As she stared up at the woven hazel branches that supported the thatch, her mind wandered for the thousandth time over the events of the past few weeks. Life seemed so flat and empty, a dull routine of brewing, cooking and chivvying the tavern servants. The brief excitement of Alan of Lyme had soon turned into shameful betrayal when he had run off with a week’s takings and one of her maids. Her dalliance with him had been born partly of flattery from a smooth-tongued younger man but also as an act of defiance against John, whose devotion to his duties had come before his devotion to her.
She shifted uneasily on the woollen blankets, as she also admitted to herself that the break from him had been an acknowledgement of the hopelessness of their affair. He was a Norman knight and the second most senior law officer in the county, married to the sister of the sheriff. Though the marriage was a hollow shell, there was no way in which it could be broken – and even if Matilda were to die, what king’s coroner would marry a lowly tavern-keeper?
Nesta tried to convince herself that she had ended the affair mainly for his sake, to rid him of the encumbrance of a common ale-house woman, but her heart told her that this was not true. She had been piqued that he had stayed away so much and for so long, and the sudden appearance of a good-looking young man, with his blandishments and flattery, had caught her at a vulnerable time.
Now she was regretting it deeply, especially as she had rejected John’s clumsy attempts at reconciliation when Alan had decamped with her money and her prettiest servant. Her pride had provoked her into sending the coroner away, with a bitter message about their future. He had not been near her since and the passing weeks had made any hope of mutual forgiveness fade to nothing.
She was still young, barely twenty-eight, and knew she was as attractive a widow as could be found anywhere in the city. Had she so wished, she could have found a decent man without difficulty – one who would marry her and help her run the inn, as her Meredydd had done when they first came to Exeter. But the zest had ebbed from her life and as she lay staring up at the dusty rafters, she wondered if she should sell up and go home to Gwent, back to her own people.
Her eyes filled with tears of despair and self-pity, but she brushed them away angrily as she heard the cathedral bell tolling. It was time to pull herself together and get down to her neglected business. Swinging herself from the couch, she looped up her long hair and crammed it into the linen helmet, then stepped into her long green kirtle before trying an ankle-length hessian apron around her waist. By the time she had laced her shoes around her ankles and climbed down the ladder, the table near the hearth was empty.
CHAPTER FOUR
In which Crowner John rides to Sidmouth
The rest of the day passed peacefully enough for de Wolfe. While Matilda was praying at St Olave’s, he went up to the castle again and spent a couple of hours on his reading lessons, which had been neglected during the busy past weeks. An older vicar from the cathedral had been coaching him sporadically for months, though Thomas de Peyne had achieved far more with him while de Wolfe had been laid up with a broken leg at the beginning of the year.
Now the coroner was trying to regain lost ground by silently mouthing the simple Latin phrases from the parchments supplied by the priest. Then he moved on to writing, but found that his lack of practice had set him back almost to where he had begun. He could still manage his name slowly with a sliver of chalk on a thin sheet of slate, but his attempts to pen the alphabet and Roman numerals on a piece of scrap vellum ended in a mess of ink scratches and splatter.
Impatiently, he threw down the quill and rammed the stopper back into Thomas’s stone ink bottle. He stumped down the narrow spiral stairs to the guardroom below then went out into the city. He bought a hot pie from a booth at the bottom of Castle Hill and ate it between there and the Golden Hind, an inn on the high street near Martin’s Lane. Since he had virtually abandoned the Bush as his regular drinking place, this had become John’s local tavern and he stopped there for a pot of cider before going home to face Matilda’s frosty face over the supper table. The midday meal was the main one of the day, but Mary always set out some hot gruel, bread, cheese and cold meat in the evening, with a jug of red wine, and this was waiting when he arrived home.
The pie had taken the edge off de Wolfe’s appetite, but he sat down and ate a hunk of bread and a chicken leg to appease his wife, who was steadily working her way through everything on the table.
Depressed by his futile visit to the Bush, he studied his wife covertly from under his black eyebrows. What did the future hold for them, he wondered. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience and they had never been close, but as time had gone by, they had become more like two strangers lodging in the same house. His late father, Simon de Wolfe, who had two manors on Devon’s south coast, had thought it a good move to marry his second son into the de Revelle family, who owned far more land. Matilda was six years older than John, and her father was happy to unload his plain daughter on to a young Norman knight, who was making a name for himself as an enterprising soldier. The deal was struck with little concern for the wishes of bride or groom.
That had been sixteen years ago and de Wolfe had regretted it ever since. Until recently, he had deliberately spent almost all of his time away, at the French and Irish wars and latterly at the Third Crusade, where he had become part of the bodyguard of King Richard himself. Until three years ago his time at home with his wife could be reckoned in months, but the catastrophe of the Lionheart’s capture in Austria and long imprisonment had left John bereft of campaigns to fight.
Coming home, he had tried to settle down but boredom soon overcame him. He was comfortably off, due to his investment in Hugh de Relaga’s wool business and a share in the profits of his late father’s manors at Stoke-in-Teignhead and Holcombe, which were run by his elder brother William, but the tedium of this aimless life soon made him restless. Last year, he had even considered riding away again with Gwyn to find a war somewhere in France, preferably in the service of his king. Last autumn, though, a new opportunity had presented itself.
The huge ransom of a hundred and fifty thousand marks demanded by Henry of Germany for the release of Richard the Lionheart had thrown a massive burden on the Exchequer, added to by the King’s constant demands for money to support his war against Philip of France. The task of raising these sums had fallen on the Chief Justiciar, Hubert Walter, who was now virtually Regent of England. Hubert had been the King’s military deputy in the Holy Land and knew John de Wolfe well. The previous September, in a scheme to raise money, Hubert had re-established in every county the ancient Saxon office of coroner and had warmly supported de Wolfe’s bid for one of the Devonshire vacancies.
In truth, de Wolfe himself had not been all that keen at first, but Matilda – as devoted to social climbing as she was to religion – had been adamant that he should grasp this chance to become a respected figure in the county hierarchy. As one of Hubert’s objects in establishing coroners was for them to restrain the corruption of sheriffs, her brother was opposed to the whole idea, but Matilda had persuaded him that having his brother-in-law as coroner would be preferable to some more interfering stranger. Unfortunately for Richard de Revelle, the opposite turned out to be the case and ever since his appointment nine months earlier, de Wolfe had been a constant thorn in his side. His unswerving loyalty to his king and his refusal to indulge in the graft and embezzlement that was virtually a way of life to most senior officials, kept him endlessly in conflict with de Revelle.
All this marched again through John’s mind as he watched Matilda finish her meal. She was a heavily built woman, with a short neck and a square face. Her small eyes had a slightly oriental look and the heavy pouches under them and the deep lines running down from her mouth gave her a permanently disgruntled expression. Matilda must have sensed his prolonged survey, for suddenly she looked up and glared at him. ‘Are you any further with your latest murder?’ she demanded.
He shook his head, h
is black hair bouncing on the collar of his grey tunic. ‘The poor fellow’s daughter is being brought in tomorrow morning. I had him buried in the Jew’s plot in Southernhay until it’s decided where he shall rest permanently.’
Matilda had no interest in dead Jews and abruptly changed the subject. ‘I hear the Justices are due in the city very soon. I hope you’ll assert the seniority of your office and not skulk in the background, as usual.’
‘I’ll do what my duties demand – no more, no less,’ he grunted.
‘I wonder where they will be lodged. Richard says there’s no suitable accommodation for them in that miserable castle.’
That was true enough, thought John. Lady Eleanor, the sheriff’s glacial wife, refused to live in that bleak fortress with her husband, preferring one of their manors at Tiverton or Revelstoke, which suited de Revelle well enough, as John knew that he was fond of entertaining loose women in the bedchamber behind his office.
Matilda clung to the subject of the King’s judges. ‘I trust that Bishop Marshall will give a feast in their honour. Certainly we would be invited – I will have a chance to wear my new brocade kirtle.’
De Wolfe sometimes found it hard to reconcile her religious fervour with her devotion to fine clothing, eating, drinking and her desire to be a county notable. Almost as if she was reading his mind, she added weight to his already considerable burden: ‘Speaking of feasts, there was a message earlier, brought by a guildsman’s servant. We are invited to a banquet at the Guildhall on Thursday night.’ De Wolfe groaned at the thought of another evening jammed at a table with pompous merchants and their snobbish wives, to say nothing of the pious clerics and drunken craftsmen who gravitated to these celebrations.
‘Who is it this time? Must we accept?’ he muttered.
‘Of course we must, John! It’s your duty as the King’s coroner to grace these events. This one is given by the Guild of Tanners, very influential people. A friend of mine at St Olave’s is the wife of one of their Wardens.’
‘Tanners? They stink, it’s the dog turd they use in their fleshing vats.’
‘My friend doesn’t stink, I assure you,’ snarled an outraged Matilda. She hauled herself to her feet and plodded angrily to the door. ‘I’m going to get ready for my devotions. See that Mary has your best tunic washed for you to wear on Thursday night.’
As she slammed the door to the vestibule behind her, her husband sighed and dropped the remains of the chicken under the table for Brutus.
The church of All Hallows-on-the-Wall was empty, the few worshippers at Vespers long gone. The setting sun shone through the two slatted windows high up on the west wall, its beams almost solid in the dust thrown up by the angry strokes of the bundle of twigs that Ralph de Capra was using as a broom. The little building was paved with irregular stone slabs and though this was cleaner than the usual floor of beaten earth, the priest still muttered under his breath at the dried mud and wisps of straw and rushes that his parishioners had brought in on their shoes. He was a thin, miserable man, looking considerably older than his thirty-eight years. A hare-lip and a crusted skin ailment on his scalp, poorly concealed by his thin brown hair, did little to enhance his appearance.
The priest drove the debris towards the door and, with a few final flourishes, swept it down the two steps on to the narrow street that ran inside the city wall. Then he straightened up and walked down to the centre of the lane, besom still in hand. To his left stretched Little Britayne, with its criss-crossing mesh of hovel-lined alleys running up the hill towards the centre of the town. A night-soil cart pulled by a donkey was coming towards him, pursued by ragged, jeering urchins, who yelled abuse at the scarecrow of a man perched on the crossboard. A few pigs snuffled around the bottom of the high city wall and further up, where the wall turned at the Snail Tower, de Capra could see a small crowd gathered around two drunks who were futilely trying to fight each other, though they could hardly stand.
Directly across from the church, the bottom end of Fore Street climbed up to become High Street at Carfoix, the central crossing of Exeter. Clusters of townsfolk thronged it, some hurrying on errands, some buying and selling at the booths along its edges, others just lounging in the evening sun.
He turned to look at his little church which was now an integral part of the city wall, its other three walls projecting into the roadway. Like most of the many churches in Exeter, it was a simple oblong, like a barn. Some of the others were still timber-built, but many were gradually being replaced with stone – several even had little towers.
De Capra climbed the steps back into his domain, bent his knee briefly in the direction of the simple altar then went to the other end of the church where wooden screens partitioned off a small space against the far wall. Here he kept his simple vestments, an alb of heavy linen, a rather threadbare brocade stole and a maniple. A stone jar held some cheap wine and a small wooden box did duty as a pyx, to store the wafers bought at a cook-stall, which he used to prepare the Host for Mass.
He dropped the broom alongside a leather bucket and battered shovel, then went back down to the other end of the building. The chancel was merely a wooden platform, two steps up from the main floor. The altar was a small table covered with a white cloth, carrying two wooden candlesticks and a tin cross covered in peeling gilt. On the wall above, below the high window slits, was a large, crudely carved crucifix. The only other furniture was a kneeler for his own prayers and a heavy chair for the Bishop or Archdeacon, should they ever deign to take part in a service here. This was a poor church in the poorest part of the city, Britayne being so named because five hundred years ago, the ‘Britons’, the original Celtic inhabitants, had been pushed back by their Saxon conquerors into that least savoury part of Exeter.
De Capra turned his kneeler to face the altar and, after making the Sign of the Cross, lowered himself on to it and leaned forward, his hands clasped on the top bar, polished by years of use. He fixed his eyes on the image of Christ hanging on the wall, and his lips moved in earnest supplication, which gradually rose to an audible monologue. He had a secret that plagued most of his waking hours, and he desperately needed a sign to relieve his troubled conscience. He talked to himself for many minutes, becoming more and more agitated. Then his head fell on to his arms and he subsided into racking sobs.
The next morning, the Wednesday of an eventful week, the manor-reeve of Sidbury, a village some miles east of Exeter, rode in to report a fatal accident. He had left just before dawn and arrived at Rougemont a couple of hours later. The sentry at the castle gate sent him up to the coroner’s garret, where Gwyn and Thomas were waiting for their master to arrive.
De Wolfe appeared when the reeve was halfway through his story, but soon caught up with the tragic tale. One of the boy labourers at the manor mill had been trapped in the machinery and was dead. ‘Our bailiff knew that under this new crowner’s law, we had to report it to you straight away, sir,’ the village headman ended. He was a wiry fellow with a narrow but intelligent face, seemed somewhat in awe of the coroner and stood screwing his pointed woollen cap between his strong fingers as he spoke.
‘You did right, man. I must come to view the body and hold an inquest – but it will be noon before we can set off.’ The reeve was sent away for a few hours to fill his stomach and feed his horse, while de Wolfe settled his agenda with his officer and clerk.
‘The Jews are coming this morning about the body,’ Thomas reminded him, ‘and you have an approver to hear at the Shire Court.’ The coroner was required to take a confession from an ‘approver’, an accused or convicted person who was attempting to save his neck by turning king’s evidence against his fellow accomplices.
Gwyn scratched his groin vigorously. ‘That Ordeal is on, too,’ he rumbled. ‘The liar who claimed he bought that sword, not stole it.’
De Wolfe swore under his breath – he would be lucky to get away by noon, which meant he would not be back in Exeter before the gates were shut at curfew. Another night aw
ay from home would mean more whines and sulks from Matilda. Then a happier thought struck him: Sidbury was near Sidmouth, a coincidence that might prove interesting, especially if he was to be away all night.
But first the day had to be got through and the first chore was his brother-in-law’s Shire Court. Normally it was convened every fortnight, but extra sessions were being hurriedly arranged in preparation for the arrival of the royal judges the following week, as all pending cases had to be presented before them.
An hour later, the trio crossed Rougemont’s bustling inner ward to the Shire Hall, the bare court-house where de Wolfe had held the inquest on Aaron. Several cases had been dealt with already, either by Richard de Revelle or Ralph Morin, the castle constable, who sat on the platform in front of a posse of scribes. Also present was the obligatory priest, who today was the new garrison chaplain, an amiable monk called Brother Rufus.
Gabriel, the sergeant of the castle garrison, led in the next prisoner dragged from the stinking gaol under the keep. With rusty irons on his wrists and ankles, he was brought to stand below the middle of the dais. Lice were crawling on his neck and one ear-lobe had a festering rat-bite, signs of a prolonged stay in the cells.
The sheriff, lounging in the only chair on the platform, waved a hand carelessly at de Wolfe. ‘This one’s yours, John,’ he drawled, managing to sound offensive even when the words were outwardly polite.
De Wolfe came to the edge of the platform to stand over the wretched prisoner. He hovered above him, his arms folded across his chest. ‘Eadric of Alphington, you have been accused of robbing Roger Lamb on the high road near Alphington on the day of St Jude’s fair, taking his purse containing seven shillings’ worth of pennies, making off with his horse and causing a grievous wound to his head that almost killed him.’
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