Walter shrugged, causing the tip of the blade to scratch his neck. ‘So that’s what this is all about!’ he sneered. ‘I usually slay people for free, but that time I got paid for it!’
‘And who was it who paid you?’ demanded John, angry at the man’s offhanded admission of murder.
‘Some dandy of a squire from Berry Pomeroy. I seemed to recollect he called himself Justin something-or-other.’
John dropped his sword from the man’s throat, but kept it ready at his side as they began to walk on again. ‘And how did he know how to find you?’ persisted de Wolfe.
Walter leered at him in the pale moonlight. ‘You’d be surprised at some of the folk who depend on me, some of them high and mighty.’
‘Depend? What do you mean – “depend”?’ growled Gwyn, who obviously detested this brigand.
‘A burgess wants a nice bit of venison or a vicar fancies a couple of brace of pheasant,’ boasted Walter. ‘And sometimes, an upright man wants his wife or his mistress done away with, while he’s conveniently miles away in Dorchester!’
They reached the other alehouse and stopped in the road outside. While Gabriel went in to fetch the two men-at-arms, John continued his questioning. ‘So this Justin wanted a particular man dead, is that it?’
‘Yes, but he mainly wanted some parchments he was carrying. He paid me ten shillings for the deed, half in advance, the rest when I handed over the stuff from the man’s pouch.’
‘You did better than Judas Iscariot, then!’ growled Gwyn. ‘He only got thirty pieces of silver, you managed a hundred and twenty.’
‘Did this Justin say who had ordered him to employ you?’ snapped de Wolfe.
‘He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. It was none of my concern. We met both times in the Bell. It was arranged as usual by the landlord.’
‘Was Henry de la Pomeroy mentioned at all? Or Prince John?’ persisted John. He wanted to know how deeply the Lord of Berry could be tied into this murderous conspiracy, but Walter Hamelin was too far down the chain of conspirators to be of much use.
‘All he let slip was that he was a squire and lived in Berry Pomeroy castle,’ growled their prisoner. ‘He stayed at the inn the second night, as he said it was too far to ride back almost to Totnes that late in the day.’
By now, the two soldiers had come out of the alehouse and added themselves to the guard around the captive. They marched on to where they had left the horses, where the youngest soldier reported that he had seen no one since they left.
Walter was hoisted on to the spare horse, his hands tied in front of him so that he could still grip the pommel of the saddle, as the reins were held by Gabriel, who rode on one side with Gwyn on the other. John de Wolfe led the small procession through the moonlight, the other men-at-arms bringing up the rear. Their prisoner had given up his barrage of cursing and blasphemy and sat in sullen silence as they jogged along the deserted road.
‘The North Gate will have closed long since,’ said Gwyn. ‘How will we get this fellow to the castle?’
‘Don’t worry about that, I know all the night porters,’ Gabriel assured him. ‘They’ll open if I tell them it’s king’s business.’
All city gates were closed at dusk, but like the curfew that was supposed to keep people off the streets at night, the regulations were often broken, either for important people or for a bribe.
John had suspected that Walter might have made some desperate break for freedom, knowing that he was inevitably headed for the gallows, but after a couple of miles had passed without incident, he felt more confident that they would deliver the outlaw to Stigand’s tender care.
The track generally followed the little River Yeo, which joined the much larger Exe halfway to the city. It crossed the Yeo at one densely wooded point over an old humpback stone bridge a few yards long, which had a low parapet on each side. Halfway across, without the slightest warning, Walter Hamelin suddenly threw himself sideways from his saddle and fell to the ground virtually between the legs of Gabriel’s horse. The animal shied in alarm and caught unawares, the rider had difficulty in staying on its back. There was instant confusion in the gloom, now all the deeper because of the high trees all around the bridge. Amid the shouting and yells of alarm from the escort, the prisoner, who had caught a hefty blow from one hoof of Gabriel’s mount, managed to scrabble his way the few feet to the parapet and throw himself across it. Everyone else was sliding from their saddles to intercept him, but John and Gwyn were blocked by the horses on the narrow trackway. Gabriel almost fell from his own frightened mare, but managed to catch Walter by the ankle as he squirmed across the rough stones bordering the bridge
‘I’ve got the bastard!’ he yelled, but it was a premature claim, as with a frantic kick, the outlaw freed his leg and vanished head first over the wall. By now, the others had struggled to the spot and leaned over to look down into the river. Though only a dozen feet wide, it was in full spate, the water splashing over large stones in the gleam from the moon.
‘Can you see him?’ roared de Wolfe.
‘Not a sign, he’s washed down under the bridge,’ hollered one of the soldiers.
‘I heard a hell of crack as he went down,’ shouted Gabriel. ‘I reckon he landed on his head on those rocks.’
John stood up and began running across the bridge in the direction they had been going. ‘Quickly, follow the river down, he can’t have got far!’
Three of the men rushed across the bridge after him, but Gwyn and Gabriel went back over the bridge and clambered down to the bank, following the boisterous torrent downstream. The other party was opposite and in the poor light, they all began to comb the water’s edge as they stumbled along in the direction of the flow, shouting and cursing as they went.
After a hundred yards, Gwyn let out a thunderous bellow. ‘Here he is, caught up against a tree stump!’
As the others strained to see from the opposite bank, Gabriel helped him to haul out the sodden shape of Walter Hamelin and dump him on the grass at the base of a tree.
‘He looks dead to me!’ called out the sergeant.
John fumed on the other side. ‘He can’t have drowned in that time, he’s not been in the water five minutes!’ he yelled.
Gwyn, after a moment’s examination, mainly using his fingers in the dark, called back across the turbulent water. ‘No, but he can crack his head open! And I think he may have a broken neck.’
‘I said I heard him hit something,’ declared Gabriel. ‘Well, it saves having to hang the murderous swine!’
EIGHTEEN
De Wolfe was in two minds whether to tell Nesta of Matilda’s unjust accusations about them and eventually decided that for the time being, he would say nothing. After her first outburst, Matilda followed her usual habit of glowering in a sullen mood for a few days, but she made no more open reference to the matter. John had gone through this before, when she had discovered his other infidelities over the years. As he had been absent so often, she stored up her justifiable complaints for when he was home between campaigns, using his sins as fodder for the martyrdom she affected. In truth, her main complaint was the fear that his indiscretions might be used to belittle her in the eyes of her women cronies, though this rarely happened. She suspected that most of them were in the same situation, as it seemed that almost every man in Exeter had similar illicit liaisons – and many were quite open about it. So the pair endured their meaningless marriage as before and now at least, there was the novelty of the new house to divert them from open hostility.
The adventure in Crediton a few days earlier was already half forgotten, though Ralph Morin had made sure that the next messenger to Westminster would take a message confirming Henry de la Pomeroy’s involvement in Roger Smale’s murder – and emphasizing to the Chief Justiciar John de Wolfe’s role in trying to establish some law enforcement in Devonshire.
In the first week of December, John hired some porters and a cart to bring Matilda’s belongings from Fore Street to St Mar
tin’s Lane, consisting mostly of her two trunks of clothing and some smaller articles. Before he had gone to Palestine, they had rented a small house near St Pancras Church, but as that had been furnished, everything for the new place had to be bought new and was already in place.
Lucille staggered behind the cart with an armful of gowns that could not be squeezed into the boxes and Mary carried two wooden pails filled with oddments that Matilda had used in her cousin’s house. As Mary had been Hugh de Relaga’s contribution, Matilda grudgingly accepted her, though she looked upon the woman’s shapely figure and rather bold eye as yet another temptation for her wayward husband.
Though there was no snow, there was a bitter east wind and John was glad that he told the old yardman to get a good fire going in his new hearth.
Matilda immediately retired to her solar above, where the endless nagging and scolding of Lucille began. When the porters had lugged the heavy trunks up the steps, Matilda set to, sorting her beloved gowns, surcoats, cloaks and headgear and harrying her new maid into laying them reverently back into the boxes and on to shelves on one wall. The solar, which was a wife’s territory, was sparsely furnished, with a single high-backed wooden chair, a couple of stools and a single trunk for John’s clothes. The bed was on the floor, a thick mattress slightly raised on a plinth, covered in blankets and a heavy coverlet of sewn sheepskins.
While Matilda was snapping her orders at the already tearful Lucille, John went out to the kitchen shed to see how Mary was settling in. She had already spent a few nights there and had made her quarters as comfortable as she could, claiming that she was quite happy with her accommodation.
‘This is a lot better than the last place, Sir John,’ she said in her broad local accent. Though she had a fair grasp of Norman-French, they always spoke in English together, except when Matilda was present, who insisted upon using her allegedly native French.
Mary had a palliasse in one corner, a table and a couple of stools near the small central fire-pit where she did her cooking.
Brutus was already comfortably installed on an old sack and John could see that both the dog and himself were more likely to have a homely welcome here than in the gloomy hall inside the house.
He sat on one of the stools and Mary poured him a mug of ale from a pitcher. She then took a couple of flat cakes from the bake-stone that sat on the edge of the fire and slid them on to the scrubbed boards of the table.
‘Here’s butter and some honey – see if you approve of my cooking,’ she said firmly, with the implication that she would brain him with the ladle that hung nearby, if he failed to appreciate them. They were delicious and he rolled his eyes at her, his mouth being full.
‘A word of advice, Sir John,’ she said softly. ‘Beware of what you say before that Lucille, for I’ve heard servant’s gossip that she is too ready to carry tales and tittle-tattle.’
When he left the shed after finishing all the drop cakes, his spirits had been lifted a little, as he had found both a good cook and a friendly ally. Reluctantly, he went back to the Bush to collect his few possessions to take to St Martin’s Lane. A large cloth bag was sufficient to carry his spare undershirts, hose and two grey tunics, together with the wolfskin cloak that he had won from a Bohemian mercenary in a jousting match in Germany.
For a few minutes he sat with Nesta, who was sad to see him leave. He even fancied there were tears glistening her eyes as he left, but he promised that, whenever possible, he would be back there each day.
‘I’ve got to exercise that big dog, haven’t I?’ he said with false jollity. ‘Most times Brutus will probably want to come in this direction – in fact, I can guarantee it!’
Back at St Martin’s Lane that evening, he felt a sense of depressing anticlimax. It was very cold and the wind was whistling through the roof shingles and penetrating the shutters. There was oiled silk stretched over the inside of the window, attempting to keep out some of the draughts, but the lofty hall was still chilly, the tapestries shifting slightly in the breeze.
Most of the light came from the fire, where a pile of chopped logs lay at the side of the chimney to replenish the blaze. He sat in a cowled seat at one side of the hearth, Matilda in the opposite one. She was wrapped in a heavy woollen cloak, her feet wrapped in a shawl, resting on a low stool.
After some desultory words about the house, they fell silent, she dozing and he scowling into the fire. In the flickering flames from the oak logs, he imagined he saw pictures, including some of the bleak roads through the Alps that he had travelled a year ago and others conjuring up images of King Richard still in captivity. He thought of Prince John, waiting to displace his king from the throne, aided by scoundrels like the bishops and greedy men such as Henry de la Pomeroy and Richard de Revelle. He looked across at his wife, her jaw drooping as she breathed noisily during her slumber. Was this how the rest of his life would be, slumped in boredom night and day?
John almost envied the peasant and the artisan, who at least had honest toil to occupy them between the cradle and grave. But he was a knight, brought up since a child as page and squire, to have no skills except with lance and sword. He had no other talents except fighting and no need to seek more money, as he had sufficient for all his needs.
What was he to do with his life, stuck in a loveless marriage and without even the solace of religious belief to offer Heaven at the end? Though it was obligatory to believe in God, he never gave it any thought, it was just part of the fabric of life, drummed into everyone since infancy. He had no interest in the ostentatious panoply of the Church and though he was sometimes dragged to Mass by Matilda on special occasions, he felt it was just a meaningless ritual.
After a while, he shook off his dismal thoughts and bent to put a couple more logs on the fire, resting them across the curled iron supports of the firedogs. This was the first time he had seen it lit and he was glad to see that there was sufficient draught up his new chimney to take the smoke and sparks up and away from the interior of the hall. As he settled back, he fondled the soft ears of Brutus who lay at his feet, swooning with the new luxury of lying near a fire.
‘We’ll go for a walk as soon as the mistress takes herself to bed,’ he murmured to the old hound. He knew that Matilda loved her sleep, almost as much as eating, drinking, new raiment and grovelling on her knees before a priest. She went to her bed early and got up late, so he should have plenty of opportunity to take a stroll down to Idle Lane.
An hour later, he walked down to the Bush and enjoyed Nesta’s company, though the inn was busy and she was bobbing up and down from his table to help her serving girls and make amiable conversation with her regular patrons. He watched her admiringly, as she laughed with some, scolded others and fended off wandering hands without giving offence. A very popular landlady, many of the customers appreciated her good looks and her shapely figure, but she had the gift of being friendly without encouraging their lechery. Even the drunks, who often caused a nuisance, were usually placated or evaded without provoking a fight. When they became too obstreperous, some of her loyal customers would always help Edwin to push them out into the street.
Nesta wanted to ply John with more food, but Mary had served them an excellent spit-roasted duck at the noon dinner and then cold meats, bread and cheese for an early evening supper, so he settled only for a mutton pasty in the Bush.
Gwyn came in later, as he had brought his wife and boys down to spend the night with Agnes’s sister. His only news was that the two nuns who had been involved in the attack had now been sent off to Glastonbury, with a much larger escort of men hired by the cathedral chapter. ‘I hear that all the canons are buzzing with anger at the death of their brother from Tavistock,’ he said.
‘Though they seem grateful to you for saving the Huns and for dealing with both Arnulf and Walter Hamelin, they are calling for some official action to combat the rising lawlessness.’
De Wolfe grunted. ‘Some hope, with no proper sheriff! I presume that the royal judges
still come on their circuit to the Eyres of Assize?’
Gwyn turned up his huge hands in doubt. ‘I suppose so, someone has to try the cases and send men to the gallows. Though the Eyres were always so irregular that half the prisoners either died of goal fever or escaped before they could stand before a court.’
Eventually, with Nesta being so busy, John decided to make his way home again, leaving Gwyn continuing to drink the vast quantities of ale that he was able to swallow without any obvious effects.
Whistling to Brutus to leave the bone that Nesta had given him, they went out into the cold night air. The sky was clear and the stars bright as he walked across to Priest Street, named after the large number of lodgings used by vicars choral, secondaries and lay brothers from the cathedral. A half moon was rising in the east and he could see his hound zigzagging ahead of him, as he explored the ever-changing smells of the sewage in the central drain and the piles of rubbish in the side alleys.
Priest Street rose to become Sun Lane before meeting Southgate Street and it was here that he saw Brutus stop dead and point with his outstretched head towards a house on the right, in a row of moderate-sized burgages belonging to local merchants. As John came up to the dog, he was aware of a disturbance inside the house, a crash followed by a yell of pain, then a woman’s scream.
‘What’s going on in there, Brutus?’ he asked, assuming that it was some domestic dispute that was none of his concern. Then the screams became louder before they subsided into a sobbing that could still be heard through the slatted shutters on an upper room. He heard a noise behind him and turning, saw a man in the doorway of the house opposite, with a woman peering fearfully over his shoulder.
‘Is it murder?’ quavered the neighbour. ‘Shall we send for the constables?’
As he spoke, another door opened in the house next to that from which the moans were coming and another man appeared, grasping a stout stick. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted.
Crowner's Crusade Page 21
