effort to remain inconspicuous. However, he had to dodge many passers-by, especially those porters who jogged along with great bales of wool hanging from a pole across their shoulders, and milkmaids with a pair of wooden buckets swinging from their shoulders. When he got within sight of the East Gate at the other end of the town, he searched his memory for his only previous visit with his wife to her cousin, which was now fully five years ago. A landmark he remembered was the New Inn, Exeter's largest hostelry, where the judges and commissioners stayed when they came to hold c6urt. Turning fight just past it, he thought he recognised a quiet street where the burgage plots were large and the houses amongst the best in the city.

  'Is this Raden Lane?' he asked a ragged urchin who was standing on the corner with a smaller child on his hip, begging from passers-by. The boy, barefoot and blue with cold, nodded jerkily, his teeth chattering. He gave a beatific smile as Nicholas slipped him a quarter-penny, which had come from a fat purse taken from a waylaid horse dealer a week before.

  Raden Lane was almost empty of people and he felt more exposed as he walked along, looking for the house where his wife was staying. Some dwellings were right on the lane, their doors opening straight off the street.

  Others were further back on their plots, with a fence and gate at the front. Most were built of wood or were half-timbered with cob plastered between the frames, but a few of the newer houses were made of stone. Some were tall and narrow, others low and wide, half of them with two storeys. The city wall was visible at the end of the lane and he knew that the cousin, now a widow of comfortable means, lived about halfway along on the right. He spotted the house, distinguished by its arched gate leading into a garden plot, and not wanting to draw attention to himself by hesitating, he strode up to the gate and pushed at the stout boards. It was locked and there was no handle. Cursing under his breath short-temperedly, he rapped on it with the end of his staff until he heard slow footsteps on the other side. The gate creaked open and a man in late middle age peered out, an iron-tipped wooden spade in his hand - whether intended as a weapon or an implement was not clear.

  He was unusually tall and thin, with a large purple birthmark of coarse, thickened skin disfiguring the whole of one side of his face. The apparition gaped toothlessly at the visitor, but said nothing.

  'Is this the dwelling of Mistress le Bret?' demanded Nicholas. He had a deep voice, and a brusque manner even when he was in a benign mood, which was not often these days.

  The servant nodded, but still seemed suspicious of early-morning callers. 'Who wants her?' he croaked.

  'I am Philip de Whiteford, returning from Canterbury,' he lied. 'I am husband to Mistress Joan, who is staying here.'

  These were aliases he and his wife had decided on long before; she had kept to her real Christian name as she feared she could never avoid answering to it.

  The servant's strange features relaxed and he pulled the door open. 'Welcome, Sir Nicholas! Your good lady will be glad to see you.'

  Obviously, the true state of affai
rs was no secret within the house, and Nicholas fervently hoped that the servants kept their mouths firmly shut when they left it.

  He was led through a well-kept garden to an old timber-framed building with a steeply pitched roof of stone tiles. Inside, a hall occupied most of the ground floor, with a solar and a bedroom built on at the side. It was a substantial dwelling, as Joan's cousin, Gillian le Bret, was the widow of a wealthy tinmaster and on his death, five years earlier, he had left her comfortably off, for they had no children to share the inheritance.

  As Nicholas entered, a small, fair woman rushed out of an inner door and threw herself at him, sobbing and laughing in turns. As they hugged each other and kissed, an older, handsome woman appeared from the solar.

  Gillian le Bret watched indulgently as the pair made an emotional reunion, then went across to the old servant Maurice, who had stood uncertainly in the doorway, and whispered something to him, drawing a warning finger across her lips. He wandered off in the direction of the kitchen shed in the back yard, with orders for the cook-maid to prepare food and drink for the visitor.

  Gradually, the de Arundells settled down, and Nicholas greeted Gillian with a kiss and profound thanks for sheltering Joan for the past month since she had come up from her exile in Cornwall. The widow was considerably older than her cousin, with greying hair peeping from under the white linen wimple that framed her pleasant face. When the knight and his lady had prised themselves apart again from a second embrace, Gillian managed to set them down on a long settle facing the burning logs in the firepit.

  'Are you sure you went unrecognised in the city?' asked Joan. Though her pretty face was now flushed with tears of joy, she lived with the constant worry that her husband would be arrested, which inevitably would mean would be hanged or beheaded. At twenty-six, she seven years his junior, and sometimes she looked even younger. Pretty rather than beautiful, she had a determined set to her face, partly born of the troubles she had suffered these past few years.