Though she had little affection for her husband, she had become used to him and had no desire to lose him either to another woman or to death - though his neck had come perilously close to the hangman's noose on several occasions. Eleanor was well aware of his predilection for harlots, though she never admitted to herself that it was her own frigidity that was the main reason for this behaviour. As long as he did not shame her over his amorous activities, she was prepared to pretend this situation did not exist.
Thus that evening, when he gruffly told her that he was going out to meet a friend in the New Inn, Eleanor was indifferent to the news, suspecting that he would probably end up in one of the brothels that abounded in the back streets. She retired early, going to the upstairs solar with her tire-maid to prepare for bed. Waking some time during the night, she found that her husband was absent from his side of the large feather palliasse they shared.
Again, this was no novelty and she turned over under her blankets and bearskin and went back to sleep.
However, in the morning, there was still no sign of Richard de Revelle and he failed to arrive when their servants brought bread, sweet gruel and coddled eggs to break their fast. This was unusual, as he was fond of his early-morning victuals, but questioning of the three servants they employed threw no light on de Revelle's absence.
Irritated rather than worried, she had herself dressed and went with her maid to morning Mass at the nearby church of St Keryans, for rather like Matilda, attending frequent services was one way of filling the empty life of a gentlewoman. On her return, she was approached deferentially by Matthew, the bottler who took on the role of their steward in that small household.
'My lady, I am becoming concerned about Sir Richard,' he said hesitantly, as his mistress had a sharp tongue when dealing with her servants. 'He has still not returned and the old man who comes to chop kindling and draw water from the well found these in the yard behind the house.' He held out a floppy velvet hat with a crumpled feather and a rusty iron rod longer than his arm.
'That is my husband's hat,' snapped Eleanor, snatching it from him and turning it around in her hands.
'And this is another bar pulled from our back gate, a twin to the one the master told us about - the one that was used to slay some guildsman in a churchyard.' As Eleanor stared at him with mounting concern, Matthew added, 'And both are stained with blood.'
* * *
'This small amount of blood is not from a stabbing, Eleanor. The smears both on the rod and the hat suggest that he has been struck a blow on the head and this is bleeding from his scalp.'
John de Wolfe tried to make this sound like good news, not mentioning the possibility that Richard's skull might have been cracked like an egg.
He was standing in the yard behind the house in North Gate Street, with Gwyn busy examining the back gate, which now had two of its half-dozen bars missing. The lady of the house was listening to him tight-lipped, with Matilda hovering anxiously behind her, common adversity driving these two women into an attempt to be friendly and supportive to each other. In fact Matilda, for all her recent antagonism to her brother, seemed the more upset, though Eleanor's usual glacial manner might have concealed more concern than was apparent.
'Did he not return home last night?' Matilda asked anxiously. 'Where can he have been?'
Her sister-in-law was not anxious to answer that last question, as she suspected that she knew what had taken her husband out into the dark streets.
'He was not in his bed at all. This accident must have occurred late last evening, after I had retired.'
She had responded to de Wolfe's routine questions with some reluctance, as she thought him little better than an ill-mannered soldier, but the evidence that Matthew had found had left her with little option but to send a message to Richard's sister, since her husband was a senior law officer - albeit one she blamed for Richard's repeated falls from grace,
'I fear this can be no accident, lady,' said John, as gently as he could. 'No one strikes themselves on the head hard enough to draw blood. And the use of this iron rod makes it impossible to believe that the petpetrator is anyone other than the assassin who killed those other men.'
Eleanor de Revelle drew her thin body stiffly upright and fixed him with her pale blue eyes. 'So you think Richard is dead, John?' she asked tonelessly. Already she was readjusting herself to the role of widow and wondering if it might not be preferable to being married to an inveterate scoundrel.
But de Wolfe was not yet ready to go along with her speculations. Strangely, he admitted to himself, though he had often wished his brother-in-law in hell, under these circumstances he ardently hoped that the man was still alive and not another victim of this murdering bastard. If Richard was to forfeit his life, it should be legally at the end of a rope, not by being slain by some crazed journeyman.
'He may well be alive, Eleanor,' he reassured her.
'This spike, whose partner was used to kill another man, has not been used other than as a club.' He hefted the rod in his hand to assess its weight. 'I think Richard was struck to deprive him of his wits and has been carried off somewhere. Maybe he is being held as a hostage, as we have been seeking this Geoffrey Trove all over the city. At least we know who the villain is that attacked your husband.'
The wife scowled at the coroner. 'And what good is knowing his name, if you cannot find him - or where he has taken my husband?'
Matilda, who cared for her sister-in-law about as much as the Lionheart cared for Philip of France, came to her husband's defence.
'John is doing all he can, Eleanor! This killer has led everyone a merry dance for weeks - as I know to my cost, as he half-killed me in the cathedral Close.' De Wolfe decided to leave his wife to bandy words with Richard's haughty wife and walked across the muddy yard to where Gwyn was peering at the ground near the gate, which led into a short side lane leading out to North Gate Street.
'There's a real mess of footprints around here, Crowner, but nothing of any use, with so many people in and out of here every day.'
John looked down and agreed with his officer. 'If de Revelle was struck on the head, as he surely must have been, where is he now?' he rasped. 'Dead or alive, I doubt he walked out of here.'
Just then Thomas arrived, out of breath after hurrying from his chantry duties at the cathedral, and the coroner briefly explained what had happened.
'He must have been carried away, or possibly dragged,' suggested the clerk. 'Was this Geoffrey a big man, strong enough to do that?'
'I only saw him once, in that guild meeting,' grunted the coroner. 'But he seemed tough enough, which is what you would expect of a blacksmith and ironworker.'
'No drag marks in the mud,' growled Gwyn, looking again at the ground. 'If he was hauled away, you'd expect his heels to leave a couple of grooves in this soft muck.'
De Wolfe opened the gate, which was now minus two of its rails, and went out into the lane. He looked first up to North Gate Street, only a few yards away.
'I can't see Trove struggling through the main streets with a body in his arms, even late at night. Surely he would have gone the other way?'
They turned and looked down the narrow lane, which was no more than a path between the yards of the burgages on either side. Matthew, the steward of the house, was hovering around, looking lost and anxious, and John beckoned him nearer.
'Where does this lane go?' he demanded.
The servant, a middle-aged fellow with a bad turn in his eye, seemed to stare directly at both Gwyn and the coroner simultaneously.
'It goes past burgage plots and vegetable gardens through to St Mary Arches Lane, sir. Beyond that is St Nicholas Priory and the warren of Bretayne.'
De Wolfe cursed under his breath. From there, the whole of the bottom quarter of the city was accessible.
In the squalor of Bretayne, no one would look twice at a man stumbling along at night with a drunken friend - or even a corpse.
'What about a hound, master?' asked T
homas, as usual having the quickest mind amongst them. 'Could not a lymer sniff out a human quarry, if he is given something with his scent upon it?'
A lymer was one of the several types of hunting dog, the breed with the keenest nose, as opposed to the greyhound, which hunted by sight. John looked at Gwyn questioningly, as neither of them had thought of this novel idea.
'We've got the hat he wore last night, with his blood upon it,' said the coroner. 'Do you think it would work?'
'What dog could we use?' asked Gwyn, then his broad face lit up. 'Your Brutus, why not? He was a grand old lymer when he was younger, and there's nothing wrong with his snout even now.
The Cornishman was a great dog-lover, and they seemed to respond to him in a similar fashion. A few moments later, he was hurrying back down North Street and soon he had returned with the long-legged brown hound, taken from the coroner's house under Mary's astonished gaze.
John had explained to the two ladies what they were going to try and when Brutus arrived, he stuffed the foppish hat under the dog's nose, hoping that his old hound would grasp what was required.
The animal seemed delighted at this novel outing, which was a change from his usual walk down to the Bush tavern. When Gwyn called him into the lane and set off through the garden plots, he loped ahead in a determined way, stopping every few yards to sniff the weeds and fence posts on either side.
'He's going somewhere, bless him,' yelled Gwyn, as he hurried to keep up with the dog, with the coroner, his clerk and the steward trotting along behind.
At the end of the path, they came out on to a wider lane which came from Fore Street past St Mary Arches church and wound around the compound of St Nicholas Priory, where the few Benedictine monks kept a large vegetable garden in addition to their devotional tasks.
Brutus sniffed deeply at a bush on the corner, then cocked his leg against it, before ambling off with the diagonal gait that so many long-legged dogs possessed.
Beyond the priory wall there were no more dwellings, as the city wall loomed ahead, and the land up to the wall for a considerable distance in each direction was taken up by garden plots, some overgrown and neglected. The hound suddenly stopped and raised his muzzle as if sniffing for inspiration. Gwyn caught up with him and held the cap to Brutus's nose to reinforce the reason for their game. The hound lifted one of his forepaws as he took a final sniff, then shook himself and set off more slowly into the rough ground, where old onion beds, coarse grass and nettles had died back for the winter.
'Where's he off to now, Gwyn?' called de Wolfe.
'Maybe he's just got the whiff of a rat, but he seems to know where he's going,' replied the officer, proud of the performance so far of his canine friend. Brutus pushed his way through the frost-shrivelled weeds of a neglected plot and then slowed down and stopped. With his neck outstretched and a forepaw again delicately raised, he gave a throaty growl, then looked up enquiringly at Gwyn.
'I reckon he's telling us something, Crowner,' said Gwyn. 'What's that ahead of us, at the foot of the wall?' The others came up to stand behind the now wary hound and looked at where Gwyn was pointing. The town wall, built of Saxon and Norman stones on top of the original Roman base, was only about a dozen feet high here, as beyond it the ground dropped off suddenly into Northernhay. Away to the fight were the towers of the North Gate and on the left, the wall sloped down past St Bartholomew's churchyard towards the river.
Along the inside of the wall were a few ramshackle huts, little more than shelters for those who worked the many plots that filled the areas where there were no houses. Some were derelict and unused, though a few beggars and homeless poor sometimes camped out in them for want of better lodging. The nearest was no more than six feet square, built of panels of mouldering woven hazel withies, covered by a lean-to roof of tattered reed thatch, the upper end of which rested against the town wall.
'Let's have a look in there, anyway,' growled de Wolfe. 'It may only be a badger or a fox that's upset old Brutus.'
They walked cautiously across the waste ground, the dog now keeping to Gwyn's heels. As they got nearer, John could see that the closed end of the hut faced them, so presumably the entrance was on the opposite side. Both the coroner and his officer drew their swords as a precaution, and Thomas and the steward dropped back, being unwilling to become involved in any possible violence.
'Anyone in there?' yelled' Gwyn in a voice that could be heard over half the city. He did not really expect a response and was startled to hear a harsh voice reply from inside the shack.
'Keep away, damn you - or I'll kill him now!' Eyebrows raised in surprise, de Wolfe motioned to Gwyn to stay where he was, whilst he himself moved quietly around the hut until he could see into the open end, keeping a dozen paces away from it.
'I said stay away, or he'll get it now,' came the same voice, tense and high-pitched with fear and defiance. It was indeed Geoffrey Trove, for now John recognised him as the man from the guild meeting. He was leaning against the stones of the wall, the only place where the sloping roof was high enough for him to stand upright. At his feet was the body of a man, stretched out on the ground, with a sack over his head. From the ornate embroidery around the bottom of the green tunic, John had no doubt that the figure was that of his brother-in-law, though whether dead or alive, he could not tell.
'You are the ironworker called Geoffrey Trove?' snapped the coroner. 'Come out of there and give yourself into custody at once!'
There was a laugh, harsh and hysterical from the swarthy journeyman. 'Not a chance, coroner! I've outwitted you four times already and I'll do it again. Another step nearer and this thieving bastard gets his throat cut.'
Geoffrey bent and pulled off the sack, revealing Richard's face, dried blood crusted on his forehead and cheek. He was conscious, but a length of cloth was tied over his mouth as an effective gag, and cords secured his ankles and wrists. His captor brandished a long dagger and John, knowing Trove's lack of compunction in killing and attacking defenceless people, was prepared to believe his present threat.
'You can never get away with this,' he barked, but stopped moving towards the open end of the shelter.
Gwyn had moved to stand alongside him and both held their swords at the slope, ready to dash forwards if the crazy metalworker made any move to strike de Revelle.
'What is it you are hoping to gain by this foolishness?' yelled the coroner. 'You cannot escape, there's nowhere for you to hide now.'
'I have a hostage, unless I decide to kill him,' called Trove, dimly seen in the dark hut. 'I want safe conduct to a church, God knows there are plenty of those near here.'
'The swine wants to seek sanctuary and then abjure the realm,' exclaimed Gwyn. 'Some hope, after all the crimes he's committed.'
John was not so sure that the size of the crime affected the right to sanctuary, unless it was sacrilege. If any fugitive gained a church, or even its churchyard, he could claim forty days' immunity from arrest and then, if he confessed, the right to go to a port and take ship out of England. The irony would be that Trove's confession would have to be taken by a coroner, in this case, the husband of the woman he had attacked! First, Trove had to reach a church, and John was damned if he was going to get the opportunity.
'Not a chance, Trove!' he shouted back. 'You'll never get ten paces away from that hut with your prisoner, let alone to the nearest church. Is he still alive after that wicked blow you gave him with your precious rod of iron?'
For answer, Trove gave the inert figure a kick and then hauled Richard's head from the ground by the hair. There was a groan and as de Wolfe inched nearer, he saw that de Revelle's eyes were rolling wildly, though the gag prevented him from calling out.
'He's alive all right, though only you coming along stopped me using this on him!' Trove reached down and picked up something from the floor, which he brandished at those outside. John saw it was another of the infernal machines for firing small iron arrows.
'Now he's my bargaining counter for m
y freedom, Crowner! Make up your mind quickly, who is it you want dead - me or your brother-in-law?'
'Shoot the bastard, for all we care,' muttered Gwyn, but he was careful not to utter the words loudly enough for the man to hear.
'This is madness, Trove!' said de Wolfe in exasperation, beginning to edge forwards towards the hut, lifting his sword a little as he went. 'My officer and I will cut you down the moment you set foot out of that hovel. Throw down those weapons now and let's have an end to this.'
This made no impression on the beleaguered man.
Knowing that unless he could gain sanctuary, his life was forfeit whether he surrendered or fought it out, he had nothing to lose.
'If you come a step nearer, I'll shoot you with my master-work,' he threatened, hefting the miniature crossbow in one hand. 'It's drawn back and the bolt's in place, all I need do is pull the trigger. I'll not miss this time - that damned weaver was lucky in that he stumbled at the privy door.'
The prospect of eight inches of iron rod being projected into his chest caused John to stop moving and he stood in the wilted nettles, frustrated by the deadlocked situation. He looked across at Gwyn for inspiration.
'I'll go and get more men, Crowner,' said the Comishman in a loud voice and gave a knowing wink.
He moved away, back past the hut, scuffing his feet noisily until he was a score of yards away. Then he stopped and waited, well out of sight of Geoffrey Trove.
De Wolfe forced himself not to look in Gwyn's direction and called again to the man in the shack to divert his attention.
'Why did you kill all those innocent guildsmen, Trove?'
'You know damn well, Crowner! They conspired against me to deprive me of a decent living. I am a skilled worker and fully deserving of becoming my own master. They were jealous of me and wanted to keep me out of their cosy little society. After all I've suffered, that was the final insult.'
The Noble Outlaw Page 33