'So what do we do now?' persisted Gwyn, using his fingers to wipe ale from his drooping moustaches.
'Might as well do what our clerk is probably doing at this moment,' grunted de Wolfe. 'Get down on our knees and pray for enlightenment!'
By the time de Wolfe walked back into the city from the gallows, the weak winter sun had melted much of the frost, but in the many shadowed areas of the narrow streets, there was still white hoar and crackling ice.
At home, Mary had cooked a meal designed to counter the effects of the severe cold: hot rabbit broth with vegetables and a spicy concoction of mutton, onions and rice, the latter imported from France on the same ships that took their wool to Barfleur. Away from the direct heat of the hearth, the gloomy hall was petrifyingly cold, the sombre tapestries that hung from the high walls doing little to insulate the timbers from the outside frost. Even in the house, John wore a heavy serge surcoat over his long linen tunic, and two pairs of hose to keep some warmth in his legs. Matilda was swaddled like a babe in one of her older velvet mantles, brought out of retirement because of its lining of marten fur. They sat huddled near the fire, where a pile of split oak logs had been placed ready by Simon, the old man who chopped their wood and emptied their privy.
As usual, silence was the order of the day, but at least Matilda seemed to have run out of things about which she could nag him. As the hanging of two thieves and a captured outlaw was too mundane for conversation, there was little left to talk about and they both stared sleepily into the flames, cupping their hands around mugs of wine warmed with hot water. John had no duties that afternoon and was waiting for Matilda to go either to snooze in her solar or out to her devotions at St Olave's, when he could slip down to the Bush to see Nesta, Soon Mary came in with another jug of hot wine, but before he could hold out his cup for a refill, there was a loud pounding on their front door and the cook-maid went to answer it.
'It's Gwyn, with an urgent message,' she reported, putting her head around the draught screens that shielded the inner door. Both she and Gwyn knew better than to invite him in when Matilda was at home, as she regarded the Cornishman as a common Celtic savage, almost as objectionable as the deviant pervert Thomas.
John hauled himself out of his chair and stiffly walked to the vestibule, shutting the inner door behind him.
'What is it, Gwyn?' he asked sourly, anticipating that the visit to his Welsh mistress was about to be postponed.
'Another killing, Crowner,' announced his officer with considerable relish. 'A right beauty this time!' Gwyn's idea of artistry would be thought bizarre by anyone outside the profession of sudden death. De Wolfe stared at him, well aware of his officer's penchant for long-winded and sometimes dramatic explanations.
'What in hell d'you mean… a beauty?'
'Another guildsman, but we know who he is this time. A master candlemaker from North Gate Street, by the name of Robert de Hokesham.'
The coroner groaned. Another prominent burgess of the City of Exeter done to death — what the hell was going on? 'Don't tell, let me guess! Was he strangled with a chain or did he have his neck punctured with a bloody great nail?'
The hairy giant, his bulbous nose almost glowing red with the cold and the ale he had drunk over dinner, grinned mischievously at his master. 'Neither, Crowner. He was pinned to a tree in St Bartholomew's churchyard by a long spike thrust through his left eye!'
St Bartholomew's churchyard was situated in the northwest corner of the city, just inside the encircling ramparts.
Surrounded by the mean huts and alleys of Bretayne, the small church had a relatively large plot of land for burials, used for those who had purchased a special dispensation to avoid being interred in the cathedral Close.
John de Wolfe and Gwyn marched through the narrow lanes, with Thomas pattering behind. This part of the city was the most disreputable, Bretayne being named after the original Britons, the Celtic inhabitants who had been pushed into this corner by the invading Saxons centuries before. It had remained poor, and the narrow alleys and passages between the rickety hovels were foetid and rat-infested. They passed St Nicholas's Priory with Osric, one of the town constables, hurrying on ahead.
He was the one who had sounded the alarm and had found Gwyn in his usual haunt, the guardroom of Rougemont, gambling with Gabriel and a couple of other soldiers.
'According to Osric, the dead 'un was seen early this morning, but the First Finder ran away,' grunted Gwyn as they turned the last corner.
'So who reported it?' demanded John.
'The sexton of the church.' replied his officer. 'It seems that no one else noticed it because the corpse is on the other side of the tree, facing away from the nearest lane.'
By now they were at the low wall running around the churchyard, which was an untidy plot with a number of large trees growing around it. The small church was towards the town side of the burial ground, which was dotted with irregular grave mounds, some carrying wooden crosses, but most being covered with grass and weeds. A small crowd had already gathered around the wicket gate that led into the churchyard, held at bay by Theobald, the other constable. John pushed his way through the throng of curious sightseers, consisting mostly of old women and noisy urchins.
'Where's the sexton?' snapped the coroner. Theobald, almost as fat as Osric was thin, pointed to the side of the church, an old wooden building with a small bell tower. Against the pine end was a bench and on it sat an aged figure in a shabby brown tunic, with thin bare legs ending incongruously in large leather boots. As John strode across to him, he raised his head, revealing a face badly disfigured by old cowpox scars. He looked shaken and John, in an uncharacteristic mood of gentleness, sat beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
'Tell me what you found,' he said quietly to the old man.
The sexton turned to him, his toothless mouth quivering with emotion. 'It was horrible, Crowner,' he quavered. 'I am well used to foul sights after forty years of putting corpses into the ground here, but this was different.' He ran a dirty hand through his sparse hair. 'To see a man standing on his own two feet, stone dead yet held up by a spear through his head, was almost too much to bear.'
'When did you find him?'
'Soon after the second morning service. St Bartholomew is no cathedral and our priest does not keep the canonical hours, but his Mass finished shortly before dinner time. Yet I was not the first one to see him.'
John nodded, yet cursed under his breath that these crimes were dealt with so casually by the populace. 'So who was that?' he asked with forced calmness.
'Willy Madman, a young fellow from Pig Lane. He's not right in the head, but our priest gives him a penny a week to help clear up the churchyard — not that it does much good.' This last was said with a scathing look around the tattered plot, the first sign that he was recovering from his shock.
'Where can I find this lad?' grunted John, eager to get to view the body.
'There he is, behind that tree,' said the sexton, lifting a wavering hand and pointing across the yard. De Wolfe saw a ragged figure cowering at the base of an old elm, one arm raised over his head, as if sheltering from some peril. John rose and began walking over towards him, but as if prodded by a sharp knife, the lad took off and vanished over the boundary wall.
'Bloody hell!' snarled the coroner. 'Osric, get after that fellow and bring him back here.'
With mounting impatience, de Wolfe beckoned to Gwyn and Thomas, who were speaking to Theobald at the gate, and began making his way between the irregular grassy mounds towards the trees on the further side of the churchyard. Osric had been right: the body was not easily visible from the lane nearest the church, and it was not until they had reached the further wall, almost in the shadow of the city battlements, that John could see the corpse.