The Noble Outlaw

CHAPTER SEVEN

Early on Tuesday morning, the Eve of Christ Mass, it was still bitterly cold. The grey clouds that threatened snow had rolled away during the night, and a pale blue sky had left a heavy frost that glistened on every exposed surface. Over his undershirt, tunic and surcoat, John wore his thickest cloak, long and black, and reaching almost to the ground. It was wrapped tightly around him and secured on his left shoulder by a bulky bronze ring with a pin skewered through the cloth. He wore a grey felt helmet lined with cat fur, yet his ears were tingling before he reached the further end of High Street, on his way to the castle.

Up in Rougemont Castle, he again shunned his freezing chamber and went over to the hall in the keep, where a blazing fire had attracted a throng of people, all standing around warming their hands and, in some cases, their backsides, as they waited to see officials or did business with others clustered around the firepit.

He saw Gwyn towering over his neighbours at one side of the throng, with Sergeant Gabriel at his side, both holding earthenware mugs. As a gesture to the bitter weather, Ralph Morin, the castle constable, had ordered the servants to bring in a cask of ale and a supply of iron pokers. Over the growl of conversation, the sizzle of mulling was frequently heard, and John got 'himself a pot, warming his hands on the sides as he went over to join his officer.

'Where's our miserable little clerk?' he asked, after greetings were made. The description was no longer accurate, as Thomas had cheered up remarkably since being restored to the priesthood the previous month.

'Doing his duty in the cathedral,' growled Gwyn. 'Praying for the souls of some rich buggers, while the rest of us paupers can go to hell.'

As part of his reinstatement, Thomas's uncle, Archdeacon John de Alencon, had arranged for him to be given the clerical appointment of a preabenda doctoralis, one of the duties of which was to act as a chantry priest. Thomas had to intercede daily for the spirits of some deceased merchants who had left money in their wills for prayers to release them early from purgatory and wing them quickly on their way to heaven. Every morning, he went on his knees before one of the side altars in the cathedral and prayed before saying Mass on behalf of his dead patrons before the altar of St Paul, then went about his duties as coroner's clerk. Today no new deaths, assaults or rapes had been reported overnight, so the coroner and his officer had no need for their clerk and had a free couple of hours until the hangings just before noon, out on Magdalene Street. The fact that it was the eve of Christ's nativity made no difference to the final act in the administration of justice.

'What about the inquest on our dead glazier?' asked Gwyn. 'Are those few words out on the high road going to be sufficient?'

Though John was a stickler for the application of the law, he was flexible enough to bend some of the administrative rules when it seemed the sensible thing to do.

Theoretically, he had held the inquest, albeit with insufficient numbers in the jury, and now could have the body buried.

'There's little else we can do, unless some further facts come to light,' he said harshly. 'We're in the same position as with that cadaver from Smythen Street.'

'Do you think there's any connection between them, Crowner?' asked Gabriel, his rubicund face appearing above the rim of his ale jar.

John pulled the pin from the clasp of his cloak, as he warmed up in the heat of the fire and the hot drink.

'Impossible to say! Two master craftsmen, murdered in different ways in very different places. Apart from being senior guildsmen, they have nothing else in common, apart from a vague connection with those arch bastards farther down the county.'

'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.

He stopped to look as his officer and clerk came up to him. Thomas de Peyne gave an audible gulp of horror, and for a moment John was afraid that he would vomit over his boots, but Gwyn surveyed the scene with professional admiration.

'I've seen many a death in my time, but this one is new even for me,' he proclaimed.

Standing with his back flat against a stout oak was a man dressed in a good tunic of blue serge, with cross-gartered breeches visible beneath. His arms hung by his side, palms facing outward, and his head was held stiffly erect, because it was skewered to the tree by a metal shaft penetrating one eye. The other eye was wide open, and with a slack jaw revealing toothless gums, the face carried an expression of indignant surprise. Some blood was running down the cheek below the left eye, but otherwise there appeared to be no signs of violence. On the ground nearby was a crumpled cloak and a woollen hat, presumably belonging to the dead man.

John went up close and inspected the bizarre tableau, peering behind the victim's head to see how deeply the missile was embedded. Thomas had backed off as far as he dared, but Gwyn was anxious to get on with the examination.

'Can I pull the poor bastard down, Crowner?'

De Wolfe stepped back and nodded, noting that the morbid audience from the gate had moved around the outside of the wall and was gazing slack-jawed at the dramatic sight.

'Yes, get him off there,' he growled. 'This isn't a mununer's play for the benefit of those nosey swine.' He turned and shouted at the score of onlookers, but though they shuffled back a few yards, they refused to disperse.

Gwyn went up to the oak tree and as he supported the corpse under the armpits, John wrenched the weapon out of the wood. It took quite an effort, as it was stuck three fingers' breadth into the trunk. As the body sagged, Gwyn lowered it to the ground, the long spike still stuck through the head.

'The point has come a long way through the skull at the back,' reported the Cornishman. 'Much more blood there, running down the nape of his neck. And he's as stiff as board and freezing cold.'

John bent to look at the instrument of death. It was a cylindrical metal rod, well over a yard long, blunt at one end, but tapered to a point where it had stuck in the tree.

'What the hell is this thing?' fretted John. 'It's not a spear or a lance.'

Gwyn, coming from a more rural background, suggested that it looked more like a crowbar. 'The sort of thing they use in the villages for levering rocks and tree stumps out of newly won ground.'

The coroner shrugged. 'Could equally well be part of a railing or one of the bars of a gate. Whatever it is, it hasn't been used for a long time. It's covered in rust.' Indeed, the rod was roughened with shards of brown-red flakes that had stained John's hands as he tugged at it.

'Are you going to pull it out here?' asked his officer as they stared down at the body on the grass.

'May as well — he can't be carried through the town with a pole sticking out of his eye.'

With Thomas looking on in horrified fascination, de Wolfe held the head steady while Gwyn pulled and rotated the spike out of the murdered man's eye socket.

With a grinding of fragmented bone, it finally jerked free with a soughing sound as the suction of the soft tissues was overcome. The last foot of the iron was plastered in blood and brain and Gwyn casually wiped it in the weeds growing on a nearby grave mound.

'Now what?' he asked gruffly. 'Here's Osric with that simple fellow.'

Across the graveyard came the lanky Saxon constable and the old sexton, each firmly gripping the arm of a reluctant youth. William, as he was known to his mother, was short and squat, with bandy legs and a round, vacant face. He had loose, blubbery lips and pale blue eyes that kept rolling upwards as if he was seeking heaven every five heartbeats.

'You'll not get much sense out of Will,' predicted Osric gloomily. 'He's harmless, poor fellow, but was missing when the good Lord handed out wits.'

The next few minutes confirmed the constable's predictions, as the youth was hardly able to make himself understood, fearful of these strange men's presence.

The sexton was the only one who could get any sense from him, and he translated for the coroner.

'He says that he saw the man when he went around the yard picking up fallen twigs for the parson's fire.

He was so frightened that he ran away and hid in his mother's chicken shed. It wasn't until after second Mass that he plucked up enough courage to come and tell me.'

'I doubt you'll bother to call him at the inquest!' muttered Gwyn. John ignored this and spoke again to the sexton. 'What did you do then?'

'Came across to look. I thought Will might have been crazier than usual, but this time he was right. I ran and told the priest, who was still in the church taking off his vestments. He came out to look for himself — he hasn't recovered yet.'

Osric chimed in here. 'It was Father Robin who recognised the dead man, Crowner. Seems he buys all his church candles from him.'

John looked down at the corpse and then around the churchyard. The gawping crowd was still there, staring from a distance. 'Have you got a dead-house here?' he asked the sexton.

The old man indicated a dilapidated shed leaning against the back of the church. 'We can put him in there, sir. There's a bier inside the hut, he can be carried on that.'

Leaving Osric and the sexton to see to the moving of the body, John went back to the church, Gwyn carrying the iron rod like a javelin. Inside the small building, they found Father Robin slumped in the only chair, placed in the tiny chancel in case the archdeacon or even the bishop might one day visit. The parish priest was a corpulent, red-faced man, and to John's experienced eye it looked as if he had been treating his shock with communion wine.

'There's little I can tell you, sir,' he said thickly. 'This is a shocking thing to happen in my churchyard. I will never fully get over it. I must consult the archdeacon to see if the grounds need reconsecration.'

De Wolfe was more concerned with the dead man than with the father's religious dilemma. 'This man was your candle supplier?'

The priest nodded, but his eyes roved as if he was seeking a wineskin. 'Robert de Hokesham, of Goldsmiths Street. A master craftsman and a prominent guildsman. He makes candles and other articles of wax and tallow for virtually all the churches, as well as the cathedral!'

'Why should he be in your churchyard today?' asked the coroner.

The parson shuddered. 'Because he must have been there all night. He came yesterday evening to receive his payment for the last batch of altar and chancel candles. He came regularly every two weeks to collect.' Father Robin put his face in his hands. 'I saw and spoke to the poor man only last evening. He must have met his terrible end soon after he left- and has been there all night, poor soul.'

There was nothing else the priest could offer, and when John and Gwyn left the church, the compassionate Thomas stayed behind to try to comfort his fellow cleric.

Outside, the constables were carrying the body on a wooden stretcher. When it was on the floor of the shack, the coroner made one last examination, pulling up the clothing to make sure that there were no other wounds.

Attached to the man's belt was a bulky purse, which contained a large number of silver pennies, amounting to almost one pound's worth.

'So again, this wasn't a robbery, Gwyn,' he mused.

'Many people would know that he collected his debts on certain days, but this can't be some cut-purse chancing his luck.'

'No thief walks the city streets carrying a four-foot crowbar,' boomed his officer. 'He must have lain in wait for de Hokesham, perhaps with the rod already hidden here beforehand.'

De Wolfe shook his head in perplexity. 'Three guild members found dead inside a week. Admittedly, the first one must have been killed months ago, but it's still beyond my understanding.'

Having seen the body decently covered until the inquest could be held, John and Gwyn left St Bartholomew's, Thomas de Peyne staying behind. He had done his best to console Father Robin — a task that seemed better achieved with a flagon than with soothing words. Then the kindly little clerk took himself to the dead-house, where with much mumbling of Latin and signing of the Cross, he attempted to put the candlemaker's soul on the right path to Purgatory and thence onwards to Heaven.

John had been cheated of his afternoon rendezvous with his Welsh mistress, but fate allowed him to get down to the Bush that evening. Though Matilda had spent an hour that afternoon on her knees in St Olave's — and another hour gossiping with her matronly friends afterwards — she announced that as it was the eve of the celebration of Christ's birth, she was off to the cathedral that evening to attend the traditional special service leading up to Matins.

This was the cue for Brutus to need his daily exercise, and by the eighth hour, John was sitting comfortably at his favourite table near the firepit of the Bush.

Gwyn was at a nearby table when he arrived, just finishing a gargantuan meal, and again proclaimed the Bush to be the best cook-shop in Exeter. A boiled pork knuckle and a pile of fried onions, cabbage and carrots were being augmented by half a fresh loaf and some goat's cheese. He had failed to leave the city before the gates slammed shut at curfew and could not get home to his cottage in St Sidwell's, a village just beyond the east walls. There was nothing new in this, and his placid wife was used to his spending many a night in the soldiers' quarters at Rougemont, the eve of Christ Mass not excepted.

'Where's the little fellow?' asked John, as he sat with his arm around the landlady.

'In the cathedral, I'll wager,' declared Nesta. 'He said this is his first Christ Mass since he was restored to the priesthood and he's going to join the rest of them in the celebrations there tonight. I don't know how he manages it, for every day he has to get up before dawn to get to the cathedral and prepare his duties for the dead — yet he's always there at midnight to attend Matins!'

Gwyn came across and lowered himself to the bench opposite with a quart pot of Nesta's famous ale in his fist. Though he wanted to avoid playing gooseberry to his master's dalliance, he needed some guidance as to the morning's duties.

'What are we going to do about this candlemaker, Crowner?' he growled. 'Did you get any more news of him this afternoon?'

'No more than we did with the last one,' admitted John dolefully. 'He has a good house in the centre of the city and a plump wife and three strapping sons to carry on the business. But as to any clue as to why someone should use his head for target practice, there was not a whisper.'

Nesta squeezed his arm compassionately. She knew how de Wolfe hated having to give bad news to families.

'Did the poor woman take it badly, John?' she asked.

'If screaming and fainting is taking it badly, then yes, she did. Thankfully, I took Thomas with me, he is always good at such tragic moments.' He sounded sombre at the memory of that visit.

Gwyn swallowed the better part of a pint before coming up for air and then wiped his soaking moustache with his fingers. 'What about the other guild people — any opinions from them?'

'I spoke to the men in his workshop — he has a large place behind the house, where they make all types of candle, as well as wax for seals and dubbin and polishes for saddlery and leather goods. He was in a good way of business, with four journeymen and the same number of apprentices.'

One of the maids called across to Nesta about some problem out in the cook-shed and she rose to attend to it, but before leaving said, 'I knew Robert de Hokesham slightly. I bought candies, tallow and oil from him. He used to call regularly to collect the money due. He seemed a pleasant, honest man.'

As she hurried away, Gwyn pursued the matter. 'Did you gain anything about the guild aspect, Crowner? All three of these dead men were prominent masters and had been active in their guilds. Is that just a coincidence?'

De Wolfe sighed as he reached down to fondle Brutus's head under the table., 'Once again I consulted Hugh de Relaga, but he had nothing to offer. Of course, he knew de Hokesham well, he was a member of the city council, but as with the glazier Hamelin de Beaufort, there seems nothing whatsoever in his background to make him a candidate for such a gruesome killing.'

'So what happens next?' demanded Gwyn.

'As this obviously concerns members of guilds, I've arranged with Hugh de Relaga to have a meeting the day after tomorrow with the wardens of most of the major guilds in the city,' answered John. 'Maybe they can throw some light on this matter, as it concerns them so closely.'

Gwyn saw Nesta returning across the crowded taproom and hauled himself to his feet, as he diplomatically prepared to leave.

'What about the inquest on this fellow today?' he enquired as he shrugged his scuffed leather jacket around his massive shoulders.

'We can't hold it tomorrow, so arrange it for Thursday,' commanded the coroner. 'Though if the information is as sparse as with the other deaths, it will be another waste of time.'

Gwyn planted a kiss on Nesta's cheek, getting an affectionate smile in return, then lumbered towards the door.

She sat down again alongside de Wolfe and slid her hand under the table to rest on his thigh.

'Forget dead bodies for a while, John,' she pleaded. 'If I get a nice big bone for Brutus, maybe he can wait a while before you go back to Martin's Lane.' She gave his leg a hard pinch and looked meaningfully at the wide ladder that led to the upper floor.

That evening, in the great cathedral of St Peter and St Mary, one of the most important festivals of the religious year was being celebrated as the last hours of the eve of Christmas moved inexorably towards the day itself.

As the evening wore on, Matilda de Wolfe, attired in her best gown and a heavy hooded mantle of fleecelined velvet, left her house.in Martin's Lane and made her way across the Close to the cathedral doors in the West Front. Her maid Lucille dragged behind her mistress, as a reluctant chaperone. They joined the stream of several hundred other worshippers, many of whom had, like Matilda herself, forsaken their parish churches for the spectacle in the cathedral, which was now virtually complete, more than eighty years since Bishop Warelwast began rebuilding on the site of the old Saxon church, his huge twin towers pushing up into the sky as if they intended to last for a thousand years.

In the great nave, she pushed her way as far as possible to the front of the crowd standing on the bare flagged floor, so that she could get a good view of the great wooden screen that separated the common people from the quire and chancel, where the priests and their acolytes performed their mysteries. The cathedral was not intended to cater for the devotional needs of the general population, being a place where God could be praised endlessly by the clergy in the nine religious offices that punctuated every day and night. The twenty-seven parish churches and their priests were deemed sufficient to cater for the pastoral needs of Exeter folk, but the feast of Christ's birthday was an exception, when a show was put on by the cathedral chapter, partly for the benefit of the public. The usual time for Matins was brought forward from after midnight to the tenth hour, so that devotions could lead up to the vital first minutes of the new day, when Mass was celebrated, the only occasion in the year when it was so timed.

Matilda genuflected and crossed herself, then peered around in the dim light afforded by pitch-brands burning in iron rings on the main pillars, as well as by some soft candlelight percolating from the quire through the fenestrated carvings of the screen. In the distance, she could just glimpse the presbytery and the High Altar, but her gaze was mainly directed to identifying some of her friends from St Olave's, who had promised to be present this evening. As the bells in the great towers began to ring out, she shuffled across to where she saw some familiar figures and soon was with a group of her cronies, enjoying a subdued gossip while they waited for the service to begin. All around her, the crowd murmured, stamped their feet and rubbed their hands against the biting cold. High above, a few birds that had flown in through the unglazed clerestory windows chirruped as they squabbled for places on the roof beams — and occasionally, members of the congregation cursed as the sparrows fouled their best clothes.

Matilda was pleased to find that her new friend Joan de Whiteford had come to partake of the Mass, along with her cousin Mistress le Bret. For some reason, John's wife seemed attracted to the younger woman with an almost maternal urge to take her under her wing.

Perhaps it was the misfortune of her early widowhood, as well as the undoubted cachet of her knightly status, that made Matilda warm to her. The coroner's wife preferred the company of women to men, because in general she disliked men. Being married to John was a burden she had suffered for years — she had once even entered a local nunnery, but found the life too spartan for her liking.

She chatted amiably with Joan for a few moments and was glad to find that the pretty woman was also devoutly religious, which made her even more to be cherished.

They avidly shared the atmosphere of this special evening and eagerly anticipated the ceremony that was about to begin.

At about the tenth hour, sweet chanting from the choristers began in the distance and a solemn procession entered the quire and chancel. Held high, a gilded cross led in a cortege of splendidly robed priests and their followers, who all peeled off to take their appointed places. Bishop Henry Marshal, for once giving up his political journeying to be present in his diocese, took himself with his mitre and golden crook to his throne near the altar, while his four archdeacons, the other twenty canons and a multitude of vicars-choral, secondaries and choristers distributed themselves around the quire and presbytery.

Chanting, responses, psalms and prayers echoed through the vaulted building and though the proceedings were conducted entirely in Latin, of which no one below the screen could understand a word, the ethereal effect, combined with the cloying thin smoke of incense, created a mystical mind-state so far removed from the rigors of everyday life, that all present felt that they could feel the presence of the Holy Spirit in that great building. Matilda felt her new friend clutch her arm as the melodious chanting of the choir wafted over them and she patted her hand in mutual companionship.

Soon, a canon inside the quire began reading the first lesson, again in Latin, but as the words were being intoned, a young chorister in a white gown appeared on the steps of the distant altar, holding aloft a flaming torch. Then he turned and with the audience breathlessly entranced, he began singing the Hodie natus celorum rex in a high, sweet voice, proclaiming that 'the King of Heaven on this day consented to be born for us of a virgin'. Then the boy pointed with his fight hand at the statue of the Virgin beside the altar and went down on one knee, at which the assembled clergy responded with Ut hominen perditem — 'that he should call home outcast man to the kingdom of heaven'.

Matilda felt Joan quiver with almost ecstatic emotion and her own eyes misted when three choristers from each side of the choir, again dressed all in white albs, came to the altar steps and, with the first lad, turned to sing the Gloria in excelsis deo as they walked slowly down through the quire and out through the great carved screen to face the congregation.

When Matins was finished, the midnight Mass was celebrated, and when at last all the clergy and their acolytes had processed out of the cathedral, the spellbound congregation began to make their way home in the biting cold. Matilda stood with her friends just inside the west door, making final conversation and exchanging seasonal goodwill greetings. Rather reluctantly, she said farewell to Joan who, with her cousin for company, left to walk back to Raden Lane. As everyone drifted off, muffling themselves against the keen east wind that had sprung up, Matilda found herself almost alone in the cavernous nave, where most of the torches had now burnt themselves out and the remainder were guttering to a feeble light.

Reluctant to have the almost divine atmosphere come to an end, she told Lucille to wait on the steps and made her way back towards the intricately carved screen which carried the huge central crucifix almost to the apex of the chancel arch high above. The many candles in the choir beyond were still burning, throwing a pale light for a few yards into the nave. Gripped in an aura of religious awe, Matilda went down on her knees on the cold slabs, for once careless of her best raiment, and prayed fervently for herself and almost everyone she knew. She even included her wayward husband and her brother, the idol who had turned out to have feet of clay.

Especially she prayed for her new friend Joan, pleading that she should obtain solace and peace of mind after her widowhood. Eventually, as a sexton began snuffing out the candles inside the quire, the ritual-induced state of grace faded and as she could think of no one else for her prayers, she rose and made her way through the empty nave towards the doors.

Out on the steps, she beckoned impatiently to the shivering Lucille, pulled her hood forwards and tugged her cloak more closely to her neck, then set off along the path that led diagonally towards St Martin's Church and the entrance of the lane that led to her house. The icy weather had driven even the beggars out of the Close to seek better shelter, and the tumbled, rubbish-strewn area, with its untidy grave mounds, was completely deserted. The only light came from a waning quarter-moon, often obscured by clouds, together with the distant flickering of a few torches set at the various entrances to the Close, but Matilda had walked this way a thousand times and knew every rut in the path. Halfway to Martin's Lane, she commanded her maid to run ahead and tell Mary to prepare a hot possett of wine for her as a nightcap. Urged on by the snap in her mistress's voice, Lucille hurried away, leaving Matilda to cover the last few hundred paces to her front door.

Still abstracted by the aura of the Mass, Matilda failed to notice soft footsteps coming up behind her. Suddenly a violent push against her shoulders sent her flying to the ground. Her forehead struck a lump of frozen earth thrown from a gravepit and the scream that had formed in her throat turned to a croak, as she almost lost consciousness.

A moment later, she was rolled on to her back and a menacing figure straddled her, his hands groping for her neck. As her wits returned, her first thought was that she was about to be ravished, and she struggled violently. Matilda was a solidly built woman, and desperation gave her the will to buck and twist under her assailant, but he was too strong for her. Again she drew in a deep breath to scream, but now his fingers scrabbled aside her mantle to grab her neck and squeeze, her shriek for help dying in her mouth. The fingers tightened and now she feared for her life, rather than her honour, as the strong hands continued to throttle her. Her head felt about to burst and red flashes appeared inside her eyes as she frantically tried to draw a breath. A feeling of unreality and disbelief coursed through her muddled brain, as she tried to convince herself that this could not really be happening. A buzzing began in her ears, but she was still able to hear a voice hissing sibilantly a few inches from her face.

'You old bitch! Tell that evil bastard you call a brother, that the body in his damned college — and the two that followed — shows what happens to people who cross me.' Suddenly, the grip on her throat was released and the weight of her assailant's body lifted as he rose to his feet. Then Matilda felt a violent kick in her ribs, thankfully somewhat blunted by her thick mantle, before the harsh voice spoke again.

'And you can tell him that his own time is coming, as it is for his foul accomplice Henry Pomeroy! I want revenge for Hempston, which ruined my life.' Then she heard footsteps loping away towards Bear Gate and Southgate Street. Gasping, then sobbing with pain and fear, she turned on to her side and lay crumpled into a bail, shivering first with distress and then with cold. Slowly, she dragged herself to her knees and painfully rose to her feet. There was still not a soul in the Close that could come to her aid, and weeping she staggered like a drunken person towards the end of Martin's Lane, only a hundred paces away. As she went, she put her fingers to a newly recognised pain in her forehead and sobbed anew as they came away moist with seeping blood.

The little church on the corner was deserted, as the Mass held by its Saxon priest had finished before the cathedral service, but as she tottered unsteadily into the blackness of the lane, she saw a faint light bobbing towards her. With a moan of mixed hope and fear, she slid back to the ground just as the skinny figure of Osric, one of the city's watchmen, hurried to her solicitously, his horn lantern revealing the coroner's wife, her face bloodied and her garments dishevelled.

Though John had dallied in Nesta's upper chamber until late in the evening, he was home long before the cathedral service had finished, at well after midnight.

Promising his conscience that he would attend the traditional High Mass in the middle of Christmas morning, he went straight to bed and was sound asleep when Osric began pounding on the front door with the end of his staff. It failed to wake him, but moments later Mary clattered up the steps to the solar and burst in to shake him by the shoulder.

'Come quickly, the mistress has been attacked!' she yelled, then dived back down to the yard below. Fuddled but soon fully awake, he clambered up from his pallet and threw on breeches and a tunic to cover his nakedness, thrust his feet into shoes and hurried after the maid.

In the hall, lit by a bundle of kindling thrown urgently on to the smouldering logs, he found a scene of chaos, with an almost hysterical Lucille cradling Matilda's head as she lay slumped in one of the monk's chairs. The more practical Mary was bathing a wound on his wife's head with a cloth and warm water from her kitchen, whilst Osric was dancing from foot to foot, unable to decide whether to run out and start scouring the darkened streets for the assailant or to wait for de Wolfe's orders.

'The mistress was attacked in the Close, on the way home from midnight Mass,' announced Mary, glaring at John as if it was his fault. She knew where he had been that evening and, as sometimes happened when she had a bout of righteousness, she placed some of the blame upon him, even though the poor man had been asleep in his own bed when it happened.

He pushed Lucille out of the way, telling her to get some brandy wine for her mistress, then knelt on the floor alongside Matilda, his head level with hers.

'Tell me what happened, good wife,' he said with surprising gentleness. 'Who did this to you, eh? Snuffles and groans were the only response, then she winced as Mary gave a final wipe to the injury on her temple. It was not a deep cut, rather a deep ragged graze, but it had bled profusely.

'I think she must have fallen to the ground,' murmured Mary. 'But look at her neck and her eyes.' John saw that her eyelids were much more puffy and swollen than usual and in the whites were some bright flecks of blood. When Mary gently eased aside her wimple and collar, several fresh bruises were evident under the angles of her jaw.

'Some bastard has tried to throttle her,' growled John.

He slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. 'You are safe now, wife,' he said gently. 'We'll get to the bottom of this, never fear!'