True to his word, Archdeacon John de Alençon came soon after dawn with his nephew Thomas and a covered wagon drawn by a black mare. They all said prayers over Matilda’s body, Thomas being very concerned that she had not received the last rites before her dying breath. Then several lay brothers from the cathedral carried the bier out to the wagon and John was left alone again.
During the morning, all his usual friends came in to talk to him and keep him company for a while, but he was fretting to get news of his family in Stoke-in-Teignhead and of Hilda in Dawlish. He expected either the bailiff or reeve from Stoke to come and possibly the reeve from Holcombe, Hilda’s father, whom he had known for almost all his life.
Around noon, he was waiting for the dinner that Gwyn had promised to bring him, spending the time in anguished thought about how he could possibly track down his wife’s killer. If no other means offered itself, he decided he would somehow break out of the castle and go into hiding in the city, though with his distinctive appearance that would be very difficult. Even his height alone, apart from his black hair and great hooked nose, made him stand out in a city where virtually everyone knew him by sight. He was morosely contemplating these problems when a voice hailed him from the doorway.
‘John, I’ve brought you your dinner!’
His head jerked up and delight filled his face when he saw Hilda coming across the nave, with his mother close behind. Lurking near the door were Gwyn and Thomas, holding back from this family meeting.
Hilda, grasping a basket in her hands, stood aside while Enyd de Wolfe rushed forward and hugged her son to her breast. Though a tough, resolute woman, there were tears in her eyes, as there were in Hilda’s, when she in turn fell into John’s arms.
When the emotion of the moment had passed, they sat on the stone ledge, with John between the two women.
‘Gwyn and Thomas have told us all the details of this ridiculous arrest,’ began Enyd, but her son cut her short.
‘First, I must know about William. I am almost afraid to ask!’
His mother’s face broke into a smile, though tears appeared again in her eyes. ‘Dear Thomas’s fervent prayers, added to ours, have been answered, John!’ she said. ‘You brother is recovering, though slowly. His wits returned yesterday and his bladder functions again for the first time in weeks.’
Overjoyed, John grasped Enyd around the waist and kissed her fervently, then turned to give several more kisses to Hilda.
‘That news puts all my troubles in the shade,’ he boomed. ‘Hear that, Gwyn and Thomas? William is on the road to recovery!’
‘It will take some time,’ warned his mother. ‘On Saturday a White Canon came from the new Torre Abbey, learned in physic. He confirmed what Thomas had said, that with the yellow plague, many die, some recover quickly and others take weeks or months to get back to health.’
Immensely relieved by the news, John allowed them to pass on to Matilda’s death and all the drama that had followed, which again reduced the two women to tears of concern over his present precarious position.
‘What can you do to destroy this vile accusation?’ sobbed his mother. ‘That evil man de Revelle – I would like to tear his heart out!’
‘Maybe I will, if you can’t get out of here to do it yourself, John,’ said Hilda, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve. De Wolfe recalled that this was the stalwart woman who the previous year had gone looking for her husband’s assassins and had actually killed one of them with her own hand.1
His mother soon insisted that he begin eating the game pie and grilled trout that the good Martha had sent for him.
‘She is a wonderful woman. You are lucky to have her for a wife, Gwyn!’ she said. ‘We are staying at the Bush until this nonsense is settled.’
John soon learned that the two women had ridden all the way on horseback, shunning any form of cart or litter. With a bailiff and a reeve as escort, his mother had travelled from Stoke across the Teign on the Shaldon ferry and stayed with Hilda the previous night, coming on to Exeter that morning.
When the food had been eaten and every detail of the story recounted, John made them tell him again of the way in which William had showed signs of recovery and the degree to which he was improving.
‘He is now quite rational in his speech, thank God, though very weak,’ said his mother, crossing herself in unison with Thomas, who stood behind, smiling benignly. ‘He recalls almost nothing of the many days that he was delirious and without speech, but already he is planning the crops he wants planted in the spring! Evelyn has stayed behind to care for him; otherwise she would have been with us.’
After an hour Enyd pleaded fatigue, though she looked as energetic as ever, but she made Gwyn and Thomas escort her back to the Bush for food and rest – an obvious ploy to leave Hilda alone with her son.
The two sat side by side on the cold stone, holding hands, the most they felt able to do in this consecrated place.
‘What will become of us, John?’ she asked quietly. ‘I know you can hang for this unless the real killer can be unmasked.’
‘That will never happen, Hilda my love,’ he said with a confidence that he did not fully believe. ‘I have forty days’ grace, but I shall not stay in here for long. Henry de Furnellis is in a difficult position and I would not wish to get him into deep trouble by allowing him to connive at my escape. But I will manage it, never fear. I have given no promise not to try.’
Neither of them wished to mention the obvious consequence of Matilda’s death, that he was now a free man. With her body as yet unburied and John committed to trial for murder, it was a forbidden subject, yet both of them knew that the possible outcome hovered unbidden over them.
Eventually, he reluctantly sent her away to join his mother at the Bush, with her promise that she and Enyd would come again that evening. All his friends came one by one during the rest of the day, including Mary, who brought Brutus up to see him at the door of the chapel. His first news for every visitor was the recovery of his brother, not a discussion of his own predicament. He even joined Brother Rufus on his knees at the altar in solemn and genuine thanksgiving for William’s escape from death.
Henry de Furnellis came to see him late in the afternoon and again pleaded for John’s understanding of the difficult position in which he had been placed by Aubrey de Courtenay.
‘He is strongly under the influence of Richard de Revelle, who detests me for replacing him as sheriff,’ he said bitterly. ‘Though God knows I did not seek the bloody job! All I want is a quiet life down at my manor, but if I put a foot wrong over this affair he will see that I am dishonoured and ruined.’
Once again, John tried to assure his friend that he knew the problem and he forbade Henry to take any risks with his honour and reputation. ‘But that doesn’t mean that I will miss any opportunity to find a way out of this damned place!’ he added vehemently.
They went over the same old ground again, trying to think of possible suspects and ways to flush them out, but made no progress.
‘I suppose I could re-arrest those two swine we had here in the undercroft, if they poke their noses outside the cathedral Close,’ suggested the sheriff. ‘Then I could set Stigand on to them and see what he can wring out of them with his persuasive instruments!’
‘That will get you into trouble with the bishop, Henry,’ warned John. ‘Best let things lie for the moment. I’ll think of something. I still have Gwyn and clever little Thomas to work for me on the outside.’
When Henry had gone, John sat slumped on his flinty ledge as yet another dusk began to creep over the city. He rubbed his chin, where a black stubble was forming, as he had missed his weekly wash and shave on Saturday. His black hair, worn long at the back, was greasy and tangled, and he felt generally grubby and unkempt. ‘Forty days of this and I’ll be looking like some wild hermit from a cave on Dartmoor!’ he muttered to himself.
In desperation he began plotting how to escape from Rougemont, the fortress on the hill. John had noticed
an old Benedictine habit belonging to Rufus hanging in an alcove at the back of the chapel. He thought he might pass himself off as the chaplain, if he padded his belly with a blanket to imitate the fat monk’s figure and pulled the hood well over his face. Getting past the sentry at the gate was the problem, but maybe Gwyn could cause some sort of diversion to distract him, such as a fire at the other end of the inner ward. He decided to broach the subject when the Cornishman brought up his supper that evening. But once again Fate had other plans.
Mary was seated in her kitchen-hut at the back of John’s house, thinking what she might take up to him tomorrow for his dinner. When she had visited him earlier, she demanded to be allowed to feed him, as well as the supply from the Bush.
‘I am your cook, Sir Coroner!’ she claimed, using the title she employed when she was annoyed or sarcastic. ‘You house me and pay for the food we eat, so I am going to feed you.’ Her mild impertinence was a cover for her deep concern for him, as well as for her own future if he ended up swinging at the end of a rope. She sat fondling the old hound’s ears and trying to decide between another meat pie, which was easier to eat at the back of a church, or a grilled fowl in a basket.
As she sat in the fading evening light, she gradually became aware of a moaning sound nearby. Brutus pricked up his ears and padded out of the shed, his head cocked on one side as he listened.
‘What is it, lad?’ she asked him, as he stared at the high wooden fence that separated their yard from the one next door. The dog gave a deep woof and went to the bottom of the fence and scratched at the rough boards. Mary put her eye to one of the narrow cracks but could see nothing in the poor light. Then the sound came again, a gasping croak, followed by more soft moaning.
Unable to see over the fence, the cook-maid turned and ran up the wooden steps that led to the solar, the room that projected high up from the back of the house. Halfway up, she peered over into the next-door yard and saw someone lying on the ground, moving feebly. Mary shouted down, but there was no response. As she hurried back down the steps, Lucille emerged from her cubicle underneath, disturbed by the footsteps and the shouting.
‘What’s happening, Mary?’ she said fearfully, her nervous nature already stretched to its limit by all the recent troubles. The two women were not good friends, as Mary knew she had often carried tales to Matilda, but the present upheaval in the household had submerged their differences.
‘It looks as if Mistress Cecilia has been taken ill. I hope by every saint in the calendar that it’s not the plague!’
The dark-haired cook jogged around the side passage to the vestibule and went out into Martin’s Lane, Lucille following timidly in her wake. Mention of the plague had abruptly dampened her willingness to help, but she felt obliged to see what was happening.
Mary ran to the front door of the doctor’s house and saw that it was wide open. At the threshold, she called out, as a servant had no right to barge in to someone else’s dwelling, but there was no response. With Lucille close behind, she stepped straight into the darkened hall, as there was no vestibule as in the de Wolfe house.
The door to the yard was at the back of the large chamber, and a faint rectangle of light showed that it, too, was open. Mary made towards it but was pulled up by a piercing shriek from the French woman behind her, who had veered off slightly to her left and tripped over the legs of a body on the floor.
Their eyes now better used to the gloom, Mary saw that Cecilia’s young maid was crumpled on the rushes. When she knelt near her, she was relieved to hear her still breathing, though in a jerky, snoring fashion. She smelled blood and, feeling with her hands in the girl’s fair hair, found a sticky patch, already swelling under her fingers.
Lucille was blubbering with fright, but Mary was made of much sterner stuff. She rose to her feet and shook the maid by her thin shoulders.
‘Stop that stupid noise, girl!’ she commanded. ‘Now run over to Andrew in the stables and tell him that someone has been attacked and to raise the hue and cry. Hurry, damn you!’
She pushed Lucille towards the door and bent over the maid again. There was nothing she could do for her in the dark and moving her might cause more damage. The unexpected finding had momentarily driven from her mind the fact that there was someone else moaning outside. She sped to the back door and went out into the yard, where there was still some twilight.
‘God preserve us from more bodies!’ she muttered as she saw yet another figure lying on the cold earth, between the privy and the well. ‘At least this one is still moving.’
Once more, she dropped to her knees. This time alongside Cecilia, for it was the mistress of the house who was sprawled face down on the dirt, making harsh, guttural noises, alternating with pitiful moans. Mary tried to lift her up but only managed to roll her on to her back, where her croaking breaths became more laboured. Squatting on the ground, Mary hoisted her shoulders up and cradled her on her lap, feeling powerless to do any more for the ailing woman.
‘At least it’s not the damned plague,’ she murmured distractedly. ‘But is someone trying to assassinate all the women in Martin’s Lane?’
Thankfully, there was the noise of boots in the hall and Andrew, the red-headed farrier from across the lane, appeared with one of his stable boys.
‘I’ve sent for help. The constables and some neighbours will soon be here!’ he announced tersely. His groom held a lantern, a pair of candles behind a window of thin horn, which was enough to dimly illuminate the scene. By its flickering light they could see that Cecilia’s face was congested and puffy, with a speckle of blood spots in the whites of her eyes. Mary pulled away her cover-chief to release a cascade of black hair and, in case it was impeding her breathing, loosened the silken gorget which ran from ear to ear under her chin.
‘Look at her neck!’ exclaimed the farrier. ‘Covered in bruises, poor lady!’
Mary recalled that it was the second time in a few days that she had seen marks like this, then her mind soared! Surely two such stranglings, not fifty paces apart, must have been made by the same attacker? And that could not be John de Wolfe, as he was incarcerated in St Mary’s Chapel!
Her elation was promptly interrupted by Cecilia, who grasped the arm that was supporting her and began croaking unintelligibly.
‘You are safe now, mistress,’ soothed Mary. ‘Help is coming soon, then we will get you to bed.’ She almost added that they would also send for a physician, until she realised that the only doctor this side of Bristol was the woman’s own husband.
In spite of Mary’s reassurance, the injured woman persisted in trying to speak. Putting her ear closer and telling Cecilia to whisper instead of trying to croak, she managed after several attempts to make out a few words.
‘Clement … my husband … tried to kill me … just as he killed poor Matilda!’
John de Wolfe was sitting on his ledge in the garrison chapel, thinking rather selfishly that they were late with his supper tonight, as his stomach was rumbling. For the moment he was dwelling more on his hunger than on his serious predicament.
It was now virtually dark and he had lit one of his thin rushlights from the single candle that burned on the altar, sticking the grease-soaked reed between two cracks in the masonry.
Suddenly, he heard running feet echoing in the gatehouse archway and some indistinct shouting. Before he could get to the porch, the bulky figure of Brother Rufus burst in, shouting for him.
‘John! Gwyn has just come up from town, seeking the sheriff. He told me to tell you that your next-door neighbour has been attacked!’
‘What! Clement the physician?’
‘No, it’s his wife! Their maid is injured as well.’
‘Did Gwyn say who did it? What the hell’s going on?’ demanded de Wolfe.
The chaplain shook his head, dimly seen in the gloom. ‘I don’t know, your man didn’t stop. He was heading for the keep to get Henry de Furnellis.’
‘Henry’s not there. He told me he was going back
to his house,’ exclaimed John, agitated that something important was going on and he was not a part of it. He fumed for a moment, then pushed past Rufus to get to the door.
‘I’m going out and to hell with the consequences!’ he snarled. ‘I must know what’s happening out there.’
The monk grabbed him with a very strong arm. ‘Wait, John! If you break sanctuary, you may pay for it with your life. I’ll go and find out what all this is about, before you do anything rash.’ He vanished and, moving quickly for such a big man, hurried over to the keep. At the foot of the wooden stairs that went up to the entrance, he met Ralph Morin clattering down, Gwyn close behind him.
‘We must collect the sheriff from North Gate Street and get down to Martin’s Lane as fast as we can!’ shouted the castle constable.
As the three men set off across the inner ward, Ralph yelled at a passing soldier and told him to collect Sergeant Gabriel and half a dozen men, to follow them down to the town.
‘De Wolfe was on the point of breaking out when he heard the news,’ panted Rufus, his bulk beginning to slow him down. ‘I managed to stop him, but not for long, I suspect!’
Morin stopped dead near the gatehouse. Tugging at his forked beard, he made a decision. ‘He can come with us now! I’ll vouch for him. I’ll say he’s my prisoner under parole.’
Gwyn shot towards the chapel and immediately emerged with the coroner, who had been standing in the porch in a fever of anxiety.
‘We’re all going down to find Henry,’ snapped Morin, starting to jog again. ‘Officially, you’re my prisoner, John, so please don’t make a run for it!’
‘Why the hell should I do that now?’ retorted de Wolfe. ‘It sounds as if this might vindicate me, though I’m still not clear what’s happened.’
A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 33