Sword of Shame

by The Medieval Murderers

  Her response was dramatic, as well as unexpected. She bent to the circle of stones around the fire-pit and snatched up a heavy iron poker. Raising it over her head, she lunged at de Wolfe with a screech of fury and swung it at him. Startled, he backed away and lifted an arm to protect himself, receiving a stinging blow just above his wrist. With a bellowed curse, he retreated backwards towards the door, where the little maid crouched in terror at her mistress’s sudden fury.

  ‘Get out, damn you!’ howled Christina, lifting the poker for another blow. ‘Get out, you foul-mouthed, evil man!’

  As he could hardly draw his dagger on a woman, John decided to evacuate and survive to fight another day. ‘You’ll regret this, madam!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll be back when you’ve come to your senses.’

  He slid through the door and slammed it behind him, making his way rapidly through the hall to the street. Thankfully the virago did not pursue him and he stopped a few yards away to recover his ruffled dignity. He would cheerfully fight a dozen of Saladin’s warriors, but an angry widow with a fire-iron was too much of a challenge for him.

  Determined never to let anyone else ever become aware of the ignominious defeat he had suffered, the coroner marched away and went through the city down to Exe Island and the fulling mills.

  Half-afraid that his quarry had already left to visit the doughty Christina, he went straight to the clerk’s hut to see if Serlo Tyrell was still there. He was gratified to find him leaning against a table, listening to a string of figures that Martin Knotte was reading out to him from a parchment. As with the vast majority of the population, Serlo was illiterate and, like most merchants, depended on someone in the lower religious orders to handle all accounts and correspondence.

  The fuller looked up in surprise, which turned to irritation when he saw de Wolfe. ‘I’ve told you all I know, Crowner,’ he snapped. ‘Why are you persisting with this, when everyone knows who the culprit is?’

  De Wolfe looked pointedly at the clerk. ‘It would be better if I spoke to you in private, for your own sake.’

  ‘I have no secrets from Martin, you can say what you like. But make it quick, I have other things to do.’ The fuller accompanied his words with a scowl.

  ‘Very well–but I have just come from the house of Christina,’ John announced. He saw a flicker of apprehension pass over Serlo’s face, before he jerked his head at his clerk. ‘Perhaps you had better leave us, Martin, if this is to be a personal matter,’ he muttered.

  When the man had left, the coroner made the same verbal assault as he had on Christina. ‘I am well aware of your connivance at the crude deception the sheriff tried with the chicken’s blood,’ he grated. ‘I also know about your liaison with your sister-in-law.’

  Serlo paled, but his mouth set into an obstinate expression. ‘I deny both your impertinent allegations. The sheriff shall hear of this!’

  ‘He’ll hear of it from my own lips, as soon as I can find him!’ snarled John. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, I know from Christina that you are lovers!’ This was stretching the truth somewhat, but he was past caring, with Gwyn in such danger. ‘Furthermore, I suspect that both you and she might be directly involved in Walter’s death. You stand to gain the whole fulling business now that your mistress is available as a wife. And is she not revenged upon him, for preferring a whore in Waterbeer Street to herself?’

  There was no iron poker available in the office, but Serlo looked as if he would have used one if it had been to hand. His pallor turned to red rage and a quivering finger was pointed at de Wolfe’s face as he began a stinging tirade of denial and outrage at the coroner’s accusations.

  As with Christina, John’s faint hopes of his frontal attack causing a breakdown and a confession came to nothing. Although the two men shouted at each other for several more minutes, the coroner knew that he had no more ammunition to throw at Serlo Tyrell and, once again, he was forced to beat a fruitless retreat. Outside the hut, he found Martin Knotte, who although now a few yards from the door, had obviously been listening to the heated exchanges inside.

  ‘I’ll walk with you to the gate, Sir John,’ he said obsequiously and pattered alongside towards the opening in the fence around the mills.

  ‘I was mainly Master Walter’s clerk’ he said carefully. ‘So I know quite a lot about his affairs, both business and private.’

  De Wolfe stopped in his tracks and stared hard down at Martin’s smooth face. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ he demanded.

  ‘I could hardly help hear a little of what was said in there,’ he said, gesturing back towards his office. ‘As a good citizen, I thought I should confirm that Walter used to frequent the city streets late at night,’ he coughed delicately. ‘In fact, he used to visit a whorehouse very near where he was found dead. I regret to say that his marriage was not a happy one.’

  ‘I knew all this, fellow,’ said John suspiciously. ‘Why should you be telling me now?’

  ‘Master Walter often carried large sums of money, when he was either buying or selling. The night he died, I know that he had gone to the New Inn to meet a master-weaver to receive payment for a consignment of best wool. Yet that money was never accounted for in my records and both Mistress Christina and Serlo say they have never seen it.’

  ‘There was no purse on his body when it was found,’ agreed de Wolfe. ‘How much should it have contained?’

  ‘Four pounds, according to my invoicing–a great sum of money to go astray.’

  ‘Could this harlot have taken it from him? Yet he was found dead outside, he would not have let her rob him in the brothel.’

  Martin Knotte shrugged. ‘Might she not have warned some accomplice that he was carrying such a sum?’ he suggested.

  ‘I had considered that before, but I did not know then how much coin he was carrying,’ admitted John. ‘I must have some words with this strumpet.’

  They had reached the gateway and after Martin had smirked a farewell, John strode off in the direction of the West Gate, deep in thought.

  Once back inside the city, he decided to follow up these hints that maybe Walter Tyrell’s fondness for whoring had some connection with his death. He made his way to Waterbeer Street and, careless of who might see him knocking on the door of a house of ill-repute, was admitted by a toothless old crone who looked as if she herself might have been a harlot around the time of Old King Henry’s coronation!

  She stared at him in consternation, unsure if the county coroner had come on business or pleasure. He soon cleared up her doubts by demanding to know if there was a girl here named Bernice, his harsh tone indicating that his interest in her was purely professional.

  The dingy building had several small chambers downstairs and the upper floor was also divided into rooms that were little more than cubicles. The hag climbed laboriously up a flight of wooden steps and pushed aside one of the hanging sheets of thick leather that served as doors.

  ‘Bernice, here’s a gentleman to see you,’ cackled the old woman and stood aside to admit de Wolfe, who waved her away before he entered. The dismal cell contained a stool, a straw mattress on the floor and a surprisingly healthy-looking young woman of about eighteen. She was squatting on the stool, biting into a hunk of bread, a large piece of cheese in the other hand. Bernice immediately put the food on the floor, sprang up and smiled ingratiatingly at the visitor, assuming that he was an unexpected client.

  ‘I am the coroner, girl!’ said John severely, though he had already taken in the fact that the girl was quite pretty, different from the usual sad drabs that worked in these stews. ‘Sit down, lass…I need to talk to you about Walter Tyrell.’

  A succession of emotions passed across the young woman’s face, surprise sliding into fear, then settling into wariness. ‘I know nothing about him, sir,’ she said stubbornly, in a thick rural accent. ‘He was just a man who came here.’

  ‘But he always asked for you, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did, sir. That’s because I’m cl
eaner and prettier than the others,’ she added, with a simple honesty that contained no conceit.

  ‘Did he have to pay more for you, then?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘Indeed, sir. He always seemed to have plenty of pennies.’

  Bernice had a naive directness that John found both touching and rather attractive. He wondered sadly what she would be like after five or ten years in this place. ‘And to whom did he pay those pennies?’ he asked. ‘Was it you or the old woman downstairs?’

  The girl shook her head, her brown curls bouncing. ‘Neither, sir. He always came late on certain evenings and my man was always here to take the money.’

  ‘Your man? What man is that?’

  ‘Elias Palmer, my protector. He runs three of the girls in this house.’

  John nodded his understanding. The premises were used by several pimps and their girls, paying a rent to the owner of the house, who could be anyone, even one of the city burgesses. In some towns, there were brothels owned by senior churchmen. However, this was not getting him anywhere in respect of his investigation.

  ‘What about the night he was killed nearby? Anything different about that night? Was he alone?’

  ‘He was always alone, sir. He never talked to me much, he was too busy doing other things.’ She smiled up at de Wolfe innocently.

  ‘Did you see him paying your man? Did he have a purse on his belt?’

  A cloud seemed to pass over the girl’s face and her manner changed. ‘He did have a purse, sir. He always did.’

  De Wolfe’s instincts were aroused. There was something here. ‘Come girl, tell me exactly. Was this Elias in the room here with you then?’

  She shook her head, looking decidedly evasive now. ‘He never came in, in case the gentleman was still having his pleasure. He always waited at the bottom of the stairs for his money.’

  ‘This night, did he follow Walter Tyrell out into the street?’

  Bernice’s open nature seemed to return, as she felt on safer ground. ‘No sir, he came back up to me as he always did, to give me the two pennies I had earned.’ There was a ring of truth about this, but John still smelt a rat.

  ‘Bernice, you are not telling me everything!’ he barked, bending down towards her so that his intimidating dark face was pushed almost into hers.

  The girl suddenly burst into tears. ‘I told Elias that Walter had a very large purse that night. I even saw the glint of a gold bezant, when he opened it to give me an extra penny for myself.’

  A feeling of triumph began to steal through John’s soul. Here was something worth pursuing. ‘So what did Elias do then?’ he demanded.

  Bernice shrugged, two tears coursing down her pleasant face. ‘Nothing, sir. Just went downstairs again.’

  De Wolfe straightened up and on an impulse, stroked the top of the distressed girl’s head. ‘Calm yourself, girl. I’m going now. But where can I find this Elias Palmer?’

  The round face came up again, the smile back in place. ‘Old Maud might know, sir. He’s always around somewhere.’

  Downstairs, he found the woman sitting on an upturned bucket in the unkempt backyard. At his demand, she waddled back into the passageway and yelled for Elias outside the first door on the left. Impatiently, de Wolfe thrust aside the leather curtain and saw a man lying face down on the bed, his breeches around his ankles.

  As he jumped up in surprise, grabbing for his nether garments, there was a squawk from beneath him and a girl rapidly hoisted a tattered blanket over her head.

  ‘Who the hell are you, damn it?’ demanded the man furiously, as he pulled his breeches up below his short tunic and fumbled with his belt.

  ‘Sampling your own goods, eh?’ replied John sarcastically. ‘I’m the coroner and I want a word with you. Come out into the yard when you’re decent.’

  A moment later, Elias Palmer appeared reluctantly through the back door. He was a dandified fellow of middle height, with a shock of light brown hair. His otherwise unremarkable face was disfigured by a livid birthmark that covered the whole of one cheek and part of his temple.

  ‘What do you want from me, Crowner?’ he mumbled. ‘There’s no law against running a few girls.’

  John was not sure if there was or not, but it was of no interest to him. ‘What did you do with the money, Elias?’ he snapped, poking his head forward like a vulture examining its next meal.

  ‘What money? I don’t know what you’re talking about?’ stammered the whoremonger, but his whole attitude shouted that he did indeed know.

  ‘Walter Tyrell, that’s what I’m talking about!’ yelled de Wolfe. ‘Bernice told you he had a fat purse with gold in it, didn’t she?’

  ‘What if she did?’ faltered Elias. ‘There’s no harm in gossip.’

  ‘But there’s harm in murder, Elias!’ snarled the coroner. ‘You followed him out to that side alley, killed him and stole his purse. Admit it now, for you’re going to swing for it, one way or the other.’

  Elias looked wildly about him, stammering denials. At the back door, the faces of old Maud, Bernice and the other girl peered out in fearful fascination. With a sudden lunge, Elias turned and made for the fence that ran around the small yard. With de Wolfe pounding after him, he got to the rickety gate to fumble with the rusty catch. John remembered that he had Gwyn’s sword hanging from his baldric and with a swish, he drew it from the scabbard. There was a flash of sunlight reflected from its blade as he swung it high and brought it down on the top bar of the gate, an inch from Elias’s feverish fingers. The steel sliced clean through the wood and stuck quivering in the thicker central bar, pinning the loose hem of the man’s tunic to the gate.

  Almost gibbering with fear, Elias dropped to the ground, his tunic ripping, as he held his hands up in supplication to the coroner.

  ‘I didn’t kill him, sir, I swear. I just took the purse from his dead body.’

  John hauled him to his feet and jabbed him none too gently in the back with the point of the sword.

  ‘You can tell that to the king’s justices at the next Eyre of Assize,’ he promised grimly.

  St James’s Priory was a small religious house on the bank of the river, between Exeter and Topsham. The prior and four monks were Cluniacs, their mother house being St Martin’s in Paris and they led a quiet existence, tending their vegetable plots and fish-traps on the Exe.

  When Thomas had visited Gwyn, he had found him well-fed and comfortable, but fretting at his incarceration, unable to visit his wife and children. On the afternoon following his visit to the brothel, de Wolfe went down to see his henchman. He took care to ensure that none of the sheriff’s spies was following him, as he knew that de Revelle was still trying to discover where John’s officer was hidden.

  ‘How long am I going to be stuck here?’ demanded the Cornishman. ‘Thomas has been very good, bringing me news of my family, but if I stay here much longer, I’ll turn into a bloody monk myself!’

  John brought him up to date on events, especially his arrest of Elias Palmer, who was now confined in Rougemont, where the cells had been emptied by this week’s hangings. The pimp, while steadfastly denying the murder, had confessed to taking the purse from Walter’s belt and, in fact, led John to a chest in his own room in the brothel where he produced the bag, still filled with coin.

  ‘But the damned sheriff still won’t accept that he killed Tyrell, the obstinate swine,’ fumed John. ‘He still believes that I have spirited you away somewhere and says that he’ll wait until doomsday to bring you before his court.’

  ‘Does he admit that he worked that swindle over the chicken blood on my sword?’

  ‘Not at all! Even though I told him that Christina had admitted knowing about it–which is stretching the truth a little.’

  ‘That poxy sword!’ muttered Gwyn. ‘It’s got me into trouble again, damn it.’

  John pulled aside his riding cloak to show the ornate sheath dangling from his baldric, the diagonal strap over his shoulder that took the weight of the weapon.
‘I’ve brought it down for you, in case there’s any trouble if de Revelle does discover where you are.’

  ‘Thank you, Crowner,’ said Gwyn, rather diffidently. ‘But that thing has brought me nothing but ill-fortune. Grateful as I am for your gift, I think I’d like to see it exchanged for a less grand weapon, as I’m convinced there’s something about it that brings bad luck.’

  Gwyn’s pure Celtic blood gave him a strongly superstitious nature and John had learned that it was futile to argue with him. He agreed to return it to Roger Trudogge and negotiate for a less ornate blade.

  Feeling frustrated with his lack of progress in closing this affair, de Wolfe rode back to Exeter, pondering his next moves in trying to lift the cloud of suspicion that still hung over Gwyn. Every so often, a worm of doubt wriggled in his mind, whispering that the big man might really have killed the fuller, but each time John crushed the notion, knowing in his heart that though Gwyn might swing at someone in a raging temper, there was no way that he would lay in wait for them in a dark alley.

  The problem was that the sheriff resolutely refused to give up this golden opportunity to hurt his brother-in-law, in revenge for John’s earlier exposure of him as a potential traitor and rebel. Only Matilda’s intercession had saved Richard from the ignominy of dismissal and possible arrest.

  ‘How in God’s name can I convince everyone that this thieving whoremonger is the real culprit?’ he muttered under his breath, as he rode Odin through the same South Gate where his officer had been briefly imprisoned. He thought of putting Elias to the Ordeal, a form of torture involving hot irons or boiling water, but that was intended to try the issue of guilt or innocence, not to extract a confession. Maybe he could submit him to a ‘pressing’, usually reserved for suspects who refused to answer any questions, being ‘mute of malice’. The unfortunate victim was manacled to the ground and had iron weights placed on his chest, the number being increased until he either confessed or died. However, a coroner could not order this without the agreement of the sheriff, which was hardly likely to be granted.