And so it proved, as John was to discover when they arrived at the scene. Rounding a bend in the hard, rutted track, they saw several men huddled under a tree at the side of the road; clutching ragged cloaks and sacks about themselves in an effort to keep warm. That section of the road went through dense forest, with bare trees lining the road for a half-mile in each direction.
Dismounting, they approached the group who appeared to be villeins, together with one man obviously of somewhat higher status, who introduced himself as the reeve of Chudleigh, the nearest village half a mile away. They were led through the dead bracken and brown, leafless bushes to the edge of the trees and there saw an extraordinary sight.
'He was just like this when Walter here found him,' muttered the reeve, a cadaveric man who looked almost as bad as the corpse.
Slumped against the bole of a young beech tree was the body of a middle-aged man, his knees resting on the frozen ground. Though his head was drooped so that his chin rested on his chest, his body was prevented from falling forwards by a chain passing around both his neck and the narrow trunk of the tree. He was fully dressed in a tunic of good brown serge, and on the ground nearby was a cloak of similar colour. All John could see of his head was sparse, sandy hair, for his face was buried in the folds of his tunic.
'God's guts, what's been going on here?' boomed Gwyn, standing with his hands on his hips, looking at the bizarre scene. Thomas, peering fearfully around the Cornishman, crossed himself vigorously and began muttering under his breath in Latin. De Wolfe said nothing and, without touching the body, walked around the tree and looked at the chain which was supporting the body. He saw that it was of rusty iron with links each about two inches in length, typical of those used on ploughs or cart harnesses. The two end links had been joined together by a wooden spike jammed through them, and another, thicker piece of branch had been forced between the chain and the tree trunk, tightening it closely against the corpse's neck.
Coming back to the front of the body, de Wolfe bent and grasped the hair, pulling up the head against the rigor so that he could see the face. Several of the villagers gasped when they saw the features, and Thomas fell to crossing himself again, for the tongue was protruding and the face was mottled with red and purple patches.
'When was he found?' demanded the coroner, glaring at the group of men peering at the corpse.
'Just before dusk last evening, sir,' gabbled one of the men. 'I was searching for a goat that had strayed and came across him as I walked down the track.' Gwyn bent down and lifted one of the arms, nodding knowingly. 'Stiff as a plank!' he declared.
As it was obvious that death had occurred many hours earlier, de Wolfe did not bother to pursue the matter.
What concerned him more was the method of death, and he prised up the eyelids to confirm that the whites were spattered with tiny blood spots.
'Untie that damned chain, Gwyn,' he commanded.
His officer pulled out the pieces of wood and the chain fell free, the dead body slumping forwards as its restraint was removed. The Cornishman lifted it with surprising gentleness and laid it flat on the ground, though death stiffness kept the knees bent upwards.
'No doubt he was throttled by that thing,' Gwyn grunted, holding up the chain by one end and displaying its length, which was considerably more than a yard.
De Wolfe was crouching again, examining the neck of the corpse. A pattern of blue bruises lay across the front of the neck, each one corresponding to the links of the chain. Below this the skin was pale, but above it the blueness was marked, and was peppered with small bleeding points in the skin. 'This chain was tightened while he was still alive, the poor bastard!' he snapped.
Standing up again, he glared at the handful of men who were staring bemused at the body. 'Anyone here know who he might be? And how he got to this spot?'
There was a shuffling and a murmuring, then the reeve spoke up. 'Not anyone from Chudleigh, sir, that's for certain. And by his dress, he's a townsman, not grand, but certainly no pauper.' He gestured at the decent clothing and the good pair of riding boots on the corpse. 'The poor fellow must have been on a horse, but God knows where that is by now.'
This was a veiled hint that any good beast left wandering in the wilds of Devon would be spirited away by anyone lucky enough to catch it, for a decent nag was worth a good many shillings.
Thomas ventured his usual good sense in a practical suggestion. 'He has a scrip on his belt, Crowner,' he offered. 'Maybe there is something in that which might tell us who he was.'
A large leather purse was attached next to the buckle on his belt, which was plain, but of good quality. Gwyn crouched and undid the laces which held the flap of the purse closed, then poked his fingers inside.
'He's not been robbed, that's for sure,' he said, displaying a handful of silver pennies and a crude fin medallion of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers. 'That didn't do him much good, did it?'
'Anything else in there?' demanded de Wolfe.
Gwyn fished around again and produced a piece of parchment, folded into four. Knowing that the only one who could read was their clerk, he handed it up to Thomas. 'See if there's anything on that, genius!'
The little priest opened out the yellowed sheet and rapidly scanned it. 'It's a merchant's order, Crowner. For window glass and lead fixings, with a list of shapes and sizes, with some drawings.'
John's black brows came together in surprise. 'He must be a glazier, then. Is there any name we can put to him?'
Thomas shook his head. 'No, but we know where this came from. It's from Berry Pomeroy Castle. Sealed with de la Pomeroy's crest in wax.'
John's bushy eyebrows went up. 'Odd! One of my damned brother-in-law's partners in crime. He must be wanting to spend some of his ill-gotten gains.' Glazing was extremely uncommon, only the houses of rich merchants, a few barons and some of the wealthier cathedrals and churches having anything but wooden shutters or oiled linen screens across their windows.
'The steward or bailiff there would be able to tell us his name,' grunted Gwyn.
'But the victim must surely be from Exeter,' exclaimed Thomas. 'There can be no more than two glaziers in the city, so it should be easy to identify him.'
De Wolfe pondered the best plan of action. Though he was supposed to hold the inquest where the body was found, it was obvious that these country bumpkins would know nothing of the circumstances of the victim's death. There was no one else in the vicinity to ask, and it seemed pointless to go through the rigmarole of sending for a jury from the four nearest villages and determining presentment of Englishry. However, the law was the law and he made up his mind quickly, deciding at least to make a gesture at the proper formality.
'I will hold a short inquest here and now, using these good folk as the jury. Then we will take him back to Exeter, where he surely must belong. Thomas, quickly record the names and place of dwelling of all these men here - and you, Forester Lacey.'
Within minutes, he had raced through a form of inquiry, getting Thomas to record the few salient facts.
He directed the vestigial jury to return a verdict of murder and then turned to Gwyn, waving a hand at the corpse on the ground.
'Wrap him decently in his cloak and lash him across your mare, behind the saddle. And bring that length of chain with you - we'll see what we can discover about him back in the city.'
After such an early start, they were back at Rougemont by noon. The dead merchant was temporarily laid to rest in a cart shed, one of the lean-to shacks that lined the walls of the inner ward. John went back to Martin's Lane to stable Odin with the farrier opposite his house, then went in to dinner.
Matilda was still in what was for her a relatively benign mood, and as they ate their poached salmon, she deigned to listen to his story about the corpse on the Plymouth highway. When he mentioned the likelihood that the victim was an Exeter glazier, her interest was aroused.
'What was his appearance, John?' she snapped, with apparent concer
n.
'Difficult to say, as his face was discoloured and distorted by the mode of his killing. Why do you ask?' His wife looked genuinely worried. 'One of my friends at the church is the wife of a glazier, the warden of his guild and a man in a very good way of business, too.' Even in such circumstances, Matilda could not resist emphasising the importance of her acquaintances. 'There are only two master glaziers in the city; may God grant that he is not her husband.'
'The victim was of middling height and had thin, fair hair,' answered John. 'He looked about fifty years of age, though it was hard to tell.'
Matilda heaved a sigh of relief. 'Then it is not him, thank Jesus Christ! I have seen Adele's husband occasionally at St Olave's and he is tall, fat and, like you, has an abundance of black hair.'
At least, thought de Wolfe, this seemed to point to the other glazier, though Matilda could not put a name to him. As soon as the meal was over, he grabbed his cloak and hurried round to Hugh de Relaga's burgage in North Gate Street, a fine town house that befitted a rich merchant. De Wolfe's portly friend was in his hall, digesting his dinner over a glass of wine imported from Gascony. After John exchanged a few pleasantries with his wife, she tactfully withdrew to her solar to leave the men to their talk, and soon John was sitting across the firepit from Hugh, a glass in his own hand. Without preamble, he told his friend that another of his guild masters had met a violent end, and soon the shocked portreeve had named the strangled victim as Hamelin de Beaufort, a glazier with a house and workshop in Rack Lane, which led down towards the quayside. Hugh was horrified to hear of the cruel method of killing and as with Matthew Morcok, was totally mystified as to why such an unremarkable craftsman should have been murdered.
'Surely it must have been highway robbery?' he protested. 'Our roads are becoming unsafe for honest folk to travel upon. I don't know what the world is coming to!'
De Wolfe shook his head firmly. 'His purse still contained a good handful of silver. No footpads would have left that behind. And the garrotting was utterly unlike what some thieving outlaw would inflict.'
The portreeve seized upon John's words. 'Outlaw! What about Richard de Revelle's claim I've heard rumoured, that this Nick o' the Moor was responsible for the killing in Smythen Street? This spot on the Plymouth road is not that far from Dartmoor.'
John shrugged. 'I see not the slightest reason to give that any credence, Hugh. Why should an outlaw want to slay a glazier, for God's sake? And with Morcok, how would a Dartmoor outlaw carry a body to a loft in the middle of the city?'
Hugh threw down his unfinished glass of wine and hauled his rotund body to its feet. 'I must go down to Rack Lane this instant,' he announced. 'Perhaps de Beaufort will be there, perhaps it's all some horrible mistake. If not, I must convey the sad news to his wife and offer her some comfort on behalf of the guilds.' The coroner laid a restraining hand on the impetuous merchant's arm. 'If you know this Hamelin by sight, it is best that you come with me to Rougemont and look at the body just to make sure. We don't want to upset his wife needlessly if it's not him.'
The hope was ill-founded, however, and half an hour later, a pale-faced Hugh stood outside the cart shed in the castle, wiping his clammy forehead with a gaudy silk kerchief.
'Poor fellow, it's him right enough. But what a ghastly way to die. There are some evil bastards about, John!'
De Wolfe gently steered his friend across the inner ward towards the keep. 'We had better have a word with Henry de Furnellis first, then go down to the glazier's shop to break the news and ask a few questions.'
The sheriff was equally concerned and mystified at this second death of a senior guildsman and in spite of his usual reluctance to get involved with investigations, he decided to accompany them down to Rack Lane.
'At this rate, we'll be getting short of masters to run the merchant guilds,' he said as they marched down Castle Hill, with Gwyn and Thomas trailing behind the three senior officials. 'Maybe Bridport or Southampton are trying to rid themselves of Exeter as a trading competitor.'
His weak attempt at levity fell on deaf ears and they hurried on through the chill afternoon down to the bottom end of the city where it sloped sharply down towards the fiver. Near the Water Gate which led directly to the quayside, many workshops and storehouses had congregated. They were thriving on Exeter's economic growth, which was based mainly on the export of tin, wool and cloth, though many other trades flourished in the city.
Almost at the bottom of the slope was a house with a shop at the front, the wide shutter on the large window of the ground floor being let down on hinges and legs to form a display stall for the wares of Hamelin de Beaufort's business. Some fine glass drinking goblets imported from Cologne, a few chalices for religious use and a number of glass ornaments and bowls were carefully placed on view, as were some small panels of leaded light, segments of coloured glass intended for rich men's houses or some church where money had been donated for a window, in return for masses said for a departed soul.
De Wolfe turned in to a door at the side of the stall and entered the front workshop, where several craftsmen and a couple of young apprentices were working away at glass panels set on benches. In a room behind, he could hear the rhythmic squeak of a bellows and see the glare of a small furnace where glass was being reheated by a journeyman and another apprentice.
Looking around the faces raised expectantly towards him, he chose the eldest, that of a heavily built fellow of about forty wearing a thick leather apron scarred with burns down the front.
'Your master is not here?' he asked neutrally, in a last faint hope that there had been some error about identity. The man's swarthy features took on a worried expression, as he recognised both the sheriff and the county coroner.
'I wish he was, sir. There's business to attend to and he should have been back from his trip last evening.'
De Wolfe soon confirmed that it was indeed Hamelin de Beaufort who had gone to Berry Pomeroy Castle and failed to return. The workshop was thrown into turmoil when the coroner gravely explained that their master was dead. John assumed that their panic was due to the thought of losing their employment, but it transpired that the glazier's business was a partnership with Hamelin's brother, who would no doubt carry on trading.
Hugh de Relaga, discovering that Hamelin's wife now his widow - was in the living quarters upstairs, took himself off to deliver the sad news, much to de Wolfe's relief, as he hated and almost feared that task and the emotions it provoked.
Henry de Furnellis, feeling that perhaps he should make some contribution to the case, asked a number of questions about Hamelin's movements and affairs, but the journeymen and apprentices knew nothing to throw any light on his murder.
'He was a strict master, but a fair one,' said the older craftsman. 'We had no cause for complaint. He was a good guild member and abided by the rules to the letter. It's a real tragedy that he should be struck down so foully.'
Further enquiries amongst all the workers yielded nothing. The coroner's team took a description of de Beaufort's missing horse, which was a tan-coloured gelding, but John suspected it had probably been sold already by whoever had caught it after it ran from the scene of the killing. There were plenty of unscrupulous horse dealers who would not hesitate to spirit away a stolen horse to Totnes or Tavistock and sell it well away from anywhere where it would be recognised.
The sheriff and de Wolfe left the portreeve with the family to console them and to make arrangements for the burial of the dead man, which the guilds would organise. As they were near the Bush tavern, the pair decided to call in for refreshment. Gwyn came with them, though Thomas, never keen on drinking, made his way to his lodgings in nearby Priest Street.
The inn was fairly quiet at that hour of the afternoon and Nesta had time to sit with them near the fire. As always, her soft heart was saddened to hear of the death of Hamelin, though she had never met him.
'I grieve for his poor widow, suddenly being told of his cruel death,' she said sadly. 'I so
metimes worry about you, John, also putting yourself at risk with all these unsavoury people you have to deal with.' She was thinking particularly of last month's escapade down on the south coast, when John had rescued his wife and brother-in-law from a very dangerous situation.
Henry de Furnellis, bluff and to the point as always, leaned forward, his bloodhound face staring into the glowing logs. 'Why two guildsmen, killed in such strange ways? Are we going to see more such deaths?' De Wolfe shrugged as old Edwin limped across to refill his ale jar. 'We've not the slightest notion as to why these two were slain, so no one can answer that,' he grunted. 'I had better talk to some more guild wardens, to see if they can throw any light on the mystery.'
Gwyn, who had sat himself down at the far end of the table in deference to the presence of the two king's officers, entered the discussion. 'Are you really sure that this outlaw fellow has nothing to do with it, Crowner?' he rumbled. 'Why should de Revelle be so worked up about him?'
'Because one of them was found dead in his precious schoolhouse, that's why. If he had turned up next door, he'd not have shown the slightest interest.'
The sheriff scratched the sparse grey hair behind his ear, where a flea was irritating him. 'And now there is this connection to de Revelle's crony. Would it not be worth trying to find this Nicholas to see if he had any involvement?'
Nesta, who had heard about Nicholas from John, made some tutting noises. 'He sounds a decent enough outlaw, who's been persecuted by that damned de Revelle, so it seems a pity to seek him out to hang him.'
De Furnellis took a pull at the quart pot of cider he had grasped in his brawny hand. 'Maybe we could catch him, then let him gain sanctuary and allow him to abjure the realm after you've questioned him?' he suggested.
The coroner snorted in derision. 'Some hope, Henry! Those moor men can vanish like magic into that huge wilderness. And imagine it in this weather: a posse would die of exposure before they laid eyes on a single hair of those outlaws.' The posse comitatus was a band of men raised by the sheriff, charged with hunting down criminals or traitors anywhere in the county. Though John was a seasoned warrior, having fought in Ireland, France and Outremer, he was no moor man, but he knew what a vast area of inhospitable hills, heathland and deep valleys made up the central part of the county. Scores of men had died up there, lost and exhausted in the mists and blizzards that could sweep in at a moment's notice.
The Noble Outlaw Page 10
