On previous days, with lower tides, these had been just above the high-water mark, but today the rising tide had swept over them. From one of these slight hollows protruded a white, bleached foot. De Wolfe nudged Gwyn and gestured towards it. With a loud bellow of surprise, the Cornishman strode towards the hollow, his ragged-edged brown cloak blowing out in the wind behind him. John and his clerk hurried close after him, across the shiny wet strand.
When he reached the dead limb, Gwyn bent down and, with a single tug, lifted a whole leg from the sand. He roared with the effort and tried to pull the rest of the body out of the grave, but the depth of sand over its trunk was too great.
John turned and yelled at Aelfric, immobile and aghast beside the first three corpses. ‘Bring that shovel, reeve! And you’ve got some explaining to do.’ He saw one of the other men running away as hard as he could in the direction of the village.
Reluctantly, the reeve and the other two came across the beach. Gwyn seized a spade from one and began to dig furiously. The coroner grabbed Aelfric by the collar of his grubby tunic and shook him. ‘What’s this, damn you? Did you know these were here?’ While the reeve stammered out a string of denials, Gwyn had pulled the first body from the shallow pit and was rapidly exhuming the other two.
John, his tall, crow-like figure towering above the reeve, shook the man again. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘I know nothing, sir! These bodies must have drowned as well and been covered by the sand.’
The coroner rattled the man like a dog shaking a rat. ‘A likely story! Did the tide place them side by side in a row, eh? Exactly in line and buried to the same depth?’
Aelfric made no attempt to answer but stood dejectedly when John released his grip.
By now, Gwyn had hauled the second body from the sand and was digging down into the third depression. The coroner went to help him and soon another three corpses lay side by side on the beach. This time, the findings were different. Though again the bodies were those of men in seafaring clothes, their faces were streaked with blood, thin and watery, leaking from clots matted in their hair.
‘They must have been buried before this high tide, so that the dry sand has preserved the blood, as the hermit claimed,’ said Gwyn.
‘And the much higher tide today came up beyond yesterday’s level, washing away the loose sand and exposing that foot,’ John deduced, in a satisfied, though menacing, tone.
He pushed back the hair of the first corpse, who stared up at the clouded sky with softened eyeballs partly covered with sand. On the upper forehead, extending back into the fair hair, was a deep gash, exposing the skull beneath.
‘Is that from a sword?’ demanded Gwyn. John shook his head. ‘Can’t tell. Even a blow from a plank or an axe shaft can split the scalp like that.’ After years on the battlefields of Ireland, France and the Holy Land, he considered himself an authority on wounds. ‘But it’s certainly not from the sea pounding him on the rocks, for look here.’ He parted the bloody, sand-crusted hair on the crown of the head, to display two similar wounds, exactly parallel with the first. ‘What rock strikes a head three times with the same strength and in the same direction, eh? And the surf not wash away the blood!’
He turned to the other bodies. The first one, another young man, had no blood in the hair, but down the side of the neck, from behind the left ear to the Adam’s apple, was a sharply defined double line of bruising. Across the left cheek was a similar pair of parallel bruises, four inches long and over an inch apart. The last victim, a burly, brown-haired man, probably over thirty years of age, had two sharply defined black eyes. When John opened the swollen lids, the whites were heavily bloodshot. On feeling the head, shattered skull-bones crackled under the coroner’s probing fingers and when he parted the sodden hair, he saw a great mass of swollen bruising on the top of the scalp. None of the corpses had any significant wounds on the rest of their bodies, apart from a few scratches.
John turned again to the terrified reeve. ‘Very active rocks, these, eh, Aelfric? They just jumped up and struck these poor men only on their heads, then the sea buried them in nice regular graves, side by side?’
His sarcasm brought nothing but denial from the village headman. ‘I tell you, sir, we know nothing of this!’
John showed his teeth in a snarl reminiscent of his animal namesake. ‘Like you know nothing of the casks and boxes in your barn? And why did your man take to his heels just now?’
Aelfric had no answer, but continued to shake his head in desperate deniaclass="underline" this sounded like a hanging matter.
‘Get these bodies taken up to the barn – my officer will go with you to see that your thefts from the wreck do not go astray,’ ordered the coroner. ‘In a day or so, when the ship-owner comes to identify his seamen, I will hold the inquest – and then decide what is to be done with you and your village.’
With that ominous warning, he strode back along the beach, intent on visiting the lord of the manor, to see if William de Brewere the Younger had any knowledge of this affair, before they rode back to Exeter.
Chapter Three
In which Crowner John hears of a ravishment
Meanwhile, back in Exeter, the daughter of one of the town’s Portreeves was becoming impatient with her old Aunt Bernice. Christina Rifford was a very beautiful young woman; at seventeen years old, she was as near perfection as any man could desire – and even the women of Exeter, many ridden with jealousy, found it hard to fault her looks or her innocent charm. Her face, framed by glossy black hair peeping from under her white linen coverchief, had a madonna-like calm, though her full lips and the occasional sidelong glance from her violet eyes caused the dames of the town to murmur that ‘still waters run deep’.
So attractive was she, that many in Exeter marvelled at the fact that she was betrothed to Edgar, only son of Joseph of Topsham. Even his best friends could hardly claim that Edgar was the ideal match for Christina, who could have chosen almost any man in the West Country. A thin, gangling young man with a somewhat vague and moody manner, Edgar was learning the apothecary’s trade under Nicholas of Bristol, who had his house and shop in Fore Street, the steep continuation of High Street down to the West Gate.
This Wednesday evening, Mistress Rifford was to collect a present for Christ Mass promised by her fiancé. Funded by an over-indulgent father, Edgar had offered her a bracelet and she had decided on one fashioned in heavy silver, custom-made for her slim wrist. The obvious place to seek it was from the Master of the Guild of Silversmiths, Godfrey Fitzosbern, who was the coroner’s next-door neighbour in Martin’s Lane.
Two weeks ago, Christina had spent a delightful hour in his workshop with her cousin Mary, deciding on the exact design that she preferred. Last week, they had returned to approve it but although Christina was delighted with the ornament, it proved a little too loose, falling down on to her small hand. Fitzosbern, eager to please the only daughter of Henry Rifford, offered to alter it and promised to have it ready by this evening.
In the late afternoon, however, Mary had sent a message by her serving-maid to say that she had a sudden fever and was unable to accompany her cousin to the silversmith. Disappointed, Christina moped about the house for a couple of hours, to the irritation of her Aunt Bernice, who had kept house for her brother since his wife died five years before. Though Christina was very fond of her aunt, who was a kindly old soul, her constant fussing and over-protectiveness became more irksome as the girl grew older and more independent.
‘It will have to wait until tomorrow, girl,’ declared Bernice. ‘Maybe Mary will be well enough then – and it not, I’ll come with you myself. The bauble’s not going to crumble away just because you’re a day late in collecting it.’