Sword of Shame

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘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 cross
ing 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.

  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 f
ingers, 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.