‘Who is it this time? Must we accept?’ he muttered.
‘Of course we must, John! It’s your duty as the King’s coroner to grace these events. This one is given by the Guild of Tanners, very influential people. A friend of mine at St Olave’s is the wife of one of their Wardens.’
‘Tanners? They stink, it’s the dog turd they use in their fleshing vats.’
‘My friend doesn’t stink, I assure you,’ snarled an outraged Matilda. She hauled herself to her feet and plodded angrily to the door. ‘I’m going to get ready for my devotions. See that Mary has your best tunic washed for you to wear on Thursday night.’
As she slammed the door to the vestibule behind her, her husband sighed and dropped the remains of the chicken under the table for Brutus.
The church of All Hallows-on-the-Wall was empty, the few worshippers at Vespers long gone. The setting sun shone through the two slatted windows high up on the west wall, its beams almost solid in the dust thrown up by the angry strokes of the bundle of twigs that Ralph de Capra was using as a broom. The little building was paved with irregular stone slabs and though this was cleaner than the usual floor of beaten earth, the priest still muttered under his breath at the dried mud and wisps of straw and rushes that his parishioners had brought in on their shoes. He was a thin, miserable man, looking considerably older than his thirty-eight years. A hare-lip and a crusted skin ailment on his scalp, poorly concealed by his thin brown hair, did little to enhance his appearance.
The priest drove the debris towards the door and, with a few final flourishes, swept it down the two steps on to the narrow street that ran inside the city wall. Then he straightened up and walked down to the centre of the lane, besom still in hand. To his left stretched Little Britayne, with its criss-crossing mesh of hovel-lined alleys running up the hill towards the centre of the town. A night-soil cart pulled by a donkey was coming towards him, pursued by ragged, jeering urchins, who yelled abuse at the scarecrow of a man perched on the crossboard. A few pigs snuffled around the bottom of the high city wall and further up, where the wall turned at the Snail Tower, de Capra could see a small crowd gathered around two drunks who were futilely trying to fight each other, though they could hardly stand.
Directly across from the church, the bottom end of Fore Street climbed up to become High Street at Carfoix, the central crossing of Exeter. Clusters of townsfolk thronged it, some hurrying on errands, some buying and selling at the booths along its edges, others just lounging in the evening sun.
He turned to look at his little church which was now an integral part of the city wall, its other three walls projecting into the roadway. Like most of the many churches in Exeter, it was a simple oblong, like a barn. Some of the others were still timber-built, but many were gradually being replaced with stone — several even had little towers.
De Capra climbed the steps back into his domain, bent his knee briefly in the direction of the simple altar then went to the other end of the church where wooden screens partitioned off a small space against the far wall. Here he kept his simple vestments, an alb of heavy linen, a rather threadbare brocade stole and a maniple. A stone jar held some cheap wine and a small wooden box did duty as a pyx, to store the wafers bought at a cook-stall, which he used to prepare the Host for Mass.
He dropped the broom alongside a leather bucket and battered shovel, then went back down to the other end of the building. The chancel was merely a wooden platform, two steps up from the main floor. The altar was a small table covered with a white cloth, carrying two wooden candlesticks and a tin cross covered in peeling gilt. On the wall above, below the high window slits, was a large, crudely carved crucifix. The only other furniture was a kneeler for his own prayers and a heavy chair for the Bishop or Archdeacon, should they ever deign to take part in a service here. This was a poor church in the poorest part of the city, Britayne being so named because five hundred years ago, the ‘Britons’, the original Celtic inhabitants, had been pushed back by their Saxon conquerors into that least savoury part of Exeter.
De Capra turned his kneeler to face the altar and, after making the Sign of the Cross, lowered himself on to it and leaned forward, his hands clasped on the top bar, polished by years of use. He fixed his eyes on the image of Christ hanging on the wall, and his lips moved in earnest supplication, which gradually rose to an audible monologue. He had a secret that plagued most of his waking hours, and he desperately needed a sign to relieve his troubled conscience. He talked to himself for many minutes, becoming more and more agitated. Then his head fell on to his arms and he subsided into racking sobs.
The next morning, the Wednesday of an eventful week, the manor-reeve of Sidbury, a village some miles east of Exeter, rode in to report a fatal accident. He had left just before dawn and arrived at Rougemont a couple of hours later. The sentry at the castle gate sent him up to the coroner’s garret, where Gwyn and Thomas were waiting for their master to arrive.
De Wolfe appeared when the reeve was halfway through his story, but soon caught up with the tragic tale. One of the boy labourers at the manor mill had been trapped in the machinery and was dead. ‘Our bailiff knew that under this new crowner’s law, we had to report it to you straight away, sir,’ the village headman ended. He was a wiry fellow with a narrow but intelligent face, seemed somewhat in awe of the coroner and stood screwing his pointed woollen cap between his strong fingers as he spoke.
‘You did right, man. I must come to view the body and hold an inquest — but it will be noon before we can set off.’ The reeve was sent away for a few hours to fill his stomach and feed his horse, while de Wolfe settled his agenda with his officer and clerk.
‘The Jews are coming this morning about the body,’ Thomas reminded him, ‘and you have an approver to hear at the Shire Court.’ The coroner was required to take a confession from an ‘approver’, an accused or convicted person who was attempting to save his neck by turning king’s evidence against his fellow accomplices.
Gwyn scratched his groin vigorously. ‘That Ordeal is on, too,’ he rumbled. ‘The liar who claimed he bought that sword, not stole it.’
De Wolfe swore under his breath — he would be lucky to get away by noon, which meant he would not be back in Exeter before the gates were shut at curfew. Another night away from home would mean more whines and sulks from Matilda. Then a happier thought struck him: Sidbury was near Sidmouth, a coincidence that might prove interesting, especially if he was to be away all night.
But first the day had to be got through and the first chore was his brother-in-law’s Shire Court. Normally it was convened every fortnight, but extra sessions were being hurriedly arranged in preparation for the arrival of the royal judges the following week, as all pending cases had to be presented before them.
An hour later, the trio crossed Rougemont’s bustling inner ward to the Shire Hall, the bare court-house where de Wolfe had held the inquest on Aaron. Several cases had been dealt with already, either by Richard de Revelle or Ralph Morin, the castle constable, who sat on the platform in front of a posse of scribes. Also present was the obligatory priest, who today was the new garrison chaplain, an amiable monk called Brother Rufus.
Gabriel, the sergeant of the castle garrison, led in the next prisoner dragged from the stinking gaol under the keep. With rusty irons on his wrists and ankles, he was brought to stand below the middle of the dais. Lice were crawling on his neck and one ear-lobe had a festering rat-bite, signs of a prolonged stay in the cells.
The sheriff, lounging in the only chair on the platform, waved a hand carelessly at de Wolfe. ‘This one’s yours, John,’ he drawled, managing to sound offensive even when the words were outwardly polite.