‘It’s safe, Gwyn, she’s up in the solar,’ said de Wolfe, guessing the reason for his officer’s hesitation. He kept his voice down as there was a narrow slit high in the hall that communicated with the upper room.
The Cornishman padded in and stood by the coroner’s chair. De Wolfe was taller than average, but Gwyn more than equalled his height and had a massive body that made the coroner look thin by comparison. He had an unruly mop of wiry hair and a huge bushy moustache that drooped down each side of his mouth almost to his chest. Bright blue eyes shone out above a bulbous nose. ‘I’ve shifted our belongings down to that festering hole in the ground that the sheriff so generously gave us,’ he growled. ‘I hope to God your leg mends even faster so that we can go back up to our proper chamber.’
‘Anything new occurred today?’ asked John. ‘Any deaths or woundings?’
Gwyn shook his shaggy head. ‘Nothing today. There are two hangings at the Magdalen tree tomorrow, which you should attend if you can.’
One of the duties of the coroner was to seize for the king’s treasury, the chattels of condemned felons and to record the fact of execution and the profit – if any – on his rolls. This would be presented to the royal judges, along with every other legal aspect of life in Devon, when they eventually trundled to the county as the General Eyre. It was different from the Eyre of Assize, which was supposed to come each quarter to try serious cases, but which was often a year late.
‘I saw that fellow again today – twice, in fact,’ remarked de Wolfe. ‘I’m sure he’s following me, but with this leg I’ve no chance of catching him.’
Gwyn frowned. Anything that threatened his master, even remotely, was something to be taken seriously. Although the city was a fairly safe place inside its stout walls, with its gates locked from dusk to dawn, he knew that Sir John had quite a few enemies, most of them antagonistic to his fierce loyalty to the king. ‘I must keep a sharper eye out for him,’ he rumbled. ‘I’ll follow you when you’re riding or walking the streets. If I see anyone, or if you give me the wink that he’s there, I’ll have the bastard, never fear!’
With this grim promise, he lumbered out, but de Wolfe had no chance to slide into slumber as he heard his henchman’s voice in the vestibule and almost immediately the door opened again to admit Thomas de Peyne, who sidled through the wooden screens put up to reduce the draughts.
His clerk was a poor specimen of a man, short and scrawny, with a slight hump on his back and a lame left leg, both due to childhood phthisis, which had carried away his mother. Thin, lank brown hair, a slight squint, a long, pointed nose and a weak chin all conspired to make him the least attractive of men, which was emphasized even more by his threadbare clothes – a grey tunic under a thin black cloak. Though expelled from the clergy almost two years ago, he still hankered passionately after his old vocation, and those who did not know his history often assumed that he was still a priest. Living in the servants’ quarters of a canon’s house and associating with clergy every day, he kept abreast of all the ecclesiastical gossip, which was often useful to John de Wolfe.
However, for all his unprepossessing appearance, Thomas possessed an agile and cunning brain, and had a remarkable talent for penmanship. His knowledge of history, politics and the classic writers was remarkable, and though de Wolfe and Gwyn pretended to be contemptuous of his puny physique and timid nature, they were secretly quite fond of the little ex-cleric.
Thomas came across the hall in his customary tentative manner, his writing materials slung in their usual place over his shoulder. ‘Are you up to date with your rolls?’ demanded his master. The clerk lifted the flap of his bag and produced two palimpsests – parchments that had been reused several times: the old writing was scraped off and the surface rubbed with chalk to make it ready for new ink.
‘These are the last two inquests, Crowner. And the names of the last two weeks’ hangings, with a record of their chattels, such as they were.’ He handed the rolls to de Wolfe, who stared at the first few lines of each and silently mouthed the Latin words Thomas had been so laboriously teaching him these past weeks. ‘Will you read them aloud for practice?’ suggested Thomas hesitantly. Sometimes de Wolfe was in no mood for reading practice and today seemed one of those occasions.
‘Too damned tired, Thomas! Maybe my wife is right. Riding that horse this morning has taken it out of me.’ In truth, several quarts of ale at the Bush and the wine at his midday meal were more the reason for his torpor. ‘Anything else happening?’ he asked. His clerk was the nosiest man in Exeter and often provided gossip that kept him informed of many of the city’s intrigues.
Thomas shook his head glumly. He liked nothing better than to feel part of the coroner’s team, and to have no titbit of scandal to pass on made him feel as if he had shirked his duty.
‘Have you seen this damned fellow peering after me around corners these past few days?’ de Wolfe demanded.
Thomas’s bright, bird-like eyes flicked to the shuttered window. ‘The man in the street Gwyn told me about? No, I’ve been up in the gatehouse writing these rolls. But I’ll keep a look-out now, with Gwyn. Have you any idea who it might be?’
‘Indeed not. I thought you might have heard of some new arrival in the city that might match this knave. About thirty-five, strong-looking, his face shaved and his clothing an unremarkable dun brown, with a wide-brimmed pilgrim’s hat that shades his eyes.’
The little clerk looked worried, as if his inability to know of every transient passing through Exeter was a personal failing. ‘Perhaps he is a pilgrim, then – or masquerading as one. Have a care, Crowner, you have enemies in this county.’
At that moment, the door grated open and Matilda marched in, refreshed from her nap in the solar. She was dressed in a heavy green mantle over her kirtle and a white linen coverchief was wrapped decorously around her temples and neck, secured at her forehead by a silk band. Behind her followed Lucille, her sallow face framed by a brown woollen shawl.
As soon as Matilda saw Thomas, the expression on her face changed as if she had just trodden in something left by Brutus. Without a word, the clerk scooped up his rolls and scuttled from the hall. ‘You shouldn’t let that little pervert bring his work here to tire you out, John,’ she snapped.
‘It’s not his work, woman, it’s my work!’ retorted de Wolfe. ‘Thank God I can get back to something approaching my duties.’
His wife ignored this and dropped heavily on to one of the settles near the hearth. ‘Let’s see that leg of yours, husband. Brother Saulf warned you to make sure it doesn’t swell again by putting too much strain on it.’
‘Damn it, woman, there’s nothing to see now! It’s almost as good as new.’
‘Do as you’re told, John. I’ve not cared for you all these weeks for my work to be undone now by your neglect.’
Reluctantly, he sat on the chair opposite her and, with the rabbit-toothed Lucille staring from across the room, he hauled up the skirt of his long tunic and pushed down his grey woollen hose to the ankle. ‘There, I told you. You’d not know anything had been amiss with it.’
The leg certainly looked well, the last traces of redness on the shin having faded and the slight deformity almost gone. Matilda reached out a ringed finger and prodded it, but could feel no puffiness. There was nothing but a smooth ridge under the skin where the broken ends of the shinbone had knitted together.