John considered this for a moment. 'But he said 'two other killings' which can only include the candlemaker in the churchyard. What possible connection can that have with you?'
Richard stroked his neat, pointed beard as he reflected. 'What was he killed with?' he asked.
'An iron rod, rusted and pointed at one end. The thickness of a fat thumb and about a yard and a half long.'
His brother-in-law gestured with his hands. 'Means nothing to me. Maybe this killing was nothing to do with him.'
'Then why claim it as his?' objected John. 'There have been no other slayings this week.'
Neither man had an answer, and soon Richard left for his own house, an armed manservant accompanying him every step of the way.
That Yuletide day was different from all others, in that the de Wolfe household remained very subdued, with Matilda resting in bed. In spite of her refusal to have any medical attention, which John could have obtained from Brother Saulf at St John's, in the afternoon he sent around for Richard Lustcote, who came at once and gave Matilda a pain-relieving herbal infusion for her bruised ribs. The elderly apothecary was well known to her, and after a well-chaperoned examination of her head, neck and side, he declared that nothing was broken or seriously amiss and that she would be restored to health in a few days.
Their dinner was a muted affair compared to what Mary had planned for the festive day, but Matilda forced down a respectable amount of food and several cups of wine as she sat up on her pallet. John ate down in the hall, getting through the poached salmon, roast goose and plum pudding with full appreciation of his cook-maid's skill.
Afterwards, he sat with Matilda for some time, with little to say, but at least he felt that his presence reassured her that some maniac could not climb the solar steps to finish throttling her. His wife's memory of those few terrifying minutes in the cathedral Close was still perfectly lucid and there seemed no doubt that her assailant had clearly linked the three deaths with her brother and his crony Pomeroy, together with Hempston, seemingly unequivocal proof that all were connected.
John stayed with her for well over an hour, but when she fell heavily asleep from the effects of the apothecary's drug, he surrendered his post to Lucille and made a quick trip to the Bush, where Gwyn, Thomas and Nesta were anxiously awaiting his news.
As was to be expected from her nature, Nesta was the most upset and solicitous for Matilda's welfare, even though his wife was the main impediment to their love affair.
'Poor woman, to be so sorely set upon at dead of night - and on her own in a darkened churchyard!' she gasped, rather illogically. 'You should be with her, John, it is your duty.' Both of them were relieved that he had not been down at the Bush when the attack took place, as this would have been an even greater burden on their consciences. After relating all the facts he knew over a jug of mulled wine, the coroner discussed with his three friends the significance of the assault until they ran out of suggestions.
'I'm not convinced that this is the work of that Nicholas de Arundell,' said John finally. 'Whatever that bastard said to Matilda, it seems totally at odds with the nature of a knight and a former Crusader. Unless the fellow's mind has become unhinged, such a nobleman would hardly strangle a defenceless woman coming from Mass!'
'Maybe he has become mad, Crowner,' grunted Gwyn. 'To be so badly treated by de Revelle and Pomeroy and then be banished to Dartmoor is enough to twist any man's wits.'
Thomas repeated the query that John had put to his brother-in-law.
'Why should he claim responsibility for this killing in St Bartholomew's?' he squeaked. 'what can a candlemaker have to do with the old sheriff? And why are all three senior men in the city guilds?'
De Wolfe threw up his hands in despair. 'It's all beyond me, maybe things will sort themselves out eventually. I'll have to see Henry de Furnellis and try to decide what we do about this gang of outlaws. It will be business as usual tomorrow, Yuletide or not.'
He drained his wine cup and reluctantly rose to his feet.
'You're right, Nesta, I'd better get back home. If Matilda wakes and finds me absent, maybe she'll have a relapse - though considering what happened to her, she's remarkably well.'
Nesta walked with him to the door, John acknowledging the murmured sympathy of some of the other patrons, who had all heard, like the rest of Exeter, what had happened the previous night.
She laid a hand on his arm as he bent to give her a kiss before leaving.
'It's spoilt all our Christ Mass festivities, cariad,' he said in the Welsh they always used when together. 'I'm sorry for it, but we'll make up for it when all this is settled.'
Sadly, she watched him vanish into the darkness, Gwyn following him ponderously. If there was an assailant lurking in the shadows, the Cornishman was going to watch his master's back like a hawk.
Though the period from Christ Mass until Twelfth Night was looked upon as a season for festivities, normal life went on to a large extent. In the villages, livestock had to be fed and watered, and though it was not a time for ploughing and harrowing, some agricultural tasks had to be carried on - leaky thatch mended and overflowing ditches cleared. In the towns, people had to eat and buy food, especially as those who could afford it ate and drank to excess at Yuletide.
Goods had to be brought in and cattle and sheep had to be slaughtered in the streets, so that the markets could be kept stocked.
John's work was no exception and though the courts gave up their sessions for a week, people still died and houses still caught fire, giving him his usual tasks to perform. In fact, this festive season was usually even busier than normal times, as more drinking meant more rowdiness in the taverns and so more likelihood of assaults and killings. Even the risk of fire was greater, with more cooking to be done and larger fires in the icy weather - and again more drunks to stumble and knock over candles and lamps.
On the day following Christmas, John went to his chamber in the castle as usual, after making sure that Matilda was settled as well as she could be. The sedative potion had done its work, and she appeared much recovered, her main complaints being an aching side and a sore throat. This last seemed to make little difference to her voice, which had rapidly regained its stern vibrancy - and certainly was not preventing her from eating. As soon as he could, he took all the facts to Henry de Furnellis and in the sheriff's chamber in the keep, they chewed over what could be done, if anything, to follow up this alleged connection with Nick o' the Moor's outlaws.
'Hempston seems the obvious starting point,' growled the sheriff. 'Never been there myself, but if de Arundell and his gang came from there, someone might know something of their whereabouts.'
De Wolfe agreed and said he would get down there as soon as he was satisfied that his wife was fit to be left alone.
'She's a tough old bird,' he said, with almost a note of pride. 'Many ladies would have died of fright or been in a state of shock for a month after such an experience, but not my Matilda! If he hadn't come up on her unexpectedly from behind, I'd not be surprised if she'd have laid him out with a couple of punches!'
The old sheriff grinned at the exaggeration, then returned to practicalities. 'Do you want a posse or some of Ralph Morin's men-at-arms to go with you?' he asked.
John shook his head. 'I'm not going hunting them across Dartmoor, especially in this weather.' He jerked a thumb at the window slit, through which snowflakes could be seen whirling in the wind. 'As soon as I can travel, I'll go down to see what Henry de la Pomeroy has to say for himself, as he's also been threatened now. I'll go across to this nearby Hempston Arundell, to find out what really happened there. Then we can decide if we are going after these outlaws, but God knows how we'll ever find them in that wilderness.'
De Furnellis was only too ready to let John take the initiative, though he was genuinely worried about the killing of prominent craftsmen in the city. When the Eyre eventually arrived in Exeter, the royal justices would want a full account of everything that had been goin
g on in the county, and to have an unsolved series of murders of guildsmen would reflect badly on the man who was responsible for law and order in Devon.
'Do your best then, John,' he said encouragingly. 'What's the next move?'
'We are meeting the guild masters today to see if they have any bright ideas. I arranged that before we had this news about Hempston, but I still don't see why the bloody man's victims have to be from the guilds.' At his noon dinner, John was gratified that Matilda felt strong enough to come down to the hall to eat, though her bruised ribs caused her to wince every time she moved. She wore a heavy silk georgette to hide the bruises on her neck, but John could still see the little bleeding points in the whites of her eyes, the result of being throttled.
After they had eaten and he had settled her in her chair by the fire with a pewter cup of wine, he muffled himself in his cloak and with a felt helmet tied securely under his chin and a wide-brimmed pilgrim's hat on top, he set out into the snow, which was about an inch deep in the lane. John turned left into High Street, dropping a penny into the battered hat of a blind beggar who was crouched shivering on the corner. He walked on to the Guildhall, not long rebuilt in stone to serve the increasing needs of the prospering city. Inside the large hall, under its high beamed ceiling, he found a group of men sitting at one of the tables that he usually saw loaded with food and drink at festive dinners. Now the rest of the trestles were stacked against one wall and more than a score of men stood uneasily in the centre, talking amongst themselves and to the seven behind the table.
When he saw the coroner enter, the man in the middle rose to greet him. It was Benedict de Buttelscttmbe, the warden of the Mercers, to whom John had spoken before.
'Welcome, Sir John, make yourself comfortable over there,' he said in a lordly manner, indicating a stool at one end of the table. 'The sheriff has kindly agreed to attend as well.' A similar seat at the opposite end of the trestle was obviously reserved for Henry de Furnellis.
As de Wolfe eased himself down on to the stool, he saw that Archibald Wasteper, the warden of the Cordwainers was sitting next to him. Beyond him were the two portreeves of Exeter, John's partner Hugh de Relaga and Henry Rifford, a rich leather merchant. They had all heard of Matilda's plight and enquired of her condition, with hopes for a speedy recovery.
John recognised all the other wardens by sight, one being Robert de Helion of the Weavers' Guild and another Ranulph de Cerne of the Fishmongers. Another old acquaintance was Richard Lustcote, who had attended Matilda, being the most senior of the three apothecaries in Exeter.
There were familiar faces too amongst the men standing in the hall, though some were much younger than the wardens, and John assumed that some were masters without their own businesses and the rest were journeymen, skilled men but without the status of a master craftsman.
A moment later, the sheriff ambled into the hall accompanied, as befitted his status, by Sergeant Gabriel and a man-at-arms. Unobtrusively the two soldiers took up their positions just inside the door, and Henry de Furnllis came across to sit at the other end of the table from John. When greetings had been concluded, Benedict rose to his feet and tapped the boards with an intricately carved gavel. The mutter of conversation died away and the self-important warden of the Mercers began a long-winded introduction.
'I have called this emergency meeting of the leaders of the craft and merchant guilds in response to the shocking events that have taken place, the last being only yesterday,' he began. As everyone there knew exactly what had happened and why they were summoned, there was a restless stirring amongst the crowd. After a few more minutes of his platitudes, one man spoke up from the floor.
'Let's get on with it, Warden. We're all losing valuable working time, standing around here with our tongues wagging to little effect.'
The speaker was a burly man of about thirty, wearing a leather jerkin that appeared to have many scorch marks on the front.
John leaned over to murmur to Archibald Wasteper. 'Who's that fellow? He seems very outspoken.'
'A journeyman working for a metal founder on Exe Island. Name of Geoffrey Trove, as I recall.'
If John felt that Trove was outspoken, he discovered in the course of the next hour that a number of other guildsmen were even more frank in expressing their views. In contrast to the more deferential manners of both the knightly class and the clergy, the tradesmen were far more egalitarian and outspoken, the juniors being unafraid to dispute with their more senior colleagues in their craft. As the meeting went on, the speakers at the table were frequently interrupted by voices from the floor, sometimes making scathing or caustic comments about what had been said. One guildsman, a tall blond man who Wasteper said was a fletcher called William Alissandre, even claimed that the killings of the older guild officials might have been plotted by a jealous guild master. There was tutting from the seniors and catcalls from the other journeymen at this preposterous suggestion. The general consensus was that someone or some group was attempting to undermine Exeter's burgeoning trade expansion by a campaign of terror against prominent guild leaders.
'All the men murdered were officials in our organisations,' brayed Buttelscumbe. 'Surely this can only mean that someone intends to intimidate us - perhaps worse is to come.'
There was mixed reaction to this, some jabbering agreement, others ridiculing the idea.
'How can slaying a few men damage our trading prospects, for God's sake?' called a red-haired man with a florid, pugnacious face. 'Our customers here and our agents in France and Flanders are not concerned with a couple of corpses, so long as they get sent the best broadcloth or the finest fleeces.'
Wasteper whispered to de Wolfe that the ginger-headed man was Rupert Penyll, who owned a fulling mill on the river and was well known for expressing outspoken opinions at every guild meeting. Now Benedict de Buttelscumbe invited John de Wolfe to address the gathering, having already determined that Henry de Furnellis declined to speak, typically claiming that he had delegated his authority on this matter to the coroner.
John rose to his feet and hunched over the table, his fists resting on the edge as he glowered around at the assembly. 'I have little to say, as I came here to listen, not to speak,' he proclaimed. 'But you will have heard that my own wife was sorely assaulted the night before last. The swine who attacked her claimed that he had perpetrated these three killings.'
There was an excited buzz of voices around the room as John explained in detail what had happened. He held up his hand for quiet.
'I am not entirely satisfied that this is the whole truth, as I fail to see why guildsmen should have been chosen for this maniac's victims. Anyone would suffice for a corpse, if the only object was to discomfit Sir Richard de Revelle or Sir Henry de la Pomeroy. But I have to make all proper investigations to get to the bottom of the matter.'
The coroner slapped his hand upon the table to emphasise his words. 'You guildsmen are a tight community, you all know your leaders and each other. The three dead men were prominent amongst you, so does that have any significance? They were not journeymen or apprentices, but masters or officials.' He paused to glare around the men whose faces showed that they were listening attentively to this knight with the strong personality and respected reputation.
'So far, there seems nothing in their business affairs or family matters which marks out any of the victims as being targets for hate or even dislike. Yet there must be something that drove a killer to use such vicious means to bring about their deaths. Surely someone amongst you might hazard a guess as to what that might be?' He sat down in a silence that was almost palpable, but then murmurs grew into animated voices until they rose to fervent discussion. De Buttelscumbe, intent on showing his own importance, waved his arms and yelled above the tumult. 'Quiet, all of you! Let us have some useful suggestions for the king's coroner, for it is he who has to take the responsibility for accounting to the royal justices for these deaths.' Several voices were conflicting with outspoken advice, but Buttelscumbe
managed to get their owners to speak one at a time.
'Surely it must be the work of a madman, Crowner,' called out the red-haired mill owner. 'I knew all three of these dead men and I can vouch for their goodness and honesty. Only a crazed person would want to kill them.'
'That's damned nonsense,' yelled the journeyman Trove. 'From what I hear of these murders, they were well planned - and the proof that whoever did them is sane and clever is that our coroner here has not been able to get so much as a whiff of his identity. Why else would he be here today to ask for our help?'
De Wolfe was not overpleased with this criticism of his effectiveness, but as it was largely true, he held his tongue.
The last speaker was one of the wardens, Ranulph de Cerne, who managed to avoid smelling of fish, being now too elevated in his craft actually to handle the produce.
'What I wish to know is whether more of us may be at risk?' he demanded. 'I suggest that we all take more care of ourselves and not wander dark lanes at night, especially the officers of the guilds. We have seen what happened to the unfortunate wife of our coroner here.'
John half rose at this and declined to give any assurances about their safety. 'Certainly the second victim was not in dark lanes, he was attacked in open country, so no one is secure at any time or at any place. I suggest that senior guildsmen try not to be abroad alone, but take a servant with a good sword or a club with them as a bodyguard, until we can lay our hands on this assailant.'
He paused and again scowled around the circle of faces.
'But does anyone know of any common thread that could join these men to Hempston Arundell? Or indeed, to our former sheriff or the lord of Berry Pomeroy?' No one offered any answer to this last plea, men looking at each other and shrugging. There was a further half-hour of discussion, which was heated at times, but nothing constructive came of it and as de Wolfe had expected, he gained no new information about any of the dead men that was of any use to him.
The Noble Outlaw Page 14