Sword of Shame

by The Medieval Murderers

  De Wolfe waited while he picked a fish-bone from his teeth, as it was a Friday and they had the usual salt haddock instead of meat. ‘I was nowhere near the South Gate that night, Matilda–as you well know,’ he said calmly, knowing that it would irritate her all the more.

  ‘My brother says you organized the whole shameful affair,’ she snapped, her square face scowling across the table.

  ‘Just as he organized the far more shameful deception that put my officer there in the first place!’ countered John. ‘So let’s just say that God evened up the score by letting those five men escape, one of whom happened to be Gwyn.’

  Matilda angrily thrust back her chair, the legs scraping noisily on the flagstones. ‘How dare you blaspheme, taking the name of God in defence of that Cornish savage!’ she ranted. ‘You’ve already desecrated St Martin’s by housing him there! I’m going to St Olave’s to pray for your soul, for it seems in dire need of salvation.’ With that, she lifted up the hem of her heavy brocade kirtle and stalked out of the hall, yelling for her timid French maid to come and help her dress for her devotions.

  John took his time finishing his dinner, then sat at his hearth with a pot of cider, looking into the fire while he fondled the head of his old dog. The flaming logs reminded him of the destruction of Gwyn’s cottage, which had started this sorry chain of events. Though his officer claimed that his recent ill-fortune was due to the acquisition of his new sword, the fire had occurred before that, as had the sickness of his sons.

  He churned the matter around in his head, but saw no way of pushing ahead with his suspicions of Serlo Tyrell. He intended confronting him as soon as he returned from Buckfast, though the man was hardly likely to admit his guilt, short of extracting a confession by torture. For a moment, John contemplated Christina as a possible suspect, given her apparent lack of genuine emotion at the sight of her husband’s corpse and the patently false hysteria at the sight of the sheriff’s stained handkerchief. But though he did not subscribe to the common notion that frail women could not inflict such serious wounds–and Mistress Tyrell was by no means frail–he doubted that she would risk a hanging just to exchange one brother for another.

  He heard the street door slam behind Matilda as she stormed off to pray for his soul at St Olave’s, the maid Lucille pattering apprehensively behind her. As he rose from his chair, their cook-maid bustled in to clear the debris of the meal and John put an affectionate hand on her bottom as she leaned over the table. She removed it rather reluctantly and turned to him with a reproving smile.

  ‘That’s enough of that, Sir Crowner! Keep that for the ale-house in Idle Lane!’

  Mary knew all about his having a mistress, as did most of Exeter, and John suspected she was a little jealous, even though it had been she who had kept him at arm’s length these past few months.

  Facing him with empty ale jars in her hand, she became more serious. ‘This murder that’s got poor Gwyn into such trouble–I was talking to a girl I know when I was at the fish stall this morning. She lives in Waterbeer Street and told me something about this Walter Tyrell.’

  John’s attention was gripped at once. Just as Nesta sometimes picked up useful information from her patrons at the tavern, so Mary passed on gossip from the house-servants that formed an effective grapevine across the city. He waited for more, though Mary looked slightly embarrassed.

  ‘To be frank, she’s a whore who works in one of the stews there–but a pleasant woman, with two babes to support,’ she said defensively. ‘Anyway, she said that the dead man was a regular customer. Not one of hers, but he frequently visited a girl called Bernice. It seems he was always very furtive about going there, muffled in a hooded cloak and using a back alley instead of the street. In fact, the alley where he was found dead, for it’s only a few dozen paces from the brothel.’

  Mary had no more details to offer, but as John thoughtfully made his way up towards his chamber in the castle, he wondered if the information might be put to any use. Did it strengthen the case against Serlo or perhaps even Christina? If Walter had to resort to harlots, when he had a young, attractive wife at home, did this point to greater marital disharmony than his chief clerk admitted? Could his wife or his brother–or both of them in concert–have followed him to this house of ill-repute and killed two birds with one stone? Removing an unfaithful husband who stood in the way of their own passion and at the same time, gaining the rest of a flourishing business?

  His garret at the top of the gatehouse was empty. Thomas was nowhere to be seen and the window-sill where Gwyn always sat was poignantly bare.

  John sat at his table and reluctantly picked up a parchment covered with simple words and phrases in Latin, as he was painfully learning to read and write, being coached by both Thomas and a vicar from the cathedral.

  His mind kept wandering from the manuscript and after a while, he was glad to hear footsteps on the stairs as a welcome diversion. It was Thomas de Peyne, breathless and agitated.

  ‘Crowner, I have heard disturbing news at the cathedral!’ He leaned on the table to gabble at his master. ‘A deacon I know told me that this morning, the sheriff arrived seeking an audience with the bishop, but when he learnt that His Grace was in Coventry, he fell into a temper, then sought out the Precentor instead. They had their heads together for some time, calling in two other canons into the Chapter House.’

  When Thomas named them, de Wolfe recognized a pair of the sheriff’s cronies, Prince John sympathizers like Thomas de Boterellis, the Precentor–and indeed, like Bishop Marshal himself.

  ‘Do you know what it was all about?’ he demanded.

  ‘This deacon tried to listen at the door, for he is very nosey,’ said Thomas virtuously. ‘But a proctor chased him away so the only words he managed to hear were about “breaking sanctuary”!’

  The coroner shot to his feet, tipping over his bench with crash. ‘The bastard! Surely he wouldn’t dare?’ he snarled. ‘Thomas, you are a churchman, surely it is inviolable?’

  The clerk, a fount of knowledge on all things religious and ecclesiastical, explained that though the Church jealously protected its right to sanctuary–especially since the murder of Thomas Becket–it accepted that the secular powers sometimes broke it. ‘There is even a scale of penalties for violation of sanctuary,’ he explained. ‘The fines for dragging a man from a cathedral are far greater than from a mere parish church or a chapel.’

  De Wolfe had no wish to see this put to the test and grabbed his cloak as he made for the door. ‘Thomas, get down to St Martin’s as fast as your legs will carry you and warn Gwyn! Bar the door if you can and only open it to me.’

  He hurried across the inner ward and burst in to de Revelle’s chamber, only to find it empty, apart from a clerk sorting tax rolls.

  ‘Where is he, Edwin?’ he demanded.

  ‘An hour ago, he went in a great state of excitement to find the castle constable, Crowner,’ said the clerk. ‘He never came back.’

  ‘Damn it to hell,’ muttered de Wolfe. ‘Perhaps I’m already too late!’

  As he turned to hurry from the room, his eye caught sight of Gwyn’s new sword leaning against the doorpost. On an impulse, he snatched it up and hung it from his own belt, as when inside the city walls, he rarely carried his own weapon. He clattered down the steps, intending to get to St Martin’s as soon as possible, but stopped when he saw Ralph Morin, the burly constable who was in charge of the garrison at Rougemont. Together with Sergeant Gabriel, he was lining up a dozen men-at-arms in the inner ward, but the lethargy in their movements suggested a certain reluctance.

  ‘What’s going on, Ralph?’ he demanded as he strode up to them.

  The constable took his elbow and steered him away from the soldiers. ‘Thank God you’re here, I was coming to look for you. That thrice-damned sheriff has ordered me to drag your officer from the church. I did all I could to resist, but an order is an order. He’s the king’s representative here and I am under his control.’

&nbs
p; Unlike most castles, which belonged to barons and lords, Exeter had always been kept entirely under royal administration and the constable was his servant. De Wolfe, though angry and apprehensive, laid a hand on Morin’s broad shoulder. ‘I understand, Ralph. You have to do your duty, however evil it is.’

  By now, Gabriel had joined them, livid with fury. In a low voice, vibrant with emotion, he said ‘It’s madness! First I contrive his escape, now I’ve got to go and drag him out again! But the bloody sheriff will have us all hanged if we refuse.’

  ‘What about the desecration of sanctuary?’ hissed the coroner.

  Ralph shook his head. ‘De Revelle said to forget it, he’ll take responsibility and gladly pay any fine. He claimed that the bishop would gloss over any religious problem, so there’ll be no chance of us being excommunicated.’

  His voice was bitter and John realized that only the thought of the gallows prevented him from defying his orders.

  ‘Then just do me one favour, Ralph. Give me time to get down there before you. Understand?’

  The constable nodded and pointed to a horse outside a nearby stable. It was already saddled up for a castle messenger to ride off on some errand. ‘We are marching down, so if you take that gelding, you’ll be there at least ten minutes before us. That’s the best I can do, John!’

  With a wave of thanks, John swung himself into the saddle and tore off through the gatehouse and down the hill to East Gate Street. To avoid the usual press of people in High Street, he dived into the back alleys opposite and swearing at anyone who got in his way in the narrow lanes, pushed his way through to the side of the little church. Abandoning the horse to graze the sparse grass of the Close, he hammered on the door and yelled for Thomas to open it. He heard a bar being lifted inside and when he virtually fell through the doorway, he found not his clerk, but a tall, fair priest facing him.

  ‘Father Edwin, the sanctuary of your church is about to be desecrated!’ he shouted.

  The Saxon nodded gravely and now John saw that Thomas and Gwyn stood behind him.

  ‘Your clerk, my brother in God, explained what was happening. It is an outrage, typical of the oppression we have to suffer from these invaders.’

  John, who though he had a half-Welsh mother, came from a long line of Norman invaders himself, but this was no time to argue politics.

  ‘We have to get him out and hide him,’ he snapped. ‘They will be here within minutes, so the only place is my house, just up the lane.’

  The parish priest shook his head firmly. ‘You are a good man, Sir John. You cannot compromise your position like that, it could ruin you.’ He beckoned to Gwyn in a way that seemed to defy any argument and led the way to a small door set in the wall to the right of the altar. Opening it with a large key, he turned to John to bar him entering. ‘I suggest that you go straight to your dwelling, Coroner, and play the innocent, for they are bound to seek you out.’

  He shepherded Gwyn and Thomas into the tiny sacristy where he kept the Blessed Host and his few service books. He waved John back towards the main door. ‘Your clerk will come to you later and let you know how matters stand.’

  With that, he followed them in and shut the door. Then John heard the key being turned on the inside.

  ‘The man is a saint,’ said Thomas reverentially. ‘When I am a bishop, I will appeal to Rome for Father Edwin’s sanctification!’

  It was evening and he was sitting in the Bush with Nesta and de Wolfe recounting to her the exciting events of this stressful day.

  ‘The sacristy had an outer door leading into a small yard,’ he explained.

  ‘Here there was a bier used for taking cadavers to the cathedral for burial, a kind of long chest on small wheels, with handles on each end. The lid opened on hinges and the priest made Gwyn get inside.’

  In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Nesta could not suppress a giggle. ‘I’ll wager he didn’t like that one bit!’

  ‘The poor fellow had to almost double up to fit himself in, cursing all the time under his breath,’ agreed Thomas.

  He explained that the Saxon priest had given him an old Benedictine habit to wear, then told him to push the bier from behind, while he himself walked in front, pulling on the other handles. They trundled the clumsy device through the lanes, both chanting Latin prayers as they stared dismally at the ground. Folk in the street removed their caps or crossed themselves as they passed by with their ‘corpse’, until they doubled back towards the far end of Canon’s Row. Here they stopped near the foot of the city wall where there were gardens and some rough ground. In the shelter of some bushes, the lid was opened and Gwyn clambered out, looking even more dishevelled than usual. Quickly, the Saxon took him to a small arch in a stone hut built against the fifteen-foot wall and hurried him inside.

  ‘The city water conduits!’ exclaimed Nesta, at this point in Thomas’s story. ‘The ducts come through the wall there, so I’ve been told.’

  John nodded, having had a murdered corpse in there quite recently. ‘The water comes from the springs at St Sidwell–let’s hope that Gwyn doesn’t catch the jaundice from it, like his sons.’

  ‘He can’t stay there long, poor man!’ said Nesta in some concern. ‘A big fellow like him can hardly stand upright in those low passages. What’s to be done about it?’

  De Wolfe explained that he had already bribed a carter to smuggle Gwyn out of the city next morning, under a load of finished cloth being taken down to the port of Topsham, five miles down the river.

  ‘But he need only go halfway, as he can seek board and lodging at St James’s Priory, where they know him from our previous visits. Even if the damned sheriff gets to discover where he is, he would have to desecrate sanctuary all over again.’

  The one-eyed potman limped across to refill their mugs as Nesta asked the coroner how Richard de Revelle had taken this latest setback to his scheming.

  ‘He had his usual tantrum, shouting and screaming at me after Ralph Morin had told him that the bird had flown!’ said John with satisfaction. ‘I had insisted that Ralph and Gabriel search my house as soon as they had given up looking for Gwyn in the church. They were only too delighted to report to the sheriff that I had been asleep by my fireside and that there was no sign of Gwyn. Thank God that Matilda was on her knees in St Olave’s while all this was going on!’

  The Welsh woman still looked worried. ‘But the sheriff must surely know that, once again, you organized Gwyn’s disappearance?’

  ‘He can think what he likes, but he can’t prove it–and everyone from the castle constable down to the most junior soldier is being as stupid and obstructive as they can in helping him find Gwyn.’

  De Wolfe leaned across the table towards his clerk. ‘Thomas, have you wormed anything yet from your cathedral spies?’

  The unfrocked priest now lived on sufferance in the servant’s quarters of one of the canon’s houses in the Close, sleeping on a straw mattress in a passageway. However, lowly as his accommodation was, it was ideally placed for him to hear all the gossip of the cathedral and its many inhabitants, but so far, he had gleaned nothing about any scandal involving the Tyrell family.

  ‘Then I must confront Serlo and Christina directly,’ growled John. ‘I will shake their tree and see if anything falls from it.’

  ‘What about this harlot in Waterbeer Street?’ asked Nesta. ‘Those girls always have a man protecting them and taking the lion’s share of the money they earn. Maybe he would know something, if the killing was almost on his doorstep?’

  ‘An excellent idea, madam! I’ll do that tomorrow, without fail.’ John squeezed her thigh under the table. ‘I’ve not seen the inside of a brothel for a long time!’ he added mischievously.

  Next morning, de Wolfe sent Thomas de Peyne down to St James’s Priory to check that Gwyn had arrived safely and to hand over some money to the prior for his food and lodging. As soon as he had seen the little clerk jogging off on his pony, which he insisted on riding side-saddle like a wom
an, de Wolfe made his way to a substantial house near the East Gate.

  The young maid who answered the door conducted him to an ante-room off the large hall, where Christina sat near a small fire-pit, a pewter cup of wine in her hand. She was still dressed in a grey kirtle, her husband’s funeral having taken place only the day before. However, her widow’s weeds were now lightened by a gold cord wound twice around her slim waist, its large tassels hanging down almost to the floor. She wore no veil or wimple around her head and throat, her fair hair being coiled in plaits over each ear and confined in gold-net crespines. Christina Tyrell looked more like a woman expecting her lover than a mourning widow and she seemed annoyed by the appearance of the county coroner.

  ‘Have you come to tell me that they have recaptured that rogue who murdered my husband?’ The glare she gave him as she spoke was not a good start to their conversation.

  ‘That man had nothing to do with it, as you well know,’ replied John bluntly. ‘I am fully aware of the deceit that was arranged between you and the sheriff over that blood-stained sword.’

  The woman flushed and protested, but her eyes dropped, unable to meet the steely gaze of the coroner. ‘The fellow is guilty, so what does it matter?’ she muttered.

  ‘I have a better candidate for the killing, mistress,’ he boomed. ‘Or perhaps even two! What about you or your lover Serlo? Both of you had reasons for wanting Walter dead.’

  Christina lifted her eyes to look defiantly at de Wolfe, a flush of anger flooding her face. ‘What nonsense is this? Are you mad?’ she shouted.

  ‘Your husband frequented a whorehouse in the city–is that the habit of a devoted spouse? Did you want rid of him because of that–were you a woman spurned? It is well known that you hanker after his brother, a younger man.’

  ‘This is nonsense–you cannot speak to me like this!’ she babbled.

  John slammed one fist into the other palm. ‘I am investigating a murder, madam. I can ask what I want!’ he roared.