'What's this, for pity's sake?' he exclaimed. Gilbert screeched when he touched it and the apothecary fumbled in his bag for a vial of strong poppy syrup, a large dose of which he administered to the weaver. 'That will deaden the pain very soon,' he said reassuringly, covering up the shoulder again, after checking that the bleeding was now almost stopped.
He turned to the despairing wife and the two sons, then motioned them to move a little further away. 'While that drug works its effect, tell me what you know of this,' he said in a low voice.
'My father went out to the privy and came back like this,' growled the elder lad, a stocky youth of about eighteen. 'It looks as if someone has shot him with a crossbow, yet the missile looks too small.'
'Have you been out to see if some miscreant is in the yard?' asked Lustcote.
'I saw no one, but it is so dark and all I had was a flickering candle.'
Richard shook his head wonderingly at the strange things that happened at night, then waited for the poppy extract to take effect. He considered having the injured man taken up to St John's Hospital, but the journey up to the East Gate would be very painful for Gilbert and would increase his shocked condition. Lustcote used half an hour to try to reassure the wife that the wound was not mortal, as the arrow or whatever it was had gone through the flaps of skin and muscle under the armpit and had thankfully missed any vital structures. What he did not tell them was that the main risk was from suppuration and gangrene, if the object had carried any dirt into the wound. By now, Gilbert le Batur had subsided into a drugged stupor, his breath puffing between slack lips, and the apothecary, with the help of the sons, turned him on to his side. With relative ease, Lustcote slid the projectile out of the wound at the back of the armpit.
After seeing the wife clean up the dried blood and place new linen over the two wounds, he walked over to the firepit, where the flames from a pile of logs augmented the rush lights and candles.
'What do you make of this?' he asked the sons, holding out the object he had taken from the wound. It was a short iron rod, somewhat longer than a hand, with a very sharp arrowhead on one end, being plain on the other. 'Just as well it had no fletching or I would never have removed it as easily as I did,' he said thankfully.
'Any idea what it is?'
The sons inspected the missile, then denied all knowledge of it. 'It's not a crossbow bolt,' said the elder. 'Too short and it has no leather flights.'
'Your father is a very lucky man,' exclaimed Richard. 'This thing had the power to completely transfix his armpit. If it had hit him a few inches to the right, it would have gone into his heart. This was an attempt at murder.' The wife left her ministrations and came across, holding a bowl of water stained pink with blood. She and her boys were well aware of the fate of the three other guildmasters in recent weeks.
'My husband was a master weaver, as you well know, Richard,' she said quaveringly. 'Is this yet another such attempt, d'you think?'
The avuncular Lustcote put a hand gently on her shoulder. 'I do not know, Martha; that will be for the sheriff and maybe coroner to investigate. But at least this time it was an attempt, not a success. For that we must be thankful.'
Cold and weary, muddy and hungry, the coroner and his officer reached Exeter just before dusk two days later. Gwyn went off to his dwelling in St Sidwell's to let his family know that he was still alive, whilst John took the valiant gelding back to Andrew's livery stables, then crossed the lane to his own house. After a warm welcome and a surreptitious kiss from Mary in the vestibule as he shed his cloak and boots, he went into the hall, wondering what sort of reception he would get from his wife after two weeks' absence.
Matilda proved to be remarkably benign, as she had been just before he left. She even enquired if he was tired, which for her showed unusual solicitude. He sank into his chair by the fire and fondled the soft ears of old Brutus, who crawled up to greet him. Mary bustled in with mulled ale and hurried off again to bring him food from the kitchen shed.
'Did you have a favourable response from the Archbishop?' demanded Matilda, preferring Hubert's episcopal tide to his more worldly rank. John, encouraged by her interest, launched into an account of his doings.
'So I have brought a personal commission from Hubert Walter to bring the matter before the royal justices as soon as it can be arranged,' he concluded, passing the document across to her. Though like him she could not read it, the impressive seal gratified her, and John decided to play along with his new-found importance in her eyes to keep her in a sweeter mood for as long as possible.
Mary came in with a wooden bowl of hot mutton stew and a small barley loaf. When John moved to the table to attack it enthusiastically, Matilda came to sit opposite, and she continued to surprise him.
'While you were away, I kept closely in touch with that poor lady, Joan de Arundell,' she announced. 'I have tried to keep her spirits up by telling her that you will undoubtedly use your influence in Winchester and London to right this wrong, so I am glad that I have been proved right.' She said this as if she had personally arranged with the Almighty for the Archbishop of Canterbury to be sympathetic to her husband's petition.
'And I have seen my brother again,' she added with a marked tightening of her thin lips. 'He called here a few days ago and seemed rather chastened. He was much more chastened when he left, after once more getting the length of my tongue about his deplorable conspiracy with that evil Henry de la Pomeroy.' There was a pause while Mary placed a trencher in front of him carrying a spit-roasted capon, accompanied by a platter of cabbage, beans and onions. At this time of year, the choice of food was becoming limited, but a fresh white loaf and hunk of cheese was to follow.
When the maid had left, his wife resumed her monologue. 'Richard still maintains that the Hempston manor was escheated when it was thought that the lord had died, but that good lady assures me there was no evidence at all that her husband had perished.'
John cut a thick slice of bread with his dagger and covered it with butter-fried onions. He paused with it halfway to his mouth. 'What did your brother say to that?'
Matilda scowled at the memory. 'He told me to mind my own business and tell you to mind yours. He says he is aware you consorted with outlaws and intends reporting it to a higher authority.'
De Wolfe gave a humourless laugh. 'Higher authority? I suppose he means that traitor Prince John. I doubt he'll do that, or the Chief Justiciar and his justices will come down harder on him than ever.'
Matilda was in a difficult position: although her former loyalty to her brother had been whittled down to almost nothing, she was afraid that any worsening of his position might cost him his life.
'I pray daily to God in Heaven that he would just retire to his manors and lead a quiet life.' Her voice quavered a little. John felt sorry for her, a strange feeling that beset him every so often.
'If he just returns this manor to the rightful owner and cuts himself adrift from Pomeroy, then he might survive yet another fiasco,' he said gently, though he was not at all sure that the king's judges would agree with him.
When he had finished his meal, he went back to the hearth with his wife and they sat silently for a while.
Then he told her again about Hubert Waiter's provisional royal pardon for the outlaws and Matilda brightened up.
'Will you let me tell Lady Joan the good news?' she asked. 'I have befriended her well since you left and would like to be the bearer of such welcome tidings.'