‘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.
John clattered down the stairs, furious but not altogether surprised at the sudden turn of events. ‘The bloody man is determined to get at me over this!’ he snarled. ‘But I didn’t think he’d act so quickly.’
They hurried to the entrance of the undercroft, which was partly below ground level. Ducking under a low arch at the bottom of the few steps, they entered a wide, gloomy vault, the roof supported by pillars. On the left was a stone wall with a rusty metal grille, leading into the prison cells. Outside this was a small group of people, dimly lit by the flickering flames of several pitch torches set in rings on the wall. As well as a few uneasy-looking soldiers standing around Gwyn’s towering figure, John also saw the sheriff and his chief clerk. The others included Ralph Morin, the constable of the castle–and Tyrell’s widow Christina and his brother Serlo. In the background hovered two men who had been neighbours of Gwyn’s in St Sidwell–and there was Stigand, the grossly obese gaoler, looking as if he was hoping for a chance to employ his implements of torture.
De Wolfe strode across to the group and, ignoring the sheriff, spoke to Ralph Morin, a good friend who shared his dislike of Richard de Revelle. ‘What in hell’s going on, Ralph?’ he demanded in a loud voice.
&
nbsp; Morin, another very large man with a forked beard that enhanced his resemblance to a Viking warrior, began to explain, but was cut across by the strident tones of the sheriff.
‘I’ve had him arrested, John! And unless he can produce some very good evidence of his innocence, he’s going straight to prison to await trial at my court next week!’
John stepped across to stand close in front of his brother-in-law and glared down furiously from his greater height.
‘So, he’s guilty until proved innocent, is he? I thought it was supposed to be the other way around!’
De Revelle stepped back hastily, half-afraid that John was going to strike him. Then he swept an arm around to indicate wife and brother. ‘These good people came to me after your travesty of an inquest today, to demand proper justice! You did nothing to name or even place suspicion on any perpetrator!’
‘If you knew anything about the law, Richard, you’d realize that an inquest is not a trial! That’s down to the king’s justices when they come to the Eyre of Assize.’
‘Nonsense! For centuries, my Shire Court has been sufficient for any type of case. Your new-fangled royal courts are merely a device to extort money!’
De Wolfe gave a mocking laugh. ‘Well, you’re an expert in that subject, Sheriff! Now what are you doing here with my officer? He’s a servant of the king like me, so tread very carefully.’
Serlo Tyrell stepped forward, indignant and truculent. ‘That big Cornishman killed my brother and left this woman widowed. Everything points to him, and we want justice!’
‘I never killed anyone!’ yelled Gwyn, who had so far held his tongue. ‘Even though it means speaking ill of the dead, that Walter falsely accused me of letting his poxy cottage burn down. Then he struck me and when I defended myself, he pulled a knife on me!’
‘And then you threatened to kill him,’ cried the sheriff, in his high pitched voice. ‘These two men from St Sidwell will vouch for that.’ He pointed at the pair, who shuffled their feet uncomfortably.
‘And when and how is he supposed to have done that?’ demanded John. The widow entered the fray, with a harsh demand to know where Gwyn was at the time of the murder. ‘He could have been anywhere about the streets!’ shrilled Christina. ‘Ask him where he was.’
‘I was down with my family in Milk Lane!’ boomed Gwyn, angrily. ‘Then I went back to a game of dice in the castle guardroom until I found a bed in one of the barrack huts.’
‘That’s easy to say, fellow!’ snapped de Revelle. ‘Can you prove it?’
Exasperated, Gwyn turned to de Wolfe. ‘Do I have to answer these damn-fool questions, Crowner? My wife and all my sister’s family will vouch for me being there–and half the bloody garrison saw me at Rougemont!’
Before John could answer him, the sheriff snapped out another question, intent on building a web of suspicion around the Cornishman.
‘And what time did you leave Milk Lane–and when did you arrive at the castle, eh?’
‘How the hell would I know? I don’t carry a graduated church candle about with me! The cathedral is the only place that knows the time in this city. It was all before the Matins bell, that’s for sure.’
John was getting increasingly angry with his brother-in-law. ‘These questions are futile, Richard! As my officer says, who can tell the time except by guesswork? It is either night or day and apart from that, the cathedral bells are the only measure we have. Unless you have some better evidence than this, I suggest we all go home!’
De Revelle smirked and preened himself by throwing one edge of his furred cloak over a shoulder to reveal his fine embroidered tunic.
‘At this so-called inquest you held today, you admitted to the jury that the mortal injuries suffered by the victim could have been caused by a sword. Is that not correct, John?’
‘Of course, it is possible,’ agreed John, suspiciously. ‘But they could equally well have been made by a dagger, a large carving knife or even a reaping hook.’
‘But your servant there habitually carries a sword,’ continued de Revelle suavely. ‘In fact, I understand that he has just acquired a new one.’ He turned and snapped his fingers at the gaoler, who waddled to a nearby table and brought across Gwyn’s weapon, resplendent in its handsome scabbard.
‘This is the one, is it not? It was taken from the dwelling in Milk Street when I had him arrested.’
Gwyn stared blankly at the sword, then at the sheriff, who stood with a smugly satisfied expression on his narrow face. ‘Yes, that’s mine! What of it?’
De Wolfe took a step forward and snatched it from Stigand’s hands. He partly withdrew the blade to satisfy himself by the Latin inscription that it was indeed the weapon that he had purchased for his officer.
‘So what significance has this, Sheriff?’ he demanded. ‘Would you like to see my sword as well?’ he added sarcastically. ‘And those of the hundreds of men in Exeter who carry one?’
‘I have no interest in other men’s swords, John,’ retorted Richard smoothly. ‘Only the one belonging to the man who had the best motive and the opportunity to kill Walter Tyrell.’
He stepped across to de Wolfe and withdrew the blade completely from its sheath. Waving it gently about, he spoke again to the mystified Gwyn. ‘This weapon came into your possession only within the last couple of days–and before that, did it not lay for some time with Roger Trudogge, a well-known armourer of this city?’
Gwyn grudgingly grunted his agreement, still unclear as to where all this was leading.
‘And no doubt, that good armourer would have cleaned and polished the sword, to increase his chances of selling it?’
Again Gwyn could not deny that that was probable and watched with a furrowed brow as Richard de Revelle pulled out a handkerchief of fine white cambric from the sleeve of his tunic. Stigand had obviously been primed beforehand, as he held out a small leather bucket of moderately clean rain-water. The sheriff dipped his kerchief into it, then squeezed the water from it, so that it remained damp.
‘So as that armourer had thoroughly cleaned this blade, anything found upon it must have got there since you took possession?’
De Revelle obviously expected no answer to his question, as he began busily running the folded linen down the full length of the blade, taking particular care to press it along edges of the central rib and into the indentations of the inscriptions. Handing the sword back to Stigand, he opened out the handkerchief and with a flourish, displayed it to the curious onlookers.
With a scream, Christina Tyrell staggered against her brother-in-law, who grabbed her to prevent her falling.
‘My husband’s blood!’ she screeched dramatically, conveniently forgetting that she had gazed unmoved at the far worse sight of his mutilated body during the inquest.
The sheriff triumphantly waved the pink-stained cloth at de Wolfe. ‘Can anyone now doubt that this lethal weapon has been used to slash flesh and draw blood since it was purchased?’ he brayed. ‘I now charge that man, Gwyn of Polruan, with the murder of Walter Tyrell. Take him away and see that he is brought before me at the Shire Court next week!’
There was confusion in the undercroft for several minutes, as Gwyn struggled against the four soldiers who closed in on him. The widow continued to wail and sob, the dead man’s brother began shouting abuse at the suspect and the sheriff hurried away, a satisfied leer on his face.
Only John de Wolfe remained ominously calm, as he picked a small object from the edge of the slot in Gwyn’s scabbard and carefully placed it in the pouch on his belt.
‘It was a damned set-up, that’s what it was!’ snarled John, thumping the table with his fist. He was back in the Bush again that afternoon, with Nesta and Thomas, but instead of the usual Gwyn, Sergeant Gabriel was sitting in his place.
‘So how did that blood get on the blade, master?’ quavered Thomas. ‘As the sheriff said, the sword must have been well-cleaned by that armourer, before he offered it for sale.’
De Wolfe fished in the p
ouch on his belt and pulled out a small wisp of something, which he carefully laid on the boards of the trestle. He placed the edge of his ale-mug on it, to stop it being blown away.
‘I picked that from the top edge of the scabbard,’ he explained. ‘It was stuck by a little blob of dried blood to the slot where the blade enters.’
Nesta peered at it closely. ‘It’s a tiny feather! From a red chicken, by the looks of it.’ John nodded, a grim expression on his face. ‘Faked evidence! After Gwyn’s sword was snatched from the house in Milk Lane when they arrested him, either de Revelle, or more likely someone acting for him, quickly smeared some blood from a dead fowl on the blade and let it dry.’
Thomas nodded his understanding ‘Of course! Why else would the sheriff even think of rubbing the blade with his handkerchief, unless he already knew that he could discover some blood?’
‘How can he be allowed to get away with it?’ hissed Nesta, livid with anger at this plot against one of her best friends.
De Wolfe shrugged helplessly. ‘He represents the king! In Devon, there’s no one who can dispute his authority.’
‘Can’t you appeal to someone over de Revelle’s head?’ she asked.
‘It would take too long, my love!’ he replied bitterly. ‘It would take a couple of weeks to get a response from the Chief Justiciar in Winchester, even assuming he was there and not in London–or even visiting the king in Normandy.’
The grizzled sergeant nodded. ‘The bloody sheriff will have Gwyn convicted and hanged before then, for that’s what he wants.’
‘Can the bishop do nothing?’ persisted Nesta, her face pale with anxiety. ‘Surely he wouldn’t want an innocent man executed?’
John gave a harsh, cynical laugh. ‘Henry Marshal? He’s almost as bad as de Revelle. A secret supporter of Prince John’s treachery–he wouldn’t lift a finger to help.’
Thomas surreptitiously crossed himself at this defamation of the leader of the Church in Devon and Cornwall, though privately he knew it was true. ‘Is there nothing we can do?’ he wailed. ‘We can’t let Gwyn go to the gallows next week.’
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