Sword of Shame (6 page)

‘I've got witnesses, some of that rabble that was in St Sidwell's last night.'

‘The same witnesses that will prove I asked you many times to fix the roof–and will say that you drew a knife on me!'

‘They'll change their tune for the offer of a handful of silver pence!' jeered Walter.

Gwyn was just about to offer to give the man a matching bruise on the other side of his head, when the door of the sheriff's chamber jerked open. The
man-at-arms on guard thumped the butt of his pike on the floor in salute as a slight figure stalked out, even more dandified in his appearance than his friend the fuller. Sir Richard de Revelle wore his favourite green, the tunic edged in gold tracery around the hem and neck. A light surcoat of crimson silk carried his family device of a blackbird on a green ground, embroidered on his shoulder. His light brown hair was brushed back from his narrow face, made even more saturnine by the pointed beard below his thin-lipped mouth.

Advancing on the pair near the main door, he brandished a piece of parchment and thrust it at Tyrell. ‘Here, Walter, this is what you requested!'

Scowling at the coroner's officer, whom he knew and despised as a loyal servant of his brother-in-law, he added ‘My clerk has prepared the writ you desired, so I'll see this fellow in front of me in the next Shire Court.'

With that he turned and marched away before Gwyn could get out a word of protest. The fuller leered at him. ‘I've heard you're fond of games of chance–are you willing to wager what the verdict will be before the sheriff next week?'

 

Though Exeter now had over four thousand souls living within its walls, the portreeves and burgesses who ran the city council still employed only two constables to keep the peace. One was Osric, a tall skinny Saxon, the other an older, fatter man called Theobald. Their headquarters was a tiny hut behind the Guildhall in High Street, left behind by the masons who had recently rebuilt the hall in stone.

The two men, carrying the heavy staves which were their only means of keeping order in the city, left together on patrol an hour before midnight and headed down Waterbeer Street. This was a lane parallel
to the main street, which held a mixture of dwelling-houses, shops, taverns, two apothecaries and several brothels. One of their prime duties was to enforce the curfew, keeping an eye out for uncovered fires which might pose a threat to the still largely timber-built city, though dealing with unruly drunks staggering out of ale-houses was their other main concern.

Tonight, neither of these tasks occupied them as they walked down Waterbeer Street. Theobald discovered a corpse by the simple process of tripping over it in the gloom, as its feet were protruding from a narrow alley alongside a leather-worker's shop. Osric held up his horn lantern, which contained a single candle, to shed its feeble light on the body and saw blood oozing from a terrible wound in the neck.

‘Someone's down the alley!' bleated Theobald in his squeaky voice and with surprising agility for one with such a prominent ale-belly, started off in pursuit of the rapid footsteps that they had both heard.

The Saxon knelt by the victim, but having seen many corpses during his time as a constable, he knew straight away that he was beyond help. The blood was no longer pumping, but merely oozing from the jagged tear that extended from below the left ear to just above the breastbone, indicating that his heart had already stopped. Osric opened the little door of yellow cow-horn on his lantern to get a better light and held it up above the face of the dead man.

‘God's whiskers, it's Walter Tyrell!' he muttered to himself. The constables knew virtually every prominent citizen by sight, especially burgesses like the fuller. As he rose to his feet, Theobald came trotting back, puffing after his unaccustomed exertion.

‘Lost him in those back alleys!' he gasped. ‘Not a sign of anyone in that rabbit-warren.'

Osric, who was senior both by length of service and
superior brain-power, started to give orders. ‘You must raise the hue and cry at once. Knock up the four nearest households–in fact, make it six! Get the men from each to search all the lanes and streets around, seeking anyone abroad at this hour, especially anyone with blood on their garments or shoes. Then go around each of the gates and make sure they let no one out tonight.'

The corpulent officer looked slightly rebellious at this, especially after his recent gallop down the alley and back. ‘So what are you going to do?'

‘The coroner will want to deal with this from the start, so I'm away to rouse Sir John from his bed.'

As he hurried away, he only hoped that de Wolfe was in his own bed and not that of his mistress, down at the Bush Inn.

 

‘A bloody great slash, Gwyn!' observed the coroner, with professional detachment. ‘Right down to the bones of his neck.'

He rose from a crouch and stared down at the cadaver, from which a wide pool of blood had now seeped into the packed earth of the alley. ‘It could be from a large knife, a sickle, a hedging hook or a meat cleaver.'

‘Or a sword, Crowner?'

Something in Gwyn's voice made John stare at him from under his beetling black brows. ‘Yes, it could well be a sword. Why do you ask?'

His officer grunted mirthlessly. ‘Because only last night, I offered to take off his head with my sword!'

He gave his master a detailed account of his altercation with Tyrell and the fact that only today, the fuller had got the sheriff to issue a writ for assault.

‘But that's nothing, all you did was punch his head in self-defence against him drawing a blade on you! You've witnesses to prove it.'

‘And he boasted that he had already bribed others to say differently!' Gwyn pointed to the body on the ground, visible in the flickering light of pitch brands held by a couple of residents of Waterbeer Street. They were part of a small crowd who had been roused from their beds by the constables and were now gawking at the drama, after unsuccessfully racing around the streets looking for the killer.

‘Those were just idle words of yours, spoken in the heat of the moment!' snapped de Wolfe. ‘You can easily prove you had nothing to do with this.'

‘How can I do that?' growled Gwyn. ‘I was not at home with my wife, because there is no room at her sister's. I was walking back from Milk Street to Rougemont when this must have happened, as I'm bedding down in the soldier's quarters there.'

The coroner gestured impatiently. ‘Nothing will come of this, Gwyn, it's all in your imagination. Who on earth is going to accuse my officer of murder, eh?'

As the words left his mouth, he realized that one person would be delighted to do so. Gwyn, watching his face, knew that the thought had entered John's mind.

‘Exactly, Crowner! And with the endless bad luck I've been having these past days, the sheriff's very likely to try it on. Especially since this man Tyrell is one of his cronies and has already brought the assault to his notice.'

De Wolfe pondered for moment, the scowl deepening on his bony face. ‘Look, just to be on the safe side, you had better not become involved as my officer in this case. Though I'm sure no one will accuse you, it is wiser for you to keep out of it, to avoid any accusations of partiality.'

‘But how can you hold an inquest without my help?' objected Gwyn.

‘I can get Thomas to do what's necessary, just this once. If anyone notices, we can say that your family troubles are the reason. In fact, I think you should be with them at this difficult time.'

Grudgingly, the Cornishman agreed and stood aside as the constables arranged for the corpse to be taken away. Though a disused cart-shed in the castle was the usual depository for casual deaths, it was considered too degrading for a prominent merchant like Walter Tyrell. Instead, a mortuary shed in the churchyard of nearby St Pancras was thought more appropriate and soon the mortal remains of the fuller were carried away by four locals, using a detached door as a bier.

The hue and cry having failed to achieve anything, there was nothing for the coroner to do until morning, so he made his way back home, after trying to reassure his officer that all would be well. Gwyn was unconvinced, as he trudged back up the hill to Rougemont. He felt his new sword slapping against his leg as he walked and put a hand on the beautifully-crafted hilt to steady it.

‘You've not brought me much luck so far,' he muttered. ‘Let's hope you do better from now on!'

 

John de Wolfe arrived at the castle gatehouse an hour after dawn next morning, to be greeted by Sergeant Gabriel with a message from the sheriff, demanding his attendance upon him forthwith. The coroner delayed for another hour, to show his independence from Richard de Revelle and spent it up in his barren chamber with Thomas, giving him instructions about the inquest on the fuller. Eventually he loped across the inner ward to the keep and with a perfunctory nod to the man-at-arms outside, marched into the sheriff's room without knocking. His brother-in-law was seated
behind his parchment-strewn table and looked up in annoyance at John's lack of deference.

‘You took your time, I sent for you long ago!' he snapped.

‘I'm the
king's
coroner, not the sheriff's!' retorted de Wolfe. ‘I'm not at your beck and call. I have other things to do, like arranging the inquest on this fuller.' The sheriff laid down a quill pen and regarded John with a smug expression, which held a hint of triumph. ‘Indeed, your petty inquest! I fear that very soon, that matter will be presented to a far more important court.'

John glowered suspiciously at his brother-in-law. ‘What do you mean by that?'

Richard stood up, carefully smoothing the creases from his cream linen tunic. ‘I think I shall attend this inquest of yours, John,' he said smoothly. ‘Where and when is it to be held?'

Guessing what was in de Revelle's mind, John answered grudgingly. ‘An hour before noon, in the churchyard of St Pancras.'

The sheriff's neat head nodded curtly. ‘I shall be there. Walter Tyrell was a good friend of mine, it is only right that I should pay my respects to his memory.' With an insolent wave of dismissal, he walked to the inner door of his chamber and vanished into his living quarters, shutting the door behind him with a bang.

Fuming with frustration and not a little worried at the way things were moving, de Wolfe stamped back to the gatehouse and sat drumming his fingers on his table. Thomas sensed his master's ill-temper and wisely made himself scarce, claiming that he was off to round up a jury for the inquest.

‘You'd better call in at Milk Lane and tell Gwyn that he should keep away,' ordered the coroner, as the little clerk reached the doorway. ‘There's no point in
exposing him to the spite of the sheriff, for I've a good idea of what de Revelle is trying to do.'

This only succeeded in transferring some of John's anxieties to his clerk and with a worried frown, Thomas pattered off into the busy city streets. An insignificant figure in his threadbare cassock, he pushed his way through the morning crowds of wives doing their shopping, stallholders and hawkers yelling the merits of their goods, porters pushing barrows and others humping great bales of wool. Calling in at the constable's hut, he confirmed that Osric and his colleague were collecting all those who had been present at the scene in Waterbeer Street and making sure they would be at the inquest. From previous experience, the constables were well aware of the coroner's wrath if the arrangements failed to run smoothly and Thomas was confident that the jury would be assembled on time.

Then he set off again to reach Carfoix, the central crossing of the main roads from each of the four gates, the street plan not having altered since Roman times. Crossing to South Gate Street, he averted his head from the daily scene in the Shambles, where cattle and sheep were being slaughtered in the street, blood and offal clogging the central gutter. He hurried on and turned through several lanes to reach Milk Street, to find Gwyn in the large plot behind his sister-in-law's cottage. He was milking a large red cow, who was munching away unconcernedly from a bag of hay hung from her tethering post. A small calf stood nearby, looking indignantly at this large red-headed man who was pouring half her dinner into a wooden bucket.

Thomas delivered his message about the inquest and Gwyn nodded resignedly. ‘I thought this would happen, the bloody sheriff won't miss a chance like this.' He pulled his head away from the cow's flank and called
across to Helen, who was sitting on a stool near the back door, plucking a chicken, several more dead fowls lay at her feet.

‘I'll finish milking the other two beasts, then I'll kill that goose for you,' he shouted, before putting his hands back to the udder.

‘How is your wife?' asked Thomas solicitously.

‘Agnes is just the same, thank you,' said Gwyn. ‘She's not lost the babe so far, though she is still bleeding a little. The good-wife who attends her says that she must lie still for some days, if she is to keep it.'

‘And the boys?'

‘They're no worse, but are listless and can't stand daylight in their eyes. Neither have any appetite, which proves they are unwell, as they are usually as hungry as dogs!'

Thomas, a kindly man who always sympathized with the misfortunes of others, did his best to cheer his friend from his obvious gloom. ‘I can do little for you but pray, Gwyn, but if there is anything else…'

‘Thank you, Thomas! I seem to be cursed with ill luck these past few days. If what I fear will happen, I'll need all the prayers you can muster, so keep in practise!'

 

‘Oyez, oyez, all those who have anything to do before the King's coroner for the County of Devon, draw near and give your attendance.'

Opening the inquest, Thomas's reedy voice contrasted markedly with the stentorian bellow that Gwyn used when he officiated, but it was sufficient to quieten the score of men who were shuffling into a half-circle before the small shed that acted as the mortuary. Behind them, a small crowd of onlookers, some of them women, craned their necks to follow the proceedings. They were all in the dusty yard behind St
Pancras's Church in the middle of the city, but most of the jury wished they were elsewhere, as they had other business to attend to.