The other half of the building was a windowless dwelling, smoke filtering from under the low eaves of the thatch. A puny lad hurried out from somewhere to take the reins of the horses and lead them off to feed.
The three travellers followed the village headman, the tall figures of John and Gwyn having to stoop under the doorway to enter the house. In the dim light, they saw a bare room with an earthen floor. A smoky fire burned dully in a clay hearth-pit in the middle, over which a small cauldron hung on a trivet. One crude door led to the cowshed and another to the luxury of an inner room, where two runny nosed barefoot children gaped with round eyes at these visitors from the unknown outer world.
‘Sit yourselves, sirs,’ invited the reeve. He pulled forward a low bench and a milking stool to the fire, virtually the only furniture, then called brusquely to a woman lurking in the darker recesses of the room. ‘Martha, bring ale, bread and some bowls for this broth you’ve got warming here.’ His English was thick with the local accent.
The official party shrugged off their sodden outer clothes and the reeve hung them on wooden pegs fixed into the wall-frames. He wondered where Gwyn and the small man fitted into the system. The Cornishman, betrayed by his accent, was even taller and certainly more massive than the crowner, but with his ginger hair and moustache, was a complete contrast to the saturnine blackness of Sir John. Although the man had no beard, his moustache was so profuse that is bushy tails hung down on both sides of his mouth and chin almost to his chest. His unruly shock of hair ran down as sidewhiskers to join his moustache.
Gwyn had been born forty-two years earlier, to a tin-miner who had turned to fishing and moved to the coast at Polruan, on the opposite side of the river entrance to Fowey. Gwyn had followed the fishing trade until he was seventeen, then come to Exeter to be a slaughterman in the Shambles. His huge size brought him an invitation to become bodyguard-cumsquire to a local knight off to the wars. Fourteen years ago, in 1180, he had come to Sir John de Wolfe and they had remained together ever since, fighting and travelling in Ireland and to the Third Crusade.
The coroner’s clerk, Ralph saw, was a furtive little man with a dropped shoulder from old spinal disease and a shifty pair of eyes that darted everywhere and missed nothing.
The visitors were served a simple meal by the silent woman, who was pale and toothless though probably no more than thirty. While they slurped meat broth over the edges of wooden bowls and champed at the hard bread, the coroner sat and listened to the story of Ralph the reeve.
‘Found him before milking time, yesterday morning, we did,’ the village overseer said, with a certain morbid relish. Little happened in Widecombe and the finding of a body made an intriguing change from sheep foot-rot and mouldy oats, the only local topics of conversation. ‘Lying on the bank, he was – head in the water. In the little stream that runs into the Webburn, between here and Dunstone, a fair way beyond the old Saxon well.’
Gwyn’s ruddy face followed the story carefully, while the button eyes of the sparrow-like clerk jumped restlessly about the room.
Crowner John held up a large hand, keeping his half-consumed bowl of broth in the other. ‘Wait a minute, man! Whose side of the stream was it on – yours or the next village’s?’
The reeve looked shiftily from John to Gwyn and then to the clerk.
‘The truth, man!’ snapped the coroner.
Ralph’s acne-scarred cheeks twitched and the single yellow tooth in his upper jaw stuck out like a spike as he grinned feebly. ‘’T was on our side, sir … though I’ll swear those damned Dunstone folk put him across in the night.’
The big Cornishman grunted. ‘Why should they do that? And how could you know they did?’
The reeve scratched vigorously at the lice on his head as an aid to thought. ‘To save themselves the trouble of all this new-fangled crowner’s business – beggin’ your pardon, sirs,’ he added hastily. ‘That body wasn’t there the night before, for our pig boy was down in that there meadow till dusk.’
‘He could have come there and died during the night, you fool!’ whined Thomas.
Ralph shook his head. ‘His belly was blown up. Been dead a while – a good few days at least, at this season.’
‘Washed down the stream, then?’ hazarded John.
The reeve rocked his head again. ‘’Tis but a trickle of a brook before it joins the other stream. Not enough to move a badger, let alone a man’s corpse. No, them Dunstone people dumped him on us, so as not to be first finders, that’s for sure.’
The law laid an obligation on those who discovered a body, the so-called ‘First Finders’, to raise the hue-and-cry by immediately rousing the nearest four households and starting a chase for the culprit, as well as notifying the authorities. It was an obligation that carried penalties for errors, and most people made every effort to avoid being involved.
The coroner finished his soup, put the bowl on the floor and stood up, his head all but touching the rough beams above. He moved to stand right over the fire, letting the moisture steam off his worsted breeches and the grey knee-length surcoat, slit back and front for sitting a horse.
‘Any idea who this corpse might be?’ he snapped at the reeve. The battle-scarred veteran of a score of years spent campaigning in Ireland, France and Palestine, John had a demanding manner. A man of few words, he wasted none and, in turn, expected no fancy turns of phrase or beating about the bush.
Ralph shook his head again. ‘No one from these parts, Crowner. Not a serf nor villein, neither. More a gentleman, by his garments.’
John’s eyebrows rose a little, crinkling the forehead scar he had won from a Saracen sword outside Acre. ‘A gentleman? We’ll see about that. Where’ve you got him?’
The abruptness of his deep voice sent Ralph scurrying to get their cloaks, still dripping on the wall hooks. ‘In the tithe barn, just inside the entrance. Starting to smell a bit, he is.’
They trooped outside to find that the rain had eased to a fine drizzle. The sodden village sat dejected in its valley and now a pall of white mist had settled on the moor above, heightening the feeling of isolation from the rest of the world. A few curious souls watched covertly from the doorways of their cottages as the procession left the reeve’s dwelling.
‘Over this way, sirs,’ called Ralph, splashing ahead towards the small church and larger barn that sat slightly below the crest of the village green.
John saw that the hamlet, set in a valley, was all slopes and mounds, but fertile from the soil washed down from the moors over aeons of time.
‘We called you right away, Crowner, just as we should,’ said Ralph virtuously. His initial truculence had long vanished, now that he realised that under the new law Sir John de Wolfe was a force to be reckoned with.
It was only a month since his own lord, Hugh FitzRalph, had assembled his six manor reeves and told them of various new laws that had filtered down from the royal court, where the King’s justiciar, Archbishop Hubert Walter, was ruling England now that Richard had returned to France.
One new regulation had come from the General Eyre, sitting in the county of Kent: in September, it had revived the ancient Saxon post of coroner.
To the ignorant reeves, including Ralph, Kent was as remote as the moon and coroners were equally incomprehensible. They had gathered that the new men would record illegal events and enquire into dead bodies, but their interest waned rapidly as FitzRalph’s clerk, the only man in the manor who could read, droned on. All that Ralph remembered was that if a death occurred violently or unexpectedly, a runner had to be sent straight away to Exeter to notify the sheriff and this new official – otherwise the village would be amerced, which meant a heavy fine. As he heaved at the tall, rickety door of the barn, it occurred to Ralph that if he wanted to keep the perquisites of his job as village reeve, he had better find out a little more about coroners and stick to the rules: if this hawkish black beanpole was crossed, he might prove a handful of trouble. As he wrestled with the door Ralph looked co
vertly at Sir John de Wolfe and decided that the stern, sallow face, with the deep furrows running down to the corners of the mouth, was that of a hard man. His great height and slightly hunched shoulders gave him the appearance of a bird of prey, ready to swoop on any wrong-doer. De Wolfe’s lips, though, made Ralph wonder if the new crowner made himself more agreeable to the ladies than he did to men: they had a full sensuality at odds with the man’s otherwise flinty appearance.
He jerked his mind back to reality and pushed the door wider, aiming a kick at several small boys who had followed them across the green. Three other men came and stood a respectful distance from the group.
‘Here we are, Crowner, I threw this sack over him for decency.’ He flicked off the rough hessian from the still shape on the ground and stood at the head of the cadaver with an almost proprietorial air.
John de Wolfe and Gwyn stood each side of the corpse and bent to view it more closely, while the clerk crossed himself and stood further away, holding a grubby cloth over his nose.
‘Smells a bit, don’t he?’ muttered Gwyn. It was merely an observation.
‘Told you he was corrupt,’ said the reeve, triumphantly. ‘He never died in our stream night ’fore last, that’s for sure.’
John tilted his scabbard out of the way and squatted at the side of the body.
The front of the tunic and undershirt were ripped open and greenish-red veins could be seen across the swollen belly, making it look like marble. The face was slightly puffy and the open, sightless eyes were sunken and clouded.
‘His features are still fairly good, if we had someone who knew him,’ remained Gwyn.
‘They won’t be for long, though. Another few days above ground and his own mother wouldn’t recognise him.’ The coroner was an expert in corpses; he had seen thousands in all states of decay in the Holy Land and other campaigns. He prodded the flank with a finger, feeling the bubbling tenseness of the gas within.
‘Good clothing, as you said, reeve. Worn and dirty, but fair material. Looks French in style.’
‘What did he die of?’ grunted the ever-practical Gwyn, crouching on his large haunches alongside his master.
For answer, the reeve bent down and grabbed the shoulders of the body, oblivious to the wave of stench that came up as he heaved it over onto its face.
‘There, on his back. We saw it when we carried him in.’ Bending closer, John saw a bloody stain diluted with rain, on the green tunic. In the centre was a small tear, narrow and just over an inch in length, sitting obliquely between the man’s shoulder-blades.
‘Have you looked here under his clothing?’ he boomed at the reeve.
Ralph shook his head. ‘Left it to you, sir, like we were told,’ he said obsequiously.
The coroner grabbed the lower hem of the tunic with a bony but powerful hand and pulled it up. It would come no further than waist level. ‘Gwyn, let’s get this up.’
The ginger giant moved around to the other side to raise the limp arms, as they wrestled away the tunic and pulled the undershirt up to the armpits. At least the early putrefaction had got rid of rigor mortis, which would have made the process even more difficult.
As Gwyn let fall the left hand of the corpse, he grunted again, his favourite form of communication. ‘His fingers … they’re cut.’ He picked up the hand and pulled back the curled fingers to expose the palm and finger pads. Between the thumb and first finger was a deep slash to the bone, and across the inside of the first joints of all the fingers, the flesh was cut to the tendons.
Even the squeamish Thomas de Peyne was intrigued. ‘How did he come by that?’ he squeaked.
‘Caught hold of a blade, trying to defend himself. A knife or a sword,’ answered John shortly.
‘Perhaps the same blade that did this, then.’ Gwyn pointed to the now exposed back of the corpse, reddened and blotchy where the blood had settled under the skin as it lay on its back after death. Under the rip in the tunic and shirt, the surface of the body showed a clean-cut deep wound, an inch long, sharp at the lower end and blunt at the top. As they watched blood and gas blew slow bubbles out of the injury.
Without hesitation, the coroner poked his forefinger into the wound and pushed down until his knuckles were level with the skin. ‘A stab, deep inside him. Slashed his heart and lights, no doubt.’ There was a sucking sound as he withdrew his finger and wiped it clean on the hay that littered the floor of the barn. Thomas the clerk retched and John looked round at him with a scowl.
‘If your stomach is to be turned by every little thing like this, a useless clerk you’ll be to me. Pull yourself together, man, or I’ll get rid of you, even if the Archdeacon is your uncle!’
Thomas gulped back his bile, crossed himself and nodded. Since his trouble with the girl novitiates in Winchester, he had had no employment and only the intercession of the Archdeacon of Exeter had persuaded Sir John to take him as his clerk.
The coroner rose to his feet and looked pensively down at the corpse.
‘It’s clear how he died. What we need to know is where and when he died ... and who he is.’
Gwyn ran a hand through his tangled hair, which so often looked like a haystack after a gale. ‘Murdered, no doubt. Stabbed in the back, a coward’s act with dagger or short sword by the size of the wound.’
He never called his master anything, not ‘Crowner’, not ‘Sir John’. Yet he was utterly loyal without being servile, a Cornishman deferring to a man with Saxon, Norman and Celtic blood in his veins.
The coroner stood scowling down at the body. ‘Stabbed in the back, yes … But he had the chance to grab the blade with his left hand, maybe setting aside a second thrust.’
Gwyn nodded in agreement. He, too, had had ample experience of the ways of assault and sudden, violent death. ‘That wound may not have struck him dead on the instant. Mortal though it was, he could have had time to turn and start fighting. I’ve seen men with three wounds worse than that carry on swinging a sword for five minutes before falling to the ground.’
John looked up at the reeve. ‘No pouch or wallet, was there? Nothing about him to say who he was?’
Ralph shook his head dolefully. ‘If they were robbers, they’d have taken anything of value. He has no ring, no brooch.’
The coroner shrugged and turned away. ‘Clerk, earn your keep by writing all this in your roll. Make a note of all his clothing, exactly as to nature and colour. His age – would you say about twenty-five or somewhat older? His eyes look brown, though it’s hard to tell when they’ve been clouded in death as long as this. Hair is very pale, though that’s common enough around here.’ He was still staring at the corpse, his lips pursed thoughtfully. ‘How long would you reckon he’s been dead, Gwyn?’
His henchman pursed his own lips and considered for a while. He was no man for rash judgements. ‘November? This weather, wet but not cold. At least a week, probably a few days longer.’
The coroner nodded: that fitted with his own estimate. ‘Yes – no maggots, but it’s late in the season.’
Gwyn pointed down at the body. ‘He’s also got that.’ It was a large brown mole, low down on the right side of the neck, from which a cluster of long hairs stuck out. ‘Some one may know it – it’s obvious enough.’
Crowner John nodded. ‘He was born with that, so his family would know of it – if we ever find them. Add it to your roll, clerk.’
While Thomas pulled out his quill, ink-vial, a roll of sheep parchment and sought a flat-topped sack for a desk, Gwyn looked at the stout shoes still worn by the dead man. He bent down again and felt the heels with a finger. ‘He had a horse, that’s for sure. There are marks of prick-spurs rubbed into the leather.’
John pursed his lips. ‘Good clothing and owned a horse. Not a common peasant. Should make him easier to trace, if he’s a man of better birth. So long as he’s from these parts.’
‘And so long as he’s not a Frenchman, as you suggested from his garments,’ put in the clerk, now busy with his quill.<
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The inquest was to be held that afternoon, in the barn in which the body lay.
As putrefaction was worsening rapidly, Crowner John decided that there was no point in going back to Exeter only to return the next day. They would give themselves miles of weary riding and allow the corpse to get more foul by the hour. ‘Summon a jury by noon – and your priest. We’ll get the poor fellow buried before evening,’ he commanded the reeve.
‘Every man and boy over twelve years old, mind you, from the four nearest villages,’ yapped his clerk, officiously latching himself on to the power of the coroner.
Ralph stared at them with a return of his former truculence. ‘I can’t do that! Many will be working the fields, cutting wood, tending sheep and cattle, some far from the villages up on the moor.’
Thomas de Peyne waved his arms at the village headman. ‘Do as you’re told, man. The law says every male in the Hundred has to come forward and see the corpse, then stand as juryman.’
The reeve stuck sullenly to his objections. ‘’Tisn’t possible, sirs. I couldn’t even get word by midday to everyone from this village, let alone the Hundred. And who’s to tend the animals, work the mill? The sheep will have roamed half-way to Exmoor while folk are here gawping at the corpse.’
As the little clerk was about to continue his ranting, John put out a large hand to push him aside. ‘Do your best, reeve. Just get as many men as you can in the time. The pig boy, the first finders, anyone who knows anything about how the body was first seen. And get someone to dig a fresh grave in the churchyard. He’ll have to go in unnamed, but at least you can get your priest to read a few words over him.’
Ralph ambled off, relieved that the big man was not going to apply every letter of the disruptive new law.
Gwyn pushed the barn door closed and they strode off through the mud, back to the reeve’s house.
‘We may as well dry off properly around his miserable fire while we wait,’ muttered the coroner, squinting up at the low clouds draped over the moors above. It had stopped raining for the moment, but the threat hovered over them.
The Sanctuary Seeker Page 2