The Awful Secret (13 page)

When John broke through, with Gwyn at his shoulder, he thought at first that there had been a massacre, as the mud was running with blood. ‘It’s not all from your customer, Crowner!’ the sergeant reassured him, his lined old face creasing into a grin. ‘Most of this is swine’s blood – though these human swine here have added a few pints!’

De Wolfe cursed as two terrified black pigs crashed against his legs, before careering off into the throng. He stepped into the squelching pink mud and looked down at a still corpse, then at two men groaning on the ground. One had blood pouring from a large gash in his scalp, the other was doubled up in pain, clutching his belly. From between his fingers, oozed an ominous dark red clot.

‘The dead ’un is a meat-hawker from Milk Street,’ announced Gabriel. ‘These other two are from the gang from the countryside.’

Gwyn bent over the man with the stomach wound. ‘I fixed this bastard,’ he said gruffly. ‘He was one who ran through the Exeter man.’

Gabriel and his men were gradually restoring order, pushing back the gawping crowd and getting some to restore the fallen booths. Here there was a disordered mixture of serge and worsted rolls, lamb and pork – much had ended up on the ground and urchins and dogs were playing with the meat. A few surreptitious looters were picking up joints and offal, trying to wipe away some of the mud before making off with their booty.

‘Where are the rest of the intruders?’ snapped de Wolfe.

‘I’ve got two of them pinioned over there, Crowner,’ answered Gabriel, motioning towards the nearest house. ‘The others have made a run for it. They’re far beyond the gate by now.’

John looked down at the dead and injured. ‘Better get the corpse taken to his home, if he’s a local.’

Gwyn nodded. ‘What about these other two?’

De Wolfe looked at the head wound on the first man. His hair was matted with blood, but the bleeding seemed to be slowing from the gash. He was sitting up, groaning, but conscious. ‘This one will live, unless the wound suppurates later. Gabriel, take him to the gaol down there at the South Gate. Illegal trading is a city problem, not one that concerns the king.’

‘I’m glad to hear you admit that, for once, John.’

Turning, de Wolfe saw the sheriff standing behind him, elegant in a short brown mantle over his long green tunic. He wore a close-fitting helmet of brown felt, tied under the chin, and his shoes were in the latest fashion, with long curled points at the toes.

De Wolfe pointed to the cadaver then moved his finger to the other man. ‘These are within my jurisdiction, Richard.’

‘But only one is dead, Coroner,’ said de Revelle sarcastically.

‘The other has a mortal wound,’ stated de Wolfe bluntly. After a score of years on many battlefields, he considered himself an authority on violent injuries. ‘He’s losing blood clots from his belly, so he’ll not last long. My officer put a sword into his vitals as he was killing this Exeter man.’

The victim about whom they were talking had slumped sideways and his face had taken on an ashen hue. A priest, a young vicar-choral from the cathedral, had pushed through the crowd and went to crouch by his side, cradling the dying man’s head on his lap. He pressed the small cross from a chain around his neck against the victim’s forehead and muttered a Latin absolution into now deaf ears.

‘No point in trying to take this one to the gaol, Crowner,’ said Gabriel, ‘but I’ll get the corpse moved and clap these other three in the gatehouse.’

‘You’d better get an apothecary to look at his wound. We don’t want him dying on us before he’s hanged,’ boomed a new voice. This came from a large warrior, with a forked grey beard, wearing a mailed hauberk and a round iron helmet. Ralph Morin, the castle constable, had come down with the sheriff and a dozen more soldiers to quell the disturbance. He took over from his sergeant and ordered the men-at-arms to get rid of the crowd. Grumbling and swearing, they dispersed gradually and the stalls were hoisted back into their places for trading to start again.

As the corpse was being carried away on a wattle hurdle, de Wolfe and his brother-in-law began walking back to the high street, Ralph Morin and Gwyn at either side. ‘I can’t see why they risk coming into the city, these out-of-town traders,’ said the sheriff testily. ‘They can set up their stalls a few hundredpaces away outside the walls and no one can deny them.’

‘The portreeves and the burgesses are rightly strict about the monopoly within the city for the freemen. They pay their taxes and have a right to expect the best of the trading,’ said Ralph Morin. ‘If every free cottar and runaway could come in and sell at a lower price because they pay no dues, the city would be ruined in no time.’

‘I’ll have to hold an inquest on those two in the morning,’ grumbled de Wolfe. ‘For the other man will be dead long before then.’

‘I’ll hang the other three scum for you, John,’ offered de Revelle. ‘The County Court is held tomorrow and I’ll delay it until after your inquest.’

De Wolfe shook his head stubbornly. ‘Thank you, but no, Richard. If the killer lived, I would attach him for the next Eyre of Assize, but as he has no hope of surviving there’s no need. The remaining offence, unless the inquest finds otherwise, concerns trading, not killing, and the burgess court can deal with that. It’s not the business of either of us.’

Richard de Revelle clicked his tongue to convey his exasperation with de Wolfe’s interpretation of the legal system but, on probation himself over the rebellion, he was unable to be as despotic as before.

As they walked briskly in the chill March wind, Ralph Morin turned the conversation into a less controversial channel. ‘What about this problem up on the north coast? What are we doing about it?’

‘I’m sending Sergeant Gabriel up there with a few men to get a feel of the problem, if organised piracy is afoot,’ said de Revelle loftily.

John felt exasperated that the sheriff had appropriated his suggestion as if it was his own, but managed to bite back any protest. ‘I intend setting off straight after the court tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘We can get much of the way before nightfall and on to Ilfracombe the next day.’

‘I thought it was Appledore you were interested in,’ objected the sheriff.

‘We are – and Bideford and, perhaps, Combe Martin. But I have to see this survivor again. He may have recalled something that would help to identify the attackers. He was too ill when we first saw him to be very helpful.’

They fell silent for a while and soon were in the narrow main highway of the city. As they passed the Guildhall, two figures hurried out of the arched doorway of the new stone building and accosted them in the road. They were the two portreeves of Exeter, Hugh de Relaga and Henry Rifford. They had been elected by their fellow burgessess to lead the civic organisation of the city, especially commerce, as the markets and fairs, the wool and cloth trades made Exeter one of the most thriving English towns. Hugh de Relaga, de Wolfe’s partner in the wool enterprise, was a tubby, cheerful dandy, fond of good living and bright clothes. He was a complete contrast to Henry Rifford, a prosperous leather merchant but a serious, rather gloomy man above middle age. His beautiful daughter, Christina, had been brutally raped a few months ago, which had done little to improve his spirits.

‘Is it over? What damage has been done?’ demanded Rifford in agitation. The two men had been poring over municipal acccounts in a back room of the Guildhall and had only just been informed of the riot in Southgate Street.

‘Our clerk says a man is dead – is he a guildsman?’ asked de Relaga.

Richard de Revelle took it upon himself to explain what had happened, never missing the chance to take credit for knowing everything and being the instrument of restoring order. Reassured, the portreeves calmed down, but decided to walk with their clerks to the Shambles and the Serge Market to show their concern to the citizens. ‘We must visit the dwelling of the dead man and ensure that his guild-master is informed so that support can be offered to the family,’ said de Relaga, with his typical concern for the more unfortunate of his townsfolk.

As they parted, de Wolfe reminded them of their other legal responsibilities. ‘As the killer is dead, there will be no need to bring anyone before the king’s judges – but the three men in your gaol are your problem.’

The sheriff could not resist having the last word. ‘I could try them for causing an affray in my County Court tomorrow – but if you want them for illegal trading, you’re welcome.’

With that parting shot, they walked on the few yards until de Wolfe came to the opening for Martin’s Lane, leaving the others to continue on up to Rougemont. Giving a deep sigh, he pushed open his street door and prepared to meet the grim face of his wife when he told her that he would be leaving for another expedition to the north coast.

In spite of his gloomy apprehensions, John found Matilda surprisingly tractable when he entered the hall. She had changed her garments again and wore a blue kirtle, which he knew was one of her best. He tried to open the conversation by telling her of the skirmish in Southgate Street, but she had no interest in that: her mind was on other things.

‘Did you settle that poor man in a decent lodging? Not that there’s anything decent about that low tavern.’ Her active resentment of Nesta had been held in check since her husband had been disabled after breaking his leg, but she was starting to throw the old barbs at him once again.

‘It’s the best inn in the city – certainly better than sharing a room with sweaty pilgrims in Curre Street,’ he countered gruffly.

‘He should have stayed here. It’s warm, quiet and more suitable for a man of his station in life,’ said Matilda firmly.

‘He said he wanted to move to an inn. It was his choice.’

‘You did nothing to encourage him to take up our invitation, did you?’

He glowered at her as he took his chair on the opposite side of the fire. ‘It may not be a very good idea to get too friendly with that particular man,’ he muttered. ‘If what he says is true, he’s playing a dangerous game, not only with the Templars but with the Church generally and Rome in particular.’

Matilda made a dismissive gesture with a heavily ringed hand. ‘You’re just making excuses, John. I thought he was supposed to be a friend of yours.’

‘Hardly a friend, just an acquaintance from the past. I owe him no more than any other man.’ ‘Well, we can’t leave him to rot in that common hostelry, with half the scum of Devon around him.’

‘What do you mean?’ he said suspiciously.

‘At the very least he must come to sup with us tonight. I’ve told Mary to prepare a decent meal, if she’s capable of it for once – and to make it sufficient for an extra guest.’

‘You want him to eat here?’

‘Of course! We must make amends to him as you snubbed my offer to accommodate him under our roof. Send old Simon down to that tavern with a message for Sir Gilbert to come up here at dusk, to dine with us. I hope you still have some decent French wine in that chest of yours in the corner.’ She pointed to a dark recess of the hall, where her husband kept a stock of sealed stone flasks purchased from a wine importer in Topsham.

He sat silently cursing the woman for interferingin his business: after hearing the archdeacon’s views, he had a gut feeling that no good would come of this unexpected appearance of Gilbert de Ridefort. But his inertia was a futile defence, as Matilda continued to glare at him until he rose reluctantly and went out to the yard to summon Simon.

He dallied a while with Mary, sitting on a stool in her kitchen. It was a thatched hut with a cooking fire, a couple of rough tables stacked with pots, and in the corner the mattress on which he had once enjoyed an amorous hour or two.

‘She’s set her cap at this visitor, Crowner,’ Mary commented, stirring a blackened iron urn hanging on a trivet over the fire. ‘That poxy French girl has been brushing her hair and fiddling with her gowns for half the afternoon. I think she fancies the man, though much good it will do her if he’s a Templar.’

John grinned as he watched Mary scowling into her cooking pot. ‘I think he’s more an ex-Templar, my girl. Not that it will make any difference to the mistress’s chances with him.’

She looked over her shoulder at him. ‘It’s pathetic when a middle-aged married woman gets a passion for some man. Though I must say he’s a good-looking fellow, enough to turn any woman’s head. He was wasted as a warrior monk, or whatever you call those people.’

De Wolfe reached for a honey-cake but the platter was snatched away from his reach by Mary. ‘Those are for the end of the meal so leave them be, sir! The mistress wants a special effort for tonight and I’ve had to go out and buy more pork and onions – not that there’s much choice of food this early in the season. I can hardly give such an important guest the usual salt fish – the mistress would have me maimed, the mood she’s in.’

De Wolfe was just about to ask her if she had seen the affray in the meat market when a long nose appeared around the door, followed by the face and hunched body of his clerk, Thomas de Peyne. ‘Where did you spring from?’ grunted the coroner. ‘I thought you would be home anointing your backside with goose-grease, ready for the long ride to the north tomorrow.’

The little man groaned in anticipation of another full day in the saddle, but the news he brought overshadowed his problems. ‘You asked me to keep a look-out for any important visitors to the city, Crowner,’ he began, in his high-pitched quavering voice.

De Wolfe had impressed on Gwyn and Thomas earlier in the day that they should keep their ears to the ground to discover if anything unusual was going on in town or cloister. They knew nothing of de Ridefort’s fears of pursuit, but the clerk was adept at ferreting out gossip amongst the ecclesiastical brethren and their servants.

‘So what have you discovered, my master spy?’ he chaffed.

‘A foreign priest has arrived and called upon Bishop Marshal today,’ chirped Thomas.

‘What sort of news is that, eh? This city is always awash with priests.’