John de Wolfe strode past, almost unaware of the hubbub, as the scene was so familiar to him. With his lean hound criss-crossing in front of him to seek out each new stink and odour, the coroner made for the Bear Gate, one of the many entrances to the Close, which lay on the opposite side to Martin's Lane. From there he crossed Southgate Street and continued downhill into the small lanes leading to the river, following much the same route as he had used earlier when he went to see the corpse on the quay-side: Halfway down Priest Street, however, where many of the clergy had lodgings, he turned left into a short cut across a patch of waste ground, where a fire had destroyed some houses several years before. They had not been rebuilt and the street had become known as Idle Lane. The only building was the Bush Inn, which itself had just been rebuilt after a recent fire had destroyed its upper floor. It was a square stone structure with a high roof, thatched with new straw which came down almost low enough for a tall man like de Wolfe to touch the eaves. In the middle of the front wall was a low door, with shuttered window openings on each side and a dried bush hanging from a bracket above.
This was the inn's sign, an indicator of a tavern since Roman times. At the back of the alehouse was a large fenced yard, containing a kitchen hut and the usual outbuildings, including a brewing shed from which came the best ale in Exeter.
John ducked under the lintel and went into the taproom, which occupied all the ground floor. The first fire of the autumn was glowing in a clay pit in the centre of the room and its smoke added to the fug, an eye-smarting mixture of cooking, sweat and spilt ale. A number of rough tables, benches and stools were scattered about, and at the back, where a door went out into the yard, a row of casks sat on the rush-strewn floor, holding the supply of ale and cider. Near by was a wide ladder to the loft above, where travellers could rent a straw mattress for a penny a night, which included a meal and drink.
De Wolfe made for his favourite table next to the fire, and a pair of young apprentices hastily moved away, as all the patrons knew that this was the coroner's place, sheltered on one side by a wattle hurdle that kept off some of the draught from the doorway. His bottom had hardly touched the bench when a pottery jar containing a quart of ale was set in front of him.
This time the drink was brought not by the usual potman, the one-eyed old soldier Edwin, but by the landlady herself, the delectable Nesta. She stood over him, her round Welsh face wreathed in a welcoming smile.
'John, you look very comely today, in your best tunic and Moorish belt!"
His usually stern features lit up with a returning smile of pure pleasure, partly at seeing her look so well, the stress she had suffered a month past, when been pulled out of the burning tavern just before the roof collapsed. This was the first time he had noticed that she seemed fully recovered, with a pink bloom on the cheeks that had been so pale for many weeks.
she had left off her usual linen cap and her rich hair was plaited into two ropes that hung over her shapely bosom. De Wolfe had had many women over the years, but none plucked at his heartstrings like Nesta of Gwent. He held up his hand to take her fingers in his own.
'I'm in my best finery today because of the installation of this new sheriff. Come and sit with me, dear Nesta!'
She slid on to the bench and he put an arm around her waist and hugged her to him, ignoring the covert glances of other patrons.
'A couple of minutes only, John. There's cooking to be seen to - we're run off our feet with all these people coming into town.'
Nesta ran the tavern with bustling efficiency, helped by Edwin and two maids. It was now a thriving business, renowned for good food and the city's best ale.
The rushes on the floor and the mattresses upstairs were the cleanest in Exeter, so there was never any lack of custom. Nesta's husband Meredydd, a Gwent archer who had campaigned with John de Wolfe, had bought the inn several years ago, but later died of a fever, leaving his widow deeply in debt. John had come to her rescue for the sake of his friendship with her husband, and gradually, by dint of his money and her hard work, they had turned disaster into success. In the process they had become lovers, and John's miserable marriage had become all the more irksome because of the contentment he felt when he was with Nesta.
'Shall I get the girls to cook something for you, John?' she said, her concern for his appetite coming to the surface as usual. He squeezed her more tightly as he shook his head. 'I had some small stuff at Rougemont - and Mary has threatened me with hideous torment if I fail to eat the duck she's cooking for supper.' They sat for a few moments, she listening contentedly while he gently kneaded her breast with his free hand as he told her of the day's events.
'So you've-no idea who this poor dead man might be?' she asked, after he had recounted the tale of the washed:up body. Nesta was always full of sympathy for the afflicted, be they paupers, lame dogs or the nameless dead.
'No, he's a mystery man as yet. You've heard nothing of any fights or assaults in the last day or two?' Like Mary, the innkeeper often heard gossip about happenings in the city, indeed the whole county, especially as the Bush was a favourite inn for carters and • travellers. But this time, Nesta had nothing to suggest.
'If no one recognises him, he must surely be one of the many who have come for the fair,' she reasoned.
John didn't press the point that with a face as battered as his, the corpse was totally unrecognisable.
He changed the subject by pointing to the new beams and boards above their head, which formed the floor of the roomy loft.
'They did a good job in such a short time, Nesta.
Apart from the look of such new timber, it's hard to know what ruin there was before.'
In August, the tavern had been deliberately set on fire and the place had been gutted, only the stone walls remaining. But thanks to willing workers and timber from John's manors at the coast, it was now back to its former glory - even Nesta's small room on the floor above had been rebuilt. This was where they had many a pleasant hour together, though the fire destroyed her pride and joy - the large French bed that John had imported from St Malo, probably only one in Exeter. Until he could get a replacement they would have to make do with a mattress .on floor, like most other people. The thought of the little chamber in the corner of the loft caused him to give her another squeeze.
'Are you too busy this evening to climb the ladder, my love?' he whispered in her ear. She jabbed him playfully with her elbow, then pulled herself free from his encircling arm.
'I must go and see to the girls in the kitchen now,' she said, rising to her feet and smoothing down the green kirtle that flowed over her shapely figure. 'But if you can find the strength to walk down again after glutting yourself on Mary's duck, then maybe I can find a few spare moments later on this evening!' She made her way to the back of the room, laughing and making small talk with her patrons along the A popular woman, she had the gift of being pleasant to everyone, yet firm enough with drunks or the few who tried to take advantage of her, as a woman innkeeper was a vulnerable rarity in the many alehouses of the city.
The coroner sat with his pot and also exchanged salutations with some of the regulars in the taproom, They all knew of his long-standing affair with the landlady and most heartily approved and wished them well.
Though there was many a nudge and wink, none ever made any audible jest or comment, as Black John's short temper and strong arm were too well known for any liberties to be taken with him.
De Wolfe was chatting to a carpenter on the next table about the good quality of the repairs to the building, as the man was one of those who had worked on it, at John's expense. Under the table, Brutus was contentedly gnawing on a mutton knuckle that another patron had thrown to him. The scene was one of peaceful serenity, too good to last. The early evening sunlight coming through the open door was momentarily blocked by a large figure as Gwyn of Polruan came in and crossed to de Wolfe's table. The coroner groaned as he saw the familiar look on the big man's whiskered face.
; 'Tell me the worst, then! I was just getting comfortable,' he grunted.
Gwyn dropped on to the opposite bench, which creaked ominously under his weight. He ran thick fingers through his dishevelled red hair, then waved them at Edwin to summon a jug of ale.
'There's been something found, Crowner. Something that might have a bearing on our corpse.' The Cornishman had a habit, infuriating to his master, of spinning out any story in instalments that delayed the actual facts.
'What "something", damn you? Spit it out, for God's sake!'
Edwin limped up with Gwyn's ale and the officer took a deep draught and gave a sigh of satisfaction before answering the exasperated coroner.
'Garments, that's what. Bloodstained and hidden in a hole.'
Between gulps of Nesta's best brew, the story came out. Two young boys had been playing on the river bank about a quarter of a mile downstream of the wharf, where the Shitebrook disgorged its filth into the Exe.
This was a foul stream that acted as the main sewer for Exeter, most of the ordure draining through culverts in the city walls to find its way into the aptly named brook which trickled sluggishly down a small valley to the river.
'They had a mangy dog with them and they throwing sticks into the river for it to fetch,' explained! Gwyn. 'Then it suddenly lost interest in the game and started digging into the bank, in what seemed like an otter run.'
John waited impatiently for his old friend to get toi! the hub of the matter.
'The upshot was that the cur dragged out a bundle of what the lads thought were rags, but which turned out to be a tunic and surcoat. The upper part of both of these was stiff with blood.'
He went on to explain that when the boys ran back up to the wharf, some of the men there challenged them, thinking they had stolen something. One happened to be the fellow who had found the body earlier in the day. He called Osric, who in turn asked Gwyn to notify the coroner.
'Where's the stuff now?'demanded de Wolfe.
'Osric has it in that shack behind the Guildhall that the constables use for their shelter.'
The two men downed the remainder of their drink and John told Edwin to tell his mistress that he would see her later that evening. They stepped out into Idle Lane, feeling one of the first chill breezes of the autumn as they strode back towards the city.
The Guildhall was in High Street, not many yards from the turning into Martin's Lane. It was newly built in stone, one of the grandest buildings in the city, as befitted the home of the many merchant guilds and the place where the burgesses held their council. In a lane behind it was a small thatched hut left by the stonemasons, which had been appropriated as their shelter by Osric and his fatter colleague, Theobald.
John thrust open the rickety door and went into the shed, almost bare but for two old stools and a bench on which were some cups and pots. Neither of the constables was there, but Gwyn pointed to a jumble of cloth on a shelf nailed to the wall.
'That's the stuff, Crowner. Have a look at this.' He unrolled the clothing on the bench and John saw a long yellow tunic of good-quality cloth, together with a surcoat of blue serge. They were both muddy, but more significantly the areas around the neck and upper chest were stiff with dark dried blood.
De Wolfe felt the material between his finger and thumb. 'Good stuff, though not showy. If this did belong to our corpse, then he was no common labourer, as I thought from the state of his hands.' Gwyn nodded sagely. 'But neither does he seem some foppish fellow with more money than sense. There's no fancy embroidery on the tunic and the surcoat has no brocade or velvet frippery.'
The coroner stood staring down at the soiled garments. 'But no belt, dagger, hose or shoes - nor a pouch or purse.'
'Smells like a robbery to me,' grunted his officer.
'But why take his clothes off and hide them?'
'To confound or certainly delay us putting a name to him,' snapped de Wolfe. 'It's the merest chance that those urchins and their dog found this stuff.' Gwyn remained unimpressed by their luck. 'Doesn't help much unless we find someone who knows him and knows what he was wearing!'
His master shrugged and turned to the door. 'Let's see what tomorrow brings. You can tell Osric to take that stuff down to the Watergate. It may as well stay with the body, in case we find someone who can have a look at them both.'
With that, he strode off towards his house, ready to face both Mary's duck and his wife's dour company.
* * *
Everyone in the city seemed to be up and about even earlier than usual the next morning. Even before broke, there were people milling around the five gates, impatiently waiting for them to open. As soon as the porters pulled back the massive oaken doors, there was a scramble in both directions, though most waiting to spill out, especially at South Gate, as the was centred on Southernhay, the expanse of meadows and gardens beyond the south-east wall of Exeter.
Those coming in were the usual crowd who daily brought provisions to the shops and stalls, pushing barrows of vegetables, wicker crates of fowls and ducks, carrying baskets of eggs and freshly caught fish. Others were adding to the confusion by driving pigs, sheep and cattle to the slaughterers in the Shambles at the top of Southgate Street.
Today, however, many merchants were going out to the booths they had erected in Southernhay, to draw in as much profit as they could from the fair. Some were Exeter burgesses and craftsmen, but there were also many strangers who had arrived early and stayed in the city overnight. Some had come from as far afield as London, Lincoln and Chester - and there were even a few who had taken ship from Cologne and Flanders, drawn by the reputation of the October fair. This year, it was an even greater attraction, as the one-day jousting tournament meant that even more people would be attending, some of them wealthy knights and squires who might be persuaded to part with their money more liberally than the cautious townsfolk and peasantry.
John de Wolfe was also up early, determined as a senior law officer to play his part in keeping the peace, especially as he knew that the new sheriff was unlikely to be exerting himself in this direction. The coroner also wanted to see what could be discovered about the previous day's murder - even if there was little hope of catching the culprits, it was essential to try to put a name to the victim, for the sake of his family.
John threw aside the sheepskin coverlets and climbed naked from his feather-filled mattress, set on a low plinth of the floor of-the solar, leaving Matilda snoring on the other side. The previous evening she had been subdued and uncommunicative after returning from her devotions, which John rightly attributed tO the induction of a new sheriff, reminding her again of her brother's fall from grace. After a silent meal, Matilda had retired upstairs for Lucille's ministrations to her hair, then gone to bed. John had slipped out to the Bush and had a satisfactory hour in the new loft, coming home before the cathedral bells rang for midnight matins.
Now he was ready for the new day, and in honour of the fair he pulled out his second-best grey tunic from the heavy chest that held his few clothes. He pulled on his long hose and tied the laces to the under-belt around his waist before shaking down the skirt of his long tunic and buckling on his wide leather belt, complete with scrip pouch at the front and sheathed dagger at the back.
Slipping into house shoes, he opened the solar door and shivered slightly at the chill morning breeze that was chasing dark clouds across the sky. Once down the wooden steps, he made for the cook house and soon was tucking into oatmeal gruel with milk and honey.
By the time he had spooned this down, Mary had a manchet of yesterday's bread for him, piled with three eggs and a thick slab of bacon fried in butter. Half a small loaf and a pint of her own ale completed his breakfast, and soon he was squatting in the odorous privy at the end o£ the yard, before making for the vestibule to pull on his boots.
As he reached for his mottled wolfskin cape to throw over his shoulders, Brutus came loping around the corner from the yard. The big brown dog beseechingly at his master.
'Com
e on, then, but behave yourself,' he grunted.
'There'll be a lot of horses down there, so keep from under their hoofs!'
John's first destination was the tourney ground at Bull Mead, just beyond Southernhay. As an older and very experienced warrior, he had been asked to act as one of the judges for the contests the following day and, having agreed, wanted to have a look at the arrangements beforehand.
As he walked through the early morning bustle in the streets and lanes, he thought about the amount of organisation that these fairs entailed. The financial returns to the city and its burgesses must be well worth the effort, he mused, as weeks of work preceded each of the four major fairs every year. Because Exeter was a free chartered city, there was no lord to monopolise them, so the fairs were controlled by the two portreeves - his friend Hugh de Relaga and Henry Rifford, a wealthy leather merchant. Together with leading burgesses and guildmasters, they set up a committee, and this delegated all the hard work to others. Clerks dispensed permits to trade at the fair and collected the substantial fees, some of which had to be paid to the King's treasury under the terms of their charter.
Builders and carpenters erected all the booths and the fencing for the tourney ground. Arrangements had to be made with the sheriff and the castle constable for men-at-arms to patrol the fairground and attempt 'to keep some order. Though the substantial ecclesiastical community had no direct part to play - and officially the Church disapproved of jousting activities - they were not reluctant to accept the extra donations and alms from the many visitors who came to gape at their grand new cathedral and leave offerings at the many altars and shrines, as well as paying for Masses to be said for the souls of their relatives.
Figure of Hate Page 5