De Revelle glowered at him, their temporary truce already under strain. 'So what are you going to do about it? I hear de Furnellis has delegated all his work to you,' he added sarcastically.
'I must somehow find this man Nicholas de Arundell — though looking for him in the wastes of Dartmoor will be like looking for a grain of barley in a wheatfield! Have you any idea where he might be, as you and Pomeroy were the cause of him being there in the first place?'
The former sheriff bridled at this. 'And good cause it was. The bloody man started a riot and killed one of my servants. Then they ran away and when they repeatedly failed to answer at court, they were rightly declared outlaw.'
John was too distracted to argue the merits of the case at the moment and wearily turned to more immediate matters. 'The cowardly swine that assaulted Matilda not only half-throttled her, but kicked her when she lay on the ground. Lucille found a great bruise over her ribs.' He swallowed the rest of his wine in an angry gesture.
'What I want to know is why she was attacked and not you? And what have these other killings got to do with it?'
'They are all directed at me or Pomeroy, John,' brayed Richard fearfully. 'It was my college enterprise that he wished to damage. It was my sister that he injured. It was Henry de la Pomeroy's glazier, tenuous though that connection might be… but he is attacking anything to do with Henry and myself in order to discomfort us.' Richard was now gabbling his words. 'In fact, I feel he assaulted my poor sister just in order to pass on the message via her lips. That is why, thank Christ, he did not finish the job and strangle her completely!'
John considered this for a moment. 'But he said 'two other killings' which can only include the candlemaker in the churchyard. What possible connection can that have with you?'
Richard stroked his neat, pointed beard as he reflected. 'What was he killed with?' he asked.
'An iron rod, rusted and pointed at one end. The thickness of a fat thumb and about a yard and a half long.'
His brother-in-law gestured with his hands. 'Means nothing to me. Maybe this killing was nothing to do with him.'
'Then why claim it as his?' objected John. 'There have been no other slayings this week.'
Neither man had an answer, and soon Richard left for his own house, an armed manservant accompanying him every step of the way.
That Yuletide day was different from all others, in that the de Wolfe household remained very subdued, with Matilda resting in bed. In spite of her refusal to have any medical attention, which John could have obtained from Brother Saulf at St John's, in the afternoon he sent around for Richard Lustcote, who came at once and gave Matilda a pain-relieving herbal infusion for her bruised ribs. The elderly apothecary was well known to her, and after a well-chaperoned examination of her head, neck and side, he declared that nothing was broken or seriously amiss and that she would be restored to health in a few days.
Their dinner was a muted affair compared to what Mary had planned for the festive day, but Matilda forced down a respectable amount of food and several cups of wine as she sat up on her pallet. John ate down in the hall, getting through the poached salmon, roast goose and plum pudding with full appreciation of his cook-maid's skill.
Afterwards, he sat with Matilda for some time, with little to say, but at least he felt that his presence reassured her that some maniac could not climb the solar steps to finish throttling her. His wife's memory of those few terrifying minutes in the cathedral Close was still perfectly lucid and there seemed no doubt that her assailant had clearly linked the three deaths with her brother and his crony Pomeroy, together with Hempston, seemingly unequivocal proof that all were connected.
John stayed with her for well over an hour, but when she fell heavily asleep from the effects of the apothecary's drug, he surrendered his post to Lucille and made a quick trip to the Bush, where Gwyn, Thomas and Nesta were anxiously awaiting his news.
As was to be expected from her nature, Nesta was the most upset and solicitous for Matilda's welfare, even though his wife was the main impediment to their love affair.
'Poor woman, to be so sorely set upon at dead of night — and on her own in a darkened churchyard!' she gasped, rather illogically. 'You should be with her, John, it is your duty.' Both of them were relieved that he had not been down at the Bush when the attack took place, as this would have been an even greater burden on their consciences. After relating all the facts he knew over a jug of mulled wine, the coroner discussed with his three friends the significance of the assault until they ran out of suggestions.
'I'm not convinced that this is the work of that Nicholas de Arundell,' said John finally. 'Whatever that bastard said to Matilda, it seems totally at odds with the nature of a knight and a former Crusader. Unless the fellow's mind has become unhinged, such a nobleman would hardly strangle a defenceless woman coming from Mass!'
'Maybe he has become mad, Crowner,' grunted Gwyn. 'To be so badly treated by de Revelle and Pomeroy and then be banished to Dartmoor is enough to twist any man's wits.'
Thomas repeated the query that John had put to his brother-in-law.
'Why should he claim responsibility for this killing in St Bartholomew's?' he squeaked. 'what can a candlemaker have to do with the old sheriff? And why are all three senior men in the city guilds?'
De Wolfe threw up his hands in despair. 'It's all beyond me, maybe things will sort themselves out eventually. I'll have to see Henry de Furnellis and try to decide what we do about this gang of outlaws. It will be business as usual tomorrow, Yuletide or not.'
He drained his wine cup and reluctantly rose to his feet.
'You're right, Nesta, I'd better get back home. If Matilda wakes and finds me absent, maybe she'll have a relapse — though considering what happened to her, she's remarkably well.'
Nesta walked with him to the door, John acknowledging the murmured sympathy of some of the other patrons, who had all heard, like the rest of Exeter, what had happened the previous night.
She laid a hand on his arm as he bent to give her a kiss before leaving.
'It's spoilt all our Christ Mass festivities, cariad,' he said in the Welsh they always used when together. 'I'm sorry for it, but we'll make up for it when all this is settled.'
Sadly, she watched him vanish into the darkness, Gwyn following him ponderously. If there was an assailant lurking in the shadows, the Cornishman was going to watch his master's back like a hawk.
Though the period from Christ Mass until Twelfth Night was looked upon as a season for festivities, normal life went on to a large extent. In the villages, livestock had to be fed and watered, and though it was not a time for ploughing and harrowing, some agricultural tasks had to be carried on — leaky thatch mended and overflowing ditches cleared. In the towns, people had to eat and buy food, especially as those who could afford it ate and drank to excess at Yuletide.
Goods had to be brought in and cattle and sheep had to be slaughtered in the streets, so that the markets could be kept stocked.
John's work was no exception and though the courts gave up their sessions for a week, people still died and houses still caught fire, giving him his usual tasks to perform. In fact, this festive season was usually even busier than normal times, as more drinking meant more rowdiness in the taverns and so more likelihood of assaults and killings. Even the risk of fire was greater, with more cooking to be done and larger fires in the icy weather — and again more drunks to stumble and knock over candles and lamps.