The twisted man leaned on his stick and shook his head. ‘Not a sign of anyone asking for you, sirs.’
‘Where does that track lead to, the one just down the road?’ demanded Gwyn.
‘Nowhere now. It used to go to a woodward’s dwelling, but it caught fire and he died in the flames, some ten years ago.’
‘What’s beyond it, in the other direction?’ asked Ralph Morin.
‘Just trees, your honour. Miles of them, till you come out towards Halshanger Common, up on the moor. Not that anyone would want to go through there, unless you had armed men like your party. Riddled with outlaws it is, these days.’
The horses attended to, they rode on quickly to the lane and turned in off the road. Gwyn had considered dismounting and walking up, but thinking that even minutes might be precious he led the posse along the mile of track on horseback, now careless of any noise. The troops were told to keep their eyes open for anything to be seen on either side, though the low sun and dense bushes along the path made this difficult. The men were not in full battle array and wore only round helmets and leather jerkins, rather than their mail hauberks. Some wore swords, others had pikes and there were two bowmen, though this was meant to be a rescue mission rather than a fighting force.
Soon the clearing was visible ahead and Gwyn reined in his mare to point off to the left. ‘That’s where the dead man is, a couple of hundred paces away and just in from the edge of the trees.’
Everyone dismounted and lashed their reins to the nearest sapling, then Gabriel took three men and fanned out in the direction that the coroner’s officer had indicated. Morin led the way into the clearing and headed for the other side with three of his soldiers, while Gwyn struck off with the rest on the other side of the path, a direction in which he had not searched earlier. For a few minutes there was a general rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs as fifteen men searched the forest. Then a loud shout came from the left, which Gwyn recognised as Gabriel’s voice. He was calling the Cornishman’s name, so he went back to the path and dived into the darkening wood on the other side.
‘I’m coming! Have you found him?’ He was almost afraid to ask, in case the sergeant had stumbled upon John de Wolfe’s body.
Gabriel directed him by shouting and, as he approached, he called a question. ‘I thought you said this corpse had been stabbed through the belly and groin?’
As Gwyn stumbled up to Gabriel and another man-at-arms, the sergeant said, ‘This fellow’s had a sword stuck into the side of his chest, man.’
As he looked down, Gwyn’s bushy eyebrows rose an inch up his forehead.
‘That’s not him! That’s another one!’
This was a much smaller, younger fellow, with brown hair and a thin beard. His hessian tunic was saturated with blood all down his right side, clotting into the leaves beneath him.
‘The coroner’s been having a field day, if he saw this one off as well!’ observed Gabriel. A yell from another soldier announced that the first outlaw that Gwyn had come across had also been found, a hundred yards away.
‘To hell with these two,’ growled Gwyn. ‘Where’s the coroner, that’s all that concerns me.’
The search went on as the light began to fade. Ralph and his men tramped about the far side of the clearing and worked their way around to where the corpses lay, meeting up with Gabriel’s party, without finding anything. Constantly, the men called de Wolfe’s name without success. Gwyn went back to the other side of the path and combed the area with his soldiers. Eventually, as dusk fell, they all gravitated despondently to where the horses were tethered, tired and anxious.
‘God knows where he is!’ exploded Morin, his forked beard jutting like the prow of a ship. ‘We must have covered almost a square mile all around that clearing – but he could be five miles away.’
‘It’ll be pitch dark in half an hour. There’s little more we can do until morning,’ said Gabriel, mournfully. He was almost as devoted to de Wolfe as was Gwyn and the thought of him dying alone in some deserted forest was hard to bear.
Slowly and uneasily, the party went back along the track. This time they walked in single file, leading their steeds by the reins. In the near twilight, they still peered hopefully to either side and continued to call the coroner through cupped hands. Now even the birds were silent and only the rustle of the wind in the tree-tops answered them.
When they reached the road, a gloom deeper than the dusk settled upon them as they were forced to acknowledge their failure.
‘At least we didn’t find him dead or wounded.’ Ralph Morin tried to lift the mood, which was affecting even the youngest of the garrison guard, as all of them knew something of John de Wolfe’s past military reputation. As they walked up the road towards the inn, intent on some getting some food and ale inside them, Sergeant Gabriel voiced their concerns. ‘Now what do we do?’
Gwyn looked at the castle constable. ‘I don’t know what you intend, but I’m going back in there at first light – and I’m not leaving until I’ve found him, dead or alive!’
Morin grunted his agreement. ‘We’ll stay with you for most of the day, but I’ll have to take the men back before de Revelle returns. He’ll go crazy if he discovers that I’ve been away that long with some of the best of the garrison – especially if it was because of John de Wolfe!’
In an oppressive silence of defeat, they trudged up the road towards the alehouse.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In which Crowner John glimpses his wife
In Exeter, the Saturday evening drinkers wandered from one tavern to another, the rumour about the coroner being embellished every time it was repeated. The same was happening around the market stalls and the trinket booths along the main street, where good-wives and their sisters gossiped incessantly about everything under the summer sun.
The tale grew from Sir John being lost in the forest to his having been abducted by Barbary pirates – and from his being kidnapped by Prince John to his having been beheaded by outlaws. Whatever version was related, the basic truth undoubtedly seemed to be that something very serious had happened to Black John. He was well known to virtually every one of the few thousand citizens of Exeter, and even if many were somewhat wary of the stern-visaged law officer, they all respected his reputation for even-handed honesty, uncommon amongst officials in authority. It did not take long for the rumours to reach Idle Lane.
A somewhat inebriated butcher, who had been thrown out of the White Hart for trying to pass a clipped coin, rolled into the Bush as the cathedral bell was tolling for Compline. He slumped down at a table and waved at Edwin for some ale. Across the room he noticed three acquaintances drinking near the window opening.
‘Heard the news, boys?’ he called across, his voice slightly slurred, but still piercing. ‘Our crowner’s been killed. The whole garrison rode in full armour this afternoon, to avenge him!’
There was a sudden silence in the taproom, immediately shattered by a crash as a pair of quart jugs full of cider exploded on the floor at the back of the room. Pandemonium broke out as Nesta slumped to the floor amongst half a gallon of drink and shattered pottery. As one of her maids, Edwin and a couple of customers rushed to her aid, another drinker cuffed the butcher’s ears for his insensitivity.
Another unlikely patron also hurried to Nesta’s side, as Thomas had just entered the inn. He had been worried about the Welsh woman all afternoon, since he had brought her back from her sorrowful escapade on the river-bank. As there had been no sign of Gwyn or de Wolfe for many hours, he had moped about the coroner’s chamber, too distracted to do much writing. Eventually he had gone to his lodging and then to a service in the cathedral, missing the dramatic return of Gwyn and the hurried departure of the posse from Rougemont. Not until a few minutes earlier had he heard the rumours about the coroner that were flashing about the city, which sent him hurrying down to the inn, fearful of the effect of the news upon Nesta in her present vulnerable state.
He was too late by a m
inute, but joined the throng clustered solicitously around the fallen landlady. One of them happened to be Adam Russell, the apothecary, who pushed his way through to where one of the serving maids was pillowing Nesta’s head on her apron.
‘She’s fainted, but she looks terrible,’ said the girl.
The apothecary dropped to his knees alongside the Welsh woman and felt her pulse and lifted an eyelid. ‘Get her to her bed, that’s all we can do.’
Edwin looked dubious. ‘That’s up the bloody ladder, Adam! Hard to do until she comes to her senses.’
‘Put her on my pallet in the cook-house,’ suggested the maid. ‘That’s good enough until she can climb to her own bed.’
With much fussing and concern, willing hands lifted Nesta and carried her through the back door to the large hut in the yard, where the two maids lived and where they also prepared food. Thomas insisted on accompanying them, and as he was virtually accepted as a priest by the staff of the Bush, he was as welcome as the apothecary.
As they laid her on the long hay-filled sack that was the maid’s bed, and covered her with a coarse woollen blanket, Nesta began to stir and moan. Her eyelids fluttered and a moment later she was staring blankly at Thomas.
‘What’s happening?’ she began, then gave a weak cry as memory flooded back. ‘He’s dead! My John, he’s gone!’
‘Hush, girl, it’s just a rumour,’ crooned Thomas. ‘We don’t know what’s happened yet.’
Edwin chased everyone out of the hut except the apothecary, Thomas and the maid and stood guard outside the door, leaving them to comfort his mistress. Nesta tried to struggle upright, but Adam gently pushed her back on the pallet. ‘Stay quiet for a time, keep your head low until you feel stronger,’ he advised.
As Thomas held her hand and spoke softly and reassuringly in her ear, the apothecary felt the pulse in the other wrist, a worried expression stealing over his face.
‘Get her some wine with hot water in it,’ he murmured to the maid. ‘I’ll go back to my shop and get something to soothe and strengthen her – some valerian and other herbs might help.’ He rose and left, while the girl went out to the brew-house to find a flask of wine. Thomas was left with Nesta, who was gripping his hand tightly.
‘Tell me again it’s not true, Thomas,’ she whispered.
‘It’s certainly not true, good lady,’ he said with a confidence he did not really share. ‘I don’t know the truth of everything, but it seems he’s got lost in the forest. Knowing the crowner, that’s no great hazard, after all the wars he’s fought in his lifetime.’
She made no reply, but two tears appeared from under her closed eyelids and trickled down her cheeks, which were so pale as to look faintly green in the evening light from the unshuttered window.
The maid came back with a cup of hot, watered wine and managed to coax her mistress to take a few sips. Thomas sat for a long time holding her hand, gazing anxiously at her pale face. Nesta appeared to be sleeping, but when he tried to gently slide his hand from hers, her fingers gripped his to restrain them.
Eventually, Adam Russell came back with some potions in two small flasks and tried to persuade the landlady to drink the bitter fluids. As Thomas and the girl attempted to lift her up a little, Nesta groaned and her free hand slid to her belly. ‘It hurts me!’ she muttered.
With a look of concern, the maid lifted the blanket and looked underneath. Dropping it, she looked at the apothecary.
‘She’s losing blood down below. Her gown is soaking!’
Propriety prevented him from looking for himself, but he readily accepted her word. ‘Her pulse told me something was not right,’ he murmured, looking anxiously at the increasing pallor of Nesta’s face.
‘What can you do?’ demanded Thomas desperately.
Adam shook his head. ‘This is beyond my skill. I’m an apothecary, not a physician or midwife. Everyone knows she is with child. This is clearly some problem with that condition.’
There were no physicians in Exeter, all medical care apart from apothecaries’ drugs being provided by the infirmarians in the five priories in and around the city. Thomas thought rapidly, drawing on his experience with the coroner and his officer.
‘Then she must be taken to St Katherine’s in Polsloe. There Dame Madge is an expert on these matters.’
Adam readily agreed, not wanting to take any responsibility for a worsening condition. He jumped up and went back into the inn, returning a few moments later with the news that one of the local carters would willingly take her to the priory in his wagon.
As the man went off to harness up his ox, Thomas remained with Nesta, while the two maids scurried around fetching more blankets and some clothing for their mistress to take to Posloe.
‘We must take you to be cared for by the nuns, Nesta,’ said the clerk gently. He had to lean close to her as she lay pale and motionless on the mattress, but her lips moved in reply.
‘Then both John’s women will be in Polsloe,’ she murmured.
‘It’s the best place for you to recover, Nesta,’ advised Thomas. ‘You remember Dame Madge, who helped us some months ago? She will soon get you well again.’
‘Am I losing the child, Thomas?’ she whispered.
He was unable to lie to her, though he had no real knowledge.
‘I don’t know, my girl. I just don’t know. It’s in God’s hands.’
He crossed himself surreptitiously.
‘It’s God’s judgement, Thomas. As with you and the cathedral roof – he refused to let us take our own lives, but now he’s taking the babe’s instead.’
‘You don’t know that, Nesta. I know nothing of women’s ailments, but at Polsloe they may make everything well again.’
She shook her head weakly.
‘No, dear Thomas. This is God’s retribution upon me … maybe it’s just as well, for now there’ll be no child to be born in sin. And I’ll not have to tell John the truth after all.’
The tears forced their way from under her lids again as she sank her head wearily back on to the rough hessian of her maid’s bed.
Gwyn slept fitfully on the floor of the alehouse, getting up just as a trace of dawn had lightened the eastern sky. All around were the men-at-arms, snoring as they lay rolled in their riding cloaks. Ralph Morin and Gabriel had opted for a penny bed in the loft, but Gwyn had been too restless to bother with a mattress. He wandered outside and, to clear his senses, doused his head in cold water from the horse trough. Three of the soldiers were sleeping on the ground near the animals, with another acting as sentry trying to keep awake. Gwyn grunted at him, then wandered around the inn, willing the dawn to strengthen, so that he could begin the search again.
He had had a fantasy the previous evening, while walking from the lane back to the alehouse, that maybe he would walk into the taproom and find Crowner John sitting on a bench waiting for their return. Unfortunately it remained a fantasy, and he faced the day with foreboding. Ralph and the garrison men might leave later, but Gwyn was determined to stay and search these woods until he discovered what had happened to his master. They had not been together across most of the known world for almost twenty years for him to abandon him now, within a few miles of home.
To kill time until it was fully light, he wandered around the back of the small, low building, where there was a ramshackle privy alongside a stinking midden. Needing to rid himself of the last of the previous night’s ale, he loosened his belt and pulled down the front of his breeches to relieve himself into the ditch that ran behind the tavern, only a few yards from the first of the forest trees. The trunks were just visible in the growing light, and as he stood there he tried to throw his mind into the darkness to seek out John de Wolfe by sheer will-power.
Nothing happened, but from the other side of the privy came a low-throated growl. Tying up the thongs of his breeks, he wandered towards the noise, always unable to resist looking at a new dog.
The rattle of a chain drew his eyes down, and he could just see the o
utline of a large hound, straining at its leash, which must have been secured to the wall. He gave it some friendly words, but the animal took no notice of him. There was enough light now to see the silhouette of sharp-upstanding ears as the dog stood quivering, intent on something out in the forest.
Intrigued, Gwyn felt for the chain, risking a sudden bite from an unknown guard dog. He felt the last link, which had been dropped over an iron pin hammered into one of the frames for the wattle panels. Using the tension of the straining beast to pull it off, he urged it onwards, and without hesitation the hound scrambled down into the ditch and leapt up the other side, with Gwyn dragging along behind.
The dog panted and pulled, its ears now flattened, and made for the first line of trees. Once the were inside the wood, even the faint daybreak was extinguished. Gwyn stumbled along in the darkness, his feet catching in roots and brambles, until they reached the barer ground deeper under the trees, where leaf mould was the only hazard, apart from fallen branches.
The hound aimed off slightly to the left and, straining its powerful shoulders, took the coroner’s officer at an uncomfortably fast pace several hundred yards into the forest. Gwyn began to wonder whether the damned beast was merely after a badger or a hind, though it should have been well used to those where it lived, but a moment later his affection for dogs was given a massive boost. The tension in the chain suddenly slackened and the dog started to whine and pant.
‘Stop licking me, you bastard!’ came a wonderfully well-recognised voice from the gloom.
‘Crowner! Is that you?’ shouted Gwyn, almost overcome with joy.
‘Gwyn? What in hell are you doing here at this time of night?’
The harsh voice was weak, but grated beautifully on Gwyn’s ears.
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