'So why leave Sir Nicholas, after having been loyal to him against the men from Berry Pomeroy?' he called, still intent on keeping Trove's attention.
'Ha! A fine reward I had for my loyalty. Life on the moor was bad enough, but then one of those louts picked a fight with me and I had to defend myself with a knife. He hardly had a scratch, but I got the blame, so I told them all to go to hell and left them to rot.'
'You came into Exeter, an outlaw?' queried John, still intently watching Trove's grip on both his dagger and his crossbow.
'Nothing to it, if you're careful. I paid some clerk to write me a testimonial from an imaginary ironmaster in Bristol and got a journeyman's post on Exe Island, nearly three years ago now. If it hadn't been for those Godrotten guildsmen, I could have become a master and gone to another city to set up my own business.'
De Wolfe had now lost sight of Gwyn, who had vanished behind the back end of the hut. Then covertly looking under his lowered bushy eyebrows, he saw a hand come up above the further end of the roof and give a wave. Resolutely, he raised his sword and began walking towards the open end of the crude shack. He saw Richard wriggling on the ground, his eyes bulging with terror, faint noises coming from under the gag as he tried to shout or scream.
'Keep back, I say, damn you!' roared Geoffrey, as he ducked his head and moved to the middle of the hut to face the advancing coroner. 'I've three more of these bolts for those others, after I've dispatched you.' He raised the hand that held the device, a dagger still clutched in the other. John gritted his teeth and prepared to duck one way or the other as the bolt flew free. It had almost missed the weaver and it was a matter of chance which way he should swerve, depending on how inaccurate the flight of the missile would be.
'Not another step or I'll let fly!' screamed Trove, instinctively backing to the rear of the shed as the fearsome knight with the long sword continued to advance.
There was a twang and John threw himself down and to his right, hoping to God that the crossbow device was not biased to that side as well. Simultaneously he heard an agonised scream, and as he picked himself up from the weeds he feared that Geoffrey had also carried out his promise to cut Richard's throat. But his brother-in-law was gagged, so how could he have screamed? Staggering to his feet, hoping that Trove could not reload the bow that quickly, he launched himself at the doorway and in the confusion of the moment, was bemused to find himself crashing into Geoffrey, who seemed to crumple out of the opening against his own body.
John had no opportunity to raise his yard of steel as the man was fight on top of him: he half expected to feel Trove's dagger drive between his ribs. But the man just slid down his front to the floor and lay twitching on the ground, a wide red stain spreading across the back of his cloak.
Seconds later, Gwyn thundered around the hut and gazed in satisfaction at the body at their feet.
'Got the bastard! Are you all right, Crowner, I left it a bit late?'
An hour later, a cluster of men were gathered on the waste ground where the drama had taken place. As soon as it had ended, John had sent Thomas off at a limping trot to reassure Matilda and Eleanor that Richard was alive, if somewhat battered. Then he carried on to Rougemont to notify the sheriff, before going to Raden Lane to request the presence of Nicholas de Arundell, who would not yet have left for his repossessed manor.
At the same time, Matthew the steward hurried to fetch the apothecary Richard Lustcote to attend to Richard de Revelle.
'Saving your worthless life is getting to be a habit,' grumbled John as he used his dagger to cut through the tightened knot that held the gag in place, then the bonds on his limbs. They had dragged his brother-in-law out of the shack into the daylight, leaving the corpse of Geoffrey Trove spread-eagled across the threshold.
As soon as de Revelle's mouth was free, he gave a wail, which seemed to be a combination of relief, self-pity and pain. 'My head. Oh Christ, my head,' he moaned, and indeed, the state of his scalp was not a pleasant sight, as his hair was plastered with dried blood on one side, crusty streaks of it running down his face. They propped him sitting up against the city wall and when he calmed down sufficiently to speak sensibly, there was little useful he could tell them.
'I recall nothing after walking along North Street on my way home from ... well, from the New Inn.' He seemed evasive about where he had been, but de Wolfe had not the slightest interest in that.
'After a good knock on the head, the wits before the blow often seem to vanish as well,' observed Gwyn cheerly.
'When did you recover them?' demanded de Wolfe.
Now that it seemed unlikely that Richard was going to die or even suffer any lasting effects, he felt little sympathy for his brother-in-law, especially after the cowardly performance he had put up in his trial by combat.
'I don't know. Sometime during the night, it was dark.' He groaned again and put up a hand and tentatively felt around the gash in his scalp. 'I was already bound and gagged. I had no notion of where I was until dawn came and I saw that foul hut and that swine standing over me, calling me obscene names and telling me with relish what he was going to do to me.' The apothecary came at that point and after feeling Richard's pulse, looking into his eyes and gently palpating his head, declared him fit to be taken home, where he would bathe and dress his scalp wound. Soon Matthew returned with a couple of men lugging a detached door to use as a stretcher, and the former sheriff was carried away, still moaning piteously.
'Let's have a good look at this murdering devil,' decided de Wolfe, and with Gwyn he dragged Trove out of the hut by his arms. One of them had strips of soiled linen wrapped around it, under which was a festering but healing cut. That was of little consequence compared to the wound in the middle of his back, just to one side of his spine.
'I don't like striking a man in the back, it's not fair play,' boomed the Cornishman. 'But I heard him threatening to skewer you with that infernal machine of his, so I reckoned that I'd better act fastl' He ripped Geoffrey's bloodstained tunic from his shoulders and exposed a two-inch wide slit over his ribs, from which oozed dark red blood. 'I felt him move against the wattle wall, so I jammed my sword blade between the withies and pushed like hell. He must have moved away, for I was almost up to the hilt before I hit him.'
'That's another one I owe you for, Gwyn,' said John, slapping his friend on the shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. 'I thought that bloody arrow might have hit me somewhere, but probably you stuck him just as he was letting fly.'
They were examining the 'infernal machine' when voices and the tramp of feet along the path heralded the sheriff, Sergeant Gabriel, two men-at-arms and Sir Nicholas de Arundell. They came and stood in a ring around the body, while John regaled them with what had happened.
'Is this the man that was once with you in Hempston?' he asked, as Gwyn rolled the body over to lie face up.
Nicholas bent to look, then nodded. 'That's James de Pessy, as we knew him. Our blacksmith, though he was adept at making all kinds of objects. A useful man, if he hadn't had that vicious streak in him.' Henry de Furnellis prodded the corpse with the toe of his boot. 'I wonder why he didn't just kill de Revelle in his yard, instead of clouting him?'
'And how did he get him here from his house?' added Nicholas.
John looked at the powerful frame of the ironworker as it lay outstretched like some hateful crucifixion. 'He must have carried him in his arms; he's a strong man and Richard is only a dapper little fellow.'
'But why keep him alive in this damned hut?' asked the sheriff. 'That could only increase the risks.' De Wolfe rubbed at the dark stubble on his cheeks.
'I think he intended to kill him at the end, but was hedging his bets. He took him as a hostage, as he plainly boasted to me. Mad as he was, he didn't wish to be caught for a certain hanging.'
Would you really have let him get to sanctuary, as he wished?' asked Nicholas.
De Wolfe shrugged. 'He had a knife ready to slit de Revelle's throat. My wife would never forgive me if I let that happen! It was only because I knew Gwyn was in position on the other side of that wattle panel that I took the risk of rushing him.'
After the fraught events of the past few days, a sense of anticlimax suddenly seemed to descend on them.
Then John looked down at Brutus, who was lying quietly, watching them with his big head resting on his outstretched paws.
'There's the hero of the hour,' he said fondly. 'Without his nose, we'd never have found them and that bastard might well have got away with it.'
The old hound rose and ambled across, putting his slobbering muzzle into John's outstretched hand. He looked up as if to say, 'It was nothing really, master!'