Sword of Shame (7 page)

The door on which Walter Tyrell's body had been carried was now resting on two small barrels outside the shed and the corpse itself was decorously covered with a grubby blanket. Alongside it stood Sir John de Wolfe, a ferocious scowl on his face, his usual expression for such legal events. He wore a grey tunic down to his calves, clinched by a thick leather belt, which carried a dagger, but no sword. The spring morning was chill, so he had a mottled wolfskin cloak slung over his shoulders.

After piping his opening chant, Thomas went to sit on a smaller barrel, a board across his knees carrying a parchment roll and pen and ink, on which to record the proceedings. The coroner stepped forward, his fists on his hips, to glare around the assembled jury and the spectators crowded behind them.

‘This is to enquire as to where, when and by what means this man came to his death.' He waved a hand at the still shape under the sheet.

‘He was identified to me earlier this morning by his brother and his widow as Walter Tyrell, a fuller of East Gate Street. Now the First Finder will step forward!'

At this command, the older constable Theobald moved to stand before the coroner and doffed his woollen cap, revealing his bald patch. He related how late last night he and Osric had come across the cadaver at the entrance to the alley. ‘We heard footsteps running away and I gave chase, but was too late to catch anyone,' he said virtuously.

He went on to say how they had raised the hue and cry, rousing all the householders from the nearby dwellings. Failure to have done this would have resulted in a stiff fine, but the town constables knew
their business in this respect. Several other witnesses from Waterbeer Street were called, but all they could add was confirmation of what Theobald and Osric had already described. No one had seen the person running away down the alley nor had they seen Tyrell in the street that night.

De Wolfe then called the widow, who was helped forward by her brother-in-law, a partner in Walter Tyrell's fulling-mill business. Christina, a handsome blonde much younger than her late husband, wore a grey kirtle as a sign of mourning, but was quite composed and seemed in no need of her escort's support.

The coroner softened his manner slightly in deference to her bereaved state. ‘What was your husband doing in the streets that late at night?'

The woman shrugged. ‘He often went out, either to do business or to meet some friends in a tavern. The New Inn and the Plough were his favourite places. I think he was going to pay some merchant for a consignment of fleeces, but I'm not sure.'

‘Can you think of any reason why someone might have slain your husband?' John asked bluntly. ‘Did he have any enemies that you were aware of?'

Christina shook her head. ‘He never spoke much of his business affairs, sir. I can only think that he was set upon by thieves, intent on robbing him.'

John looked across at Osric. ‘Did he have money upon him when he was found?'

‘No, Crowner, he had no purse nor scrip on his belt.'

De Wolfe grunted, as at least one motive–robbery–was a possibility, especially if he had much coin upon him to pay a business debt.

Christina had nothing more to contribute and she stepped back, but John motioned to her brother-in-law to remain and demanded his name.

‘Serlo Tyrell, sir. I was the dead man's brother–and his partner in the business we run on Exe Island.'

‘Do you know of any enemies he might have had, who might wish him ill?'

Serlo, a tall man with curly black hair, was at least a decade younger than his dead brother. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘Well, only the quarrel he had with that Cornishman of yours, begging your pardon,' he muttered.

A murmur ran around the jury and heads turned and nodded. It seemed that the squabble in St Sidwell had become common knowledge in the city.

‘That was a petty matter!' snapped de Wolfe, irritably. ‘I mean do you know of any reason why someone should want to murder your brother?'

‘Well, that big ginger fellow said he'd cut off Walter's head!' retorted Serlo, stubbornly.

As the coroner impatiently waved the man back into the crowd, he caught sight of Richard de Revelle standing at the back of the yard, near the gate. He had a supercilious leer on his face, but rather to John's surprise, made no effort to intervene in the proceedings. No one else had anything to contribute to the sparse evidence, so John addressed the jury-men, three of whom were lads barely fourteen years old.

‘The law demands that you now inspect the body and come to a verdict. I can tell you that in this case there is still much to be done to discover who might be the perpetrator, so the inquest cannot yet be completed.'

He glared around, as if daring anyone to contradict him. ‘However, the corpse needs to be returned to the family for decent burial as soon as possible.'

He beckoned to Thomas, and reluctantly, the little clerk left his parchments and came across to do Gwyn's job. Turning his head aside, he pulled back the sheet
from the dead body, so that the jury could file past while the coroner gave a running commentary.

‘You will see the deceased has suffered a massive wound in the neck, which has cut through his skin and flesh down to the bones.'

Some of the jury were old soldiers or had worked on farms where blood and mangled flesh was no novelty, but others became deathly pale and several covered up their eyes, looking through slits between their fingers, as if this would reduce the horror. Curiously, the widow Christina stared stoically across the yard at her husband's corpse, ignoring Serlo's comforting arm around her shoulders.

‘The skin shows jagged edges, where the blade of some weapon has been dragged across the neck,' went on de Wolfe remorselessly.

The oldest juror, who John recognized as a former man-at-arms from Rougemont, asked him a question after they had all filed past. ‘What weapon did that, Crowner? It must have been sharp and heavy.'

De Wolfe nodded. ‘A long knife or a cleaver–or maybe a hedging hook.' He deliberately avoided mentioning a sword, but the old soldier foiled him.

‘Could have been a sword, I reckon. Gone deep into the neck.'

‘It could have been,' agreed the coroner, but he added evasively, ‘But who carries a sword within the city walls?'

There seemed little else to discuss and after going into a huddle for a moment, the jury reached their verdict. The old soldier spoke up for them.

‘We agree that he was slain, but we can't tell who did it,' he announced, rather truculently. De Wolfe nodded and put his informal decision more officially.

‘Then I proclaim that Walter Tyrell was found dead in Waterbeer Street on the eighth day of April in the
year of Our Lord 1195 and that he was murdered against the King's Peace by a person or persons unknown.'

The proceedings over, the jury thankfully melted away and the corpse was transferred to a handcart to take it back to the house. As he watched the widow escorted away by the dead man's brother, John wondered if Serlo would take over more of Walter's duties than just running the fulling mill. Still, it was none of his business and he turned to Thomas, who was gathering up his writing materials.

‘That didn't get us very far,' he grumbled. ‘I doubt we'll ever find who killed the fellow.'

‘Try a little nearer home, John!' came a voice behind him and turning sharply, he saw it was the sheriff, who must have walked around the edge of the yard to come upon him unawares.

‘And just what do you mean by that, Richard?'

De Revelle, richly attired against the cool day in a cloak lined with ermine, gave his brother-in-law a sardonic smile.

‘You know well enough what I mean. That great lump of a Cornishman that you employ is at the bottom of this–and I mean to bring him to justice, for it's clear that you'll do nothing.'

‘Gwyn? Don't talk such nonsense, why should he be involved in this?'

De Revelle leered at John. ‘He struck Walter Tyrell, then threatened to cut his head off–by the looks of that wound, he almost succeeded!'

‘My officer had nothing to do with this! You're just intent on making trouble.'

The sheriff pirouetted on one of his fashionably long-toed shoes. ‘So why wasn't he here doing his usual duties? You are keeping him out of sight, perhaps?'

The gibe was too near the truth for comfort, but
John retaliated. ‘The man has family troubles–both his wife and his children are sick.'

‘Don't try to evade the issue, John. I have two witnesses who will swear to hearing his threats. Tyrell had quite rightly appealed this ruffian, both for assault and for restitution of the house that was destroyed through your man's negligence.'

Impatiently, de Wolfe swung away from his brother-in-law. ‘I've got better things to do that listen to your vindictive nonsense, Richard.' He gestured angrily at his clerk. ‘Come on, Thomas, we've work to do back at Rougemont!' He strode away, but the sheriff's voice followed him.

‘I'm having him arrested, John–for assault and suspicion of murder!'

 

That afternoon, a group of worried people gathered in the Bush Inn in Idle Lane, a tavern in the lower part of the city, towards the West Gate. In the large tap-room that formed the whole ground floor, John de Wolfe sat at his favourite table near the fire-pit, with Gwyn and Thomas sitting opposite. Next to him was Nesta, his mistress and landlady of the ale-house. She was a pretty Welsh widow of twenty-eight, with a heart-shaped face and a snub nose, whose auburn-hair peeped out from under her coif, a linen helmet tied under her chin. The coroner and his officer had quart pots of Nesta's best ale in front of them and Thomas had a small cup of cider. The drink failed to cheer any of them, as they were discussing the sheriff's threat to arrest Gwyn.

‘He doesn't give a damn about Walter Tyrell or his death,' growled de Wolfe. ‘This is just a golden opportunity to get back at me.'

There was a continuing feud between the coroner and sheriff, as John had good reason to suspect Richard of both embezzling from the county taxes and being
an active sympathizer with the Prince John faction, still aiming to unseat King Richard from the throne. Though their last rebellion had failed–which was how Gwyn had come by his new sword that had belonged to the traitor Pomeroy–there were still powerful men who supported the younger prince. Richard de Revelle had political ambitions and hoped that by secretly adhering to the rebels, he would eventually reap his reward when John became king.

‘He's got no proof, only a couple of lying bastards from St Sidwell who would testify to anything for a handful of pennies!' said the coroner, trying to reassure the Cornishman.

Gwyn was not so sanguine about the situation. ‘Tyrell had already got a writ from the sheriff accusing me of assaulting him and demanding compensation for his burned house,' he grunted. ‘So when Tyrell turns up dead, de Revelle reckons I had a good reason to get rid of him.'

‘But there's no proof, Gwyn,' piped up Thomas, anxious for the welfare of his colleague. Though Gwyn teased him unmercifully, they were the best of friends, the big man always being very protective of the puny ex-priest.

‘When did that awful man ever need proof?' said Nesta bitterly. She had seen examples in the past of the Sheriff's vindictiveness.

‘What can we do?' shrilled Thomas, almost beside himself with anxiety. ‘Would it be best if Gwyn left the city for a while–maybe went down to Cornwall to stay with his relatives?'

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘That would be looked on as running away and an admission of guilt. We have to fight this malicious attempt with the truth!'

‘Find the swine who really killed Tyrell, that's the only way,' growled Gwyn.

‘Exactly! And I'll start this very day,' promised the coroner. ‘The problem is that you can't be involved, Gwyn–at least not openly.'

‘I'll do what I can, sir,' offered Thomas, desperate to do something to help his big friend. ‘I have many contacts amongst the lower ranks of the clergy. They are a gossipy lot and know much of what goes on in the city, as well as in the cathedral Close.'

Nesta, not to be outdone, also promised to sound out her patrons. The Bush was a popular tavern and her strong ale was very effective in loosening the tongues of the scores of drinkers who passed through every day.

With no more ideas to discuss, de Wolfe sent Gwyn back to Milk Lane to be with his ailing family and then took himself up to Rougemont to see if any of the idle chatter in the hall might throw any light on Walter Tyrell's private life.

 

A little over an hour later, Sergeant Gabriel climbed the steps of the keep, a worried expression on his rugged face. He stood inside the main door for a moment, scanning the busy hall. Clerks bustled about with documents, pushing past groups of townsfolk and country bailiffs awaiting audience with officials. A few off-duty soldiers mingled with merchants and a few priests. Some were eating or drinking at tables, others were in animated conversation or raucous laughter. Gabriel soon spotted John de Wolfe leaning against the bare stone wall near the half-circle of the fire-pit, a quart mug of ale in his hand. He was talking earnestly to a couple of burgesses, hoping to get some information about the dead fuller's business affairs.

The sergeant went across to him and discreetly touched his arm. ‘Sir John, I think you had better come down to the undercroft straight away,' he said quietly, with a jerk of his head to emphasize the urgency.

The coroner excused himself from his acquaintances and setting his ale-pot down on a nearby table, followed Gabriel across to the entrance.

‘What's going on? Why the undercroft?' This was the damp and gloomy basement of the keep, part of it being used for the castle gaol, the rest for storage.

‘The sheriff has had Gwyn arrested! He sent four of my men-at-arms down for him, without even telling me.' Gabriel was outraged at this, as well as being anxious for Gwyn, his closest drinking and gaming friend.