Gwyn, not as quick on the uptake as the other two, demanded to know what was so significant about all that.
Thomas made a rude' face at him. 'You big oaf, don't you see that every death was caused by iron! And probably the device that shot that bolt will be constructed from iron. I feel it in my bones that iron plays some part in this unhappy series of tragedies.'
While Gwyn digested this theory, the coroner began to evaluate it.
'So iron and senior guildsmen are the common factors, Thomas? How can we link them together? None of the victims were ironmasters.'
Looking a little crestfallen, the clerk had only one suggestion. 'Perhaps it would be worth talking to the warden of the Guild of Ironworkers. I don't recall his name, but I seem to have heard that he is only recently elevated to that position.'
For lack of any other ideas, John vowed to seek the man out later that day. The rest of the morning was partly spent with the sheriff, as he needed to be told of John's visit to London - then John and Thomas took confessions from several prisoners in the cells below the keep. Gwyn had been sent off to arrange two inquests for the afternoon, and it was noon before John got back to Martin's Lane for his dinner.
Matilda was still in an amenable state of mind and announced her intention of going to Raden Lane after the meal, to take the good news to Joan de Arundell.
John promised to call there later, to explain more officially what the Chief Justiciar had said about righting the wrong done to Nicholas.
Over mutton stew and a tough boiled pheasant, John took advantage of his wife's good mood and her compendious knowledge of the upper strata of Exeter society, to enquire about the current warden of the Ironworkers' Guild.
'That will be Stephen de Radone, a new man in the post,' she said straightaway. 'I know his wife well through our attendance at the cathedral, though she attends St Petroc's Church rather than St Olave's.' Matilda said this as though the other church was affiliated to Sodom and Gomorrah.
'Is he a new man in Exeter?' asked John, pulling a piece of gristle from his teeth.
'Not at all, he was born and bred in the city. But he was elected Warden a few weeks ago, as the previous man, John Barlet, recently died from falling from his horse.'
Matilda informed John that like many ironmasters, de Radone had his home and business in Smythen Street.
John resolved to call upon him later, when he might also slip into the nearby Bush to see Nesta for the first time in almost a fortnight. In the past, he had had some problems with his mistress when he had neglected her for too long, even though his absences were inevitable because his duties took him out of the city, and he didn't want her wrath again.
The two inquests were held in the Shire Hall in the inner ward of Rougemont, the gaunt building being used for a variety of legal purposes, including the county court, the coroner's enquiries, the regular Commission of Gaol Delivery and, with much more pomp and formality, the infrequent Eyres, when the royal justices came to Devon to try serious cases and enquire into the administration of the county.
Today's inquests were routine, low-key proceedings, one into the death of a miller who had fallen into his own mill-stream when drunk and had been dragged under the wheel and drowned. The other would have been a criminal case, had not both parties been killed.
It concerned a fight in the Saracen Inn, Exeter's meanest tavern, where a rowdy sailor from a ship at the quayside had stabbed an argumentative porter from Bretayne.
Before the latter had expired from loss of blood, he had punched the sailor so hard that the man had cracked his head on one of the stones that ringed the firepit and died within the hour.
The coroner dealt with the witnesses in record time and directed the jury so forcibly that they returned an acquiescent verdict within half a minute.
Leaving Thomas de Peyne to finish writing his account of the proceedings, John marched with Gwyn down through the town and into the top end of Smythen Street. They passed the school where all this had begun, and John idly wondered if Magister James Anglicus had finished converting the old forge into a new lecture room.
There were half a dozen metal-working establishments in the street, and the thump and clanging of hammer on anvil echoed from some as they passed. Further downhill, John could see the crude sign of the Saracen tavern hanging over the door and, beneath it, the gross figure of the innkeeper, Willem the Fleming, as he threw stinking rushes from the floor into the street.
'Which one of these places do we seek?' asked Gwyn.
As John had no idea, he accosted a man pushing a barrow full of charcoal, who indicated a house a few yards away. The lower front chamber was wide open to the street, and several apprentices and a journeyman were busy at benches, hammering, drilling and filing.
As with almost all the blacksmiths' premises, a side lane led into a back yard, where the heavier work of forging was carried on.
They found the owner, Stephen de Radone, in a back room where he was busy with his clerk, checking tally sticks against a parchment which the literate clerk held in his bony hands. His master was a tough-looking fellow in his mid-forties, with hair as black as John's and muscles almost as powerful as Gwyn's. De Wolfe decided that here was a man who could do every metalworking task as well as any of his employees - and probably better than most. It seemed no wonder that his fellow guildsmen had elected him as Warden of their trade organisation.
Stephen received them courteously and led them upstairs to the living quarters above his business. Here his comely wife greeted them, then diplomatically vanished, leaving them to talk privately to her husband.
Refusing refreshment, much to Gwyn's disappointment, the coroner reminded de Radone about the three previous deaths and explained the recent development concerning Gilbert le Batur.
'It occurred to my clerk that all these incidents employed iron implements and we wondered if this has any significance.'
The smith pondered for a moment. 'Of course, Crowner, most weapons are of necessity made of iron swords, daggers, maces and the like.'
De Wolfe nodded his agreement. 'It may be sheer coincidence, but we are grasping at straws. However, no death was due to wooden arrows or a club - nor to drowning, nor throttling by hand.'
They discussed the matter for a time, but try as he would, Stephen could think of no logical connection between his trade and the series of deaths. De Wolfe made one last attempt at rationalising the problem.
'Look, all the victims were prominent in the activities of their trade guild. All these trades were different, no two men practised the same profession. Is there anything at all that might bring them together?'
The ironmaster thought about this for a moment. 'We attend each other's feasts and dinners from time to time, though probably all four would not have been at any one event at the same time.'
He chewed his lip contemplatively, then held up a forefinger. 'I wonder if they might have come together at the judging of a masterpiece,' he said. John gave a frown to show that he failed to understand.
'In every trade, a young lad is apprenticed for, say, seven years,' explained Stephen. 'Then he may become a journeyman, proficient to carry on his work without supervision and to train apprentices in his own. But he cannot set up in business for himself until he proves his competence to his guild and becomes a master in his own right.'
Gwyn was floundering, though he knew the rudiments of the system. 'So what's that got to do with our problem?'
'A journeyman has to make a master-piece, at his own expense in time and materials, to present to his guild for examination and approval, before he can go out into the world and set up as an independent trader.' John began to see where this was leading. 'And who judges his master-piece?' he asked.
'In the first instance, it is the warden and officers of his own guild, for they are obviously most competent to assess the object - whether it be a glass goblet, a pair of shoes, a turned wooden bowl or a sword.' De Radone became more animated as the strength of his own
argument increasingly appealed to him. 'But he may be refused, as sometimes there is animosity and jealousy between a master and his journeyman, especially if the master does not want to lose the man or have him set up in opposition. Then the candidate may appeal against the decision and the guild will summon senior members of other guilds to act as independent assessors.'
The coroner fixed Stephen. with a steely eye. 'How can we tell if that happened recently - possibly to a member of your own guild?
De Radone turned up his hands in supplication. 'I have no idea, Sir John. I can affirm that it has never happened in my own forge here, but I cannot speak for the other metalworkers in the city - nor in the towns further afield, for there are guild members in Totnes, Dartmouth, Crediton and other places.'
'How can we find out?' demanded de Wolfe.
'There will be records in the Guildhall, Crowner. I have only been warden a short time, so I cannot speak from memory, but the clerks to the guilds will have scrolls recording all these matters for years past.'
After thanking Stephen for his help, the coroner and his officer marched out into Smythen Street again and turned towards Idle Lane.
'This may be a wild goose chase, Gwyn, but it sounds like a job for our worthy clerk. He thought up this daft idea, so he can go and wade through the dusty rolls in the Guildhall.'
Neither mentioned that, in any case, Thomas was the only one who could read them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In which Crowner John rides again to Dartmoor
In the late afternoon, John walked alone through the best part of the city to Raden Lane. When he reached the house of Gillian le Bret, he was relieved to find that Matilda was no longer there, having gone to her devotions in church. He was received in the hall by Joan and her cousin and pressed to wine and pastry wafers, though the fair young woman was too excited herself to eat or drink. John had the impression that only modesty and good manners prevented her from flinging her arms around his neck in exuberant thanks for the good news that Matilda had brought earlier - he was rather disappointed that she did not.
He repeated all that had passed between Hubert Walter and himself, the two women hanging on his every word.
'So there is now no hindrance to your husband reappearing in Exeter or anywhere else,' he concluded.
He was surprised to see a shadow pass over Joan's pretty face.
'There is only one problem, Sir John,' she said. 'I have not heard from Nicholas since you left for London. Normally, we get a message every week or so, but this week and the previous one, there has been no messenger waiting at the usual rendezvous in Moretonhampstead. I am so worried. What can have happened?'
De Wolfe had no answer to this or any reassuring words, other than vague platitudes that all would be well. It would certainly make his plans more difficult to carry out, if the object of his rescue operation was nowhere to be found.
'When is the next meeting due to take place in Moreton?' he asked.
Joan twisted a kerchief nervously between her fingers.
'Not until next Monday, sir. We sent our servant there only yesterday, but there was no sign of anyone from Challacombe.'
John thought rapidly of his commitments. 'I cannot ride tomorrow, but on Thursday my officer and I will go up on to the moor and seek him out. It may be that he has had to move camp for some reason.' With further profuse thanks, in which Matilda was also lauded as an angel of mercy, the two ladles saw John off at their door. As he walked back to Martin's Lane in the gathering dusk, he was more concerned than he had admitted about Nicholas's apparent disappearance.
Had de Revelle and de la Pomeroy decided to act to wipe Nicholas from the map before any action could be taken by London? No news of such an escapade had reached Exeter, but the two villains would be hardly likely to proclaim it abroad.
De Wolfe decided to have more words with the sheriff over this and made his way to the keep of Rougemont.
He found Henry de Furnellis sitting near the firepit in the hall, a quart of ale in his fist, spinning yarns with Ralph Morin, Sergeant Gabriel and a few of the older men-at-arms. John shouted to a servant for a jug and settled down with the group, all of whom he knew and trusted as loyal king's men. He told them of his new concerns for Nicholas de Arundell.
'We have heard nothing of any foray on Dartmoor,' said Ralph. 'Though news travels very slowly in those remote places, especially if people desire to conceal their actions.'
When John told them of his intention to search for de Arundell, the sheriff offered to send armed men with him. De Wolfe accepted a small escort, as the search would perhaps need to be wide.
'Sergeant Gabriel and a couple of mounted men would suffice,' he said. 'We're not looking to fight anyone, just to discover where the hell he has got to.'
'What's to happen about the Justiciar's decision to right this wrong?' asked the castle constable, twisting his forked beard pugnaciously. 'Are we going to hang those two bastards at long last?'
Henry de Furnellis held up a placatory hand. 'Easy, Ralph! Hubert says that he's sending Walter de Ralegh down to hold a special court to settle the issue. Then you can talk about hanging them.'
The burly constable buried his face in his ale jar.
'Those crafty swine will find some way to wriggle out of it, I'll wager. They've got Prince John and half the bloody clergy on their side.'
After supper that evening, Matilda went off to visit her 'poor relation', a cousin in Fore Street. Although the woman was the contented wife of a thriving merchant, she had been adopted as a charity case by John's overbearing wife, who called upon her at intervals to make sure she was not starving on account of marrying a mere tradesman.
John took the opportunity to 'take the dog for a walk', and although he had already called in at the Bush Inn earlier in the day to make his peace with Nesta, he went down again to Idle Lane as soon as his wife's back was turned.
Sitting at ease at his table near the hearth, he had time to recount all the details of his trip to Winchester and London, places that Nesta had only heard of, as her travels had taken her only between her home in Gwent and the city of Exeter. She was the widow of a Welsh archer who had fought alongside John de Wolfe in several French campaigns. When Meredydd finally hung up his longbow, John suggested that he move to Devon, and with his accumulated loot from fifteen years of fighting he had bought the Bush, then a rundown alehouse. The archer brought his wife from Gwent, and they worked hard to make it successful, but then Meredydd was stricken with a sudden fever and died.
John had helped Nesta financially to keep the tavern going until it finally paid its way again, and in the process, they had become lovers in every sense of the word.
'You are a good man, John,' she said softly, putting a hand affectionately on his arm. 'Going all that way to fight an injustice. And I'm not even jealous, though I'll wager that this Lady Joan is pretty.'
He gave her a crooked grin and squeezed her thigh under the table.
'When was my head ever turned by a pretty face - apart from yours, cariad?' he replied in Welsh. 'My main reason was to do down that damned brother-in-law of mine.'
The inn was fairly quiet that evening, though Nesta was called away several times by either old Edwin or one of the serving maids to attend to some cooking problem or see to a new arrival who wanted a penny mattress in the loft for the night. When she came back to John after dealing with one such customer, he solemnly placed a penny before her on the table.
'Any chance of me also getting a bed tonight, mistress?' he asked with a straight face.
The pert answer she had ready was interrupted by the appearance in front of them of Thomas de Peyne, who had just slunk in through the back door. His natural reluctance to frequent taverns had increased since he had been recently restored to the priesthood, so John knew that he must have something important to tell him. However, this had to wait until Nesta had finished fussing over the clerk, as she was always convinced that he never get enough to eat in his mea
n lodgings in Priest Street. She went off to order a maid to find him a bowl of stew and a couple of chicken legs, and while she was in the kitchen, Thomas blurted out his news.
'I have been in the Guildhall, as you instructed, Crowner. Their records are in some disorder, but they are all there. I went through the rolls pertaining to the guild of Ironworkers and found that last summer, one of the journeymen was refused advancement because his master-work was deemed insufficient.' The little clerk's pinched face was pink with cold as he wiped a dewdrop from the end of his long nose with the sleeve of his black cassock.
'What was the name of the master who failed him?' asked John tensely, expecting that it might be one of the four dead guildsmen, until he remembered that they were not in the same trade.
'It was John Barlet, the previous warden of the ironmasters,' said Thomas. Deflated, the coroner then recalled that Stephen de Radone had said that his predecessor had died after a fall from a horse - an accident.., or was it? It had not been one of John's inquests, but the man might have died outside south Devon, under the jurisdiction of a different coroner.
But Thomas had by no means finished his tale and as Nesta returned with a cup of wine and slipped back alongside John, he continued.
'The most interesting part, Crowner, is that the journeyman appealed against the decision and it was heard by four senior members of the city guilds - and again rejected.'
John was almost afraid to ask his clerk the names of the adjudicators, but when Thomas delivered them in a dramatic whisper, the coroner slammed his fist on the table and let out a shout that turned every head in the taproom.
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